Spanish Moss / Opening and Links

 A Death, a Will, and a Way ~ "Spanish Moss"

“Poison” is one of the last words Nedda Courtland’s employer says to her.

Private secretary to a wealthy financier, Nedda has maintained a very British poise as she traveled the world. The New Orleans of 1925 brings it own unique flavor to her experiences. Yet nothing prepares her for Hyatt Ingram’s claim of murder in the hours before his death.

With no evidence as proof, she can only fulfill Mr. Ingram’s last wishes. Holding his absent son’s voting proxy and a new will, Nedda expects the murderer to emerge in the chaos she will create as executrix.

She never expects another murder.

“Spanish Moss” is the first of three novelettes in this tie-in series to M.A. Lee’s Sailing Into Mystery stories and Into Death novels featuring the artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant. Nedda Courtland enters 1925 America with these stories as she is Courting Trouble.

Opening ~ The Death

In all her years as Hyatt Ingram’s private secretary, Nedda Courtland had disagreed with several of his decisions but never more so than when he was dying.

She’d returned from delivering his grandson Colfax to the Sacred Heart Academy and found him confined to his deathbed. He ignored his doctor’s advice to stay calm and quiet. He commanded his third wife to leave his bedchamber. He demanded that Louisiana Oil Company not delay the upcoming vote on investments from his company Ingram & Son.

His son Sheridan, though, was half-a-continent away, in California.

Had he contacted his son about his failing health? No. Had he notified his grandson Colfax or his secretary Nedda? No. He expected everything to follow the schedule.

Nedda did her job by restoring order to the swirling chaos. The maid stopped flapping about and hied to the kitchens to have a medicinal tisane prepared. The manservant came out of his corner and helped adjust the pillows and straighten the bedcovers, trying to make Mr. Ingram comfortable. The doctor drew Nedda into the suite’s central reception to convey his diagnosis. Then he retreated with a murmured “Matter of hours, Miss Courtland, not days.”

In all his years, no matter how dire the situation, Mr. Ingram had never fretted. Perching on the side of his expansive bed, Nedda covered his writhing hands with her own. His skin felt dry, papery. His eyes were bleary and reddened. His extreme pallor and shortened breaths worried her more than the doctor’s diagnosis.

He looked up at her and swallowed, an effort.

“I will get you some water.”

“No.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Colfax?”

“Settled at the Academy.”

“Problems?”

“None, sir.”

“You’ll need to wire Sheridan.”

A wire rather than a telephone call. The old man knew his son would be difficult to contact. “I will have them bring a telephone into the suite. When he rings, you can speak with him.”

He huffed, lost his breath, then grabbed at it with rapid inhalations. When his breathing was steady, he asked, “You have his proxy?”

Mr. Ingram knew that she did. They had talked about the proxy numerous times on the train from San Francisco. He had discussed how she would need to vote for Sheridan in the investment meeting with LOC. She also had Sheridan’s power of attorney, for she had needed both documents to enroll Colfax in the Sacred Heart Academy. Nedda peered into her employer’s eyes and saw a vagrant confusion that she’d missed earlier.

And that’s when she knew the doctor’s diagnosis was correct.

“Mr. Ingram, what happened? You were not ailing when I left with Colfax, five days ago.”

He licked his dry lips. His eyes slewed sideways, to the manservant standing quietly.

“Bring Mr. Ingram a brandy,” she ordered with brisk efficiency.

“Miss Courtland, you’re in America now,” the manservant protested. Hired on their arrival in New Orleans, he thought he needed to explain the laws of the United States to these British visitors. “We’re under Prohibition here. Where in this town am I to find brandy?”

“I am certain you can locate a place. The concierge should know a source.”

“The doctor said—.”

“Given the diagnosis, I hardly think that a brandy will injure Mr. Ingram’s health.” She waited until the chamber door shut before checking his pulse. His heart fluttered rapidly, faintly. “Tell me.”

“Poison.”

The word shocked her, but she didn’t doubt it. In their travels for Ingram & Son Investments, they’d seen many odd and unexplainable things, especially in Arabia and the Orient. Mr. Ingram believed someone had poisoned him, and she didn’t question that belief. His body might fail him, but his mind was still sharp, still penetrating, still seeing traps and snares that other businessmen missed.

Hyatt Ingram had used those wits to amass a substantial fortune long before Nedda encountered him, and he had tripled it since the Great War ended, investing in the worldwide petroleum industry.

She did have one question. “Has the doctor—?”

“Didn’t believe me. Says my heart was weak. He listens to Giselle.” He had to pause between each statement and gather strength.

Giselle, his third wife—the new bride. A mistake in Arizona that Mr. Ingram had enjoyed making. He’d shared with Nedda that the marriage wouldn’t last more than three years. She hadn’t thought it would last a year. Giselle hooked him in San Francisco and spent her last dime to follow them to Phoenix where they married. He wanted to be her savior, yet he knew she loved his wallet, not him.

