Title Wave Page 22

  “So we figured,” Ginny said, handing Sofia an arrowroot biscuit to gum.

  “Did you check out the food on your way to the table?” Grace asked. She held her fork, ready to spear a piece of lettuce from the salad in front of her.

  “No. I’m not really hungry. I had an enormous breakfast.”

  “And what was that? Half a bagel?” Ginny guessed, and laughed.

  “No. The Kells Grill’s full Irish breakfast.”

  “How much were you able to eat—a quarter of it?” Antonio asked. His plate contained grilled salmon in a wine sauce with some angel-hair pasta on the side.

  “No. All of it.”

  The heads of the other five adults at the table all snapped to look in Tricia’s direction.

  “All of it?” Angelica asked. “But that’s a massive amount of food.”

  “I know,” Tricia said. “But the fresh sea air made me hungry.”

  “Don’t tell me you did your usual four-mile power walk on the deck in this weather,” Ginny said.

  “Oh, no. I was afraid I’d be swept overboard. I just took a quick sniff outside.” Okay, that was a lie, but it could have happened that way. “Anybody do anything interesting this morning?”

  “I had a massage. It was heavenly,” Angelica said, attacking one of the rolls on her plate, and then smearing it with a thick pat of butter.

  “And while she did that, I had a pedicure,” Ginny said. “Wanna see my blue toenails?”

  “I’ll pass on that,” Tricia said, and smiled.

  “And while they did that—I wrote a presentation to make to my employer, Nigela Ricita, about changing the menu at the Brookview Inn.”

  “Surely Ms. Ricita doesn’t expect you to work on your vacation?” Grace chided him.

  “Oh, no. But it is my pleasure to take this experience and apply it to my vocation in any way I can.”

  “I don’t know,” Grace said, cutting a cherry tomato in half. “Seems like you should be having more fun.”

  “But my work is fun,” Antonio said, glancing in Angelica’s direction and winking.

  “I hope you’ll suggest these wonderful pork chops,” Mr. Everett said.

  “What kind of sauce is that?” Tricia inquired.

  “Honey hoisin. Absolutely marvelous. All the meat has been superb.”

  As a former butcher, Mr. Everett knew a good cut when he ate it.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Angelica asked her sister.

  “I may swipe a couple of cookies for later this afternoon. After the editors’ panel.”

  “You won’t have long to wait,” Ginny said. “The panel ends at two.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure it starts at two,” Tricia said.

  “’Fraid not,” Angelica agreed. “I looked at the Daily Program before Ginny and I went to the spa. It definitely started at one.”

  Tricia glanced at her watch. She’d already missed half of it. This day was not getting any better.

  “Was there something you wanted to hear at the talk?” Grace asked.

  “Just what EM Barstow’s editor had to say about the future of her Tennyson Eisenberg series.”

  “Surely there’s no future if the author has died,” Antonio said, and twirled pasta around his fork.

  “Oh, no,” Tricia, Angelica, Ginny, and Grace said in unison, and with conviction.

  Antonio shook his head. “I fear I will never understand the publishing business.”

  “You aren’t alone, my boy,” Mr. Everett said, reaching for his cup of coffee.

  Tricia pushed back her chair. “I’m going to see if I can catch the last half of the panel.”

  “Where will we meet later?” Angelica asked.

  “I’ll probably park myself in one of the bars. They seem to be a quieter destination than the bigger common areas on the ship.”

  “If we don’t track each other down, let’s meet at the Portside Bar for cocktails at five,” Angelica suggested.

  “Only if you promise not to start without me. Remember what happened last night.”

  “How could I forget,” Angelica said with a little shudder. Antonio couldn’t seem to hide a grin.

  “See you later,” Tricia said to a chorus of good-byes. She had no patience to wait for the lift, and strode straight to the forward staircase, which was virtually empty. She made it down the stairs to Deck 1 in less than two minutes, and hurried to the theater. It was standing room only on that level, and Tricia wished she’d thought to stop at Decks 2 and 3 first, since several of the box seats seemed to be vacant.

  The audience was intently listening to one of the panelists: a woman whose placard said Claire Lawford. “We’ve seen a lot of changes in the industry over the past decade, especially with the consolidation of so many publishing houses.” The rest of the panelists—including Cathy Copper—nodded sagely, and the moderator encouraged each of them to give their take on what the next trends in genre fiction might be.

  Tricia had a feeling she had probably missed the most juicy information, which had no doubt been dished at the beginning of the discussion. And she was right. Under other circumstances, she probably would have hung on to every word the editors said, but she had wanted to hear one piece of news, and it was not brought up. She looked around the auditorium, but didn’t see anyone she knew among those seated. Perhaps her best bet was just to wait—and confront—Cathy Copper.

  Confront sounded a little antagonistic. She’d invite Cathy for a drink and if she accepted, she’d find a way to introduce the subject.

  It took another ten minutes for the discourse to wind down before the moderator thanked the panelists, and the audience reacted with an enthusiastic round of applause. Soon the murmur of voices grew in pitch as the spectators rose from their seats to file out of the auditorium. Tricia stepped out of the way as the large room emptied, her gaze fixed on the panelists, who stood on stage, speaking with each other.

