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  The corners of Ginny’s mouth turned upward. Like Tricia, she knew that once Angelica got a bee in her bonnet, things were likely to get interesting.

  Angelica sat bolt upright in her chair. “Mr. Mitchell,” she began politely, “I really don’t think you meant to insult my dear friend, Mr. Everett.”

  Mitchell’s nose seemed to flair. “If he’s such a good friend, shouldn’t you at least be on a first-name basis?”

  Tricia, Ginny, and Angelica all gasped in horror.

  “Excuse me,” Angelica said in a tone that Tricia considered dangerous. “But it’s not your place to judge the level of my friendship for someone I dearly respect.”

  “Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said, his tone placating.

  Angelica raised a hand, and Mr. Everett, apparently sensing an explosion, dutifully sat back in his chair. Tricia watched as her sister took a few moments to compose herself before she spoke again.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” she began, “I don’t mean to disparage you, but perhaps you should rethink joining this table for lunch.”

  “And why is that?” the author demanded.

  “Because, if you make one more belittling remark, I will bite you. And I have very sharp teeth.”

  Mitchell looked horrified. “What?” he demanded. “What?”

  Ginny burst into laughter, and less than a second later the rest of the table joined her.

  “I have never been so insulted!” Mitchell cried.

  “Well, maybe you’d better get out more,” Barbara muttered, and giggled, already wiping her eyes.

  Mitchell pushed back his chair. “I refuse to be insulted!”

  “Then perhaps you should learn not to insult others,” Maria exclaimed.

  Tricia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, but the pompous oaf had it coming to him.

  Mitchell stood. “I don’t have to stand for this.”

  “And evidently not sit, either,” Ginny muttered into the hand she’d pressed across her lips.

  “Good day!” the pompous jerk declared, and left the table.

  It took only three or four seconds before all the ladies at the table broke into another round of muffled laughter.

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett muttered in embarrassment. “Oh, dear.”

  “You were going to bite him?” Tricia asked her sister, not sure if she was appalled or terribly amused.

  “Well,” Angelica began defensively, “it was all I could think of at the time.”

  “I think it was priceless,” Ginny said, and laughed, and she leaned over to give Angelica a big hug. A smiling Angelica hugged her back, and Tricia could see by her sister’s expression how much the gesture meant to her.

  Suddenly the waiter reappeared. “Are we ready to order?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Tricia said, and found it difficult to keep from giggling. Somehow she managed to keep a straight face as she ordered the tilapia. Contemplating the steamed fish brought her back to solemn earth in a heartbeat. The others gave their orders, before the tuxedoed young man nodded and turned away.

  “Could anyone else use some more wine?” Angelica asked, offering up the bottle.

  “I could,” Grace said, her smile sweet.

  Angelica rose, carried the bottle around the table, and topped off Grace’s glass. “Thank you, dear,” Grace said, “and on more than one account.”

  Angelica smiled. “My pleasure,” she said before returning to her seat.

  “Well,” Maria said, swirling the wine in her glass, “that was certainly interesting.”

  “Will you be buying a copy of Mr. Mitchell’s book for your library?” Ginny asked, sounding oh-so-innocent.

  “I think not,” Maria said, and raised her glass in a pseudo toast.

  Millicent Ambrose moved to stand at the podium at the head of the room. She fiddled with a microphone and tested it with the old “one, two, three” before she launched into her prepared remarks.

  “Hello, everyone, and welcome to the Celtic Lady’s Salute to Authors luncheon. I hope everyone approves of the menu.” The crowd responded with enthusiastic applause. “Before we get started on our delicious meal, I’d like to acknowledge the sad passing of author EM Barstow. Her literary accomplishments are legendary, and I’m sure we’re all saddened to know there will be no more Tennyson Eisenberg books.”