Nedda shook herself mentally. “Do you think she—?”

“Think it was that cicisbeo Clement LaFoy or the accountant or that lawyer LaFoy brought in or that wildcatter.”

His eyes drifted closed, giving her a chance to mull over his claim.

That tight little circle had formed since their arrival in New Orleans. The suave LaFoy represented Louisiana Oil, where Jamison Parker was chief accountant, financial advisor, and a guarantor with the local banks. Hank McElroy represented the other petroleum company, the wildcatter firm Texas Petroleum and Refining. The lawyer Henderson Beaumont III was intended to be a neutral party, overseeing the negotiations that would be presented at the LOC meeting where the owners and chief officers would vote on investments from Ingram & Son and from the Texas firm. Ingram had squeaked into LOC two years ago with a financial investment that stabilized the company after a boom-and-bust cycle, and now he had privileges to vote for his increased ownership of the company.

Sly man.

Not sly enough to anticipate a threat. Not savvy enough to avoid poison.

She looked through the open balcony doors. The suite on the top floor gave a view beyond the surrounding buildings. On a far street, the canopy of an old live oak peered above the roofs. Even at this distance, she could see the clusters of Spanish moss draping the boughs. A breeze drifted in, warm in these days of Spring although the natives claimed it was cold.

Nedda envisioned that aged live oak, its massive trunks braced on the ground, bent at crooked angles. The crimped moss looked like the hoary beards of old men.

And the ground underneath would be littered with blackened acorns.

LaFoy and Beaumont. Parker and McElroy. Were they the limbs of a conspiracy to drive Ingram & Son Investments out of LOC?

Or did one of the four men act alone?

Or was it Giselle and LaFoy?

Or someone she didn’t know to suspect?

They all received a black mark on the mental tally Nedda was keeping.

“Had a solicitor brought in.”

She quickly turned back to Mr. Ingram. His eyes still looked bleary, but his gaze was sharp, watching her, telling her what she needed to know. “A solicitor? Mr. Beaumont?”

“No, not that fool. Alexander Chatto.”

“A new will?” she guessed.

His clutch felt slippery, as if his muscles were sliding out of his control. “You have Sheridan’s proxy for dealing with Colfax?” he asked again. “You’ll have to act for me as well.”

“Where is this new will?”

“Chatto has it. He’s only to give a copy to you or my son.”

“And Giselle?”

The corner of his lip lifted, a simple indication that meant he’d set an unexpected trap. “She’ll have her portion, but she won’t be getting her fingers into my company.”

Voices in the outer reception reached them, a woman and a man then another man.

A knock on the chamber door. Mr. Ingram released her hand and touched a finger to his lip.

She nodded then stood and smoothed down her skirt.

The manservant came in with the brandy.

Mr. Ingram shot a hard glance at Nedda. “I’ll rest now. I’m tired.”

That dismissed her, but she didn’t intend to return to her own room on a lower floor. Five days away meant a backlog of work for her, correspondence and wires and more. Much would become unnecessary were Mr. Ingram to die.

She wanted to think more about this poison. If they knew what kind of poison, the doctor might save Mr. Ingram.

Or not.

She composed her face and went out to Giselle and Clement LaFoy, a convenient paramour since he had tight connections to Louisiana Oil.

One glance revealed the reason Hyatt Ingram had married Giselle Hampton. The platinum blonde was stunning even when her makeup was not immaculate. She wore a shimmering silk day dress in the current flapper style. With her hair coifed in a fluffy bob, her mouth shaped into a Cupid’s bow, mascara making her wide blue eyes dramatic, she was a porcelain doll that deserved her place on the shelf where her husband’s money would have kept her.

Two porters bowed as they collected tips from her for the dozen packages they had carried into the room. The name of a fashionable boutique was scrolled across several. Nedda said nothing, but Giselle sprang to her own defense. “Just fancy! They have styles direct from Paris.”

Clement LaFoy finished lighting a cigarette for Giselle. He placed it in a silvered holder and passed it to the woman. “I doubt Miss Courtland would recognize avant garde style, my dear.”

Nedda managed to hide a wince, for she loved fashion. Her job enabled occasional indulgences, Chanel or Lanvin or Molyneux, as long as the clothes fit her taste and Mr. Ingram’s strict requirements for an unobtrusive secretary.

LaFoy dropped into a club chair and swung one leg over the other. He looked elegant in a silvery suit and mauve tie. He pomaded his black hair and affected a hairline mustache. From the beginning she found him slick as a cat and unconcerned as long as the world didn’t touch him. She had never liked cats.

He blew a smoke ring then asked, “How is Colfax? How much did he protest that school?”

