Terns of Endearment

by Donna Andrews

  “I think the Coast Guard takes a dim view of people trying to commit murder on their watch,” I said.

  “And they brought in the FBI?”

  “That might have been Horace’s doing,” I said. “He has a lot of friends at the FBI. Most of them buried in various forensic labs, of course, but still—they seem to have some influence. Although I think Grandfather’s webcast might have had some effect, too. Delaney tells me it’s gone viral.”

  “Fabulous. I just hope Desiree doesn’t get off too lightly.”

  “Unlikely,” I said. “Since Horace isn’t officially on the case, he’s been more talkative than usual. According to him, First Officer Martin is so furious with Desiree that he’s spilling everything. She really had it in for your writing group—Martin was going to arrange for the Bermudian authorities to find her bound and gagged in one of your cabins, and then she’d accuse you of kidnapping her and planning to throw her overboard when the boat went out to sea again. Fabulous publicity for her, and revenge on a group of people she hated.”

  “Is trying to frame someone a crime?”

  “Pretty sure it is,” I said. “And they’ll probably also charge her with something in connection with Anton Bjelica’s murder. Accessory after the fact or co-conspirator or whatever.”

  “Good.” Janet looked glum. “Because if it weren’t for her, that poor man would still be alive.”

  “Maybe not. According to Martin, that poor man was trying to blackmail him,” I said.

  “Bjelica found out about Desiree’s plot?”

  “No, Bjelica sabotaged the navigation system on Martin’s orders. Part of the plot to make Captain Detweiler look bad so Martin could inherit his job. If I’d been Martin, I’d have postponed the sabotage until the next trip and focused on making Desiree’s plot work—having a kidnapping on board his ship wouldn’t look good on the captain’s record, either. But Martin got greedy and impatient. And when Bjelica showed himself a blackmailer, Martin decided he had to go.”

  She nodded, but still looked pensive.

  “I just don’t get why she targeted us,” she said finally. “I know why we hate her—and I think we have good reason. But why did she hate us so much that she’d try to hurt us that way?”

  “I bet it will turn out that she thought you knew her secret,” I said. “About stealing Nancy’s manuscript. And for that matter, taking the credit for Nancy’s work. And she assumed you’d try to hurt her with it—because that’s what she’d do. So she decided on a preemptive strike.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That could be it. It’s the only plausible explanation I can think of. Thanks for filling me in—but now let’s pretend Desiree doesn’t exist and enjoy the morning.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Morning!” Grandfather boomed, stepping out of the elevator. “Wonderful day, isn’t it?”

  We agreed that it was indeed a wonderful day and watched as he pulled something out of his pocket. A tin of sardines. He opened it up, spilling a good bit of the liquid in which they were packed on his fisherman’s vest. No doubt we’d soon find out if there were any cats on board. Or for that matter in the entire city of Baltimore, once the ship docked.

  Grandfather fished out half a sardine and held it aloft, with an impatient look on his face. Although, luckily, he didn’t seem to be looking at Janet or me. Not even for the sake of placating Grandfather could I face consuming a sardine this early in the day. Then he looked up at what Rob called “the mast-like things” and frowned.

  “Serge said he’d show up pretty quickly,” he said. “I wonder if— Aha!”

  The injured South American tern fluttered down from somewhere above us and perched on the rail near Grandfather, his glittering black eyes fixed on the sardine. Grandfather tossed the sardine chunk toward him. The tern caught it very neatly and swallowed it whole.

  “He trusts you—good!” Serge appeared in the doorway, half leaning on Léonie.

  “Terns are very intelligent.” Grandfather tossed another chunk of sardine to the expectant bird.

  “I think it’s being ravenous that’s making him trust you,” I suggested.

  “Hmph!” Grandfather held out another sardine chunk and favored the tern with the sort of smile he usually reserved for people he suspected of being willing to donate large sums of money to environmental causes.

  “Bonjour,” Serge said, turning to me. “Is it true that you were suspicious of me because of my little feather ornaments? You thought they were evil voodoo fetishes?”

