Terns of Endearment

by Donna Andrews

  “How accurately?” Tish asked.

  “Up in the high nineties,” Delaney said. “Ninety-seven, ninety-eight percent accuracy in our latest testing. Which means, yeah, there’s room for error, but if you’re in court facing charges that you wrote threatening emails—or tried to frame someone else for writing threatening emails—and the prosecution has a witness ready to testify that there’s a ninety-seven percent certainty that you wrote the emails—odds are you’ll settle.”

  “So if you have a manuscript, you could compare it with books by two different people and see which one wrote it?” Tish asked.

  “Sure,” Delaney said. “You wouldn’t even need books—if you had a bunch of letters or emails from each person, that would work just as well.”

  “So it’s not just word choice?” Tish looked excited. They all did.

  “No, it’s subtle neuro-linguistic stuff. Which is not my expertise, but I’ve gotten pretty good at working with the neuro-linguists so the program finds what they need to find.”

  “Is there any chance you could do some testing for us?” Kate asked. “When we get back to land, of course.”

  “Sure—that would be fun.” From her expression, she really meant it. “But why not now—I mean, if it’s stuff you have in your laptops or tablets or phones.”

  Tish, Kate, and Janet exchanged glances.

  “Pretty sure I’ve got Nancy’s last manuscript in my laptop,” Kate said. “From when she asked us to critique it before she sent it to her agent.”

  “I’ve got all her old regencies in my e-reader,” Tish said.

  “Me, too,” Janet said. “And I might have something of Desiree’s. And we know Angie does.”

  “I’d kind of like to see how well this works first,” Tish said. “Not that I’m doubting you—”

  “Hey, seeing’s believing,” Delaney said. “I have an idea. You’ve probably all got a lot of emails in your laptops. Save a bunch of those—at least fifty, a hundred if possible. I’ll analyze those. And then you can give me a bunch of your manuscripts, and I’ll tell you which manuscripts match which emails.”

  “You can do that?”

  “No, but our program can.” Delaney clearly thought it sounded like fun.

  “What if someone were deliberately trying to avoid her usual word choices and turns of phrase? Like writing in a different genre or trying to imitate someone’s style?” Kate asked.

  “Wouldn’t stump the program. It’s the neuro-linguistic stuff. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I’m not a neuro-linguist.”

  “Just the best damned programmer you’ll ever meet,” Rob said.

  I could see the writers pause for a moment to smile at that. Sometimes I was very proud of Rob. The fact that Delaney was an acknowledged genius in something he barely understood didn’t seem to bother him one bit. He was proud of her. I found myself wondering if little bits of Rob might make it into some of the writers’ future books.

  “So, got any files for me?” Delaney asked.

  The writers claimed their laptops—still tethered to various chargers—and set to work. Delaney rummaged in her tote and came up with flash drives and cables. I decided to leave them to it. True, analyzing Nancy’s and Desiree’s manuscripts was something of a distraction from their writing—but if Delaney’s program turned up anything interesting, it could have a bearing on the suicide. Alleged suicide. They’d found a way to help Dad’s investigation.

  I strolled over to where Caroline was sitting.

  “Want some iced tea?” she asked, pointing to a pitcher.

  “Is it really iced?” The pitcher didn’t seem to be sweating.

  “No, with luck it’s finally down to the ambient temperature. But it’s wet. The lemon makes it seem refreshing.”

  She had a point. I let her pour me a glass.

  “How did you make it, anyway?”

  “Plugged my little hot plate into one of the solar batteries and boiled the water on it.” She sounded pleased with her own ingenuity.

  “I thought hot plates were against Pastime’s rules.”

  “Probably. Aren’t you glad I pay no attention to rules?”

  “Good point. Where is Dad, anyway?”

  “Off with that mystery writer. See for yourself—they’re probably still trying to fall off the deck four sun deck.”

  Chapter 17

  Fall off the ship? That didn’t sound like a very good idea. Given how hard it had become since the breakdown to find a crew member when you needed one, anyone who fell overboard had better be able to tread water for a good long time.

  I went to the stern and peered over the rail. Deck four ran the length of the ship. Deck five stopped about twenty-five feet short of the stern, and deck six another twenty feet short of that. So from where I stood, I could see both the deck four and deck five sun decks.

  On deck five I saw several familiar parasols gathered around a small table that contained a tray of tea paraphernalia—cups, saucers, spoons, napkins, lump sugar, lemon slices, and a couple of glass containers in which tea bags were slowly steeping.

  “When they get tired of making sun tea, I’ll lend them my hot plate,” Caroline said, obviously following my gaze.

  Dad and Angie were at the back of deck four, peering over the rail.

  “Interesting,” I murmured.

  “You think they’ve found something?” Caroline asked. “Or were you using ‘interesting’ the way your mother does, because you can’t think of anything polite to say?”

  “I have no idea if they’ve found anything,” I said. “But I just realized something. I’d assumed that Desiree chose the deck four sun deck to jump from because it was the closest one to her room. She’s only a few cabins down from us. Room 411.”

