Title Wave Page 27

  “Yes,” Angelica answered.

  “No,” Tricia piped up.

  “Then let me give you a quick tour before your treatments. This way, please.”

  They followed after her, taking in the sights as they walked.

  “Here is our fitness centre,” Siobhan said, waving a hand in that direction.

  Tricia and Angelica leaned into the doorway of the large, glass-encased workout area, which gave a panoramic view of the angry steel gray waves being cut by the ship’s bow, as well as the murky sky above.

  To Tricia, the ship’s fitness centre could have doubled as a modern-day torture centre. Every station—from the elliptical and spin bikes, to the treadmills, to the weights area—was occupied by sweating passengers dressed in workout clothing, much of it emblazoned with the Celtic Lady emblem. Tricia recognized a number of authors using the equipment. Harold Pilger sat on a spinning bike and gave a wave, while in the corner Cathy Copper received guidance from a spa trainer as she did bench presses. Chauncey Porter walked briskly on one of the treadmills. He’d lost at least fifty pounds a little over a year before and had kept the weight off through diligent exercise. Tricia often saw him power walking through the streets of Stoneham in the early morning and late at night, even though he’d lost his most-recent exercise buddy.

  “Our salon is this way,” Siobhan said, and led them past a well-equipped beauty parlor. Among the clients was Mary Fairchild, seated in her wheelchair, her dripping hair being snipped by a young man dressed in white. She looked happy—perhaps because the Dexter twins had not accompanied her.

  “Tricia! Angelica!” she called, waving a hand in the air.

  “May we take a moment?” Angelica asked.

  “Of course,” Siobhan cheerfully agreed.

  The sisters made their way across the room. Every station was occupied by women having their roots touched up, getting their hair trimmed, and one woman on the high side of sixty was admiring the green streak that had been added to her bleached-blonde mane.

  “I’m so excited,” Mary said, staring at herself in the mirror before her. “Right after I spoke to you this morning, Tricia, I was approached by one of the ship’s officers. Aren’t they the nicest people in the world? They offered me a total makeover.”

  Probably in hopes of avoiding a lawsuit, Tricia thought grimly.

  “I’ve already had a manicure.” Mary offered up her bloodred nails in evidence. “I’m scheduled for a massage, a body scrub, and a session with a makeup artist. I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun!”

  “They’re certainly doing a good job of pampering you,” Tricia agreed.

  “What are you ladies here for?”

  “Oh, just a manicure and pedicure,” Angelica said.

  “You’re going to love it,” Mary practically squealed.

  “Madam, would you like me to trim your bangs?” asked the young man, in a French accent.

  “Oui,” Mary said, and giggled.

  “We’ll let you get on with it,” Angelica said, “and hope to see you later to take in the final results.”

  “Despite my infirmity, I intend to enjoy every minute left on this cruise—especially now that I know that idiot with the scooter won’t run into me again.”

  “What are your plans?” Tricia asked.

  “Chauncey and I are going to have dinner together tonight in one of the exotic restaurants. He’s been so sweet to me since last night. I couldn’t have managed without him holding my hand throughout the whole rigmarole of X-rays and everything else.”

  “He’s a nice man,” Tricia agreed. Except that he held an unreasonable grudge.

  “Ladies,” Siobhan said, reminding the sisters that they had somewhere else to go.

  “We’ll see you later,” Angelica said, giving Mary’s arm a pat and turning to follow their spa guide.

  “You’ll be in treatment room four,” Siobhan said once they were back out in the corridor.

  Once inside the treatment room, they were handed Celtic Lady terry cloth robes that weren’t as sumptuous as those in their cabins, but were more than adequate as cover-ups. The room was painted a soothing shade of blue and contained two big, soft-padded leatherlike chairs with footbaths before them, and movable tables that housed clippers, emery boards, orange sticks, and neatly folded white towels.

  “If you’ll please be seated,” Siobhan said, waving a hand in the direction of the comfy chairs. “Can I get you ladies anything to drink? Green tea? Perhaps a refreshing glass of cucumber and lime–infused water?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Angelica said. She turned to Tricia and mumbled, “I’d rather have a gin and tonic.”

  “Shhh!” Tricia admonished.

  “Your nail technicians will be with you shortly,” Siobhan said. “Please let any of our staff know if you need anything.”

  “We will. Thank you,” Tricia said.

  Angelica picked up a brochure that showcased the rainbow of nail varnishes available, running her index finger down the columns.

  “Did I mention that I ran into Officer McDonald again this morning?” Tricia asked.

  “No. What did he have to say?”

  “Not much. I get weird vibes from him. He gets annoyed with me when I mention my theories about EM’s death, but then he hints that he’d like to get to know me better.”

  “He’s probably like that with a lot of women passengers. I mean, he’s not allowed to fraternize, and yet he’s stuck at sea for months at a time. He’s probably lonely and, like me, you’ve held up well despite the years.”

  Tricia frowned, unsure if she’d just been insulted. She shook herself. “Did you hear that Arnold Smith has been confined to his cabin?”

