Title Wave Page 20

  Tricia wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Oh?”

  “My ex-wife was a slave to counting calories and excessive exercise. I’m happy to see you aren’t stuck in that mentality.”

  Oh, if he only knew.

  “I love your Toby Amsterdam series,” Tricia began, making small talk, “but I do wish you’d write another Oscar Moore story.”

  Steven shrugged. “Yeah, well, they didn’t sell quite as well. I have to write what pays the bills—and my alimony.”

  Tricia nodded in understanding. She could have gone after Christopher for alimony, but he’d been more than generous with their divorce settlement, no doubt because of guilt for leaving her. And when he’d died, he’d left all his assets to her, but financial security was no substitute for his friendship. At least when he’d left this earth, they’d still been friends, which apparently was more than Steven could claim.

  “Maybe I’ll write another book for Oscar one day,” Steven continued, “but my fans demand that I write what they like best—not what I’d prefer to work on.”

  “You don’t like the Amsterdam books?”

  “Not at all. But there’s only so much time in the day, week, month, and year.”

  “I get that,” Tricia said, and picked up her glass to take yet another small sip. “I understand you live in Massachusetts. I just so happen to own a mystery bookstore in southern New Hampshire. Would you consider coming by to do a book signing sometime?”

  “Only if I could have dinner with you, too.”

  “Well, that’s a given,” Tricia said glibly. Maybe she’d had too much to drink, too. She cleared her throat. “But you wouldn’t want to come until at least April—maybe even June or July—when the tourists return. That’s when I could best expect to round up an enthusiastic audience for your talk or reading.”

  “Why don’t we e-mail—or better yet talk about it sometime in the future?”

  Tricia squinted at the handsome man who sat across the table from her. “Do you flirt with every woman you meet?”

  “Not every woman. But I’ve known most of the other authors who sat at this table for quite a while. The fact that they welcomed you as a friend must mean they respect, or at least like you.”

  Tricia really knew only Fiona, but she had met and hosted several of the other authors at her store during the past five years, too. “Thank you,” she said, gracefully accepting the compliment.

  “And I’m assuming that since you own a mystery bookstore—and have the good taste to read my work—that you’re someone I could talk to on practically any subject.”

  “I like to think I’m well informed on most subjects.”

  Good grief, Tricia realized, she was flirting right back. She picked up her glass once more, sipping the last of her drink, then set it down again. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, but I really should go check on my sister. We’re traveling together.”

  “Do you two make a habit of it?”

  “This is actually the first vacation we’ve been on together since we were children. My sister not only owns a cookbook store, but she’s a cookbook author as well.”

  “And do you have any literary aspirations?”

  Tricia shook her head. Her specialty working at the nonprofit organization had been writing grant applications—and she’d been good at it, too. Should she consider attempting to write a mystery? With all she had on her plate? The answer was: not anytime soon.

  Tricia folded her napkin and stood. “I really must go check on my sister.”

  Richardson rose, too. “May I walk you to your stateroom?”

  Hadn’t he heard her mention she might have a stalker? Could Steven Richardson be that stalker? But he’d only met her half an hour before. The corridors were likely to be empty. Then again, video surveillance would follow them every step of the way. Still, ship’s security wasn’t keen on looking for EM’s killer—would they do any more to protect or prosecute an attacker or rapist? And Richardson wrote about serial killers. Surely he knew just about every way to kill a victim.

  Tricia swallowed and forced a smile. “That’s very nice of you, but you haven’t finished your drink. I’m sure I’ll make it just fine to my stateroom.”

  “As you wish. But let me give you my business card so that at some point we can set up that book signing.” He reached into his back pants pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting a card and handing it to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe we could have a drink tomorrow sometime.”

  “That would be very nice. It’s not a big ship. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other at least once before we dock.”

  Richardson smiled. “Then, until we meet again.”

  “Good night.”

  Tricia turned to leave, but before she had walked too far down the corridor, she looked back to see if Richardson was following her. He hadn’t. Instead, he’d wandered over to watch the darts tournament.

  She continued to the stairs. Steven Richardson seemed like a nice enough guy. Knowing he hadn’t followed her made her actually look forward to that promised drink.

  * * *

  Tricia pulled out the keycard from her slacks pocket and inserted it into the suite’s lock, then opened the door. She immediately heard a low groan and found Antonio seated on what she thought of as her couch, while Angelica had her feet propped up, leaning back against her own loveseat, pressing an ice bag to her forehead.

  “I think I’m dying,” Angelica wailed, her lower lip quivering. “I haven’t been drunk for at least ten—maybe fifteen—years and I do not like it!”

  Tricia turned her gaze to Antonio. “Poor Angelica has been sick, but perhaps now she will feel better,” he said hopefully.

  “I puked my guts up. I will never recover!” Angelica wailed.

