34 - The Queen's Jewels (10 page)

“Smoke?” Kim asked as we left the cardroom.

“Pardon?”

“Do you smoke? I’m in the mood for a good cigar. They have a special room for cigar and pipe smokers, Churchill’s, two decks down from here. Please join me.”

“I don’t smoke,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to accompany you. I didn’t get to see that room on my tour this morning.”

Churchill’s was a good-sized space that I now remembered seeing through its glass doors when I attended the welcoming party for lecturers that had been hosted at the Commodore Club. Kim held the door open for me, and we stepped inside. Four people sat in large leather armchairs that ringed the room, one smoking a pipe, one a cigar, and two puffing away on cigarettes. Smoking areas on the ship were limited, with the dining rooms and most bars smoke free. Only the casino and a few designated tables in the Golden Lion Pub accommodated those who still had the habit.

I stood with Kim as he admired an array of cigars in a locked glass cabinet. “They have Cuban cigars,” he said. “You can’t get them in the States because of your silly embargo on Cuba.”

“Cuba is an interesting country,” I said, wishing to avoid a political discussion. “I’d be interested in visiting it one day.”

“If you have money to spare, Cuba is a good place to invest it,” he said as he continued to survey the assortment of cigars in the case. “One of these days Cuba will open up again and become the next tourist Mecca.”

Kim summoned a waitress from the club, who unlocked the case and handed him the Cuban cigar he’d chosen. We took chairs in a corner of the room, next to the pipe smoker. My late husband, Frank, used to smoke a pipe on occasion, and I must admit I still enjoy the aroma of pipe tobacco. As for cigars . . .

The ventilation in the room was impressively efficient, but not enough to totally cover the smell of cigar smoke. I’ve always had an especially keen sense of smell, and I knew my clothing would need airing when I got back to the cabin. Still, I’d decided that having a conversation with Kim might be enlightening. If nothing else, I could fend off Haggerty’s next query by saying that I’d at least spent quiet personal time with the wealthy Korean businessman.

Shortly after we sat down, three of the others in the room finished their smokes and left. The gentleman with the pipe had nodded off in his chair. The waitress asked if we wanted anything to drink, but we declined. Kim deftly lit his cigar, taking care not to let the flame from his lighter touch the end of the cigar itself. He sat back, sighed contentedly, and allowed the smoke from his first puff to curl above us and disappear into the ventilation system.

“You play bridge quite well,” he finally said after some additional draws.

“Thank you. It started to come back to me, although I admit I’ve forgotten much about bidding.”

“You were fine. The other couple was no match for us.”

After another pause, I said, “You were very forthcoming at Tom Craig’s home about the theft of the Heart of India and your partner’s death. Do you mind another question about it?”

“No, not at all,” he replied with a discernible wariness in his tone. “It is a topic that seems endlessly fascinating to everyone.”

“Is it not fascinating to you?”

“To the contrary. It is painful to explore. Walter was a friend as well as a business colleague. I cannot separate my grief at his death from the circumstances of it. It is all one.”

“I’m sorry. If you’d prefer not to talk about it, I understand.”

He waved the cigar. “No, go ahead. It will not be the last time someone wishes to dissect the details. Curiosity, it seems, is rampant when it comes to such crimes.”

I was taken aback at his use of the word “curiosity.” Had he or someone close to him been the one to send me the note? I waited to see if he would mention it, but instead he said, “Ask your question. Perhaps you will see something the police missed. Do you think your powers of observation are superior to those of the investigative authorities, Mrs. Fletcher?”

It was a trick question. If I answered in the affirmative, I could be accurately accused of pomposity. But if I said no, he’d be within his rights to ask why he should answer me in the first place. I decided just to forge ahead. “It’s my understanding that your partner’s alarm system was inoperative the night of the theft and murder.”

He nodded and inhaled on his Cuban treasure.

“Do you have any idea why that might have been?”

“No. I wasn’t there.”

“One of his security men said that your partner had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed in his study that night. This security guard assumed he was entertaining a lady in there. He said that wasn’t unusual.”

Kim smiled. “My friend Walter appreciated many of the finer things in life.”

“Like Cuban cigars?” I asked playfully.

“Oh, yes, and beautiful women, too. It would not surprise me that he entertained a woman the night he was murdered.”

“Would you have any idea who that woman might be?”

“How could I possibly know that, Jessica? I wasn’t there. Walter and I shared many things. We were intimately involved in business deals, and I knew a great deal about some of his personal preferences and habits. But we never discussed the women in our lives. That was off-limits.”

“I can’t help but wonder how those people who stole the diamond and killed your partner would know when the safe was opened. And how did they know the diamond was in his safe to begin with, if he, as you told us the other night, moved it around for the sake of security? Someone had to know he’d taken it home, and that someone also had to know him sufficiently well to assume he would take out the diamond, perhaps to show it to the woman he was entertaining.”

Kim examined the end of his cigar, made a face, pulled out his lighter, and put the flame to it again. He said into the room, “You ask a lot of questions, Mrs. Fletcher, for someone who doesn’t intend to write about it, and you also seem to know a great deal about this most unfortunate incident.”

