Eleanor Morse was happy to be home. Bermuda had been hot and more than a little boring, the food uninteresting, her shipmates irritating. She had enjoyed the days at sea, true, but mostly for the reading time (which would have been as welcome on her front porch), though the mystery section of the ship’s library was stocked only with Christies and Allinghams, all of which she had read. (She finally settled on a well-worn copy of Poe, whom she always felt to be a bit arcane and far too gory.) Docking that very morning in New York, she found the

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