  Only a few stragglers remained when the panelists headed for the stairs that led down to the rows upon rows of now-empty seats. Tricia started down the main aisle. “Cathy!”

  Cathy looked up. “Oh, hi, Tricia. Thanks for attending the panel. I’m shocked that so many people thought we had anything of interest to say.”

  “I wish I could say I was here for the entire program, but I’m afraid I got my times mixed up and only got to hear the last half of the discussion. I thought maybe we could go to one of the bars and get a drink and you might fill me in on what I missed.”

  Cathy looked about ready to refuse, but then seemed to think it over. “That sounds nice.” She held out a hand. “Lead the way.”

  Since the Golden Harp pub was on the next level up, they headed up the forward staircase and easily found a place to sit near one of the portholes that overlooked the still-choppy sea. The ocean was a darker shade of gray than the gloomy skies above, and Cathy’s expression seemed just as dour as they ordered a round of drinks. A glass of Chardonnay for Tricia, and another diet cola for Cathy.

  Tricia surrendered her keycard while Cathy looked out the window and sighed. “I had no idea the weather would be this appalling,” she said, sounding subdued.

  Tricia had to admit, when she thought of a cruise, she pictured sunny skies and a warmer climate. “Bermuda was nice.”

  “While it lasted,” Cathy grumbled.

  “Were you able to take in any of the sights?”

  “Just the wharf. Half the shops were closed because the tourist season won’t officially start for another couple of months.”

  What a bundle of negativity. Cathy’s expression was so dour, Tricia half expected her to burst into tears at any moment.

  “I take it you didn’t find the panel to be very interesting.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Based on the aud
ience’s reaction, I don’t think they did.”

  Again Cathy shrugged.

  Tricia wondered if she should ask about EM’s characters’ futures, but then the waiter arrived with their drinks, setting them down on cocktail napkins embossed with a golden harp. Tricia signed the receipt and the waiter moved off. She picked up her glass. “Cheers.”

  Cathy picked up her own glass, but didn’t join the toast.

  “Did Mr. Pilger bring news from your supervisor about the fate of the Tennyson Eisenberg series?”

  “It will go on. I’d like to take a shot at writing them.”

  “Really?”

  “I think I know them well enough to pull it off. It could even be an improvement. I think you’re aware of my feelings concerning the direction EM wanted to take the series. No one could reason with that woman.”

  Was Cathy referring to EM’s passive-aggressive nature?

  “Oh?”

  “She wasn’t entirely stable—mentally, that is,” she added dryly.

  “Did you see signs of mental illness in her before the trip?” Tricia asked, feigning innocence.

  Cathy nodded. “Sadly, yes. She’d been practically paranoid about protecting her vision of her series and its characters. She didn’t take into account what her publisher—and more importantly—her readers wanted. She was determined to kill off Tennyson Eisenberg.” Good grief, the woman sounded positively offended by the thought.

  “Conan Doyle did the same thing with Sherlock Holmes, but eventually relented and his grateful readers benefited with many more stories to enjoy.”

  “These days, readers are a lot more discerning,” Cathy commented.

  For one so young, Cathy certainly was cynical.

  “What plans does the publisher have in mind for the series now that EM is gone?” Tricia asked.

  “I’m sure they’ve had top-level meetings on just that subject. I probably won’t be told until I go back to the office on Monday.”

  “I suppose it will be business as usual for you.”

  Cathy nodded. “EM and I weren’t in contact on a daily basis. In fact, we rarely spoke. We conducted most of our business by e-mail. And, in fact, a lot of times I would be e-mailing Dori Douglas, the president of her fan club, who was acting as her virtual assistant. She handled a lot for EM, who didn’t pay her a nickel,” she said as an aside. “I don’t know how EM convinced the poor woman to take on that kind of responsibility. I know I wouldn’t have done it.”

  Of course not. It seemed as though Cathy could barely stand the woman, which must have made working together nearly unbearable—for both of them.

  “I suppose now that your panel is over you’re free to do as you please for the rest of the cruise.”

  “One whole day,” Cathy agreed. “It’s too bad Internet access is so expensive on board. I’m going to have a lot of e-mails to go through when I get home.”

  Did she mean personally or for her job?

  “I did load several manuscripts on my tablet, and I’m going to make an effort to read them before I get back to work. A couple of them look really interesting.”

  “Mysteries?” Tricia asked hopefully.

  “Literary fiction. That’s what I prefer to read. I have an English degree from Dartmouth.”

  “So do I,” Tricia said.

  Cathy immediately brightened, as though she’d found a kindred spirit in a sea of genre readers. “I’m working toward my master’s. My thesis is on eighteenth-century women poets.”

  Oh, dear. That subject had been done to death by nearly half of Tricia’s classmates. She’d chosen pulp fiction, which hadn’t been a favorite subject of her professor, but she’d still received an A.

  “Were you in a sorority?” Cathy asked.

  “Kappa Delta.” For about a month. Tricia just hadn’t fit in and preferred to spend most of her time away from class reading. She’d left the sorority house and had ended up with Pammy Fredricks as a roommate.

