Terns of Endearment

by Donna Andrews

  “Join me, if you like.” Janet waved to me from a nearby table. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

  “Room enough for four? My husband and twin sons might be joining me, if we can tear them away from the top deck.”

  “Plenty of room—they’ve all deserted me. Angie’s happy as a clam, getting her plot problems solved. Kate and Tish got salads to go and went off with some ditzy but charming hippie lady to do yoga on the top deck.”

  “That would be my cousin Rose Noire,” I said.

  “Oops—sorry about the ditzy part.”

  “It’s accurate,” I said. “Her yoga classes are excellent, though. Just don’t let her force you to drink any herbal tea.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And I’m relieved she’s only doing yoga,” I said. “That’s less likely to get her in trouble than holding a smudging ceremony to protect the ship. I have a feeling Pastime takes a dim view of passengers wandering around waving bundles of burning herbs.”

  “I have a feeling that might also be on the agenda,” Janet said. “With Kate and Tish aiding and abetting her. For research purposes, of course. If your cousin’s so anxious about sailing through the Bermuda Triangle, why in the world is she taking this cruise in the first place?”

  “To save us poor skeptics from ourselves, I suppose.” I couldn’t quite suppress a sigh. “I’ll say this much for her—she does quite a lot of smudging, and she almost never sets anything on fire.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Damn, but I’m envious. Of Angie, that is.” She nodded her head toward the table at which Dad, Horace, and Angie were all three industriously dripping and flicking tomato juice at the tablecloth.

  “I’m sure Dad and Horace would be happy to help you,” I said. “Angie can’t possibly keep them busy every minute of the trip.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve no need of modern medicine or forensics right now,” she said. “What I really need to do is figure out how Rafaella—that’s my series heroine—can plausibly fight off two pirates armed with cutlasses. I hate choreographing fight scenes—especially the sword fights. If I’d known how hard it was, I’d have made her a wizard. She could just wave her arms around dramatically, shout a little gibberish, and the pirates’ swords would fly out of their hands.”

  “You’re in luck,” I said. “I can probably help you with your fight scene.”

  “Don’t tell me you know how to fight with swords.”

  “Only a little,” I said. “I mostly make them.”

  “You’re a swordsmith?” She seemed to like the idea.

  “A blacksmith,” I said. “I’ve made swords, but there’s really not much of a market for them unless you hit the Renaissance Faire and fantasy convention circuit, and I prefer actually seeing my family now and then. But my husband is pretty expert at sword fighting—he’s a drama professor, and occasionally teaches a course in stage combat. I’ll ask him if he can help.”

  “That would be awesome. And—oh, my God! You’ll never guess who just walked in.”

  I turned to see who she was pointing at. I spotted Michael and the boys, and waved so they’d see our table. But I had no idea who Janet was gaping at.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Don’t laugh, but did you ever watch a TV show called Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle? A totally cheesy show, but a lot of fun, and the actor who played the conniving wizard Mephisto was incredible. I actually modeled one of my main characters after him. The guy who just walked in is either the actor who played Mephisto or a dead ringer.”

  I was having a hard time following her instructions not to laugh. Since it had been at least a decade since Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle had stopped filming, Michael no longer had to worry all that much about being recognized as Mephisto—and the fans who did recognize him tended to be grown-ups feeling nostalgic about their teenage obsessions. Which was fine by Michael—he’d happily settled into the quieter life of teaching drama at Caerphilly College.

  “Oh, my God, he’s coming this way.” Janet’s jaw dropped and she sat still, staring as Michael and the boys picked their way through the tables and joined us.

  “Janet, this is my husband, Michael Waterston,” I said. “And these are our sons—Josh and Jamie. Guys, this is Ms. Janet Costello. She writes books.”

  The boys were in a good mood and did us proud. Jamie waved cheerfully at Janet before sitting down. Josh gave a courtly bow before taking his seat.