  “No, I thought they were charming,” I said. “And just to make sure, I had them assessed by an expert who confirmed my gut feeling that there was nothing dark or evil in them, only light. But I was suspicious of you, mainly because I found a feather ornament in your cabin, and the only other one I’d ever seen was lying right beside Desiree’s suicide note.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” Serge said. “She took it from me. Well, demanded it of me. I was sitting outside the main dining room, working on it while waiting for the beginning of Dr. Blake’s lecture, so I could slip in and sit in the back. And she saw me working on it and said she wanted it. She offered me money, but I did not want to take money from her.”

  “Me, I would have refused,” Léonie said. “And when I heard, it made me so angry I promised I would get it back. But when I searched her cabin for it, it was gone.”

  “I picked it up at the crime scene.” I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled it out. “Here.”

  “No, keep it,” Serge said. “If you wish. I would be honored if you wished to have it.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked it back in my pocket.

  “May it serve as a reminder of the pleasant memories of the voyage.” He accompanied his words with a courtly half bow. “There are, I hope, a few.”

  “Surprisingly many,” I said. “Including the memory of how I met so many new friends.”

  We all beamed at each other. Well, except for Grandfather, who was leaning closer so he could inspect the tern. I’d have been afraid the thing would peck out my eyes, but Grandfather’s confidence that animals would know he was their friend was usually justified. And when it wasn’t—well, he had the most interesting collection of scars of anyone I knew.

  “You did a good job of rehabilitating him,” he said over his shoulder to Serge.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But what is to become of him now? I have given in my resignation, you see,” he said, turning back to me.

  “We both have.” Léonie was beaming at Serge.

  “It is possible that Pastime could try to enforce our employment contracts,” Serge went on. “But after all that has happened, I think they will be just as happy to see us go.”

  “And where will you go?” I asked.

  “Saint Cyr sur Mer,” Léonie said. “It is on the Riviera some forty kilometers east of Marseilles. My parents run a little restaurant there, and they have been hoping I would return home to take it over so they can retire. Serge will see to the cooking, and I will manage the serving staff and the business affairs.”

  “If you are ever in Provence, you must come and dine with us,” Serge said. “I will write down the particulars for you before you leave.”

  “Which will be relatively soon,” Janet said. “I have to say, I have mixed feelings about Pastime canceling the cruise. I think we should hold out for a replacement cruise.”

  “Not unless it’s on some other cruise line,” I said. “You couldn’t pay me to take another cruise with Pastime.”

  “Good point,” Janet conceded.

  “I’m going to see how many of the passengers want to stick around Baltimore and take some nature hikes and boat rides with me,” Grandfather said. “As long as Caroline can find us all a nice place to stay and organize the boats or buses or whatever we need.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Janet said. “Count me in.”

  I wondered if he’d bothered to tell Caroline about this plan yet.

  “Meanwhile, wh
at about this tern?” Grandfather said, turning back to Serge. “If you leave the ship, who’s going to look after him?”

  “I do not know.” Serge’s good humor deserted him, and Léonie patted his arm sympathetically. “But I do not think I would be allowed to take him with me.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “I’m sure it can be arranged. The Mediterranean coast should be a perfectly suitable climate for him, and clearly you’ve proven you know how to take care of him. We’ll arrange for you to get a certificat de capacité. That’s the paperwork from the French government that lets you take care of a wild animal. Make sure Meg knows how to find you in this Sur Cyr place and I’ll get cracking on arranging the permissions.”

  He tossed the last bit of sardine into the tern’s mouth and stumped off toward the elevator.

  “That would be wonderful,” Serge said, as we watched Grandfather leave. “But—do you think he can do it?”

  “I’m sure he can,” I said. “People let Grandfather get away with the most amazing things. Even the most stubborn bureaucrats eventually figure out that the only way to get him to leave them alone is to let him do whatever he wants.”