  “I was in Sigma Delta,” Cathy said, sounding disappointed. If they’d been sorority sisters, would Cathy have wanted to hang out with Tricia? “Being a Sigma Delta sister was one of the highlights of my life,” she said wistfully.

  And what were the lowlights?

  “Do you get to New York often?” Cathy asked. “Maybe we could have lunch together sometime.”

  My, what a change of attitude—and all because they’d gone to the same college.

  “This is actually the first time I’ve gotten away since I opened my store almost six years ago.”

  “Retail is difficult,” Cathy agreed. “Didn’t you aspire to more?”

  Was she actually interested in the answer?

  “I worked at a nonprofit for almost a decade. It was challenging work, but I always had my heart set on opening a mystery bookstore.”

  Cathy sighed, probably biting her tongue so as not to make a nasty remark about that particular brand of fiction. “I often think of what I might do when I retire.”

  “I didn’t retire,” Tricia asserted. She was, after all, only twelve or thirteen years older than Cathy. “I got divorced. I received a nice settlement and decided to make a change.”

  “Didn’t you say you were located in New Hampshire?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “Don’t you miss the excitement of the city?”

  “Not really. Life has not been at all dull since I moved to Stoneham.” Not when some of the villagers now referred to it as the death capital of New England.

  “I may have to drive up there to have a look,” Cathy said. She certainly seemed a lot more affable than she’d been ten or so minutes before—kind of like a fair-weather friend. Tricia had had enough of those friendships, and now she wished she hadn’t blown off Angelica and her Stoneham family at lunch to mark time with Cathy. Oh well, there was always dinner, where she could reconnect.

  Tricia drained her glass. “It’s been a busy day.”

  “For me, too,” Cathy admitted.

  “I’ll be staying up late tonight—at least late for me—to go to the big ballroom dance competition. Are you going?”

  Cathy shook her head. “I find competitive anything to be a total bore.”

  “One of my friends thinks she has a shot at winning.”

  “I walked past the Crystal Ballroom when some of the classes were going on. Lot of old farts were doing the mambo. It was hysterical.”

  Tricia didn’t appreciate her friend being called an old fart. “I’m sure they’re all young at heart.”

  “And they ought to be careful they don’t strain their hearts,” Cathy said, and laughed.

  “Aerobic exercise is good for everyone.”

  Cathy’s gaze dipped. “Sometimes a little too good.”

  Talk about a non sequitur.

  Tricia rose. “I’m sure we’ll be bumping into each other before the end of the cruise.”

  “As it’s a small ship—it seems inevitable.”

  “Have a great evening,” Tricia said, grabbing her tote, and headed for the aisle. She hoped that would be the last time she spent time with Cathy Copper.

  TWENTY

  It was nearly five, and Tricia was already sitting in the Portside Bar when Angelica practically came bouncing into the room. Tricia had parked there after her encounter with Cathy Copper, content to sit in the corner and read while other passengers came for a drink or two and then wandered off again.

  She sat up straighter and put her book on the cocktail table in front of her. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” Angelica asked, sitting down in the adjacent brocaded chair. “It turns out there are three other Chamber of Commerce presidents on the cruise. We met for drinks and had a fascinating chat about intrastate marketing.”

  “Drinks?” Tricia asked, unable to keep the d
isapproval out of her voice.

  “Pardon me, I should have said ‘coffee.’ I promise you, so far nothing stronger has passed my lips today.” She signaled the waitress. “But that’s about to change.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “In the card room. Lovely little niche. Too bad we don’t play cards. It seems to be where the eligible men gravitate—except they all appear to be over seventy. What have you been up to? Did you ever track down Cathy Copper?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did she say anything interesting?”

  “She went to Dartmouth.”

  “She’s an alumnus?” Angelica asked, sounding disconcerted.

  “Sigma Delta.”

  Angelica rolled her eyes. “Well, that explains everything about her.”

  “Now, now,” Tricia chided. “Those kinds of rivalries are far in our past.”

  “You’re right,” Angelica said, sounding contrite. “And after the wonderful afternoon I’ve had, I’m not going to think about past jealousies. After all, there’s virtually no one I’m envious of.”

  “Then you’re a very lucky person.”

  “You’re jealous of someone?” Angelica asked, surprised.

  “Not at all.”

  Luckily the uniformed waitress arrived to put an end to that subject.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Angelica said.

  “Oh?” Tricia asked.

  “Sure. After yesterday, I’m going to pace myself. And G and Ts are kind of like martinis on training wheels, right?”

  Tricia shook her head before turning to the waitress. “I’ll have one, too, please. And could we have a bowl of crisps with that?”

  “Certainly,” the woman said as Angelica handed over her keycard. “I’ll be back in a few moments with your drinks.” She nodded and headed back toward the bar.

  “Crisps?” Angelica sked.

  “I skipped lunch, remember?” Tricia said.

  “Oh, yes. So you did.” She settled back in her chair. “I take it you haven’t been back to the suite since this morning.”

  “No, why?”

  “Because, your secret admirer has struck again.”

  “Oh, no.”