  “Oh, is that what Mary meant? It seems a prudent measure. The man is a menace.”

  “I wonder if he’ll sue the cruise line. There certainly seem to be enough unfortunate events to warrant a plethora of suits.”

  “You may be right.”

  Two young Asian women entered the treatment room, and in no time the sisters were soaking their hands and feet in warm water.

  “I think I could get used to this,” Angelica said, sighed, and sank deeper into her comfy chair. But Tricia couldn’t seem to relax. Something niggled in the back of her brain. Something she’d seen since they’d entered the spa—something that should be important, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what it could be—and she knew it would bug her in the hours to come.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Angelica had insisted that the sisters go for the works at the Sea Nymph Spa—and it was much later than either realized by the time they left and returned to their suite to get ready for dinner. The dress code may have been deemed casual for that night, but Angelica donned a tailored black silk pantsuit with a crisp pink blouse, while Tricia opted for one of her usual sweater sets—this one in apricot. The porter had already picked up her luggage and that was about all she had left to wear.

  The Kells Grill was practically empty when the sisters met up with Grace, Mr. Everett, and Ginny and Antonio. The new parents seemed antsy about leaving Sofia with the sitter, and settled for appetizers, hurrying to eat so they could get back to their cabin to check on the baby, who’d been fretful all day.

  “Those poor dears,” Grace lamented as she tucked into the last of her sautéed trout. “I don’t think they got to enjoy much of the day.”

  “Did you?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh, yes. And we’ll have to hurry, dear,” she told Mr. Everett, “if we’re going to make curtain time for tonight’s play.”

  “I had no idea it was so late,” Mr. Everett said, setting his knife and fork aside. “Dearest, we really should leave now.”

  Grace’s smile widened and she turned her gaze to Tricia. “Would you please tell Cristophano not to bother with our desserts? I hate to think o
f them being wasted.”

  “We will,” Tricia promised, and waved as two of her favorite people got up from their chairs and left the restaurant.

  “Looks like we’re shutting down the place,” Angelica said, swirling the last of her wine in her glass. “Why don’t we go back to that lovely little bar, the Wee Dram, and have a nightcap?” she asked Tricia.

  “Why not?” Tricia agreed.

  As promised, she flagged down Cristophano and canceled all their dessert orders before the sisters departed the restaurant and retraced their steps from the night before and found the bar, which had only a few scattered patrons. They sat down in the chairs they’d previously occupied and waited for one of the staff to come take their order.

  “What will you have tonight?” Tricia asked. “Another martini?”

  “I’m in the mood for something that must be sipped in minute quantities to be truly enjoyed. Perhaps a brandy or a glass of Grand Marnier.”

  “Oh, that sounds good. Maybe I’ll have the same.”

  Soft music issued from hidden speakers. It seemed to be all around them—not coming from any specific direction.

  “It was so good to see you actually enjoying your food for once.”

  “Dinner was excellent,” Tricia agreed. “But don’t get used to it. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be back to my usual regime.”

  “That’s too bad,” Angelica said. “I was hoping you’d made a change for the better.”

  “Eating healthy is a good thing.”

  “Yes, but too much of a good thing isn’t healthy for your spirit,” Angelica suggested.

  Maybe. Maybe Tricia would allow herself more treats. Maybe she’d stick to her usual habits during the week and allow herself a few indulgences on weekends. Yes, that seemed like a reasonable compromise. She decided not to share her new resolve. “Why don’t I just go to the bar and order the drinks?” she asked.

  “Would you be a dear and do so?”

  “I’d be happy to.” Especially since Angelica had charged so much to her personal account, Tricia felt like she ought to flex her financial muscles. After all, she wasn’t exactly destitute thanks to Christopher’s generosity.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” Tricia said, and got up from her seat, heading for the bar.

  The bartender was washing glasses as she approached. She read his name tag. Georges. As expected, the man had a French accent. “May I help you, madam?”

  “Yes. Two glasses of Grand Marnier, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Ah, oui, madam.”

  Tricia watched as the Frenchman poured the liqueur, then held out his hand for her keycard.

  Drinks in hand, Tricia approached Angelica but saw another couple had also taken up residence.

  “Mary, you look gorgeous,” Tricia said in greeting.

  “I feel gorgeous,” Mary gushed. It looked like she was wearing a new dress as well.

  “Hello, Chauncey,” Tricia said as she handed Angelica her glass.

  “Tricia,” he said, his voice subdued. He didn’t look at all happy to see her. If he’d known she was in the vicinity, would he have wheeled Mary over to converse with Angelica?

  “Can we offer you a drink?” Tricia asked.

  “No, thank you,” Chauncey said, and shifted in his chair so that he wouldn’t have to look at her.

  Tricia took her seat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Well, this certainly wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation—at least for her.

  “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk, Chauncey. How are you enjoying the trip so far?” Angelica asked.

  “Wonderful. It’s been years since I’ve been able to afford a vacation—but thanks to your business advice, my shop is back in the black.”

  And Tricia had loaned him the money to buy the stock that had afforded him the opportunity to do so, but she wasn’t going to mention it and apparently neither was Chauncey.

