Title Wave (24 page)

“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 kept 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.”

“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.