  “Let us hope.” Serge held out his arm and made a clucking noise. The tern flapped awkwardly onto his outstretched arm and then walked up until it was sitting on his shoulder, nuzzling the bill of his uniform hat.

  “Now what are they up to?” Janet was at the stern end of the sun deck, pointing down toward deck five. I joined her and looked down to see Rob, Delaney, Tish, Kate, and Angie having an enthusiastic conversation about something.

  “Let’s go down and see,” I suggested.

  “Hey, Meg,” Delaney called when Janet and I emerged from the ship. “We’re taking down Desiree.”

  “I think she’s pretty much taken herself down,” I said. “When the story of her faking her suicide comes out—”

  “Already has,” Rob said. “Complete with some very unflattering photos.”

  “And believe me, it’s gone viral in fandom.” Delaney looked smug, and I suspected she’d done what she could to make this happen. Making things go viral seemed to be one of her favorite pastimes.

  “Then if there’s any justice, she’s already a laughing-stock,” I said. “Not to mention the strong possibility that she’ll be charged as an accessory after the fact in Anton Bjelica’s murder.”

  “All good,” Delaney said. “And we’re going public with my proof that Nancy wrote the Were-Knights.”

  “You’re not worried about the non-disclosure agreement?” I asked.

  “The non-disclosure agreement was between Desiree and Nancy,” Rob said. “Of course, Desiree could go after Nancy’s estate if she thought Nancy had broken the agreement.”

  “She’s certainly welcome to try,” Tish said. “Nancy was up to her ears in debt when she died. The four of us paid for the funeral.”

  “And the agreement’s not binding on Angie,” Rob said. “Always a possibility that Desiree could try suing for defamation, claiming she really did write the books.”

  “But if she does that, my program will blow her out of the water,” Delaney crowed.

  “What we really want to achieve is recognition for Nancy,” Angie said. “Desiree’s welcome to keep the money—but we want the readers to know that no matter who owns the copyright, the Were-Knights were Nancy’s creation.”

  “Well, that’s not quite all we want,” Tish said. “We’re also hoping we can find a way to get Desiree to let us continue the series.”

  “Together.” Kate beamed at the others.

  “Not as ghostwriters,” Angie said. “Not with her having any control whatsoever.”

  “But if there’s some way we can buy the rights to continue the series, we think we can do it,” Janet said. “The publisher will benefit by keeping a popular series going. Hell, even Desiree will benefit—having new books coming out helps sales of the old books, which she will still own.”

  “I’m going to talk to Festus,” Rob said. “If it’s not in his area of expertise, I’m sure he can recommend an attorney for them.”

  “Good idea.” Our cousin Festus Hollingsworth was a highly successful crusading attorney, and if he took on the writers’ case—or persuaded a trusted colleague to do so—Desiree was in for a hard time.

  “And the Were-Knights will ride again!” Delaney exclaimed.

  “Good morning!” someone behind me called out. I turned to find Ted Lambert leaning against the rail, lifting a coffee cup in salute.

  “Good morning,” I said. “You’re very cheerful today.”

  “Positively delirious at the thought of being on dry land again.” He looked happier than I’d ever seen him. “And for some strange reason, the wife’s taken against cruising. Says if I get the notion to go gallivanting on a boat again I can go by myself.”

  “I thought she was the one who insisted on taking a cruise,” I said.

  “Oh, she was.” He chuckled softly. “I could prove that if I wanted to. But if I’ve learned one thing after twenty-four years of marriage it’s to shut up when things are going my way. Incidentally, if you happen to have a hankering to own a piece of the Pastime Cruise Company, I heard their stock’s going for pennies this morning.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I think I’ll pass. Although it would be tempting to show up at a shareholder’s meeting and ask who hired Detweiler and Martin.”

  “No idea about Martin,” Lambert said. “But according to this morning’s news reports, Detweiler’s the son-in-law of the president of Pastime.”

  “Rats,” I said. “Then I gather there’s no hope he’ll lose his job.”

  “He will if Pastime goes belly up,” Lambert said. “And it could come to that.”

