Title Wave Read online

  “May I go back to my cabin now?” Tricia asked, not that she thought she’d ever go back to sleep after finding the author dead. She had a feeling that when she closed her eyes she’d see EM Barstow’s startling eyes, her mottled skin, and had there been an abrasion under her chin? She’d have to think on that. She was sure the ship’s doctor and McDonald would have noticed it.

  McDonald stood. “You’re free to go. If I have more questions, I’m sure I’ll be able to find you.”

  Tricia rose from her chair. “Thank you.”

  “Good evening,” McDonald said.

  Tricia glanced at her watch. Evening? Good morning, more like. It was nearly five o’clock.

  NINE

  Tricia returned to her stateroom and again attempted to go to sleep, but instead of visualizing her new living quarters, her mind’s eye kept revisiting the terrible image of EM hanging from her shower. Still, she must have dozed for an hour or two, she realized upon hearing noises in the lounge outside her room door. She glanced at the bedside clock and found it was after eight. Rats! She’d probably missed Fiona’s interview on the ship’s TV channel. Hauling herself out of bed, she put on her robe and entered the suite’s common area.

  Angelica stood near the stateroom’s door, looking out the peephole. She turned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I think I got about two hours of sleep all night,” Tricia said, and took her accustomed seat.

  “Oh, no! You must be exhausted. Is anything wrong?”

  “Well, kind of . . .”

  “No one is stalking you,” Angelica said with authority.

  Tricia shook her head.

  “Perhaps you’re finding it hard to sleep without Miss Marple near your feet. I know you miss her terribly. I miss Sarge, too. That’s the problem with taking a trip like this. We have to leave our beloved fur-babies at home.”

  “They’re being well taken care of, but, hang the roaming charges, I’m calling Pixie when we get into port to check up on them. I’m sure Miss Marple isn’t happy sharing her home with Sarge, but I hope they have at least called a truce.”

  “I don’t think we could have left our pets with anyone more qualified than Pixie. She loves them both.”

  “Yes, she does,” Tricia agreed.

  A knock at the door caused them to look up. “That’ll be the continental breakfast I ordered last night.”

  Sure enough, Sebastian had arrived with a cart draped in white linen. “Good morning, ladies,” he said. “May I pour you some coffee?”

  “That would be lovely. Thank you,” Angelica said.

  Sebastian poured and handed them each a cup. “Please let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “Thank you,” the sisters said as he left the lounge, heading for Tricia’s room to make up the bed.

  Angelica sipped her coffee. “Is there anything else on your mind that’s keeping you awake?”

  “Besides my”—she did not say stalker—“admirer and upcoming renovation?” Angelica nodded. “I did have a little adventure overnight.”

  “Oh?”

  “It started when I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the reno, and then I thought I’d go up to the Lido Restaurant for some cocoa. And when I came back down to our deck, I saw an open stateroom door.”

  “And you investigated,” Angelica said with a frown. “I thought you told me you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

  “Yes, and I meant it. But I kind of found EM Barstow hanging in her shower.”

  “Oh my God!” Angelica cried. “Please tell me you’re fooling!”

  Tricia shook her head.

  “Suicide?”

  “That’s what the ship’s security officer seems to want to believe.” And if it was, then she was off the hook for being a jinx at sea. Still . . .

  Angelica had noticed her hesitation. “But you don’t?”

  “I don’t know. There was a suspicious mark under her chin.”

  “What do you think it was?”

  “It looked like a rug burn.”

  “You think someone dragged her across the carpet and then strung up her body?”

  “I’ve read a lot of mysteries over the years. Maybe I’m just the suspicious kind.”

  “Can you imagine the speculation that’s going to go on for the rest of the trip?” Angelica asked.

  “There are at least ten or fifteen mystery authors aboard. I’m sure there are going to be a lot of theories tossed around.”

  “What’s yours?”

  Tricia shrugged, got up from the couch, and examined the breakfast cart. Angelica had ordered pastries, including a couple of croissants, and two containers of strawberry yogurt. Aching to buck her usual routine, Tricia almost reached for one of the croissants. How she would have liked to set it on a plate, cut it into several sections, and then gouge some sweet butter from the small ramekin, spreading it on one of the pieces before popping it into her mouth. Instead, she grabbed one of the yogurt containers and a spoon.

  “Do you think Dori Douglas could have killed EM?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia shrugged, peeling off the lid. “That would be rather obvious, wouldn’t it?”

  “Many times it is. If EM was murdered, what jurisdiction would investigate, and if they discovered who did the deed, what would happen?”

  “That’s a good question.” Tricia took a spoonful of yogurt and swallowed. “You know, sometime ago I read that Congress held hearings on just that subject. As I recall, the cruise industry didn’t come out looking very good. They claim that crimes, such as theft, sexual assault, and even murder are few and far between. They claimed the odds of such things happening to a passenger were akin to getting hit by lightning.”

  “That’s no comfort when Mother Nature has nearly electrocuted you,” Angelica said. “You’ve found more than your fair share of dead bodies. Do you think it’s a credible supposition to believe EM was murdered?”