  “How do you do,” Michael said. “You must be one of the writers Meg told me about.”

  Since Janet still seemed incapable of speech, I chimed in.

  “Janet mentioned that she needs to choreograph a sword fight for the book she’s writing, and I suggested that maybe we could help her.”

  “Great idea.” Michael turned to the boys. “Hey, guys, want to show your mom’s friend some sword fighting?”

  “Awesome,” Jamie said.

  “I bet we don’t get to use real swords, though, right?” Josh added.

  “I doubt if there are any real swords on the ship,” Michael said. “But we’ll figure out something to use by tomorrow.”

  “You have the most amazing family,” was the first thing Janet said when she found her voice again.

  We were still eating—and discussing swords—when Grandfather and his crew finished their meal and began setting up for the evening’s lecture. Since quite a few people had come in late to dinner, thanks to staying on deck to watch our ship sail down the Chesapeake Bay, it looked as if many of them would still be eating when Grandfather started. Which shouldn’t be a problem—after all, some of the other passengers might have come specifically because Grandfather was lecturing on board, and presumably if the rest hadn’t actually sought out a cruise with an educational and environmental theme, they at least knew it would be happening around them.

  Grandfather looked a little irritated. And he kept taking out his phone, calling someone, and then putting the phone away, looking even more irritated.

  “I should go over and help,” Michael said. “I assume Trevor must be still under the weather.”

  Kate and Tish were back. They had grabbed a table near the front and were looking attentive. Janet and I joined them

  “Avid bird-watchers, I assume?” I asked.

  For some reason, this sent Kate and Janet into gales of laughter.

  “Kate and Janet are moderately enthusiastic bird-watchers,” Tish said. “I just want to observe Dr. Blake in action.”

  “She’s thinking of modeling one of her heroes after him,” Kate explained.

  “For a romance? Isn’t he a little … um … long in the tooth?” I wondered if they’d gotten close enough to realize that Grandfather was in his nineties.

  “Well, I was planning on making my character a little younger,” Tish said. “But I want him to have Dr. Blake’s irascible charm, and his stubborn determination to save the environment. And keep in mind that some of my books feature more mature heroes and heroines. There’s an audience out there for books that show that romance isn’t dead just because you’ve turned forty.”

  “Well, I can see that,” I said. “Of course, it’s been over half a century since Grandfather turned forty, so—”

  “Grandfather?” Tish’s eyes bugged. “Dr. Blake is your grandfather?”

  “Didn’t I tell you she had the most amazing family?” Janet said.

  “I can introduce you after the presentation,” I said. “Or just go up and introduce yourself if I fade early. And don’t worry if he seems a little gruff at first—I’m sure he’ll love the idea of having a literary character based on him.’

  “Fabulous,” Tish said, in the tone the boys tended to use while uttering their favorite adjective of “awesome.”

  I excused myself so I could find a place in the back. If the events of the day overcame me and I started yawning, at least Grandfather would be less likely to notice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a crew member announced. “May I present o
ur speaker, Dr. J. Montgomery Blake.”

  Chapter 7

  Grandfather looked slightly annoyed—probably because he was used to being introduced by people who made a big deal about all his credentials and awards. He frowned as the crew member hurried away and disappeared into the kitchen. Then, thank goodness, he shook it off and began.

  At first I almost panicked when I thought that in spite of all my efforts he’d managed to smuggle a stuffed gull on board. I was relieved when I figured out that it was actually a very lifelike statue of a gull, made of plastic or fiberglass or something. Not flesh and blood, anyway, and so not likely to give either the ship’s crew or the Bermudian authorities a conniption fit. I breathed a sigh of relief and focused on his presentation.

  His first PowerPoint slide read simply: THE SEAGULL.

  “What’s wrong with this slide?” he asked.

  I considered suggesting “the fact that it’s completely boring,” but I decided to let the rest of the audience have their chance to answer.