Colfax was an English youth stuffed into a Catholic boarding school in an extremely rural parish of Louisiana. He should have been with his peers at Harrow or Eton, but his father had wanted time with the boy after returning from the war. Six years had now passed, and still Colfax traveled with the Ingram men. Yet his father was currently still in San Francisco and his grandfather, hale a week ago, was now failing.

A prominent bishop of San Francisco wrote a letter of introduction for the Anglican youth, but it was the substantial donation that won him admission into the Sacred Heart Academy, for even the half-year mark was well past. Colfax had been on his best behavior when introduced to the headmaster and a couple of the deans. He politely thanked her for her role in winning him entry.

She had misliked his bland expression.

When deeply bored, Colfax was known for pranks. She wasn’t certain the academy was prepared for him.

Yet neither Giselle nor LaFoy had ever considered Colfax. The question was meant to fill the air. Nedda gave it the response it deserved rather than the truth. “I think he will find it an interesting interlude.”

LaFoy tapped ash from his cigarette onto a crystal tray on a polished ebony side table. “He’ll enjoy himself, off his grandfather’s leash.”

Giselle was opening boxes, flinging the lids to the floor followed by the tissues that had protected the gowns. She lifted out a black silk shimmering with beads then dropped it to pick up a pale pink confection with a dropped waist fitted at the hip and lace overlaying the underskirt. “This one is for dancing tonight in the Blue Room. Have you danced there yet, Miss Courtland? Oh, you wouldn’t have, without an escort, would you? It is glorious.”

Nedda sidestepped a wafting tissue. “When did Mr. Ingram take a turn for the worse?”

Giselle peered into a rainbow beaded bag and didn’t bother to answer. LaFoy blew smoke toward Nedda. “He woke ill the morning after you left with the boy.”

If she closed her eyes, she could see the country roads she’d traveled to and from the Academy, with the hard-packed dirt, the oaks leaning over, branches intertwined into an eternal canopy, and ashy green moss swaying in the breeze. “Did you wire Mr. Sheridan Ingram about his father’s condition?”

“I knew you would do it upon your return,” and Giselle dismissed the question.

Five days. Two days to travel on narrow roads in a rattling touring car that she could walk faster than it drove, a day for all the paperwork to enroll Colfax and see him settled, another two days to return. “Mr. Ingram is gravely ill. The doctor said his condition will only worsen. And you did not think it vital to contact his only son? Mr. Sheridan could have been here by now.”

“I didn’t have his address” was her excuse.

Nedda narrowed her eyes. The wife obviously didn’t want the son here.

Did Giselle know about the lawyer Mr. Ingram had called in?

She could do nothing about the damage to his health that had already occurred. She could only prevent more damage.

Sheridan would need a wire this evening. Only God knew how long it would take to reach him.

Colfax, a youth alone among strangers, would need a warning wire. The wording would have to be delicate. And it might not reach him until morning. The academy had a strict curfew.

Nedda would send the wires before seeking her dinner. Then, although tired from travel, she would return to the suite and tuck into the backlog of work.

And hopefully have more conversation with Mr. Ingram, out of the hearing of his wife and the manservant.

The only problem with Nedda’s vow to safeguard Mr. Ingram was that he died in the overnight.

LINKS ~ Ebook Only

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FF2PTG9W

Books2Read https://books2read.com/u/bPM11l

Red Mask / Opening and Links / Sailing with Mystery Collection

 Red Mask

Isabella receives a disturbing letter—only for it to be stolen before she deciphers it.

The letter claims that a spy is aboard the Garipoola, but is that the only person hiding their true identity and purpose on the passenger ship?

Read on for the Story's Opening ~ 

1

Isabella stopped at a cloth covered with carved bowls. The vendor had placed the bowls rim-down, to display the carvings of monkeys, elephants, and swirls. Intrigued, she knelt for a closer look.

The bowls spanned a wide spectrum of wood tones, light to dark. She touched a light-colored bowl with monkeys in palm trees. “What is this wood?”

“Sagwan.” He repeated it. When she touched a rose-colored wood with little carving but lovely arches, he said, “Sheesham, sheesham.” He hovered his hand over a series of bowls. “Nilambur” was a mandala. “Nagpur” had columns like a palace collonade. Tigers slinking through reeds was “Mango.”

“And cedar” she named the rust-red bowl.

He plucked the bowl off the ground cloth and turned it upright. Warmed by the sun, the redolent cedar reminded her of clothes presses and chests. Elephants with lifted trunks paraded around the bowl balanced on his hand.

“May I?” She extended her hand.

He bobbed his head. Dark hair fell over his forehead. “You look. You look good.” Like any merchant from ages old, he knew touching the product would often sell it.

Closer inspection revealed that each elephant wore a headband and a cloth over its back, this one ornamented with beads, that one with cross-hatches, a third with swirls, and all parading before a different background. The elephant with flowers marched before a temple; the one with cross-hatches walked through a jungle. Eight elephants in all, which the missionary Miss Harlow had claimed was a fortunate number.

