Title Wave (26 page)

“Sometimes she'd Skype me and I could see her collection in the background. The next day, they'd be in a different order.”

“Perhaps she dusted them on a regular basis,” Millicent suggested.

“Every day?” Dori asked.

Millicent's smile widened and she went on. “What are your plans now that Ms. Barstow has passed on?”

“Pretty much the same as they were before she died. I'll continue to spread the word about Emmie's books so that people don't forget those wonderful characters or their creator.”

“Aw, that's very sweet,” Millicent cooed. The camera pulled in for a tighter shot of Millicent. “I'm afraid that's all the questions we have time for right now. I had hoped to interview Ms. Barstow's editor, but she wasn't available before airtime.”

Had the program been prerecorded, or had Cathy Copper simply refused to be a part of the broadcast?

“Well, cruisers, as it's your last day on board the beautiful
Celtic Lady
, I want to remind you that you'll be disembarking after everyone has spoken with customs officials, so have your passports ready and wear a smile, and you'll be through it in a heartbeat.

“And now, let me wish you a happy day and hope that you'll soon join the
Celtic Lady
on one of our transatlantic crossings, or one of our exciting journeys to foreign lands. Until then, happy cruising!”

The camera pulled back. The Celtic script appeared once more, this time giving credit to Millicent and her camera crew before the screen went to black, and then green with the
Celtic Lady
logo emblazoned on it.

Angelica picked up the remote and switched off the set. “Well, that was certainly boring.”

“Yes, it was.”

“What were you hoping to pick up from watching EM's interview?”

“I don't know. But my bet is something she said has something to do with her death.”

“And how will you figure that out?”

“I may not be able to,” Tricia said truthfully. “I wonder if Harold Pilger watched the show.”

“Did he even know the interview would be rerun?”

“Maybe. It was mentioned in the Daily Program, and I'll bet the ship's channel advertised it as well.”

Angelica stood. “Despite the weather”—she looked toward the gray sky and the choppy sea outside the lounge's window—“I intend to do as Millicent said and enjoy my last day aboard the
Celtic Lady
.”

“Doing what?”

“First up, Antonio and I have that in-depth kitchen tour. It may be the highlight of the entire cruise. After that, I might do some last-minute
networking, then maybe a little shopping, and another visit to the spa. I won't have time for that once we return to Stoneham. I've got too many plans and ideas to implement. What are you going to do today?”

“Read.”

“Are you planning on seeing Steven Richardson again?” Angelica asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It would be nice if I bumped into him, but if I don't, I'm okay with that, too.”

“Oh.” Angelica sounded so disappointed.

“This isn't the Love Boat,” Tricia reminded her.

“Yes, but . . . you came back to the suite so late last night. . . .”

“I'm sorry if I woke you.”

“No, you didn't. I was just lying there . . . wondering if you'd been murdered.”

“Don't you guilt-trip me. Admit it; you left the bar last night hoping I'd indulge in a little hanky-panky.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Angelia claimed, but Tricia knew a lie when she heard one.

“You're a busybody, Ange,” Tricia accused.

“And so what if I am. Nothing would get done if I didn't give certain situations a helping hand.”

That was true, but when it came to her love life, Tricia didn't need an assist. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She didn't
want
an assist.

She stood. “I'm going to shower and change and see if I can't stake out a claim to a nice, quiet reading nook.”

“Will we regroup for lunch?” Angelica asked.

“We can. How about the Kells Grill at one?”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Tricia said, and picked up what she knew would be the final gift from her admirer. “See you later.”

Tricia went back to her bedroom, set the box on the night table,
and then chose her outfit for the day before heading for the shower. While washing her hair, she decided to try to find Mary Fairchild to see how she was doing, and hoped Mary would let her at least apologize—not that she'd had a hand in the accident.

That decided, Tricia finished her ablutions. Despite her plans for a quiet day of reading, she had a feeling it could be a very busy day.