  “Oh, yes, you will,” Tricia said kindly, and moved to stand beside her sister, clasping her hand. “I can take over from here,” she told Antonio. “Go be with your family.”

  “Ah, but Angelica is also my family,” he asserted.

  “No, no,” Angelica insisted. “I’m fine now.”

  “But you just said you were dying,” Antonio reminded her.

  “It only feels that way. I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll be much better. Please, go back to Ginny and Sofia.”

  Antonio sighed and stood, then crossed the three feet between the love seats. “Okay. But only because you insist, and dear Tricia is now here.”

  “I promise, this will never happen again,” Angelica vowed.

  Antonio bent down to kiss his stepmother on the forehead. “See that it doesn’t,” he said, but without rancor. He turned to Tricia. “Feel free to call if you need my help.”

  “I’m sure I can handle the situation.”

  Antonio nodded, then stepped forward to give Tricia a peck on the cheek. A rush of affection for him filled her, something she hadn’t felt during her visit with her parents earlier in the day. Antonio would never know how lucky he was. Then again, maybe he did.

  Tricia followed him to the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” Antonio said, and Tricia closed the door behind him. She turned to her sister. “Will you be okay?”

  “Eventually,” Angelica said, and sank farther into the loveseat. “Thank goodness for Sebastian, who supplied the ice pack, otherwise I’m sure I would have died.” She rested the back of her right hand dramatically against her furrowed brow.

  Talk about a diva!

  “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” Tricia asked.

  “No,” Angelica said piteously. “Just stay here and keep me company for a little while, will you?”

  Tricia sat down on her love seat, which was still warm from Antonio’s body heat. “I will.”

  “I’m so embarrassed,” Angelica whimpered. “What will all
those mystery authors think of me?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know what I think of you. That you’re a very strong woman who had a terrible day.”

  “Oh, no! It was you who had the terrible day, and it’s all my fault.”

  “Not really,” Tricia said. “You’ve spent far too many years running interference between Mother and me. You don’t have to do that anymore. I’m fine, and that’s also because of you.”

  “Things will work out,” Angelica said.

  Yes. They usually did.

  “Did I miss anything by leaving the party early?”

  “Well, that hunky author Steven Richardson hit on me.”

  Angelica opened one eye. “He did?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “And?”

  “He wants to have a drink with me before the end of the cruise.”

  “You said yes, I hope.”

  Tricia shrugged. “I left it open. If we run into each other—I’ll go.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “Because you need a man in your life.”

  “Oh, don’t start that.”

  “You took off Christopher’s ring, so you’re obviously ready.”

  “To have a long-distance relationship with an author I just met not an hour ago? I don’t think so.”

  “If nothing else, having a drink and a nice conversation with an attractive man will help you break back into the relationship game.”

  “You make it sound like a date on training wheels.”

  “Exactly,” Angelica said with a little too much enthusiasm, and winced at the timbre of her voice.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried about my social life, when you’ve had none for almost two years.”

  “I’m extremely socially active,” Angelica countered.

  “Maybe in your capacity as head of the Chamber of Commerce. You, personally? Not so much.”

  “Our Sunday dinners with family are social.”

  “But you’re not likely to meet anybody new that way.”

  “Stoneham isn’t exactly a hotbed of eligible men,” Angelica conceded, and readjusted the ice bag on her brow.

  “Frannie suggested I try online dating.”

  “Yes, she mentions it to me on a daily basis, too.”

  “She seems happy,” Tricia commented. “But I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”

  Angelica sighed. “Me, too. I just hope that when we find the time to date, we won’t be too over the hill to enjoy it.” She looked at Tricia. “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “What for?”

  “I asked you not to talk about EM’s murder anymore, and then I went and opened my big mouth in front of all those authors.”

  “That was the martini talking,” Tricia said kindly.

  “One martini too many, I think.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. I think they enjoyed discussing it.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t mention your part in trying to solve it. What would they think about that?”

  Tricia grimaced. “That I’m a pathetic wannabe sleuth trying to live the life of one of their characters. Wouldn’t that get a few laughs?”

  “What you’ve done in the past is dangerous, and I’d be happy if you’d just find a nice, safe hobby.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . renovating your home.”

  “I could drop a hammer on my toe and break it,” Tricia said.

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “And I think you need to go to bed and sleep off your liquid dinner.”

  “You’re right about that.” Angelica carefully sat up, swinging her legs off the loveseat. “The thing is, I’m not sure I can walk all that way under my own power.”

  “Then I will help you,” Tricia said, and got up from her seat. She crossed the space between them and grasped her sister’s arm, helping her to stand. Angelica swayed for a moment or two before she found her sea legs. “Please never let me drink so much ever again.”

  “I’ll put that on my perpetual list of things to do,” Tricia promised with a wry grin. She helped Angelica to the bedroom, got her ready for bed, and pulled the covers up to her neck and kissed her on the forehead. “Now, go to sleep and have sweet dreams.”