  Tricia thought about everything she’d seen in the author’s stateroom. “Yes. And that doesn’t make me feel very secure. It means there’s a murderer running around the ship. There’s nowhere to go to be safe, except perhaps locked here in our suite.”

  “Maybe we ought to employ the buddy system and stick together as much as possible.”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Tricia agreed.

  Angelica’s brow furrowed. “Oh, dear. Ginny and the baby are vulnerable. I’m going to tell Antonio not to leave their sides.”

  “Then again, we could just be paranoid,” Tricia pointed out.

  “I wanted them to accompany me on this trip. I wanted the five of us to have a wonderful family vacation, and now I’ve put all of you in terrible danger,” Angelica cried.

  “No, no! Ange. I could be all wrong. I’ve been wrong plenty of times. There could be any number of reasons why EM wanted to kill herself. Things that wouldn’t be obvious to any of us. Maybe she was unhappy with her life in general. Goodness knows she sure came across as totally miserable. She may have suffered from debilitating depression. Perhaps she had a terminal disease and didn’t want to succumb from it. There could be dozens of motives for her to want to end her life.”

  “And what if there weren’t?”

  “We may never know,” Tricia said. “But we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions until we have more information.”

  “You just said the cruise industry as a whole tries to cover up crime. Do you think the Celtic line is better or worse than any other?”

  “I have no idea. I guess we have to believe their PR and hope that passenger safety really is their top priority.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  Tricia could only give an uncomfortable shrug.

  TEN

  Despite Angelica’s desire to stick to her sister like glue, Tricia nixed that idea—at leas
t during daylight hours. Despite the hour, as she walked the ship’s long corridors heading for the stairs and her daily exercise routine, she never came across another soul. If she had, would she have been frightened that he or she was EM Barstow’s killer? Tricia wasn’t sure.

  Tricia pushed open one of the heavy outside doors to the Promenade Deck, noticing that though the wind was brisk, the air was considerably warmer than it had been the day before. She trailed after several others, in a counterclockwise direction, pumping her arms as she headed toward the ship’s bow.

  The news of EM Barstow’s death had spread quickly. Tricia heard many of her fellow walkers and joggers discussing it. She, of course, offered no opinions. Nor did she want anyone—especially anyone from her group of fellow Stoneham and Milford passengers—to find out that she had discovered the body. For far too long she had been branded the Stoneham Village Jinx. She didn’t want anyone spreading the word that she’d now become the Celtic Lady’s resident jinx, as well.

  On her fifth circuit around the deck, Tricia caught sight of a troubled-looking Diana Lovell sitting on one of the teak benches nestled close to the superstructure and out of the wind, looking out at the endless vista quickly passing on the starboard side. “Excuse me, Diana?” she asked.

  The author looked up. “Oh, hello.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Tricia Miles. Several years ago you came to sign books at my mystery bookstore in Stoneham, New Hampshire.”

  “Of course, I remember you. You had a darling little gray cat. Miss Marple, I think she’s named.”

  “You have a good memory,” Tricia said, smiling, but Ms. Lovell’s eyes seemed troubled. “I take it you heard about EM Barstow’s death.”

  “I don’t think there are many on board who haven’t.”

  “You’re thinking about what was said on the panel yesterday,” Tricia guessed.

  “I’m afraid so,” the author admitted.

  “Ship’s security seems to think her death was a suicide.”

  Diana shook her head sadly. “That poor woman.”

  Tricia decided to lighten the conversation. “Will you be at the authors’ luncheon later today?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Diana said, her face brightening, but her eyes still looked troubled. Did she, too, wonder about the circumstances surrounding the author’s sudden death? Mystery authors had dark imaginations—they had to in order to write about death on a regular basis. One of the most important tenets of mysteries—especially cozier mysteries—was bringing the killer to justice. If EM had been murdered, was it likely ship’s security would actively look for her killer? It would be much better for the cruise line’s bottom line to brush the author’s death under the proverbial rug and just encourage the rest of the passengers to enjoy themselves for the remainder of the voyage.

  “Are you enjoying the trip so far?” Tricia asked.

  “Until I heard the news about EM, yes.”

  How else could Tricia steer the conversation away from that subject? “Have you met many of your readers on board?”

  “Yes. It’s been nice to put names to faces.”

  “Diana!” Tricia turned around to see Sidney Charles coming toward them. She wrote a captivating quilting mystery series. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Not yet,” Diana said, standing. “I was hoping to run into you or one or more of the other Lethal Ladies.”

  “The weather’s getting warmer. I’m going to hang out by the pool later, but first up, breakfast!”

  Diana turned to Tricia. “Sidney, this is Tricia Miles. She runs a charming little mystery bookshop in New Hampshire.”

  “I’ll have to get your address. Maybe I could come by and sign sometime.”

  “We’d love to have you.”

  “Would you like to join us for breakfast?” Diana asked.

  “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. I’m sharing a suite with my sister and she loves to order room service.”