  Not that anyone particularly wanted to. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only fifteen or twenty seconds, Grandfather nodded to Caroline, who was running the laptop with his presentation on it, and she clicked onto the next slide. Which showed the letters S, E, and A crossed out, so the slide now read: THE GULL.

  “They’re not sea gulls,” Grandfather said. “Just gulls. Quite a lot of gull species live near the water—although not just the ocean. The Great Lakes boast quite a few species. And there are many species that live completely landlocked lives. Next slide.”

  The screen now showed a classic picture of a gull, with a white head, neck, and belly; gray wings; and a black-and-white tail. He was looking nobly off into the distance.

  “So what’s this?” Grandfather asked.

  “A gull,” called a couple of audience members.

  “Very good. Specifically a ring-billed gull. Larus delawarensis. Next.”

  At first glance, the next slide seemed to show the same gull or possibly his brother, in a slightly different stance. Instead of looking nobly off into the distance, he appeared to be staring at the photographer with annoyance.

  “What’s this?”

  “A gull!” At least half of the audience joined in this time.

  “Good. A common gull. Larus canus. And next.”

  This bird looked as if one of the first two white gulls had slipped a black hood over its head.

  “A gull?” About the same number of audience members, but sounding less certain.

  “Yes. Very good. A laughing gull. Leucophaeus atricilla. And this?”

  The fourth bird didn’t have a full black hood like the third—more of a jaunty black cap, actually, and the rest of him was mostly gray and white. I had a feeling if I could see any of them side by side I’d see other, more subtle differences.

  The audience had been well trained by now.

  “A gull!” they shouted with great confidence and enthusiasm.

  “Nope. This one’s a tern. The common tern, Sterna hirundo.”

  Grandfather looked very smug, and luckily the audience took it with good humor. Most of the audience. Two of the Three Stooges, who’d been sitting near the back, got up and left, rather noisily. The third ordered another beer, slumped back in his seat, and began snoring. Desiree was frowning and looking at the bejeweled watch on her wrist. I predicted she’d be the next to flee.

  “They all look so alike,” someone called out. “How can you possibly tell them apart?”

  “Very good! That’s your first important lesson on gulls. Or to be more precise, gulls, terns, kittiwakes, noddies, skimmers, and to some extent, petrels. There are a whole lot of them, and they’re really hard to tell apart. Gull identification is one of the hardest jobs an ornithologist can have. And what’s more, in the northern hemisphere, a lot of these critters spend the summer in their breeding grounds in the arctic region, which means the only time they’re around for birders to see them is—guess when?”

  “Winter?” someone ventured rather timidly.

  “Exactly! In the winter! Which isn’t exactly a time when most sane people want to be spending long hours on boats or by the shore, getting snowed on or sleeted on and trying, in spite of their chattering teeth, to tell apart a couple of birds who look so much alike their own mothers would have a hard time.”

  He had the audience laughing now. I relaxed a little. And I saw, with relief, that the crew member who had introduced Grandfather had returned to awaken the snoring Stooge and escort him to the door. Desiree chose this moment to rise. Another crew member leaped to her side—quite possibly a crew member who’d been lurking nearby to refill her wineglass before she began bellowing complaints. I breathed a slight sigh of relief when the door closed behind them. Everyone else sitting in the room seemed at least moderately interested in Grandfather’s lecture.

  “But we birders are a hardy lot!” he was saying. “So for my fellow birders, I’ll share a few tips on how to tell apart some of the gulls and other Laridae. And for the rest of you, I’ll tell you a little bit about how strange and rather wonderful gulls and their relatives are.”