Isabella hadn’t found anything that called to her like these elephants. Within a few minutes, she owned the bowl, and the vendor grinned from ear to ear. She had likely paid too much, but she had no taste for haggling over a price. Mindful of Col. Werthy’s advice at the market in Bombay, before they’d parted ways, she had halved the man’s amount. He countered, she paid, and they were both happy with the transaction. The vendor even wrapped the bowl in a vivid green cloth.

When she stood, a passerby knocked into her. She stumbled.

A hand from nowhere steadied her. “Missy good?” her vendor asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you,” she directed at the man, but he was gone.

The vendor settled cross-legged at the back of his cloth. Isabella stepped into the flow of the market and let the current take her forward.

The artist in her loved the vivid colors of the canopies over the booths and open shop fronts. Saffron yellow, emerald green and spring green, poppy red and persimmon, tangerine and heavenly azure, and peacock blue, the colors rioted along both sides of the street. The myriad objects for sale, the varied faces of the vendors, male and female, all started a longing to capture the market with its energy. She would need oils. Watercolors would be too diluted. She yearned for a faster paint than oils or the ability to take color photographs. In black-and-white snapshots, the market would look a crowded mess.

A man in pristine white loose jacket and trousers bumped into her. When she edged over, he remained plastered to her shoulder. “Are you on the Garipoola?”

His British accent surprised her as much as his knowledge of her ship. Isabella gaped at him.

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You know Col. Werthy?”

He had sherry brown eyes, a long narrow face, heavy eyebrows, and swept-back black hair. A beard had started on his defined jawline.

“You know the colonel?” he persisted.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He thrust a folded paper at her.

“He left the ship in Bombay, with his friend Richard Owen.”

“This is for you. Take it,” he ordered when she remained reluctant. “You must return to the ship. Hire a rickshaw. Here, I call one for you.”

Isabella clutched the folded note. Do I trust this man?

When he turned away, she faded into the crowd. As a western woman, blonde and pale, she would be quickly spotted in this crowd of natives. She cast to the other side of the street and hastened back the way she’d come. The current took her until she spotted a landmark that would lead out of the market.

Outside of the bustling market, she would be even more noticeable, and she hurried along the shop fronts. When she happened upon a rickshaw discharging a passenger, she crossed to the rickshawallah. “Harbor? The ship Garipoola?”

“Yes, Missy.”

“How much?”

He looked offended. “Pay at end.”

The rain started as she settled onto the wooden seat. She leaned back to stay under the umbrella canopy. The man picked up the iron bars and began pulling.

As the rain fell, cooling the heated air, his speed increased. Bare feet splashed through the forming puddles, undeterred while others sought shelter from the sudden monsoon rain. Streams poured along the streets and became freshet floods as the deluge continued. Thunder rumbled, but the rickshawallah never paused.

Her skirt was soaked when they reached the harbor. The man ran all the way to the Garipoola’s mooring. He offered to carry her up the gangway but didn’t seem offended by her refusal. By the time Isabella paid him and reached the ship, she was soaked through. Then, in a twist almost anticipated, as she climbed the gangway the rain stopped, God closing the tap.

From the ship, she looked back at the wharf. Her rickshawhallah was running back to the city, his rickshaw bouncing behind him. A woman had emerged from the port office. A western woman. Then raindrops peppered down, and Isabella hurried to her cabin.

She didn’t slip the note from her purse until she changed from her wet clothes, hanging them in her lavatory to drip dry. Then she unwrapped her bowl and added the green cloth to the shower rod. The elephant bowl fit perfectly on the tiny table jutting from the wall by the head of her bed. She tucked her little alarm clock under the shade of the bed lamp. Only then did she unfold the note.

It didn’t make sense.

A bottle of whisky should cover the cost. Bring it with you. The red man won’t expect the change. Better to have the switch ready. Whiskers shouldn’t delay. A cold clime awaits him if we don’t succeed. Dead men have skeletons.

At the last sentence, a cold chill ran over her.

A flourishing W was the signature.

Is a page missing? But no, the writing didn’t cover the sheet.

The man had used Werthy’s name. Is W my Col. Werthy?

Werthy was a spy—along with Richard Owen and Sheridan Ingram. Yet they had disembarked, Ingram in Muscat, Werthy and Owen in Bombay.

Other spies could still be aboard the Garipoola, traveling together to their assignments in the Orient.

Dead men have skeletons.

With that line, the note acquired sinister and lethal meaning. Had the note been meant for a spy? Did that man mistake me for a spy? Isabella wanted to laugh, but danger prickled over her. He had mistaken her for someone. A woman on the Garipoola. A blonde?

Savina Fremont was blonde, but that young lady could not be the spy. The divorcée Edwina Bridgewater was a platinum blonde from the bottle, with dark lashes and penciled eyebrows to highlight her eyes. Good sense ruled against the flirtatious Mrs. Bridgewater as a cool-headed spy.