As it
turned out, it wasn't hard to find Mary; she was holding court in the Garden Lounge. Gathered around her were a number of other members of the Stoneham contingent, including the Dexter sisters, Grace Harris, Mr. Everett, Leona Ferguson, and Chauncey Porter.

The Dexter sisters seemed to be hovering, dressed alike, their hands clasped, and looking only to please, they resembled a couple of mirror-image bookends. “Can I get you a fresh cup of tea?” Muriel asked.

“Or coffee,” Midge suggested.

“Cookies? Pastry? Pie?” Muriel recommended.

“Can I get you another pillow to put under your leg?” Midge proposed.

“Thank you, ladies, but no,” Mary said. Her cheeks were pale, but her smile seemed genuine.

“What's the prognosis?” Grace asked.

“The ship's medical team was able to stabilize the break, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to see an orthopedic surgeon when I return home.”

“Oh, dear. How will you manage the shop?” Mr. Everett asked.

“I have no idea. I can't go back to work with my leg like this.”

“If I may,” Tricia interrupted.

Mary's gaze traveled to meet Tricia's, then dipped to the cast that began at her toes and traveled up past her knee. It was obvious she
did
hold a grudge.

“If my employees are willing, I'd like to volunteer their time to help you in your shop until you're back on your feet. Or I'd be happy to pay for someone to come in temporarily.”

Mary's lips pursed, and the blush that rose up her neck brought some much-needed color to her cheeks. “I couldn't accept that.”

“I'd be more than happy to volunteer a few hours of my time every week until you can manage,” Mr. Everett said.

Mary managed to raise her head. “That's incredibly generous of you. Thank you.”

“I'm sure we can rally a number of other shop owners to help in one way or another,” Leona said.

“Perhaps the Chamber of Commerce would be willing to ask all members, as well,” Grace said.

“You're all too kind,” Mary said sincerely, and chanced a glance at Tricia, who nodded. “Thank you.”

Grace rose from her chair. “Now, dear, if there's anything you need, you just let us know.”

“Yes, please do,” Mr. Everett echoed.

“Don't worry, Midge and I will wait on poor Mary hand, foot, and finger, until we get home.”

“Yes,” Muriel agreed.

“That really won't be necessary,” Mary insisted.

“Oh, but we wouldn't have it any other way,” Midge persisted.

Mary braved a smile, although it seemed as though she'd already grown weary of the twins' attention. Chauncey, too, seemed disconcerted. He'd been the one to comfort her directly after the accident. Could he be sweet on dear Mary?

“We'll talk later,” Tricia said, and was surprised when Mary reached for her hand.

“I'm sorry, Tricia. It was thoughtless of me last night to say—”

“You take it easy,” Tricia interrupted her.

“I will,” Mary promised as Chauncey slipped into the seat Grace had so recently vacated.

“I'll take care of her,” he said with authority, and Tricia had no doubt he would. Perhaps the
Celtic Lady
was a Love Boat, after all.

Tricia gave them both a wave and crossed the Garden Lounge, finding a seat at one of the bistro tables on the other side of the expansive room. She removed her e-reader from her tote bag, switched it on, and stared at the lines of text but didn't start to read; too many troubling thoughts occupied her mind. She turned her gaze toward the angry sea and stared at the waves and the dark, puffy clouds that seemed to hover over the ship.

“Tricia?”

Tricia turned to see Fiona Sample walking toward her. “Would you mind a little company?” she asked as she approached the table.

“Not at all.”

Fiona settled on the opposite chair. “Wasn't it awful what happened last night at the dance contest?”

“Yes. The woman who got hurt is from Stoneham—one of the booksellers on Main Street.”

“That's terrible. I wonder how she's doing.”

“I spoke with her a few minutes ago. She's hurting, and has to have surgery when she returns home, but I think she'll be fine.”

“I hope she has a good attorney.”

“That, too,” Tricia agreed.

“Almost all the cozy authors got together at the Golden Harp after the contest. The consensus is that Arnold killed EM Barstow.”

