Carter
The ship docked in the early hours of this morning when the winds finally calmed. Already the morning sun outside burns down fiercely, despite the fact it’s fall.
“Just stepping out for some air.” He paused. “My hip gets stiff. Go back to sleep, son,” he said gently.
“Who’d you phone?”
But Gramps just said, “I’ll see you both at breakfast.”
And then he was gone, the door closing with a quiet snick behind him.
Carter’s focus returns to his breakfast tray.
He picks at the bran muffin as his thoughts turn again to Vincent.
Worry gnaws at his chest—he senses something grave and unusual is happening.
He glances at his mother across the food court, and anger feeds into his worry.
He begins to kick the back of his heel against the leg of his chair.
The action makes a rhythmic thump, thump, thump.
He kicks harder, faster, growing more unsettled, more frustrated, angrier as he watches his mom talk on her cell.
It seems like she’s angry. She’s waving her hand and pushing hair back off her face.
Carter’s stomach twists. He bites into his muffin and can’t swallow.
He spits the mouthful out. He always feels sick when his parents have “discussions.” Dad left six months ago.
They both said they needed to “work some things out.” Mom has been sad and mad ever since.
The cruise was supposed to fix things. It was about keeping some sense of family intact, and giving Carter some male influence in his life.
Or so she said. But all he wants—needs—is for her to be happy again. And he wants his dad.
It feels like his mom and dad are being echoes of Gramps and Gran. Dad is off working long hours in the tech world. Mom is at home, alone, homeschooling Carter.
Meanwhile here he sits, solo, at his little table with his mother’s congealing oatmeal, an absent father in his life, and no sign of Gramps.
“Oh, hello, Carter!”
He startles, looks up.
It’s her.
The woman he knocked over. The one who hid behind the vending machine.
“It is Carter, right?” She’s smiling and she holds a tray loaded with small pastries, a muffin, juice, a mug with a teabag label hanging over the rim.
She wears a khaki skirt, a loose T-shirt, a floral overshirt, and stubby walking sandals.
A sun hat dangles from a cord over her arm—she’s all ready for a tour.
He nods.
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“I guess,” he says.
She slides his mom’s tray aside and sets hers down.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your grandfather mentioned it at the talk last night.” She bites into a pastry.
“He did?”
“Mm-hmm.” She speaks around her mouthful. “Said you and your mom are traveling with him, that you’re eight, and planning to be a detective like him some day.”
His heart picks up. He stops kicking his chair. “I will be.”
“He mentioned your notebook of suspicious things—”
“Happenings.”
“What?”
“Suspicious happenings, not things.”
“Ah, of course. Sorry.” She sips her tea without removing the bag. “Happenings. Either way, he seemed very proud.”
Carter’s chest fills with joy.
“And I remembered your book on the floor after you knocked me over. I put two and two together, and figured you, Carter Frost, are the grandson of the famous Dr. Marsh. Seriously, though, he is one of my favorite-ever true crime writers. I have every one of his books.”
He sips his chocolate milk. “I’m sorry I knocked you over.”
“I survived.” She grins. “But you did seem scared of that man with the orchid in his lapel.”
His mood sobers. He says nothing.
She bites into another pastry, brushing crumbs away. “You know, Carter, I was behind that corner because I’m very much like you. I love mysteries and investigating suspicious happenings. I was curious about that couple—the orchid man and the red-haired woman.”
“Arrabella.”
Her hands go dead still. Her eyes widen. She lowers her mug. “So you heard her name?”
He nods.
“Did you hear what else they were talking about?”
He glances at his mom, then at the door. Still no Gramps.
He hesitates, then asks, “Are you a spy?”
She smiles. “Nope. Just a wannabe Hercule Poirot. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a famous fictional detective. Like Sherlock Holmes, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and Harry Buttons the Spy.” He considers her a moment. “But you’d make a better Miss Marple than a Poirot. Or maybe a Jessica Fletcher.”
“Mais, non!” She puts her finger above her top lip like a mustache, and says in a terrible French accent, “I should order my breakfast eggs identical in size, for ze perfect symmetry, non?”
He bursts out laughing. She’s totally funny. “Definitely not Poirot. Definitely Miss Marple.”
“You win. Though I hate to think I am that old.” She pops another mini pastry into her mouth. “So, what else did you hear?”
He frowns. This woman is confusing. Funny, friendly, but maybe she’s not as safe as she looks. Harry the Spy would approach her cautiously, he thinks.
She regards him from behind her thick-rimmed glasses as she chews, waiting for him to say something. And deep down he really does want to share all this heavy stuff with someone.
“Well . . . it’s kind of serious.”
“How so?”
“The orchid man told Arrabella that their ‘subject’ is not who she says she is.”
She stops chewing. “Subject? They said that?”
“Yeah. The man said the subject changed her name after poisoning her husband.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“He said she wasn’t convicted. But everyone, including the police, thought she did it. She just had good lawyers.”
Her face pales. “Did they say her name?”
“They said her name was Helen Doyle. Here—look.” He pulls his notebook out from his backpack, flips it open. “See? I wrote this while I pretended not to listen.”
She leans over the page:
Paz Doyle. Wife beater. Football. Crime gang.
Poisoned with digitalis?
Who is Angus?
“And what’s this about ‘Angus’?” She points.
“All I heard was Arrabella say ‘just like Angus’ after orchid man told her that Paz’s heart stopped. She said Angus’s heart also stopped right after ‘that’ woman appeared.”
She glances up sharply. “What woman?”
“I don’t know,” Carter says.
“No other names?”
He shakes his head.
“Good lord,” she murmurs. She’s about to say something else when Carter notices his mom ending her call and standing. She starts to head over to his table.
“Oh, there comes my mom.”
“I should go.” She rises and grabs her tray. “Thanks, Sherlock,” she says.
“Frost, Carter J. Frost.”
“I’ll remember it.”
As she turns to leave, he says, “What’s your name?”
She pauses, then says, “Poppy. Poppy Buchanan. That’s who I am.”
She scurries off, and Carter grins. He’ll call her Poppy Poirot.