Title Wave Page 24

  “Isn’t this fun!” Angelica practically squealed.

  Tricia had to admit the twirling disco ball, the sparkling dresses, and the men all dressed in tuxes—some of them in tails—were rather exhilarating. Best of all, Mary and her gentleman dance partner seemed to be the best of the passenger contestants. Tricia watched them moving back and forth in perfect synchronization and wondered how Mary had hidden such dancing talent from the entire village for so long. Had she taken classes as a child? There was a story there; Tricia hoped she’d get to hear about it before their bus rolled to a halt back on the streets of Stoneham.

  The judges seemed to be carefully watching each of the contestants, jotting down notes, pointing at various dance teams, and consulting with one another. Meanwhile, Angelica topped up the champagne glasses. The music was so loud, and there were cheers and catcalls, with the audience calling out the numbers of their favorite contestants, that conversation was impossible. Tricia had had no idea that audience participation would be so exuberant. Everyone seemed enthused. Everyone but Harold Pilger, whose gaze seemed to be fixed on the judges more than the contestants.

  After the music died, the next group of dancers took to the floor. This time, the band played a tango. Tricia noticed Mary, now on the sidelines, carefully checking out her competition. All the couples were good, but Tricia couldn’t seem to sit still as she waited for the tune to finish and the last group of contestants came onto the floor to dance a waltz.

  When the tune ended, the contestants went back to stand with their peers, looking nervous as the judges conferred for several tense minutes.

  “Do you think Mary will be called back?” Grace asked anxiously.

  “She has to,” Angelica said with authority. “She and her partner were the best in her group.”

  Finally, the judges handed Millicent a card, and she approached the microphone once more. “From the first group, the judges have called back contestants forty-four, thirty-two, and fifty-seven!”

  The ballroom broke out in raucous applause, whistles, and cheers.

  “Thank goodness Mary made the first cut,” Tricia said with relief.

  “I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying this,” Angelica said, grinning. “Now I want to learn ballroom dancing.”

  “I do not think Ginny would be interested, but I might like to try it. Perhaps we should take lessons together, dear lady,” Antonio said.

  Angelica’s mouth dropped in shocked surprise. “Do you mean it?”

  “I would not say so if I didn’t mean it.”

  Angelica grinned. “Wouldn’t I look stunning on the dance floor in a flowing gown adorned with feathers and sequins?”

  “You look lovely every day, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said with sincerity.

  “Oh, you’re just saying that because it’s true,” Angelica replied, and the rest of the table dutifully laughed. Expect for Pilger, that is. He was still watching the judges.

  The competitors had assembled on the dance floor once again. Millicent announced they’d be doing a foxtrot, and the band began to play. Once again, Mary and her partner were obviously the best dancers. Their posture and timing were impeccable. They looked as though they’d been dancing together for a lifetime, not mere days, and Tricia marveled at their skill. It was no surprise, therefore, when they passed every round of eliminations.

  There were only three couples left on the dance floor after the judges gave their scorecards to Millicent. “And for our last round, our dancers will be performing the cha-cha!”

  Hoots and cheers of approval rang out through the ballroom as the dancers assembled on the floor once more.

  “This is the final dance. I know Mary’s going to win. I just know it!” Grace cried with glee, and raised her hands in the air, clapping with wild abandon. Tricia stifled a giggle as she noticed a blush rise up Mr. Everett’s neck, stalling at his cheeks as he took in his usually poised wife, who’d given in to her unbridled enthusiasm.

  The music started, and all eyes turned to the dance floor once again. It was obvious to all assembled who were the best dancers: Mary and her partner. Tricia found herself watching their fleet feet and inwardly counted, One, two, cha-cha-cha—one, two, cha-cha-cha! There was no way those two weren’t going to win the competition.