  It was then Tricia noticed that Dori Douglas was seated at a table across the way. Considering she was the head of EM’s fan club, she didn’t appear to be upset in any way. EM had treated the woman poorly. Maybe the idea of never again being the object of such abuse was of comfort to her.

  “We heard she committed suicide,” someone in the audience called out.

  Millicent looked apprehensive, and hesitated before speaking. “It does appear that Ms. Barstow took her life.”

  “Are they really sure?” someone else called out. “Could it have been murder?”

  “Murders don’t happen on the Celtic Lady,” Millicent said firmly. “We’re on a pleasant journey to celebrate books and authors. While we honor Ms. Barstow’s memory, we feel sure she would want all our guests to remember her outstanding work and not the way she left this earth.”

  “Will there be a burial at sea?” somebody called out.

  “No. Ms. Barstow’s body will be returned to New York. Now, next on our agenda . . .”

  “Is there going to be a memorial service?”

  “There are no plans at this time.”

  “Why not?”

  Again Millicent hesitated. “We’re still gauging interest. If enough is shown, we may schedule such an event. Check your Daily Program. It will list all activities on board the Celtic Lady.” She stood a little straighter. “I see our world-famous waitstaff is about to serve luncheon. We will continue with the program after our lovely meal. Thank you.”

  A smattering of unenthusiastic applause followed her remarks, and Millicent beat a hasty retreat, perhaps before she could be bombarded with any more unpleasant questions about EM Barstow’s death.

  Ginny leaned closer to Tricia. “She seemed pretty uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, she did,” Tricia agreed. “When I spoke to Fiona Sample yesterday, she said she was being interviewed for the ship’s morning news program. I wonder if Millicent interviewed all the authors.”

  “If you ask me, the ship’s television stinks. We’ve had it on in the evenings, but mostly as background noise. I mean, who wants to watch a show about great ocean liners that have sunk when they’re in the middle of a cruise?” Ginny asked.

  “Not me,” Angelica agreed.

  “I don’t mean to eavesdrop,” Maria said, “but Millicent did interview Ms. Barstow.”

  “Did EM say anything interesting?” Tricia asked.

  Maria shrugged. “She talked about her upcoming book and how she planned to do some research while she was in Bermuda. Isn’t it odd that she had plans for the future and then suddenly decides to kill herself?”

  Yes, it was.

  “I wonder if they’ll rerun that segment,” Maria mused, then shrugged as one of the waiters presented her with a plate of lobster thermidor.

  And if they didn’t, was there a way Tricia could talk Millicent into letting her see a tape of the show? She’d do as the entertainment director suggested and study the Daily Program at her earliest convenience.

  Tricia’s lunch arrived, and as she looked around her she noticed that all but she had ordered the same thing—the lobster. Her steamed tilapia looked anemic in comparison. “Well, it looks like great minds think alike,” she said, picking up her fork.

  “What do you think the rest of the program will entail?” Ginny asked, reaching for a roll from the basket on the table.

  “Speeches from some of the authors?” Tricia offered and tried the carrot custard that had accompanied the fish. At least i
t was tasty.

  “Oh, I hope not Mr. Mitchell,” Maria said, and scooped up a forkful of lobster.

  “Perhaps it’ll just be the bigger authors,” Angelica said. “Could you pass the butter, please, Tricia?”

  Tricia did so, looking at the basket of rolls with longing. “Who decides who’s a big author?”

  Angelica shrugged. “Perhaps whoever came up with the idea of a book-themed cruise.”

  That seemed plausible, but hadn’t EM said that this cruise was costing her a fortune? Surely an author with her sales could well afford to pay for it—for herself and the president of her fan club. Had she been just a run-of-the-mill skinflint or did she have financial problems that made the trip a hardship? No, that couldn’t be. EM Barstow might not be as big an author as Stephen King, but she was on a par with Patricia Cornwell, who could afford lots of neat stuff—including homes in multiple places. And yet EM had been complaining of the cost of a cruise. Her room was not as elaborate as the suite Angelica had booked, but it was still one of the top-priced cabins that allowed her and her assistant to dine in the coveted Kells Grill. If she’d been hard up for money, she could have taken a cheaper cabin option; staterooms that had a window and a small balcony. There were rooms that had just a window. And then there were rooms that were inside cabins with just a bed, a small desk, and a john, like those taken by most of the Stoneham contingent and EM’s editor, Cathy Copper.