  “Isn’t it fun?” Diana said, smiling once again.

  “Sure beats making the coffee myself,” Tricia agreed.

  “We’ll catch up later,” Sidney promised. “I want to get your e-mail address so we can set up a signing.”

  “Great. See you later.”

  “Hey, Diana, did you hear about EM Barstow?” Sidney asked as they entered the ship once more, while Tricia turned to resume her walk. She hadn’t gone far when she saw Angelica charging toward her, with a grin as big as a child’s on Christmas morning.

  “You’ll never guess who I just talked to!” she gushed, and dropped into step with Tricia.

  “No, I won’t—so tell me.”

  “Larry Andrews!”

  “Am I supposed to know who that is?” Tricia asked.

  “I mentioned him the other day. He’s one of the hottest chefs on the Good Food Channel, and he’s dreamy, too.”

  “How nice. What did he have to say?”

  “I have no idea. I was starstruck. I may have actually babbled,” she said, and giggled.

  “Nigela Ricita babble?” Tricia asked.

  “Shhh!” Angelica hissed, looking around them. “Someone might hear you.”

  “I’m just surprised that anyone could impress you that much.”

  “I think I could be a wonderful TV cooking show hostess. I’ve certainly got the personality.”

  “Your first foray into the medium came to a fiery conclusion.”

  “It wasn’t my fault that the local TV studio burned. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “I know, I know,” Tricia said as they rounded the bow and started walking toward the stern of the ship.

  “Anyway, Larry is doing a special demonstration in the ship’s kitchen later this afternoon, and I was able to score a ticket to the event.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I may have to bow out of the authors’ luncheon early.”

  “Oh? But I thought you were looking forward to that.”

  “C’est la vie,” Angelica said. “But Ginny is going and she’ll be more than happy to keep you company.”

  “What about Antonio?”

  “He’s going to babysit Sofia.”

  “Does he mind?”

  “Not a bit. Unlike his father, he’s a real hands-on dad. I couldn’t be more proud of him.”

  “Not like our father, that’s for sure,” Tricia said as they avoided a couple of crewmen who were slapping some kind of clear sealer on the railing. It seemed as though maintenance took precedence over the walkers and joggers who used the deck as their outdoor exercise room.

  “You’re not going to disparage Daddy, are you?” Angelica asked, sounding hurt.

  “No. When I was little, I thought every father only spent an hour or so a day with his children. It never occurred to me that he should play with me or read me a story. He was just not around. And from what I gathered from my friends at school, neither were their fathers.”

  “Well, it wasn’t always that way,” Angelica said.

  Back then, Angelica had been the little princess. And then Tricia and her twin Patrick had been born, and Angelica had been knocked off her tiny throne. But it was only for a short while. Little Prince Patrick had taken center stage in their parents’ lives . . . until he’d died of sudden infant death syndrome. Angelica remembered that life. Tricia had been an infant. She’d known only the perpetual cold shoulder from their mother, who’d wanted a son, not a second daughter. Thank goodness their paternal grandmother had been there for Tricia and Angelica, imbuing them with the love of books and reading. She’d been a sweet haven in the absence of their mother’s love.

  There was only one way Tricia could reconcile her mother’s loveless treatment of her: mental illness. Framing her mother’s behavior in that light made it understandable, though not entirely acceptable. And the fa
ct that Tricia hadn’t even known she’d had a brother until just six months before made the whole situation even more difficult to accept. But she had to. She had no other choice.

  “I’m glad you have happy memories of Mother and Daddy.”

  “And I’m so sorry that you don’t,” Angelica said sincerely.

  “Why don’t we change the subject,” Tricia suggested.

  Angelica sighed. “Very well.”

  “Have you had a chance to sing Stoneham’s praises to any of the other attendees?”

  “There’s a networking cocktail party this evening. A lot of authors will be there if you want to come and schmooze.”

  “I might do just that. What about dinner?”

  “I was hoping we could have another family dinner tonight. You, me, Antonio, Ginny, and Grace and Mr. Everett.”

  “That sounds good to me. It would be fun for all of us to compare notes.”

  “I’m just worried that after EM’s death Ginny won’t feel good about leaving Sofia with a babysitter.”

  “Why not? As far as the rest of the ship is concerned, EM died by her own hand. So far only you and ship’s security know. And unless someone mentions that I found EM, no one has to be the wiser.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Couldn’t they bring Sofia to dinner?” Tricia suggested.

  “Yes, but if she cries, the other diners might not be as forgiving as our little family.”

  Tricia loved to think of the seven of them as family. She had depended on them during the long months after the fire at her store, and more recently when she’d grieved for her ex-husband. She thought she was long over Christopher, but his death had hit her hard. Since then, the Sunday dinners they all shared either at the Brookview Inn or in Angelica’s loft kitchen were something she found she looked forward to. And now her home renovation project filled her with anticipation. Would Ginny be as interested in the project as Angelica? She could only hope.

  “I’ll talk to Ginny at lunch. I don’t want them to hide away in their stateroom just because EM Barstow decided to take her life.”