Page 142 of Without a Clue

He nods. “And you got your feet under yours. I’d say congratulations are in order for us both. You’re one of us now, I think. You’ve got the bug.”

“I’ve got the confidence. I . . . can do it.” I’m still marveling.

“Of course you can. You always could.”

“I know. But this time . . .” I pause, shaking my head. “You know, it’s not as hard to write a book as I thought.”

Nash laughs. A big, mirthful laugh. “I look forward to our talk when you’re in edits. We’ll see how you like it then.” His lips brush my cheek, leaving a breezy peck before I see his smiling eyes again. “I kid, Pip. You’re going to be great.”

I extend a kiss, a longer one this time, and when I pull back, I say, “Hey. I don’t know if you’re busy tomorrow, but . . . if you’re not . . . I’ve got another chapter to do.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” His eyes twinkle. “A writing date?”

I grin.

“Oh, you’ve got the bug bad,” Nash says with a laugh. “Even solving a murder on your first day in Europe, you’re talking about work.”

“I just . . . I have these ideas running through my head now—”

“I know the feeling, Pip. You’re in welcome company. I can’t imagine, though, with your drive for analyzing . . . I wonder . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m just looking forward to seeing how this all plays out. What kind of writer you’re going to end up being. Slow and meticulous or rabid fast.”

I snap my computer shut.

Pop it open again on second thought; email my chapter to at least twelve different trusted sources. Then shut it again.

“What was that for?” Nash says.

I’m halfway to the door and stop. “I may be new to writing, but I’ve been around all you people enough years to know you never, ever trust your book to be saved in one place. I’ll die if I go through one of your lost-manuscript sagas. It’s in your inbox for safekeeping. And Neena’s. And even creepy Ricky’s. Now, c’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

“To give Hugh the final piece of the puzzle.”

Chapter 26

The Blue Lagoon Lounge is exactly as I’d pictured it would be at ten o’clock on the final night on the ship. The room smells of sautéed basil and steak simmering in buttery garlic—probably because a waiter just walked past with a steaming set of steaks on a platter.

There is no shortage of dishes being passed around the tables.

On one table, a gigantic centerpiece consists entirely of crab.

And of course . . . there’s music.

Nash and I step farther into The Blue Lagoon, and sure enough, the person holding a microphone while singing right at this moment is not dead Hugh, but very much a live Hugh.

Onstage.

Dipping the microphone attached to a stand like he’s Frank Sinatra himself.

People clap when he dips again, and again when he gives an upbeat little twirl. Nobody looks surprised to find him here. In fact, everyone looks tremendously pleased.

Almost as though . . .

“Hey, has he been here all week?” I say to a table full of ladies.