  Tricia’s gaze was so fiercely focused on the couple, that it took a moment or two before she noticed movement in the aisle across the ballroom. Arnold Smith rode his scooter up and down, his gaze fixed not on the dancers, but on the crowd at ringside. It looked as though he was trying to figure out the timing to cross the dance floor. But surely he wouldn’t be thoughtless enough to try such an irresponsible move.

  Suddenly Arnold hunched forward, taking aim, and seemed to gun the scooter’s speed control before he barreled right into the middle of the floor, just missing the stunned woman contestant in the flowing green dress and her equally flabbergasted partner.

  “Oh, no!” Tricia cried, jumping to her feet as Mary cha-cha-cha’d with her back to the jerk on the scooter. The crowd cried out with a warning that came too late as Arnold plowed right into Mary, who flew into the air, nearly somersaulting over the scooter’s handlebars and falling into an inelegant heap on the floor. Her scream of pain cut through the din, and the drummer kept the beat while the sax player blew a sour note and the guitarist stopped in mid-chord.

  Chaos seemed to reign as several men and women in formal wear rushed onto the stage to see if they could help—Tricia among them.

  “Don’t touch her, don’t touch her!” Norma Fielding cried as she, too, rushed onto the dance floor. “I’m a nurse.”

  “She got in my way!” Arnold protested angrily from the sidelines, where he sat parked on his scooter.

  “What were you thinking?” a woman cried.

  “Mary, Mary!” called a familiar voice. Chauncey Porter wormed his way through the crowd.

  Poor Mary sat on her backside, her beautiful ball gown ripped in several places, tears streaming down her face, giving her raccoon eyes, as she wailed in pain. Her left foot was positioned at an impossible angle. Tricia’s stomach did a flip-flop. Had it snapped right off?

  “Please, please!” Millicent called from the dais. “Could everyone please leave the dance floor!” But no one appeared to be listening.

  Chauncey crouched down beside Mary, who grabbed onto him like a lifeline, sinking her fingers into and wrinkling his dark suitcoat as she buried her tear-steaked face into his chest, while her dance partner stood to one side, wringing his hands in obvious anguish. “Dear lady, dear lady,” he lamented in a thick Irish brogue.

  “Mary, is there anything I can do to help?” Tricia asked.

  Mary turned a murderous eye toward Tricia. “You told me to break a leg. Well, it looks like I did. Are you happy?”

  Tricia’s breath caught in her throat. Break a leg was an expression used to wish good luck to entertainers at large. How could she have known—or wished—such a fate on her friend?

  Suddenly a hand clamped around Tricia’s shoulder, pulling her away from the woman in such terrible pain. It was Angelica, of course. “Come back to the table,” she said, her voice low and kind.

  Tricia fought tears, but she knew that since Mary was in agony, she was probably incapable of listening to Tricia’s explanation of what she’d meant when she’d uttered the now-prophetic phrase.

  Angelica led Tricia back to the ringside table, and they resumed their seats. Mary let out yet another anguished wail of pain, which made everyone wince.

  “Mary didn’t know what she was saying,” Angelica told her sister, patting her hand. “You did not cause her to break her leg. It was that horrible, thoughtless Arnold Smith.”

  Tricia hadn’t even been aware that Angelica was aware of the inconsiderate oaf who’d caused far too much strife for the authors and other passengers. “But—” she begun.

 
“Hush!” Angelica ordered in the same tone she used to keep her dog, Sarge, from barking.

  The ship’s medical team arrived and rushed onto the dance floor, dragging a gurney piled with tackle boxes full of equipment behind them.

  “Poor, poor Mary,” Grace said, her voice shaking.

  “What about the contest?” Pilger asked. “Do you think they’ll continue with just the other two couples?”

  Everyone at the table turned to glare at him.

  “What? It’s an honest question,” he said, oblivious to his lack of tact and compassion.

  “As soon as the medical personnel leave, I think we ought to go back to our cabin, dear,” Mr. Everett told Grace.

