Page 128 of Without a Clue

“Yes, but did he know it for sure? He just felt threatened,” he says. “It could’ve been anyone.”

“Sure,” I say, hedging around the fact that Hugh—or possibly a skilled copycat—pinned the blame on Nash in his letter.

A skilled copycat.

Could Ricky have . . .?

But surely even I could have copied that down . . . forged his signature . . .

“I guess he could’ve been threatened by anyone. He wasn’t specific,” I say.

“It absolutely would make sense if it was someone else. What did he say again exactly?” Nash is keyed up about this direction.

He likes the attention being drawn away from any of The Six and spends the next five minutes breaking down, yet again, exactly why the most logical suspect is the one who got on board with an indirect relation to some handcuffed con man. Some elderly sister or mother or aunt of someone Hugh threw in jail.

Some elderly woman with the means, power, and motive to overtake two men when they least expected it and somehow slip one into my room when I wasn’t looking.

I skirt away from the question and sit down at the same long table I’ve sat at the past several nights on this ship.

Darkness sweeps over the horizon outside the windows, and the glowing candles of the hanging chandeliers flicker with as much warmth and emotion as the ones in The Dungeon down the hall. White tablecloths have been replaced with deep red ones, each of the tables with its own set of flickering candlesticks dripping wax amid a cluster of votives.

Everybody else has come to this final feast on the ship in pearls and satin.

Emotions run high from nine long days at sea.

Tomorrow we set foot in Barcelona.

The trip is over.

A celloist plays solo in the corner, his bow sliding with long strokes against his instrument. The music swings between somber and sweet, I realize. I can hear both emotions in one tune.

A mood to be decided, I suppose, by your mind.

All the book cruise visitors are cheery, with cheeks sunburnt from days on deck with paintbrushes and salt water, minds energetic from daily workshops with favorite authors and new friends.

Everybody else is oblivious. And happy.

All in all (to their minds), the inaugural book cruise of The Magnificent Seven is a raging success.

As the meal is served, conversation buzzes around the room about evening activities in various venues all over the ship. A set of telescopes set up with a master astronomer. A slew of glowing bowling balls for a final tournament down in The Hole.

The Hole.

It was a horrid slang name for the bottom floor of the ship.

The rest of the musical ensemble joins in now, and a man who sounds an awful lot like Perry Como begins to croon across the room. It’s not but a minute more before Neena is up and dragging Gordon along with her.

Our eyes connect as he walks to the center of the floor and takes her in his arms.

They begin to sweep along the dance floor.

He winks at me.

It’s like he’s saying wistfully, See? See all that you can choose to live for? Go live.

Slowly he dips her, and Neena, surrounded in a halo of shimmering purple, smiles like all is right in the world.

To everyone’s surprise, several peacock bow-tie staff members walk to the tables and begin holding out gloved hands, and several ladies with broad smiles oblige.