  “Thank you, Trish. You, too,” Angelica said with heavy eyelids, and immediately fell asleep.

  Tricia switched off the bedside lamp and pulled the door until it was ajar, then retreated to the lounge. Should she watch TV? No, that didn’t appeal to her. She left a lamp alight in the lounge in case Angelica needed to get up in the night, and retreated to her own room. It wasn’t all that late, and she had a novel to finish, but before she settled down in the comfortable upholstered chair with a good book, she sampled a couple of the chocolates in the box sent by her secret admirer/stalker and found them to be superb.

  Oh, what had she missed during the past forty years?

  And then she plucked yet another chocolate delight from the box and thoroughly enjoyed it.

  EIGHTEEN

  Considering everything that had happened the day before—with all its unpleasant implications—Tricia had no trouble falling asleep, and slept like the proverbial log. In fact, she overslept, since she’d forgotten to set her alarm.

  The ship seemed to be fighting a heavy sea—not enough to make her feel queasy, just enough to make her aware that they were traveling the Atlantic Ocean in January. She was sure Fiona would be wearing the compression bands on her wrists today. Raindrops beaded the windows and Tricia decided she would skip her power walk around the deck that day. In fact, she decided to skip exercise altogether, and showered and changed before she entered the suite’s lounge, where she found Angelica sitting in front of the television. She turned down the sound.

  “There you are, sleepyhead. I was beginning to think I should put my compact’s mirror under your nose to check to see if you were still breathing.”

  “I did sleep like the dead,” Tricia admitted, and stopped before that morning’s breakfast cart. She found a carton of vanilla yogurt and nothing else but crumb-littered plates. Frowning, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down on what she thought of as her loveseat.

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “I have just a wee bit of a headache. I was wondering if I ought to indulge in the hair of the dog.”

  “You asked me not to let you drink too much ever again,” Tricia reminded her.

  “Yes, I guess I did. Coffee will have to do.” Angelica turned off the set. “You missed Millicent’s interview.”

  “Not the one she did with EM.”

  “No, but boy did she hype the fact they’re going to show it again on Friday. You’d think she’d snagged an audience with the Queen or something.”

  Tricia sipped her coffee and changed the subject. “The weather looks dreadful.”

  “We’ve had the best of it,” Angelica agreed. “According to Millicent’s weather report, we’ll be stuck inside for the rest of the voyage.”

  “There’s plenty to do—or nothing, if we’re so inclined. Maybe I should do just that: rest up. Once we get back home, I’ve got a ton of work to do and lots of plans to make.”

  A smile tugged at Angelica’s lips. “You almost sound happy. I haven’t heard that tone in your voice for a long time.”

  “This trip has had more downs than ups,” Tricia admitted, “but I also feel like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.”

  Angelica frowned. “Mother?”

  Tricia sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Yes, but I’ve also been thinking a lot about Christopher. Getting away from the daily grind—if only for a few days—was good for me. I think I’ll try to make that a priority in the future—at least for a couple of days every month—even if I
just sit in my apartment and decompress with a good book.”

  “You deserve it. We both do.”

  Tricia gave her sister a skeptical glance. “So says the workaholic.”

  “We’ve both got good people working for us—people we trust. It would be fun for the two of us to get away now and then.”

  Tricia hadn’t meant to include Angelica in her downtime plans, but now wasn’t the time to mention it. She drained her cup and stood. “I think I’ll go in search of sustenance.”

  “There’s yogurt on the cart,” Angelica said.

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. “I was thinking of something a little more substantial. Maybe I’ll mosey up to the Kells Grill. I’ve only had dinner there. I wonder what they serve for breakfast.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Angelica offered. “After all, there is a murderer running around the ship.” She was still dressed in a nightgown, robe, and slippers. By the time she showered and changed, they’d be serving lunch.

  “Hopefully whoever killed EM is preoccupied with the most important meal of the day and won’t be planning any mayhem until later in the day. But let’s meet for lunch. How about the Lido Restaurant at one?”

  “Good. I’ll track down Antonio and Ginny and see if they want to join us. Mr. Everett and Grace, too.”

  “Great. I’m just going to grab my book and e-reader and then I’ll be off.”

  By the time Tricia returned to the lounge, Angelica had retreated into her own half of the suite. Tricia made sure her keycard was in her pocket before she closed the door behind her. She decided to walk up the three flights to the Kells Grill, and when she got there found only a couple of stragglers seated at the tables. She glanced at her watch. She’d made it only ten minutes before they stopped serving.

  “Ah, Ms. Miles. It’s been days since we saw you,” Cristophano greeted her, and smiled.

  “Do you work all three meal shifts?”

  “Sì. Can I get you some coffee?” he asked as he handed her one of the leather-clad menus.

  “I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea.”