  “Yes, my pet. I think you’re right. I’ve had far too much excitement this evening.”

  “I think I shall do the same,” Antonio said.

  “I don’t know about you, Trish, but I’d like to hit one of the bars. I’m going to need a shot or two to help me forget the sight of Mary’s foot going the wrong way.”

  As if to emphasize that observation, Mary let out a bloodcurdling scream as the medical personnel moved her onto the gurney.

  Tricia buried her face in her hands, fighting tears. She heard a sloshing noise, and then Angelica pressed her champagne glass into her hands. “Drink this.” The glass was full, but all the others were now empty. Angelica must have poured the contents of each into Tricia’s empty flute. She drank it down in one gulp.

  As soon as the medical personnel had removed a still-wailing Mary from the dance floor, the rubberneckers began to disperse. Tricia looked around the room to find that most of the rest of the contest’s spectators, as well as the contest’s judges, had already discreetly departed.

  “Would you like me to walk you to your cabin?” Antonio asked Grace and Mr. Everett.

  “Since we’re going the same way, it would be very nice,” Grace said, sounding grateful.

  “Will you be all right?” Antonio asked Tricia.

  She braved a smile. “As long as I have my big sister along—I think so.” She gave Angelica a wan smile. Angelica leaned close and gave her a hug.

  “Not to worry. We’ll be fine,” Angelica said.

  Antonio stood, moved behind Grace, and helped her up from the table. “Good night, ladies.”

  “Yes, good night,” Grace said, and Mr. Everett nodded.

  “Good night,” Tricia and Angelica chorused. They watched the three depart before speaking.

  “Well, what bar would you like to patronize tonight?” Angelica asked.

  “The Wee Dram bar always seems to be the most quiet. I think I could use that right now.”

  They stood and headed for the aisle. They were among the last of the audience to leave the ballroom.

  The deck’s main thoroughfare seemed oddly empty, and they walked in silence to the bar. They sat down in chairs at the far end of the small room, but it took only a few moments before one of the waitstaff noticed them.

  “What can I get you ladies?” the waiter asked.

  “Two Beefeater martinis, up with olives,” Angelica ordered, and surrendered her keycard.

  “And some crisps, too, please,” Tricia added.

  The waiter nodded, turned, and headed for the bar.

  “I didn’t think you actually liked potato chips.”

  “Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody?”

  Angelica shrugged. She sat back in the brocaded chair and gave a heavy sigh. “I just can’t believe anyone would be so—so callous, so rude. Did you notice that Arnold Smith didn’t even apologize to Mary? I’d say there was cause for a lawsuit. I hope the videographer captured the whole thing, although with hundreds of witnesses, that may not even be necessary.”

  “If he could do that, I could well believe he would stalk authors like EM Barstow.”

  A man walked up to the bar. Tricia craned her neck and recognized Steven Richardson, whom she’d met the night before at the Golden Harp. She watched as he ordered a drink. He turned, saw her, and waved. She smiled and waved back.

  Angelica’s head swiveled back and forth, observing them. “Why don’t you ask him to join us?”

  “We did say we’d have a drink together,” Tricia said, then waved a finger, indicating Richardson should join them. He nodded and indicated that he’d wait for his drink first.

  The waiter collected the martinis and brought them over, setting them and the snack bowl on the table, then waited for Angelica to sign for the drinks before he departed. Richardson was only a few moments behind.

  “Hello, Tricia. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Angelica. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Richardson. I’ve read and enjoyed your books.”

  He sat. “Thank you.”

  “Angelica’s an author, too. She writes cookbooks. I get to taste her test recipes.”

  “You’re a lucky woman,” Richardson said, and raised his glass. They toasted.

  “Were you at the dance competition?” Angelica asked.

  Richardson frowned and shook his head. “A terrible end to what had been a fun evening.”

  “You and the other authors said Arnold Smith could be a menace. He sure proved himself to be just that tonight,” Tricia said.