Or would that be the perfect cover for a spy? A little frittery, a lot man-crazy, her conversation revolving around fashion and society gossip. Isabella would never have given any suspicion of spying a second thought.

The other blondes aboard were married. Lady Saunders. Mrs. Malcolm, a greying blonde. Mrs. Reynolds, bound to Australia with her family. At least three other women along with the women in third-class. Were the husbands a decoy? She found herself second-guessing everything she knew about several passengers.

This note was obviously in code. Did it talk about four people or three? The red man. Whiskers. The him avoiding a cold climate—Siberia? She’d heard the Bolsheviks sentenced prisoners to the frigid north. The fourth would be the skeleton. The him and the potential skeleton might be the same person.

The recipient made the fifth person—or fourth. Obviously, the red man was a contact—with a lead to the him. And did Whiskers assist the recipient, or was he a threat to keep the note’s recipient from delaying?

Ship’s bell rang off the time. She counted the strikes even as she checked the time on her little alarm clock. Dinner would be in a half-hour. Her stomach growled in response.

She could puzzle out this note for her evening’s entertainment. Mr. Fullerton had already told her that he would not be available tonight for their usual game of bridge. Since Clive Rexton had abandoned them in Bombay, a worthy third and fourth for bridge were hard to find.

As Isabella re-folded the note, she remembered the poison pen letter stolen from her cabin—oh, ages ago, it seemed. A single line had warned her not to encourage Col. Werthy. She had ignored that warning, and Werthy had turned into a good friend. (Too good of a friend, her heart reminded, but she ignored that, too.)

Stealing a letter twice on one voyage—that wouldn’t happen. Besides, Savina Fremont had penned the earlier letter then stolen it back. The young woman had remained in hot pursuit of Werthy throughout the voyage, but he hadn’t looked back when he left the ship. Savina didn’t have anything to do with this note.

Perhaps, just perhaps, she might find a clue about the intended recipient, a blonde woman on the Garipoola.

The ship would cast off late tonight and start its journey up the Indian coast to Madras where Isabella’s husband, Madoc, waited for her. That was a better focus than a cryptic letter she would never decode.

She refolded the note and placed it in the elephant bowl, weighting it with a piece of jade that Werthy had given her when they parted. Then she dressed and dawdled her way to the Dining Room. She was successfully late.

Dinner found her eying the several blonde women aboard from a new perspective. She dismissed the married couples. Lady Bernhardt and the Saunders commanded the best table, but Isabella hadn’t joined them since Bombay, preferring the Australia-bound Reynolds, solid working-class and eager for the opportunities in a new land. She’d introduced fellow immigrant Robin Kennedy to them. They talked so much about the next ship they would board in Madras that they didn’t notice Isabella’s distraction.

When she returned to the cabin, only the jade piece was in the bowl. The note had vanished.

Links to Purchase

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CCGJC68M​

Worldwide ​https://books2read.com/u/bWpVKq​

“Red Mask” completes the Sailing with Mystery collection.

The short stories were great fun to puzzle out and write, and they brought new ideas and new people into Isabella’s world. I’m currently writing three novelettes with one of those new characters. I previewed the first of the three novelettes at Christmas. Look for all three to be officially published this summer.

Here are the Links for the entire collection Sailing with Mystery, available in ebook and paperback:

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CJL28Z5W​

Worldwide, like B&N, Kobo and libraries ​https://books2read.com/u/3R5QJR​

View the Trailer ​https://youtu.be/csAe72b5X2I

If you want to start the series at the beginning, the most economical is the three-book bundle Into Death. Ebook only, I'm afraid.

Amazon ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MRBNCH7​

Worldwide ​https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MRBNCH7

​

Silver Web / Opening and Links / Sailing with Mystery

 "Silver Web" ~ 4th Short Story in the Sailing with Mystery Collection

This Cover Image represents Isabella's Watercolor for the Duration of this Short Story

Opening 2 Sections

Lightning forked across the sky, piercing white and bright across the drenched skylight of the lounge. Thunder cracked overhead, drowning the faint shouts of sailors at their stations. Rain deluged the slick decks and flooded the windows. The Garipoola plunged down a billowing wave then canted over as another wave struck the ship broadside. Passengers screamed as they clung to the bolted-down settees and tables in the lounge.

Isabella cast a prayer heavenward and wished she were in her cabin with fewer objects to fly her way. The storm had struck the ship an hour before. The steward reassured them it was little more than a rain event. As the clock ticked through the hour, the storm intensified until the steward fled the lounge to seek refuge elsewhere.

The ship righted. Water sluiced over the glassed ceiling. The rain fell, a deluge that dimmed the day to twilight.