  “Good riddance to the captain, then,” I said. “And with any luck First Officer Martin will be locked up until well past retirement age. But what about the rest of the crew?”

  “Oh, they’ll be okay.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I said. “Pastime has abused and exploited them, and now if it goes bust—”

  “Easy for me to say because Caroline Willner has already recruited me to the committee to help all the crew find new jobs,” he said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “I don’t anticipate much difficulty. Anyway, I must go and thank your friend Delaney for getting our Internet back.”

  “You were able to file your brief?”

  “Not yet—I plan to do that from the hotel tonight. But I was able to do some amusing legal research. Did you know that there’s a penalty of up to twelve years in prison for filing a false “passenger overboard” report? Of course, what case law I could find seems to indicate that the federal courts rarely impose that heavy a sentence, but they are rather likely to require that Ms. St. Christophe pay restitution for some or all of the costs of the search.”

  “That won’t be cheap,” I said. “According to Lieutenant Tracy, they had two of their biggest cutters out there looking, and hundreds of crew.”

  “Then let’s hope for her sake that her books are selling really well.” He lifted his cup and drained the last of his coffee. “I need to go and pack. My wife wants to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Nice sailing with you!”

  “And with you.”

  “Ms. Langslow?” I turned to find Aarav, the bartender, standing on the deck behind me. He was wearing his white-and-gold uniform, but with a bandage wrapped around his head instead of the customary hat, and under his left arm he was holding a parcel wrapped in a white tablecloth. “I wanted to thank you. For saving my life.”

  “I didn’t do much,” I said. “Someone else would have come along to let you out eventually.”

  “Most probably First Officer Martin, who would no doubt have thrown me overboard,” Aarav said. “It was he who hit me over the head. With a bottle of Chateau Petrus Pomerol. The 2010 vintage.”

  From his shocked tone of voice, I deduced that Martin had picked a particularly fancy bottle of wine to
cosh him with.

  “Do you have any idea why the first officer would want to kill you?” I asked.

  “When I came around and found him tying me up, I asked him why he was doing it,” Aarav said. “He seemed to think I had overheard something that would get him in trouble if I reported it. I was in the wine closet, you see, and walked out in the middle of his quarrel with Anton. I tried to convince him that I was trying to resolve a discrepancy in the Bordeaux inventory and was completely oblivious of whatever he and Anton were arguing about, but he didn’t believe me. After he left I managed to knock down a bottle—luckily only a modest chardonnay—and use the broken glass to saw through my bonds. But then I found I was locked in the closet, and the loss of blood was making me faint. So I beg to differ—by getting me out of the wine closet you did a very great thing indeed. Without you, either I would have bled to death, or Martin would have returned to finish me off. Please accept this as a small token of my thanks.”

  He bowed and whipped away the tablecloth to hand me a bottle wrapped in white paper and tied at the neck with a metallic gold ribbon.

  “Treat it gently,” he advised, before vanishing back into the stairway.

  I pulled aside the paper enough to see an old-fashioned label printed in black and red, featuring an engraving of a stern-faced saint and the words 2010 PETRUS POMEROL GRAND VIN.

  I wondered if this was the very bottle he’d been hit with. And hoped it wasn’t too expensive a wine. Or if it was, that he wouldn’t get in trouble for giving it to me. I’d put Mother in charge of deciding how and when to serve it. In the meantime, I tucked it into my tote and returned to the rail, where Janet was now peering through the binoculars. She’d had a good long turn while I’d been talking to Ted and Aarav. My turn now.

  And that’s how I managed to be the first to spot the pier. There seemed to be rather a lot of people. Strange, since there were no cruise ships docked. Even if there had been, it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. Passengers wouldn’t be showing up that early, would they?

  As the ship drew closer, I spotted half a dozen trucks bearing the logos of Baltimore-area TV and radio stations. Dozens of people jostled for position on the pier and pointed cameras at the arriving ship—everything from giant news cameras to tiny pocket cameras and cell phones. A mixture of reporters and curious bystanders, I deduced.