  I settled back to enjoy Grandfather’s talk. Annoying as he could be at times, I had to admit that he was a great public speaker. You could tell the birders in the audience, because they were busily scribbling notes. The rest of us just sat back and enjoyed his enthusiasm, his jokes, and his admittedly entertaining anecdotes. Interspersed with the side-by-side comparisons of the various easily confused gull species, he included funny photos of gulls: A gull standing on a post, with another gull standing on his back. A gull sitting on a car windshield, staring wistfully at a piece of toast lying on the dashboard inside. Gulls carrying various inedible objects, like brown plastic pill bottles or tennis balls. Gulls in the process of swallowing starfish, with one or more squirming starfish arms dangling from their bills—so many of these that I deduced starfish were a gourmet delight for gulls. Gulls swooping down to steal food from humans’ plates. And any number of gulls caught in silly poses or with amusing expressions on their faces.

  He also shared bits of gull and tern lore.

  “Did you know that gulls are one of the few species of animals that can drink both fresh and salt water? They have a special set of glands right above their eyes that flush the salt out of their systems through openings in their bills.”

  Of course, part of the fun was when he acted out bits of bird behavior.

  “They’re also very sneaky. A bunch of them will get together and tap their feet rhythmically on the ground. This tricks the earthworms into thinking it’s raining, the earthworms wriggle up to the surface, and bingo! The gulls get dinner.” Grandfather’s rendition of the gulls tapping on the earth, the earthworms—represented by his fingers—wriggling to the surface, and the gulls pouncing on their helpless prey were classic. With luck someone would be videoing on their cell phone.

  Suddenly I had to stifle a yawn. Not a bored yawn—I’d been up since five in the morning. I looked at my watch. Technically, Grandfather’s presentation would be over in about ten minutes. Which could mean a serious traffic jam at the ship’s single elevator. I glanced around at the audience members. Most of them were listening intently. By now, anyone not fascinated by the topic of gulls, petrels, and terns had already departed, or maybe failed to show up to begin with. Grandfather showed no signs of tiring, which would mean he’d stay overtime and take questions. Maybe people would trickle out.

  Still—maybe if I snuck out now, I could beat the crowd to the elevator. It had been a long day. Not a bad day, but definitely a long one. And tiring.

  Then Grandfather uttered the magic words.

  “So, I think we’ve got time for a few questions.”

  Hands shot up. Since the official presentation was over, I could sneak out with a clean conscience. After all, if I had any burning questions on gulls, terns, and petrels, I had plenty of access to Grandfather outside the cruise.

 
; “I’m going to head upstairs and start getting the cabins ready for bedtime,” I texted to Michael. Then I slipped out of my seat and made my way as unobtrusively as possible to the door.

  Out in the long passageway, I took a deep breath, in preparation for a sigh of relief and contentment.

  And then gagged, because I’d breathed in an amazingly foul odor.

  I looked down at the passageway floor and saw a pool of vomit. Beer-infused vomit, by the smell of it.

  “The Stooges,” I muttered. Probably the third Stooge, the one who’d been so visibly drunk when the crew member had politely shown him to the door. I’d have bet anything he was responsible. Couldn’t he at least have called a steward to clean this up?

  Of course not. He’d probably disavow any knowledge of it if anyone tried to blame him.

  Should I go back in and ask one of the crew members at the lecture to summon a cleanup crew? There were only two, the one who’d introduced Grandfather and another one who had been sitting in the audience, listening with rapt attention. The first one already had his hands full and the other was probably off duty.

  I should just leap over the puddle and seek help on the other side.

  It was a pretty big puddle. What if I missed?

  As I was hovering with what I like to think was uncharacteristic indecisiveness, I heard a muffled shriek from somewhere farther down the passageway.

  “No! Please! Leave me alone!” A woman’s voice, with a faint foreign accent.

  “Aw, c’mon, baby.” A male voice, slurred.

  I made my decision.

  Chapter 8

  I backed up as far as I could, to get a bit of a running start, and leaped. Luckily I cleared the puddle. I strode down the passageway. At the end of it was the boarding lobby, where we’d all entered the ship.

  One of the Stooges was there, struggling with a petite young woman in a white crew uniform. His left hand was holding her wrist, and his right was groping her breast.