With Isabella on the bolted-down settee were the Australia-bound Reynolds family, the three children clustered at their parents’ feet. The youngest, the only daughter, crowded between her father’s long legs, clinging to his shins. The two boys crouched before their mother and Isabella. They had turned two chairs onto their sides as a barrier against other sliding chairs. On the floor beside her were Sheridan and Colfax Ingram, the father with an arm around his son’s shoulders. They braced against the wall and had hooked two chairs together as defense

The elder Ingram had never reached the lounge. He had remained in his cabin, examining accounts with his secretary Nedda Cortland. The Ingrams and their retinue, secretary and servants, would leave when the ship docked in Muscat. Already, Isabella mourned the loss of her friend Nedda.

Her other friend, Col. Werthy was also absent from the lounge. Like Isabella, he and his protégé Richard Owen were bound for India. They would debark in Bombay while she traveled on to Madras. She had no idea where Werthy had found sanctuary from the storm.

Tie askew and hair mussed, Clive Rexford sat beyond the Ingrams, and beyond him was the mutton-chopped Nelson Fullerton, also bound for India. The Fremonts, parents and daughter Savina, crowded on one side of the banquette fastened to the outer wall. Sharing the other side were the missionary Miss Harlow and a couple that Isabella barely knew, the Rathburns.

Another wave struck the Garipoola. Women screamed. Men cursed. Lightning flashed, a penetrating brilliance that illuminated the skylight and the windows along the lounge walls. Then the ship struggled up another surging wave. Unsecured chairs, broken fragments of china, books, and bags slid across the floor. Rain spattered the glass, pinging like hailstones.

A shadow passed along the windows, braving the wave-assaulted deck. A sailor, struggling to a different station as the ship fought the storm. He plastered against the windows, a distorted blur soaked by seawater, arms upraised as he clung to the window bracing, dark hair plastered to his head. His face looked very white against the glass.

A wave splashed the windows. When the water washed off the glass, the sailor had reached the end of the bank of windows, behind the Fremonts. The ship pitched starboard, throwing him against the glass again. Then he levered himself past the window and out of sight.

She couldn’t see the people clustered along the aft wall of the lounge. The Gallagher family had one of the corner banquettes on starboard while Phoebe Drake and Edwina Bridgewater clung to Richard Owen on the window-side of the banquette.

Padgett Michaels sat beside the door, making a feeble attempt to avoid the water puddling at the threshold. On the door’s other side were Edgar Lear and another young man, bound for India. The elderly Lady Bernhardt and the Saunders crowded onto the settee opposite hers. Then came more people that Isabella didn’t know, some who had joined them at Jeddah when they all transferred to the Garipoola. Mr. Collins seemed very much a London barrister. Robin Kennedy was bound for Australia, like the Reynolds. Allan Gregory would stop in India before heading on to China, like the Fremonts.

Sheltering in the final corner banquette were the Titus Malcolms, the Winston Tuchmans, a middle-aged manager returning to his rubber plantation, and Dr. Bauer, the ship’s doctor. The doctor on the Nomadic had kept to his miniature hospital with its full complement of medical staff for its thousand passengers. The Garipoola was much smaller and older than the queen of the British-Asia Oceanic line, and Dr. Bauer often mingled with them.

She wondered how the passengers fared who had retreated to their cabins at the first signs of the storm.

As the Garipoola bucked and plunged, Isabella wished she were back on the larger Nomadic. Capt. Locke had the weathered features of a man long at sea. She didn’t doubt his experience, but this storm would tax the greatest captain’s abilities. She dipped her head to her hands, clinging to the settee’s arm, and prayed God would calm this raging sea.

An eternity later, the lightning lost its brilliance. Waves no longer breached the ship decks. Thunder rumbled distantly. Rain pattered gently against the glass. The ship sliced easily through the waves. Twilight came, the light unchanged but the clock announcing day’s end.

The steward reappeared to announce dinner in a half-hour. “A freak storm,” he answered the clamoring questions and claimed the night sky of the Arabian Sea was an unmatched marvel.

When she went to dress for dinner, Isabella found little disturbed in her cabin, a single berth with a tiny alleyway between the bunk and the cabinet wall. She picked up a pen that rolled on the floor then slipped into a simple frock. The air in her little lavatory was humid, curling her hair around her face.

She encountered Nedda on the deck near the dining room’s entrance. The secretary had a single berth much like Isabella’s although nearer to the stateroom of her employer. “I see you survived the storm.”

Nedda rolled her eyes. “You look none the worse. Were you in your cabin?”

“No. The lounge. It was horrid.”

“Did you worry that the glass would break? Especially the ceiling.”

“I didn’t even think of that!”

“Lucky you. Mr. Ingram discovered seasickness.”

“You poor thing!” for she knew that Nedda would have had to deal with any of her employer’s problems. Hyatt Ingram never talked business around his valet.

“One benefit: he won’t join us tonight.”