  “Seems pretty obvious,” Caroline said. “Although it does beg the question of why she didn’t just jump off her private balcony. If I were hell-bent on self-destruction, that’s what I’d do. More convenient, and less chance of interference.”

  “But she was a diva,” I pointed out. “A drama queen. That little still life she left behind—the designer shoes, the expensive shawl—that was meant to be seen. Photographed. She wouldn’t want it hidden away in her cabin.”

  “Point taken.” Caroline frowned. “And I just realized something else—what if she wanted to be found? Not just her fancy red shoes and her shawl, but her. Maybe she wanted someone to grab her as she was going over the rail, or dive in to save her once she hit the water. What if she expected to be saved?”

  I nodded. It sounded all too plausible to me. I pulled out the pamphlet with the floor plans of all the decks—well, all the passenger decks—and studied it.

  “There’s no place you can jump from in the bow except for that open stretch of deck two. And you can only get there through the Moonbeam Lounge, which the map says is locked up at midnight.”

  “Probably to keep people from raiding the bar.”

  “And the navigation bridge is at the front of deck three,” I added. “It looks straight down on that part of deck two. I’m pretty sure they have to have someone in there all the time.”

  “Even when the ship is stopped?”

  “Probably.”

  “So the front of deck two would be a good place to jump if you wanted to be seen,” Caroline said. “But there’d be a danger of them stopping you before you actually went over the rail, and it would be hard to get to. And there’s no way she could have jumped from the stern up here or on deck five. She’d just land on the next deck down.”

  “It would have been perfectly feasible to jump from the stern of deck one, two, or three,” I said.

  “They’re all covered over,” she said. “Maybe she wanted to end it all under the open sky.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe she thought jumping from four would make the biggest splash. Give her the biggest chance of rescue.”

  Caroline winced at that.

  “She could always go over the side,” she pointed out. “F
rom any deck she pleased. Most of the sides are taken up with private balconies, but I think there’s at least one public one on each deck.”

  We moved to the starboard rail and peered over.

  “All the balcony rails.” I shook my head. “You’d have to leap pretty far out, because if you bounced against the side of the ship going down, you could get caught on one of the balcony rails. And whether she really was trying to kill herself or just hoping for a dramatic rescue, I think the whole idea would be to land in the water, not have her limp body found half on and half off someone’s balcony.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “In a morbid way.”

  “It’s a morbid subject.”

  Dad and Angie had given up staring over the rail and were inspecting the deck. They’d found a magnifying glass somewhere—although it didn’t look like a very powerful one—and they were now examining the spot where Desiree had left behind her shawl and shoes.

  And the tiny feathered object. I’d almost forgotten about that. I checked, and saw that it was still tucked in my pocket. I should show it to someone eventually. Then I focused back on Dad and Angie. They were back at the rail, leaning over, peering down at the water.

  “Any idea what they’re doing now?”

  “They’re trying to figure out if Desiree really could have jumped from there.” Caroline shook her head. “Since, as you and I have just established, it’s one of the few places where it looks possible. But if you look closely at the outside of the ship, there are a lot of various … I don’t know. Sticking-out bits. I’m sure they all perform some useful nautical purpose, but don’t ask me what. If you wanted to jump—”

  “Which I don’t.”

  “You’d have to pick a stretch of the rail where there weren’t any of those sticking-out bits. Or at least none big enough that they’d stop you. Some of them would merely snag your clothes, of course, which is why they’re having Horace check everyplace he can reach on the stern of deck four and below, in the hope of finding a torn bit of cloth. They might yet come up with some trace evidence.”

  “And the crew are letting them do that?”

  “The crew.” She snorted. “If the crew try to stop you from doing anything, just ask them what’s wrong with the ship and when we’re going to get back underway and how much of a refund you can get for the inconvenience. They disappear like songbirds who’ve spotted a hawk.”

  “Useful,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Listen, are you and Grandfather planning to do any of your remote broadcasts from Bermuda?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Assuming we ever get to Bermuda. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if they turned around and went back to port once they finish this repair, whatever it is. Wouldn’t surprise me and wouldn’t exactly upset me, either.”

  “But you’ve got the equipment—the fancy radio gear and the solar-powered batteries.”

  “We have. At least I think we have. Solar batteries right over there. All the transmitting gear is supposed to be in Trevor’s baggage. Of course we have no idea if Trevor’s here, much less his baggage.”

  “His baggage is here—I checked. I’ll see if I can get someone to let me in again and bring it to you.”

  “That would be nice,” she said. “And is there something you want me to do with it when I get it?”

  “You think that stuff might let you contact someone? Like maybe the Coast Guard or the U.S. Navy?”

  She cocked her head to one side.

  “We should be able to. You don’t think the ship has already done that?”

  “I wouldn’t want to bet on it.”

  “Meaning you don’t want to bet our lives on it.”

  “Precisely.” I nodded. “Even if they’ve been in contact, I bet they’re not saying ‘Help! We’re stuck in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle with no power and no water and we have no idea what’s wrong with our ship, much less how to fix it.’ Because I think if they’d said that we’d have seen results by now. The Coast Guard takes that kind of thing pretty seriously.”