  “Do you think a man that heartless could have killed EM?” Angelica asked Richardson.

  “I wouldn’t want to point any fingers, but he’s certainly guilty of depraved indifference when it came to plowing into that poor woman on the dance floor.”

  “She’s a friend of ours,” Angelica said, casting a worried look at her sister.

  Tricia hoped Mary would still consider her a friend.

  “What did you think about the panel of judges?” Richardson asked.

  “I heard that Diana Lovell is a big ballroom dance aficionado, which is why she was asked to judge,” Tricia said.

  “They probably asked Larry Andrews because he’s well known, thanks to his cooking shows,” Angelica added.

  “But doesn’t it seem strange they would ask a book editor to judge a dance contest?” Richardson asked.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Tricia agreed, frowning. “Surely there were others with more celebrity they could have tapped for the job.”

  “One would think,” Richardson said, and sipped what looked like Scotch on the rocks.

  Angelica glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! Look at the time. It’s been a big day for me. I think I’ll just toddle off to bed.”

  “Do you want me to walk you to the cabin?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica snagged her glass and stood. “Oh, no. I’m sure I’ll be fine. As long as I don’t run into Arnold, that is.”

  “I won’t be long,” Tricia said.

  “Stay out as long as you like,” Angelica said, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  Tricia let out a sigh. “Good night.”

  “Good night. Nice talking to you, Steven.”

  “And you.”

  Angelica waved and headed out of the bar.

  Tricia reached for a couple of potato chips and then pushed the bowl toward Richardson. “I don’t know what brand these are, but they’re marvelous.”

  Richardson tried one and swallowed. “Taste pretty normal to me.”

  Tricia smiled. “I don’t eat them very often; maybe that’s why they taste so darn good.” She picked up another and popped it into her mouth just as Arnold Smith pulled up outside the bar on that blasted scooter of his. Thank goodness he’d come from a different direction than Angelica had gone.

  Irked, Tricia watched as he climbed off it without any hint of disability and sauntered over to the bar, where he sat down. Of course, not everyone who rode a scooter or used a wheelchair had an affliction that affected their legs. She supposed he could have a heart condition or some other invisible malady that ke
pt him from being totally mobile.

  “What else do you know about Arnold?” Tricia asked Richardson.

  “For instance?”

  “What’s his disability?”

  Richardson frowned. “I’ve heard rumors that he has none.”

  “What?”

  “Well, maybe an ingrown toenail. He uses that scooter to cut through lines and get special treatment.”

  “Is that what you’ve witnessed, or did someone share that with you?”

  “The latter. A bookseller in Pittsburgh complained about him. Arnold crashed an after-hours event she held for a dozen authors to sign stock. They were serving beer and wine and Arnold had a little too much to drink. He confided to her that buying a used scooter was the best investment he ever made. It garners a lot of sympathy—at least until people find out what he’s really like.”

  “How come you didn’t mention this at the Golden Harp last night?”

  “Some of the other authors already have legitimate beefs against Arnold; I didn’t want to incite them to riot.”

  “Someone ought to call him out on it,” Tricia said testily.

  “The man apparently has no conscience,” Richardson said, resigned.

  Maybe it was the mixture of champagne and martinis, but Tricia’s patience with the oaf evaporated like spilled water in the desert. She stood. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” she said, and, without waiting for a word from Richardson, she stomped her way across the bar.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Arnold looked up from his glass of cola.“What?”

  “For what you did in the ballroom to poor Mary Fairchild not an hour ago.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked, without sounding terribly interested.

  “The woman you ran down with your scooter.”

  “I didn’t run her down.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Well, what do you call what you did?”

  “She was in my way. These things happen,” he said with a shrug.

  For a moment Tricia just stood there, dumbfounded. “There were hundreds of witnesses who saw you blatantly charge into the Crystal Ballroom and knock poor Mary down.”