  Tricia picked at her tilapia. Of course, there were degrees of hardship, and perhaps EM’s complaint about the cost had been made because she had once been a starving artist, which was how most authors began their careers. Still, the fact that she’d seemed bitter about the cost was of note.

  It was also odd that an author of EM’s stature depended on the president of her fan club to act as an unpaid assistant. EM’s sales were stellar. Tricia would have expected the woman to be swimming in moola and more than able to pay a full-time assistant to coordinate her appearances, social media, and anything else that needed to be done to keep her name out there and accessible to her reading public.

  No doubt about it, the woman was an enigma, and Tricia was certainly intrigued. She glanced over her shoulder to see Dori Douglas buttering a roll, and made a mental note to seek the woman out at some point to quiz her about EM’s financial state. Of course, there was a good chance EM had never confided her personal problems to someone she felt was her inferior—and the way EM treated poor Dori, it was obvious she’d felt superior to her fan club president. And how had that made Dori feel?

  “You’re very quiet, Trish,” Angelica said, again reaching for her wineglass.

  “I’m just thinking,” Tricia said, stabbing a piece of steamed broccoli with her fork.

  “About what?” Ginny asked, and ate another forkful of lobster.

  “Nothing in particular,” Tricia fibbed.

  “You do look preoccupied, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett commented.

  Tricia shook her head and smiled. “I’m just enjoying this lovely lunch.”

  “It is good,” Maria said, and she, too, dug into her entrée with gusto.

  “And we still have dessert to look forward to. Did you see those lovely cakes they set up on the side table over there? I’ll bet each of them is a different flavor. I don’t know when I’ve eaten such marvelous cakes and desserts. It’s a constant surprise. I’m sure I’ll put on five or ten pounds before this cruise is over,” Linda said.

  She wasn’t the only one who felt that way. But perhaps Angelica would let Tricia take a bite of whatever piece of cake she chose to top off her meal.

  Tricia sighed. Why did she always feel guilty about indulging in any kind of treat? It’s not like she did it on a regular basis.

  “What kind of cake do you think lies beneath all that frosting?” Ginny asked Maria.

  “Chocolate, for sure,” she said with relish. “But they had an assortment of cupcakes last night at the Lido. I got one that was pistachio, and not fake—like when you get ice cream and they toss in almonds and artificial flavoring instead of the real thing.”

  Pistachio cake. That sounded interesting. “What else?” Tricia asked.

  “I think there was strawberry and peach.”

  “Peach cake? I never heard of peach cake.”

  “If they have it at dinner tonight, I’m trying it,” Maria said.

  Tricia looked across the way. The ship’s photographer was taking pictures of the cakes, as were a number of passengers, while a couple of waiters stood by with cake knives in hand, ready to begin to cut them. Her stomach growled.

  A waitress stepped up to the table. “May I take your plate?”

  Tricia nodded, and her half-eaten meal was whisked away.

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’d love a pot of tea,” Ginny said.

  The waitress nodded.

  “Oh, look,” Angelica said, “they’re cutting the cakes. “I’m going to get a piece. Coming with me, Ginny?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Tricia practically blurted.

  Angelica started. “You will?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “It’s just that you don’t usually have cake.”

  “We’ve shared cake once or twice.”

  “Shared being the operative word,” Angelica said. She turned to Grace and Mr. Everett. “Can we bring you back some cake?”

  “I’d love a piece,” Grace said. “Get anything that looks yummy.”