  “How do you think Mindy’s doing her first time leading a tour?” Angelica asked.

  “Excellent. She quizzed me for tips before we left, but she really hasn’t needed my help at all—which is all right by me. It gives me more time to enjoy the programs and the joys of cruising.” He looked over at his companion. “And Mary’s company.”

  Mary blushed, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

  “Have you met any celebrities?” Angelica asked.

  “Quite a few of the authors. I had hoped a travel writer, like Rick Steves, could have made the trip, but I’ve enjoyed talking with everyone I meet.”

  “I’d hoped for another opportunity to speak with Chef Larry Andrews. I wonder what kind of suggestions he’d have for the Booked for Lunch menu,” Angelica pondered.

  Chauncey laughed. “Probably to offer fewer burgers and sandwiches.”

  “Don’t you listen to him,” Mary chided. “Your menu is perfect as it is.”

  “Have you met any other celebrities?” Angelica asked.

  “Just Cathy Copper.”

  “Cathy Copper?” Tricia repeated, surprised, but Chauncey didn’t look in her direction.

  “We met her, too,” Angelica said. “She’s an editor with one of the big publishing houses in New York.”

  “She is now,” Chauncey said, “but that’s not her biggest claim to fame, and I’m amazed you don’t recognize her name.”

  Angelica looked over at Tricia, who shrugged.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Angelica said. “Who is she—or was she?”

  “Cathy Copper was on the fast track to become an Olympic champion in gymnastics until her accident.”

  “Accident?” Tricia asked.

  Again, Chauncey ignored her, but spoke directly to Angelica. “A terrible fall during the nationals. The subsequent surgeries weren’t entirely successful, and she never competed again.”

  That explained Cathy’s limp, and also the crack she’d made about those in competition.

  “That’s terrible,” Angelica agreed. “How old was she at the time?”

  “I believe fourteen.”

  “How sad. Was she glad to be remembered?”

  “Not really,” Chauncey admitted. “I think she was actually embarrassed. It’s hard to be washed up at fourteen, but she seems to have adjusted better than a lot of former athletes.”

  Maybe not, Tricia thought.

  “Have you been networking with other booksellers?” Angelica asked, abandoning that thread of conversation.

  Chauncey launched into a soliloquy of each and every bookseller he’d spoken with since boarding the ship almost a week before. Angelica usually enjoyed the topic, but when he didn’t give her an opportunity to participate in the conversation, Tricia could see her sister’s patience begin to wane. And though they’d both been slowly sipping their drinks, the glasses were long since empty when Chauncey finally seemed to wind down. Would his windbag tendencies be detrimental to what seemed to be a budding relationship between him and Mary?

  “It’s been such a lovely evening—after such a lovely day,” Mary said wistfully, “but I must admit I’m running out of steam. It’s going to be a hectic day tomorrow. I think it’s time I turned in. Chauncey, would you be so kind as to wheel me back to my cabin?”

  “I’d be delighted.” He rose from his seat. “See you tomorrow, Angelica.”

  “Good night, Tricia—Angelica,” Mary said as Chauncey pushed the chair out into the corridor.

  The sisters watched them leave.

  “That was rather rude of Chauncey not to even acknowledge you,” Angelica commented.

  “It’s okay,” Tricia assured her. “I’m used to it.”

  “If he and Mary do end up together, perhaps he’ll thaw a little toward you.”

  “Perhaps,” Tricia admitted, distracted.

  “What’re you thinking?” Angelica asked with
a note of disapproval evident in her voice.

  “After hearing what Chauncey had to say, I think I know how Cathy could have killed EM.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it would be extremely dangerous, but I’m betting a trained gymnast could have scaled the side of the ship along the balconies until she came to a certain cabin, then open the door from the balcony to the stateroom.”

  “Are you crazy? One false move and she’d fall overboard. And besides, she’s got a bum leg.”

  “She’d need upper-body strength, that’s for sure. But we saw her working out with weights at the exercise area of the spa.”

  “That’s true,” Angelica admitted, “but why would she kill EM? She was Cathy’s meal ticket, or at least a part of it.”

  “We’d have to talk to her to get some more infor—”

  “No!” Angelica declared. “If she did kill EM—and I think your theory is totally ridiculous—what makes you think she wouldn’t come after you?”

  “Because you’d be with me—my hedge against attack.”

  “No. No. No!”

  “But we only have a few hours before we dock in New York. Once Cathy is off the ship, she’s pretty much assured of getting away with murder, because you know the cruise line won’t pursue justice.”

  “And it’s not your responsibility to do it, either.”

  “But—”

  “May I remind you that you didn’t even like EM Barstow?” Angelica said, her voice growing strident.

  “She may not have been a very nice person, but that makes it even more essential that someone cares enough to see her killer apprehended.”

  “You’re a dreamer.”

  “But I’m not the only one.”

  Angelica frowned, then her gaze rose.

  Tricia looked up to see Antonio rushing toward them. “Mamma mia!” he cried as he approached.

  “What’s wrong, darling boy?” Angelica asked, rising to her feet.