Then they were in the dining room, slowly filling up even though the half-hour had passed. They plastered on their company smiles as they slid into their chairs at the Ingrams’ table. Colfax Ingram was also absent although Sheridan Ingram was there, serving as host in his father’s stead.

Emerson Werthy and Richard Owen had the other chairs. “And where did you ride out the storm?” Isabella asked. “Mr. Owen was in the lounge with us, keeping the Mesdames Drake and Bridgewater from sliding to the floor.”

“In the pilothouse with the captain.” Throughout dinner, he regaled them with Capt. Locke’s stoicism and the pilot’s jittery nerves.

Tonight’s quick soup revealed the chef’s own worries during the storm. Rice curry with chicken followed, a simple dish that hid its quick preparation with spices. The usual third course was nonexistent. Irish coffee and hot cocoa were offered.

The older passengers retired early, but the storm had left many restless and edgy. Usually after dinner, Isabella improved her bridge game with Mr. Rexford, Mr. Fullerton, and whoever would make the fourth. Mr. Fullerton cried off.

“There’s dancing.” Mr. Rexford surprised her with the offer and steered her to the long room known as the saloon at night and the lounge during the day.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Tinny dance music swelled onto the decks through opened windows. The saloon lights looked bright, with a kaleidoscope of shifting colors. When the music wound down, the colors stopped and became dancers waiting for the next song. Voices replaced the music until the gramophone started up and the carousel of colors resumed.

Isabella on his arm, Mr. Rexford paused on the threshold. The room sorted into dancing couples, men standing or sitting along the walls, to which the tables and chairs were removed. A bar had opened at the far end, and a steward maneuvered a tray among the spectators.

The saloon looked nothing like the daytime lounge.

“You know this song?” Mr. Rexford swung her into a foxtrot that matched the jazzy music.

His agility surprised her. She knew he was a fixture in London society, but she’d never associated him with dancing. Ever precise, he didn’t talk as they danced but looked around. That inattention gave Isabella permission to look as well.

She spotted Phoebe Drake and Savina Fremont and Edwina Bridgewater, the Gallaghers and the Reynolds, the Tuchmans and the Malcolms.

When the music ended, Mr. Rexford stepped back . . . and Padgett Michaels appeared. “You permit?” Aware that the next song had started, she managed to nod. Partnered couples were changing, men leaving the floor as other men replaced them.

Mr. Michaels started with a basic foxtrot.

The saloon had a strange energy. It reminded her of a coiled rattlesnake, shaking its rattle and ready to strike.

Mr. Michaels kept her successfully diverted. “Good of you to join us. Mrs. Tarrant. You’ll be in high demand.”

“You need more women,” for the ship had a serious dearth of women passengers. “Is the saloon always this crowded?”

“Not usually. The storm, you know. Can you spin?” and he surprised her with one.

By the third spin, she added a sashay to her whirl that brought a smile to his dour face.

The dance gave her a new view of Padgett Michaels. She’d considered him stodgy, conversing only about the exotic jewelry and antiquities he found in the Middle East. She never expected a dancer who enjoyed spins and dips.

Her next partner, Lionel Wexford, provided a reason for the saloon’s vibrating energy that looked for a victim. “You heard? We’ve a thief among us.” He sniffed. “Bad form. The thief must be extremely clever to take his pick of the jewels aboard.”

“A thief? Whatever do you mean?”

“The thief broke into Lady Bernhardt’s cabin during the storm. That silver necklace she wears every evening, he stole it.”

“That beautiful necklace? It was stolen?”

“An expensive piece.” His arm tightened on her waist which was his signal for a series of sliding moves for his version of a one-step dance. “Even broken up by the fence, the diamonds will bring a pretty price.”

“How horrible. That’s the reason Lady Bernhardt didn’t come to dinner.”

“I assume our good captain was with her, promising to find the thief, I’m certain. He will have to work fast. We dock tomorrow night. Our thief will escape then.”

“I cannot believe it. Stolen! Who could the thief be?”

He shrugged and turned her. “Apparently, all the stewards are accounted for during the storm, so one of the passengers must be the culprit.”

“She loved that necklace.” Isabella mourned for Lady Bernhardt.

The elegant necklace, all diamonds and white-gold, started as a single braided strand around the neck before dividing into three separate strands over the upper bodice. Two caret-sized diamonds framed the front design, a display of loops upon loops, each loop attached to the white-gold chains with smaller diamonds. The showpiece was a teardrop diamond pendant surrounded with glittering emeralds.

Isabella’s first glimpse of the necklace was the evening they left Jeddah. It had taken her breath away, and every sighting since had confirmed the glory of the necklace.

She danced fourth with Mr. Reynolds, who kept to a simple box-step. He talked of the theft for a bit. Then he started a running commentary about his family’s immigration to Australia. “My uncle runs sheep, you know.”