  “No, thank you, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

  “Let’s go!” Angelica said, and led the way.

  They crossed the expanse of carpet, dodging tables and chairs, before the mass of other passengers could mob the dessert table. “I’ll see if I can get a corner piece for Grace,” Angelica said. “She just loves frosting.”

  “I hope they have chocolate,” Ginny said.

  “Maria assured us they would,” Tricia said.

  The waiters were already passing out generous slices of the cake that had looked like EM Barstow’s last cover. “Not chocolate,” Ginny said, frowning at the ivory cake under the gray-toned icing. It didn’t look palatable.

  “I think I’d rather have something different,” Tricia said, wrinkling her noise.

  “I’m sure it will taste fine.” Angelica turned to the waiter. “What flavor is that cake?”

  “It’s French vanilla mousse.”

  “Doesn’t that sound yummy.”

  “Yes, but the frosting,” Tricia said, frowning.

  “I’ll have a slice of that, please,” Angelica said, ignoring her protest. “In fact, two. I’m taking back a slice for my dear friend as well.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  “What else do you have?” Ginny asked as the waiter cut two slices for Angelica.

  “Lemon custard, pink champagne, raspberry lemon cream, chocolate mousse, and strawberry cream.”

  “I’ll have the pink champagne,” Ginny said, and giggled.

  “I’d like a small slice of the strawberry cream,” Tricia said.

  They collected their plates and passed Maria, Linda, and Barbara, who were just starting out for the dessert table.

  “Here you go, Grace. French vanilla mousse,” Angelica said, setting the cake before her.

  “Oh, dear,” Grace said, taking in the size of the slice. “Vanilla,” she said with uncertainty as Tricia and Ginny took their seats.

  “You don’t like vanilla? Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather have strawberry?”

  “Oh, that sounds good.”

  “Tricia, you wouldn’t mind giving Grace your piece of cake, would you?”

  Yes, she would. Her taste buds were all set for strawberry cream. But Tricia forced a smile. “Not at all,” she said, and handed Angelica her piece of cake
, accepting the very large corner piece of the cake with the ugly frosting. Well, she could scrape it off if it tasted terrible.

  “Thank you, dear,” Grace said with sincerity. “And it’s just the right size, too.”

  There was no way Tricia was going to eat a honking big piece of cake like the slab in front of her. Still, she’d take a few bites and try to enjoy it. She picked up her fork to plunge it into the icing but met resistance. She tried again. There was definitely something in that slice of cake that didn’t belong there. She poked the icing in several places, still meeting resistance.

  Angelica slid a piece of cake off her fork and into her mouth. She chewed and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “This is wonderful. I wonder if I could get the recipe. My customers at”—she paused and muttered just loud enough for Ginny and Tricia to hear—“the Brookview Inn would love this.”

  Tricia continued to probe the confection with her fork.

  “What are you doing?” Ginny asked.

  “There’s something in my cake.”

  “Like what?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia placed the edge of her fork on the top of the cake and began scraping away the offensive-looking icing. Whatever was there was still buried in the cake itself. She dug deeper. By now Maria, Barbara, and Linda were as engrossed as Ginny and Angelica.

  “I think it’s . . .” Tricia let the sentence trail off as she extricated a plastic card from the cake. She reached for her napkin and wiped it free of crumbs and icing, immediately recognizing what it was.

  The familiar face stared up at her from the piece of plastic. EM Barstow’s Celtic Lady identification keycard.

  TWELVE

  Tricia wasn’t sure what she should do. If she called the waiter over to report her find, he might confiscate the keycard and then she wouldn’t know if ship’s security would investigate how it got into the booklike cake. One thing was for certain, it was one more piece of evidence that EM’s death had not been a suicide. But would the ship’s security department see it that way? Surely they must have noted it wasn’t in her stateroom at the time of her death. But did that make a difference if they were going to turn a blind eye to the possibility of murder?