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  “What are you so angry about? It wasn’t you who got hurt.”

  “She’s my neighbor, and we have a mutual friend: Roger Livingston, Esquire.”

  Arnold frowned. “Esquire?”

  “That means he’s a lawyer, and if you’re smart, you’d better find one for yourself, fast!”

  “Are you threatening me?” Arnold asked, anger tingeing his voice.

  “No. Just warning you.” And with that, Tricia turned on her heel and made her way back to where Richardson still sat. She plunked down in her chair, grabbed her martini, slopping a little on the polished surface of the cocktail table, and took a mighty gulp.

  Richardson watched her, his mouth twitching until it finally ended up in a lopsided grin. “Bravo, Tricia.”

  She shrugged, just a teensy bit embarrassed and still very angry.

  His smile was short-lived, however. “You might feel better confronting Arnold, but I’m afraid you may have just made a target of yourself, too.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said, and this time her hand was steady as she took a much smaller sip of her drink.

  Richardson’s gaze wandered back to the bar, and so did Tricia’s. Arnold was swallowing his cola with remarkable speed, then slammed the empty glass onto the bar, shattering it, startling the bartender, who’d been polishing the beer taps. Arnold didn’t bat an eye at this further violent outburst and marched back to his scooter, climbed aboard, and gunned it. He looked absolutely ludicrous, leaning forward as if to push the little electric motor for more speed.

  “Go, Arnold, go!” Richardson called, causing Arnold to look up. Thank goodness no one was in his path, for he lost control of the scooter and crashed into the nearest wall, scraping the beautiful woodwork.

  “Sir! Sir!” the bartender called, and hurried from behind the bar.

  Arnold didn’t appear to be hurt—just angry. The scooter seemed to have stalled, and he got off and kicked one of the small rubber tires.

  Tricia clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

  Frustrated, Arnold stalked off down the corridor with the bartender and waiter struggling to catch up with him—whether to inquire about his health or the damages to the wall, Tricia wasn’t sure.

  Richardson’s smile was wry. “Well, that was certainly an interesting end to the evening.”

  Tricia’s smile waned. “You’re calling it quits for the night?”

  “Oh. No,” he backpedaled. “I wouldn’t mind having another drink and talking so we can get to know each other better.”

  “You’re just saying that because I put you on the spot.”

  “No, honestly. I wouldn’t have sought you out if I wasn’t interested.”

  Interested? Yes, but . . . Oh, what the heck. He was a nice man and the fact that she might never see him again after tomorrow shouldn’t enter into it.

  “I’d like to get to know you better, too,” she said, and leaned back farther in her chair, noticing her glass was nearly empty. The bartender returned solo from his confrontation with Arnold, and Tricia wondered if the waiter and Arnold were on their way to the ship’s security department for a little chat with Officer McDonald. She sure hoped so.

  “Why don’t I get us another round?” Richardson suggested.

  “That would be very nice. And don’t forget to ask for another bowl of crisps,” she added, noticing the bowl on the table was now empty.

  “Righty-o!” Richardson said, and got up from his chair, heading toward the bar.

  Tricia watched him, glad she’d taken off Christopher’s engagement ring and that the opal she now wore was on the ring finger of her right hand. She was being silly. But right then she felt like indulging in a little silliness. Her life had been far too serious for too long.

  Here’s to your future, girl, and a brand-new start.

  And Tricia downed the rest of her drink.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Tricia! Wake up,” someone said in a harsh whisper, so close Tricia could feel the heat of hot breath in her ear. She opened one eye to see Angelica, dressed in her Celtic Lady bathrobe, hovering over her.

  “You did still want to see Millicent Ambrose’s interview with EM Barstow, right? It’ll be on in a few minutes.”

  After all she’d had to drink the night before, Tricia had been sure she’d awaken with a hangover, and was happy it hadn’t come to pass. But she had enjoyed her lengthy conversation with Richardson. She’d even let him walk her back to the suite, and they’d shared a pleasant kiss. Perhaps it would have been more intense if she hadn’t been aware of being a star attraction on one of the ship’s video display screens.

  Tricia threw back the covers as Angelica scurried out of her room and back to the lounge. She had no time to dress, and grabbed the robe from her own closet, hurrying after her sister.

  As usual, Sebastian had already arrived with a cart filled with breakfast goodies. Angelica poured a cup of steaming coffee into a mug, doctored it the way Tricia liked it, and handed it to her. The breakfast cart had more food on it than it had had during the rest of the trip, and there was a noticeable absence of yogurt. Tricia smiled and used tongs to set two croissants and pats of butter on her plate before gouging some raspberry jam from one of the small jars. She sat down on her loveseat, setting her breakfast on the cocktail table before her.

  Angelica picked up the remote and switched on the TV. “I hope this show is worthy of us getting up so early on our last real day of vacation.”