  “I agree.” Caroline frowned. “They’re probably handing out the party line. ‘Don’t worry about us; we’re just stopped for minor repairs.’”

  “Exactly.”

  “You get me the equipment and I’ll get Guillermo and Wim working on making contact with the outside world.”

  “And then once you make contact, see if you can raise Trevor. I’d feel better, knowing he’s just been left behind.”

  She nodded. Then she bustled over to the other side of the ship, where Guillermo and Wim had evidently found something worth photographing. Something very far away, presumably. I couldn’t see anything in any direction but calm water and cloudless blue skies. But both of their cameras sported zoom lenses so large that I’d have worried that it would unbalance me and send me tumbling over the rail. I glanced down again at Dad and Angie. Maybe I should drop by and suggest that they shouldn’t both lean over the rail at the same time. What if a sudden wave hit and they both toppled over into the ocean? Dad might not listen, but Angie struck me as having some shreds of common sense.

  Janet appeared.

  “So it’s a little early for our fencing session,” she said. “But communications being what they are, I figure it could take a while to find your husband and sons.”

  “They’re probably on the miniature golf course in the bow of deck five,” I said.

  “I can go get my digital camera and meet you there.”

  It occurred to me that it would keep Dad happier if I found out where the writers’ rooms were.

  “What deck are you on?” I asked. “Because if another deck’s more convenient for you—”

  “Deck three,” she said. “Our posse’s in 313 and 315, if you ever want to find us. And there aren’t any big public spaces on our deck, so deck five’s fine with me.” She dashed off.

  Connecting rooms, I noted, on my trusty ship’s map. Dad would probably decide that this made it less likely that one of them could be up to something sinister without the other three being involved, or at least aware. Which was a good thing, since I suspected he was wasting any time he spent suspecting them. Of course, he might also wonder if it was significant that their rooms were almost directly beneath Desiree’s. I would probably have to calm him down by pointing out that it was a small ship, and suggesting that perhaps the writers, like Desiree on deck four and Grandfather on deck five, had opted for staterooms as close to the elevator and stairs as possible.

  I found Michael and the boys on deck five as I’d expected—although the boys had ceded the course to a couple of senior citizens and were doing yoga under Rose Noire’s direction. Michael was watching from a nearby deck chair.

  “Oh, to be that flexible again,” I said, as I took the chair beside him.

  “And to have that endurance,” he said. “I’ll have you know that I kept up with them for the first forty-five minutes of that, but there are limits. Have you finished your book club book?”

  “I read maybe two pages,” I said. “I kept getting interrupted.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. If it hadn’t been for the interruptions, I’d have fallen asleep over it. Unfortunately, this month is earnest, depressing, socially relevant month in the book club.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, they don’t call it that,” I said. “But every few months, a couple of the members insist that we read something more meaningful, as they put it. Apparently I missed getting the gene for appreciating meaningfulness. I may just pretend to have a conflict again on meeting night. And I won’t be the only one.”

  “You know, we may laugh sometimes at your father’s bloodthirsty taste in books,” Michael said. “But when he lends me a book it damn well doesn’t put me to sleep. So what have you been doing while turning your back on social relevance?”

  I succinctly filled him in on what I’d been doing—not forgetting the puzzling presence of the autographed book in Trevor’s luggage. And, to
the extent I knew, what the rest of the family had been up to, including the solar festival happening on deck six and my plan to claim the equipment that was in Trevor’s cabin so Caroline could call for rescue.

  “You think they’ll give you any hassle about claiming Trevor’s luggage?”

  “I don’t plan to give them a chance to,” I said. “I’m going to find Léonie again. I trust her. Or maybe the first officer, if I can’t find Léonie, though he’s pretty swamped. Not sure about anyone else.”

  “Now? Or after our fencing session?”

  “Right after our fencing session,” I said. “And maybe I’ll send Rose Noire to look for her in the meantime.”

  “Good idea. Get her mind off the dire peril she thinks we’re in, thanks to being stranded here in the Bermuda Triangle.”

  The yoga lesson broke up when Janet arrived, rather breathless. I managed to convince Rose Noire that finding Léonie would go a long way toward returning us to civilization, and she hurried off with great enthusiasm. Michael and I began helping Janet with her sword fight.

  Michael had found half a dozen long, semi-rigid foam rods—part of the packing materials for some of Grandfather’s equipment. Armed with these, I took on the role of Rafaella, Janet’s heroine, while Michael and the boys played the two—sometimes three—pirates who were trying to capture her. Michael called out directions and corrections to the boys and me, and Janet hovered, taking photos by the score and pelting us with questions.

  After an hour and a half, Michael was satisfied that we’d properly choreographed her fight scene, and Janet felt confident that she could actually write it. Only the boys were dissatisfied when we finally called a halt, and they could only be persuaded to sheathe their foam swords by Janet’s promise that she’d think of another fight scene we could work on tomorrow.