Edgar Lear elbowed in for the next dance. She considered refusing him, but Sheridan Ingram didn’t look upset to have lost his chance to dance.

Mr. Lear didn’t want to talk about the theft. He mumbled that the necklace was probably insured then talked about the ferocity of the storm. He missed a few steps, hurting her toes, and kept looking around the room.

The gramophone wound down before the song ended. Isabella escaped with “I must sit. You’ve exhausted me.”

“This is the last but next song,” he complained.

“I simply must sit. I’m not as athletic as you are, Mr. Lear.”

His brow furrowed. A muscle twitched in his jaw, but he led her to some chairs and demanded a man give up his seat to her.

She didn’t know anyone clustered around the chairs. Mr. Lear abandoned her before the re-wound song came to an end. The men asked her to dance. Isabella let the clamor wash over her while she tried to think of a polite refusal. Then the starting music became a tango. The clamor died.

A firm hand cupped her elbow, urging her from the chair. “You know the tango?”

Isabella looked into Emerson Werthy’s cool-ice eyes. “I do.”

Within minutes, she knew she had volunteered for trouble. Werthy was the ideal partner, assured and masterful, and the tango was a dance for lovers. Her husband Madoc had taught her to dance in close embrace, and Werthy had the same style. She kept flashing to Madoc as she followed Werthy’s lead.

More than trouble, for her awareness of him as an attractive man entwined with her perception of him as a close friend.

The repetitive pulse of the music took over the beat of her heart. He kept his hand high on her back, embracing her closely when the music became dramatic. In the rueda, he turned her so her heart crossed into his. She broke apart for the swing out, and he drew her back with a snap that brought her in close contact with his lean body.

Isabella stumbled once, as they stepped in and around each other, the tangle of steps of the ocho that symbolically entwined them. He kept her close, her cheek against his chin, his breath wafting the curls around her face, the heat of his body like a furnace against her. He swung her to the right then pivoted her twice. As the music ended, he rocked her back then forward, into him, tangled with him.

The music didn’t resume. Chatter started up and swelled in volume. Someone shoved a wine glass into her hand. Werthy, she realized. “Drink,” he muttered, “you look too pale.” He glanced away to speak to Sheridan Ingram.

She sipped the wine, a fruity white that was too sweet. He knows, and color burned her cheeks. She veered her gaze away from his broad shoulders to the golden-curled beauty gazing up at him. Savina Fremont. Her bright red lipstick looked a garish slash across her face.

Then Isabella’s eyes narrowed and fastened on the pearl eardrop missing from her left ear. “Savina, you’ve lost an earring.”

“What?” Her hand flew to her ears. “Oh no! It’s gone!” The topaz at the top of the right eardrop twinkled.

“It must have fallen off,” a man said. Clive Rexford, appearing suddenly, for she’d not seen him for almost an hour.

“It wouldn’t just fall off,” Isabella countered. “It’s a screwback. Isn’t it, Savina?”

“It would have had to fall off,” Robin Kennedy said. He’d escorted Savina to their little group and hadn’t left. All she knew of him was that he’d played rugby at university before the war and now was Australia-bound.

“No. Screwbacks don’t just fall off.”

“I cannot wear only one earring.” Savina began removing the eardrop.

“Pearls aren’t that expensive,” Phoebe Drake said.

Surprised at the woman’s appearance, Isabella looked around. Only then did she realize that the saloon had emptied. A couple of young men still stood at the bar, but besides their cluster, the people had left. “Savina, is that an Imperial topaz?”

“Of course, it’s an Imperial. I don’t wear cheap stones.”

“It looks to be a whole caret,” Ingram judged. As the son of a wealthy financier, he could afford to know the size and value of jewels.

“It is,” the young woman snapped.

Lionel Wexford’s conversation about Lady Bernhardt’s necklace also applied to this eardrop. “Then the earring is valuable and easily broken apart for sale. The pearl, the reddish topaz, and the gold setting.”

“The thief,” Werthy said heavily.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Drake said, and Isabella recognized their brief short-hand as a clue that Emerson Werthy and Phoebe Drake knew each other better than she’d realized.

“A thief?” Savina clapped a hand over her mouth. “Like the one that stole Lady Bernhardt’s necklace?”

“And my tie pin,” Clive Rexford added quietly.

She knew that tie pin, a bezel-cut ruby of thumbnail size, surrounded with pavé diamonds. It had glittered at her over the bridge table on many a night. “I didn’t know we’d had thefts until Mr. Wexford told me as we danced.”

“Your head is usually in your sketchbook,” Phoebe Drake said. “No offense intended.”

“None taken. It’s true. When did these thefts start?”

Werthy turned and took away her wine glass, setting it on a side table. “When we boarded in Jeddah.”

“The thief boarded then? We’ve only been aboard five days.”

“A fast worker. That glorious diamond necklace would be treasure enough.”

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