  “Me, too.”

  Except for the Celtic Lady logo against a Kelly green background, the screen was blank. Tricia concerned herself with buttering her croissant while Angelica plopped a couple of Danish on a plate, but left the plate on the cart. “Before I forget . . .” Angelica moved to the table by the entry. “Sebastian left this.”

  “Not another gift from my secret admirer!”

  “Looks like it.” Angelica retrieved a flat box. This one was wrapped in plain white tissue.

  Tricia didn’t even try to save the paper and tore it off. She lifted the lid and gasped.

  “What is it?” Angelica demanded.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  Tricia handed the box over to her sister. Angelica looked at the aged paper cover and frowned. “It’s an old magazine.”

  “Oh, Ange, it’s the holy grail of mysteries: Poe’s short story ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ the first modern detective story!”

  Angelica sniffed. “Oh.” She handed the box back, returned to her seat, and picked up a Danish.

  Tricia dared not touch the antique magazine. She’d read the story numerous times. She’d even bid on an original copy of the magazine some ten years before only to lose it to someone with deeper pockets.

  Only four people on Earth had known about her obsession to actually own an original copy. Two could never have afforded it, and another was dead.

  Tricia now knew who her anonymous benefactor was and smiled.

  The TV screen suddenly came to life. A jaunty Irish jig played in the background and the words AT SEA WITH THE Celtic Lady in a distinctive Irish script were superimposed over a shot of Millicent Ambrose. Tricia set the box aside as the words faded. A smiling Millicent sat in a forest green chair that looked like it might have once lived in one of the ship’s fancier bars, her legs crossed at the ankles, her skirt covering her knees. The camera moved in for a closer shot. She looked rather pleased with herself, no doubt because she hoped to flog the show to the networks upon their arrival in New York—if she hadn’t already done so.

  “Good morning, cruisers, and welcome to At Sea with the Celtic Lady. I’m Millicent Ambrose, your ship’s entertainment director. Today we’ll be revisiting an interview I did with author EM Barstow before her unfortunate and untimely passing just days ago.” She bowed her head, her expression growing somber.r />
  “This woman missed her calling. She should have been an actress,” Angelica said sourly.

  “It’s all showbiz,” Tricia agreed, and took a bite of her croissant.

  Millicent prattled on. “After the taped interview, one of Ms. Barstow’s colleagues will join us to tell us about the real EM Barstow. So, without further ado, let’s get on with the show.”

  “I told you,” Tricia said with a wry smile.

  The screen went to black for a second or two before it came to life once more. Millicent sat in the same forest green chair, wearing the same uniform, her smile just as plastic as ever. The camera moved in for a closer shot.

  “Good morning, cruisers! Millicent Ambrose here, your Celtic Lady entertainment director. Welcome to our program. We’ve got loads of wonderful information to share about our upcoming landfall, as well as tidbits on some of our celebrity cruisers, but first the weather. The forecast calls for clear skies and bright sunshine, with winds gusting to five knots.”

  Tricia tuned out while Millicent dutifully reported the air and water temps, gave an update on the miles traveled so far, and the miles left until they docked in New York. Why hadn’t the woman edited that part out of her show? Perhaps they didn’t have the facilities. Or was it because she was in love with the sound of her own voice? Tricia wished she had a fast-forward button on the TV’s remote, but she didn’t dare hit the mute button for fear she’d miss something.

  Finally Millicent got to the point.

  “Today my guest on At Sea with the Celtic Lady is New York Times and USA Today bestselling thriller author EM Barstow.” The camera pulled back. “Good morning, EM. May I called you Emmie?”

  “Good morning, Millicent,” EM said, all business, “and no, you may not.”

  Millicent seemed taken aback by the reply. Obviously she’d known that EM’s close associates called her that, but EM made it clear Millicent wasn’t one of them.

  “Er, I understand you’ve won just about every mystery-writing award given on the planet,” Millicent said, just a little disconcerted.

  “Yes.”

  Again, Millicent looked startled by the blunt answer. “Have you had to build new bookshelves to hold them all?”

  “Yes,” EM answered once again, with no hint of amusement in her voice.

  Millicent pasted on a smile, and Tricia could see this was going to be a difficult interview to watch. Poor Millicent. Still, as the ship’s entertainment director, she’d probably suffered through hundreds of such dialogues with the famous and near-famous over the years.

  “Because of the popularity of the Tennyson Eisenberg series, you must have had a lot of wonderful experiences to celebrate over the years.”

  “Yes. But the truth is I’ve lost my anonymity. I can’t walk the streets of New York or Boston without being constantly recognized.”

  Talk about delusions of grandeur. Tricia had read that many public figures actually liked living in big cities because the denizens weren’t impressed by celebrity. It was the blasé factor. It took a lot more than a bestselling book to enamor the New York crowd.