“Do you really think so?” Tricia asked.

“After that move he pulled last night, I wouldn't be at all surprised. Rumor has it that the NYPD will be waiting at the dock to arrest him for assault.”

“If that's the case, why hasn't ship's security taken him into custody?”

“He can't really go anywhere.”

“No, but he could be a menace to other passengers.”

“Perhaps he got a stern warning. I can't say I've seen him today. Maybe he's under house arrest. All I know is, I feel a lot better knowing security is at least watching him. And I must say I'm looking forward to leaving the ship tomorrow. I'll have a few peaceful days visiting Nikki and my new grandson, and then it's off to home for me.”

“I agree. If nothing else, it's been an interesting trip. But enjoyable?” Tricia shrugged.

“I feel the same way.” Fiona glanced at her watch. “I'd better get going. I want to get my packing done this morning so that I won't have to rush to do it tonight to get the bags out in the corridor by the eight o'clock curfew.”

“I'd forgotten all about that,” Tricia admitted. “Maybe I'll hike back to the cabin and do the same.”

Fiona rose. “See you later—and if not, when we get to Stoneham.”

“Okay. See you.”

Tricia placed her e-reader back in her tote, got up, and pushed her chair in, then headed for the forward stairway. It was usually quicker to walk than wait for one of the lifts.

She started down the carpeted stairs at a brisk pace. As she rounded the landing that opened to her deck, she saw a uniformed officer standing in front of the lifts.

“Officer McDonald!” she called.

He turned at the sound of her voice. The lift doors opened, but instead of stepping in, he moved to meet her at the bottom step. “Ms. Miles?”

“Good morning.”

“Not the best weather I've seen, but not the worst, either,” McDonald admitted.

“I'm grateful for that.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“I wondered about Arnold Smith. The rumors are flying.”

McDonald frowned. “Yes. I've heard them.”

“Are they true?”

“Which one are you referring to?”

“That Mr. Smith has been put under house arrest.”

McDonald nodded. “After studying the video, our security department decided it would be safer for everyone—Mr. Smith included—if he didn't interact with the rest of the passengers.”

“Will he be arrested upon our arrival?”

“The New York police do not have jurisdiction over acts that occur at sea.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“However, Ms. Fairchild is free to file a civil suit against the gentleman.”

“After what he did last night, Mr. Smith proved he's no gentleman.”

Again McDonald nodded.

“Some of the authors think Mr. Smith was capable of killing.”

“Our security team watched hundreds of hours of video to ascertain his whereabouts on the evening of Ms. Barstow's death. He went to his cabin about ten o'clock and didn't leave until nearly eight the next morning.”

“You're sure?”

“I reviewed the video myself.”

Tricia nodded.

“Ms. Miles. I don't care what the rumors are; the truth is Ms. Barstow took her own life.”

“How can you say that without an autopsy?”

“That would be up to a medical examiner to determine, but we have no evidence to turn over to any U.S. law enforcement agency.”

“Can't or won't?”

McDonald glowered.

“Okay, okay,” Tricia said in what she hoped was a placating tone. “I appreciate you speaking with me once again.”

McDonald seemed to hesitate, as though he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. “It has been my pleasure,” he said at last, with none of the impatience she'd expected. “Perhaps you'll sail with us on another
Celtic
cruise sometime in the near future.”

“Perhaps,” she said, and gave him a small smile.

McDonald tipped his head and touched the brim of his hat with the first two fingers of his left hand. “Happy sailing.”

“You, too.”

Instead of waiting for the lift, McDonald started down the forward staircase, and Tricia headed down the starboard corridor toward her suite. Fiona wanted to believe that Arnold Smith was a killer and that keeping him locked up in his cabin kept the rest of the passengers and crew safe, but Tricia wasn't sure. She also didn't believe McDonald's assertion that EM killed herself.

That meant there could still be a murderer wandering the
Celtic Lady
's corridors.