Nancy Cole Silverman

MURDER ON THE MED

A Kat Lawson Mystery

First published by Level Best Books 2024

Copyright © 2024 by Nancy Cole Silverman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Nancy Cole Silverman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Author Photo Credit: Craig Sotres Photography

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-68512-653-7

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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To my mother, whose wit, beauty, and wisdom were the inspiration for Kat Lawson. Thank you, Mom.

Praise for Murder on the Med

“A fun romp on the high seas with an unexpected twist.”—Libby Klein, author of the Poppy McAllister Mysteries

“Silverman delivers another stylish, addictive page-turner that will have eager readers cruising from chapter to chapter.” —Ellen Byron, Agatha Award Winner and USA Today bestselling author

Chapter One

Gulf of Naples - Italy

July 2000

“Overboard! Are you telling me the woman fell off the ship? And nobody did anything?”

I was sitting in the Athena’s English Garden Cafe with the Churchill sisters, Irene and Ida, elderly Brits, who occupied one of the hundred and sixty-five luxurious condominiums aboard a renovated ocean liner. It was nearly four p.m., and we were enjoying high tea with white linen napkins and a four-tiered tray of finger sandwiches, cakes, chocolates, and scones when Irene, the more talkative of the two, casually mentioned she believed Dede Drummerhausen—whose condo my publisher had arranged for me to sublet while covering the ship’s tour of the Amalfi coast—had disappeared.

“I doubt anyone was around to see. And even so, what could anyone do?” Irene dabbed her upper lip with the edge of her napkin. “I suppose if someone had seen, they might have thrown her a life preserver. But even a strong swimmer would have had trouble reaching it. Poor soul. She liked to stroll the deck alone at night. Likely, she fell overboard, and well, there you have it—she’s gone, nobody on board wants to believe us, and there’s not a thing anyone can do about it.”

I took the scone I was about to take a bite of and rested it on the saucer with the teacup in my hand. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“But you didn’t actually see it, right?”

“Well, of course not. Nobody did. But my sister and I know for a fact that Dede didn’t get off the ship in Naples. We had plans to meet for breakfast when we docked, and Dede never showed up.” Ida plopped a sugar cube in her tea and stirred it slowly. “And now, you’re here, staying in Dede’s apartment and writing your little travel feature. I don’t imagine we’ll know what happened to Dede until we dock in Positano, where, if she’s still alive, she’s scheduled to rejoin us. And, where I assume you’ll take leave of us?”

“That’s the plan,” I said. Convinced the old ladies might be drinking something stronger than tea, I placed my cup and saucer on the table and tried to keep my hands from shaking. This was my first full day aboard Athena, and I had yet to get my sea legs. Whether it was Irene’s casual description of her shipmate’s fate or the pitch and roll of the ship, my stomach felt like it was about to follow.

Ida snatched a scone from the tray. “Believe me, if Dede had been aboard, she would have shown up for breakfast. Trust me, Dear. The woman never missed a meal. You only needed to look at her to know.”

“Large boned, she liked to say.” Irene studied me from over the rim of her teacup.

“More like well-padded.” Ida swanned her neck in her sister’s direction.

“Not that it slowed her down.” Irene dipped a lemon biscuit into her tea. “Woman never met a pool or a piece of cake she didn’t dive into. Took a swim every afternoon in the pool and afterward would waltz around in her robe and flip-flops, her red hair dripping wet, with a croissant or chocolate in her hand. Never a thought about how she looked. All very American. Present company excluded, of course. No offense.”

“None taken.” I smiled, albeit a bit disingenuously. While appearing well-meaning, the sisters were undoubtedly a bit batty, if not tipsy.

My name is Kat Lawson. I’m a reporter turned undercover operative for the F.B.I. working for a travel pub as a feature writer. My assignment with Journey International was to cover the Athena, a former Russian troop tanker abandoned in a shipyard in Bremen, Germany, in 1991 when the Soviet Union collapsed. A group of international investors led by a young South African named Neil Webster, with family money and connections to the diamond trade, saw an opportunity. They bought the ship, brought her out of dry dock, redesigned her from the bowels to the bridge as a kind of condos at sea for seniors seeking to sail into their sunset years, and christened her Athena. My publisher, Sophie Brill, thought it might make for a fascinating story and rewarded me with the assignment for my previous undercover work. This trip was a chance for me to relax and regroup. After all, how much trouble can one find aboard a 600-foot yacht with a bunch of senior citizens in the middle of the Mediterranean?

* * *

I left the café, anxious to get some fresh salt air and my sea legs beneath me. If I were still back home in Phoenix, I would have been on an early morning run. But with the nine-hour time difference and the fact I had arrived late and slept even later, I figured a walk along the Sun Deck would be just the thing to help me adjust to the time change. The view of the Bay of Naples as we pulled from the harbor and the city behind her looked chaotic with its urban sprawl of high rises and busy port. A sharp contrast to the calm blue Mediterranean waters ahead of us.

“Ms. Lawson?” I stopped to see who had called my name, and the ship yawed sharply. I reached for the rail, but too late. Like a drunken sailor, I slipped. But not before a strong pair of hands broke my fall.

“You okay?”

I grabbed the rail and straightened myself. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Standing in front of me was the ship’s Captain. With one hand on the visor of his wheeled hat, he did a quick salute, then stepped back and introduced himself. Tall, blond, and in the instant it took for our eyes to meet…trouble. The kind of trouble that happens when you don’t go looking for it and suddenly can’t stop thinking about it or hoping to run into it again. Trouble that after two marriages and a couple of false starts, I had sworn off of—or at least—thought I had.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Captain Byard McKay. I’m still kind of new here. The previous captain was McKey, so people on board call me Captain or Captain Byard. Makes it easier. You can call me whatever you like. We’re an informal group. ‘Least between the residents and crew.” The captain extended his hand.

“And you can call me Kat.”

“Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk last night when you came on board. I couldn’t leave the Bridge. I trust you’re settled?”

Trouble had a sexy British accent. “You’re English?”

“Nae. A Scotsman.” Even worse. His accent was intoxicating. “But you’re not the first American to confuse the accent. Athena’s an international bunch. But don’t worry, the crew all speak English. First mate’s German. The doctor’s a Swede. The chef is French. And below deck, we have an entire United Nations.”

“And the residents?”

“They’re from all over as well. Got one from Russia. A couple from Germany. England. France. America. We like to think of ourselves as Citizens of the World. Some residents have been aboard so long they think of Athena as their own private country.”

“Excuse me, Captain?”