  “My life has been threatened on a number of occasions,” EM continued.

  And maybe that was because the woman had been skipped when the chip for civility had been given out.

  “Have you been stalked?” Millicent asked, aghast.

  EM nodded. “Several times.”

  “What other kinds of threats have you encountered?” Millicent asked.

  “My e-mail and bank accounts have been hacked—”

  Was that the source of her money problems?

  “And my home has been broken into and valuable items stolen.”

  “Surely not by any of your fans.”

  “Fanatics,” EM clarified.

  “It must have been terrible for you.”

  “Yes. But, I’ve stepped up my security measures, and I’m happy to say all that seems to be behind me.” Oh, yeah? Then why did her mouth look so tight? Was it just because Arnold was also on the cruise? During their encounter in the ship’s library, it had seemed as though EM was more annoyed with the jerk than afraid of him.

  “What kind of hobbies does a bestselling thriller author enjoy?” Millicent asked, changing the subject. “I know Patricia Cornwell pilots a helicopter. Do you have a dangerous hobby?” she asked eagerly.

  “I live vicariously through my characters; that’s all the excitement I require.”

  Millicent plowed on, changing the subject. “What do you do in your free time?”

  “My work takes up a great deal of my time,” EM said firmly. “This voyage is the first downtime I’ve had in several years. Even so, it’s definitely a working vacation. I’m writing my next, what may be my last,” she said firmly, “Tennyson Eisenberg book, as well as juggling other projects.”

  “Your fans will be sorry to hear that,” Millicent said with just the hint of a scold in her voice.

  Some journalist! Why hadn’t she pursued that answer?

  “Would you care to tell us a little about your other writing projects?”

  “No,” EM replied, staring straight into the camera. It was positively unnerving!

  Millicent’s smile wavered, but by then she seemed resigned to receiving tactless, blunt answers to her questions. “I understand you contribute to a number of charitable organizations.”

  EM nodded. “My favorite is for therapeutic horse riding.”

  Millicent blinked—and Tricia did likewise. “I wouldn’t have thought of you as an equestrian. Your characters don’t ride, do they?”

  “No. When I was a young girl, I dreamed of owning a horse. I would like to have a stable of them. They’re beautiful creatures. But I simply don’t have the time to devote to a horse, or any other animal, although I also support a number of horse rescue organizations. In fact, I once owned such a stable.”

  “Once?” Millicent inquired.

  “Yes, for children and teens with learning disabilities, autism, and those who’d been injured.”

  “Did you sell it?”

  EM shook her head. “The manager robbed me blind.”

  Whoa! Those were lawsuit words.

  “I nearly went bankrupt,” EM continued. “I’ve found it hard to trust anyone since.”

  Well, that explained a lot.

  “Do you ride English or Western?” Millicent asked.

  “Western. But I haven’t ridden in over forty years. Still, there’s a barn not far from my home. I often go there to feed the horses carrots. Sometimes I pick up a curry brush, as well. It’s very relaxing to take care of such placid creatures.”

  Obviously no stallions in those stalls, Tricia thought.

  “Do you have a favorite breed?”

  “No. They’re all beautiful to me.”

  Horses? Oh well, Tricia liked to repair the injured spines of books as a hobby—that is, when she could find the time.

  “Would you like to tell us a little about your next book?”

  “No.”

  Millicent’s lips pursed. “How about the book that’s currently available for sale? The one you’ll be signing later today for your fans on board.”

  “Readers are free to check my website for details.”

  It was a shortsighted answer, since not everybody was willing to pay for WiFi access at sea.

  Millicent’s bright smile didn’t extend to her eyes. “Thank you so much, Ms. Barstow, for being my guest today on At Sea with the Celtic Lady.”

  “It was my pleasure,” EM said, her mouth a straight line. Didn’t the woman ever smile? How sad that the only joy she seemed to have had during her life was brushing or feeding a horse. But then, she probably related better to them than people.

  The screen went black before Millicent returned, this time with a nervous-looking Dori Douglas sitting
in the guest chair beside her.

  “Joining us today is Ms. Barstow’s personal assistant, Dori Douglas. Hello, Dori.”

  “Hello, Ms. Ambrose. And I was Emmie’s virtual not personal assistant. We communicated almost exclusively over the Internet.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Probably because Emmie didn’t like to talk face-to-face with people.”

  “Why would she admit that?” Angelica asked before taking another bite of Danish.

  “Shhh!” Tricia warned.

  “She enjoyed being eccentric,” Dori continued. “It added to her mystique.”

  “But you knew the real EM Barstow. Care to share with us an example of this mystique?”

  Dori bit her lip. “Well . . . she had a vast collection of model horses.”

  “She did mention her love of those magnificent creatures.”

  “I think she liked to play with them,” Dori admitted.

  “Oh?”

  “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.