I wasn’t about to mention George Sutherland and that he’d shared with me his knowledge of the case, so I said, “Many details were in the press.” I then forced a laugh and added, “Just my natural-born curiosity.” I looked directly at him. “I know that curiosity is supposed to have killed the cat, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself.”

If the curiosity-killing-the-cat reference registered with him, his face didn’t express it.

“Do you mind if I ask you how the diamond was insured?”

“I really don’t know,” he said, stubbing out the cigar and rising. “It was probably with his personal casualty company. I’m going to get a drink. You’re welcome to join me for a cocktail, if you like.”

“Thank you, no. I think I’ll go now. You’ve been very generous with your time. I enjoyed our bridge game, too. See you at dinner.”

Rupesh was exiting Kim’s room next door as I walked down the corridor to my cabin.

“Hello, madam,” he said.

“Hello, Rupesh. I have a question for you. I need access to a typewriter or computer with a printer. Would Mr. Kim have either one in his cabin?”

“I don’t know, madam, but we have a very fine computer center, which you are welcome to use, and there are even computers in the library next to the bookstore.”

“Yes, but this would be so convenient. He’s right next door. Would you ask the next time you see him?”

“Of course, madam. Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asked.

“Yes, everything is fine, thank you.”

“You have a very pleasant evening, madam.”

“I’m sure I will,” I said.

W
hile dressing for dinner, I watched the ship’s channel on the TV in my cabin. Along with news of upcoming events, it ran a program over and over on safety information, including what to do should we witness a fellow passenger falling overboard:
Yell as loud as you can, “Man overboard,” and throw the nearest life preserver at the person in the water.
The mere thought of someone falling into the Atlantic and being swept away and under sent a chill up my spine.

Because this was one of three formal nights on the
Queen Mary 2
, I chose my outfit accordingly. When I arrived in the lounge for a predinner drink, Michael—or rather Wendell, as I had to remember to call him—and his two female guests and Harry Flynn were already at the bar, drinks lined up in front of them. Unlike most of the men, who were decked out in black tuxedos, Harry wore a double-breasted white dinner jacket, black tux pants, and bloodred bow tie and cummerbund. He looked positively stunning with his erect posture, tanned face, and full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

Haggerty introduced me to Jennifer Kahn, and to her friend Kiki Largent. The contrast between them was striking. Ms. Kahn was dressed as though she were about to be introduced to royalty, a command performance before a queen or other head of state, although her green silk floor-length gown cut low in front and with slits up the side might have been considered a little too risqué in some royal circles. Her long, tapered fingers held a variety of rings that positively dazzled in the room’s flattering light, and a necklace and pendant drew the eye to her décolletage.

Ms. Largent, on the other hand, wore a pair of black slacks and a black pullover shirt. Her acknowledgment of the evening’s formal dress code was a large, heavy multi-strand necklace of assorted seashells, and gold earrings that reached her shoulders. Her short black hair, almost a classic buzz cut, had some sort of gel in it that provided sheen.

Conversation flowed easily. Jennifer had a trace of an accent that I pegged as Slavic, Hungarian perhaps, or Czech. Her friend Kiki said little, but what I did hear was absent any obvious nationality. She didn’t smile much, and I had the feeling that her role was to fawn over Jennifer, perhaps act as a gofer and all-around assistant.

“Did everyone have a good day?” Flynn asked.

There was a unanimous nodding of heads.

“You?” Haggerty asked Flynn.

“An excellent day,” Harry said. “I took a peek at the bridge, then spent an hour at the driving range—incredible, the use of technology to display an actual golf course on the ship—and then worked out in the gym. It even has a separate weight room, a far cry from the freighters I spent my working life on. And this is the perfect way to top off the day: a cold, dry martini.” He’d just been served one, and he lifted his glass in a toast: “May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

“Here, here,” said Haggerty.

“You’ll notice that I remained seated while offering my toast,” Harry said. “Toasts are usually offered standing up. But back in the sixteen hundreds, a British king was alleged to have stood to offer a toast while aboard ship and cracked his noggin on the low ceiling. That led to a decree that toasts at sea may be proposed from a sitting position. That rule is still in effect.”

I’d learned in the short time I’d known him that Harry Flynn reveled in telling sea tales, and would undoubtedly have many more to share as the crossing progressed.

Jennifer Kahn began questioning me about my books and how I write them. She had missed my lecture, but had read one or two of my books and seemed sincerely interested in what I had to say.

Kim, Betty, and their two bodyguards showed up as we were preparing to go into the dining room. He nodded at me, but his smile and outwardly pleasant demeanor were absent this time. His face was set in a scowl, and Betty’s expression wasn’t any more welcoming. Apparently, whatever they had been arguing about earlier in the day when I’d seen her storm from the room was still a matter of contention. They took a table in a far corner of the lounge.

After we’d been seated and we’d chosen our selections from that evening’s menu, I asked Jennifer what line of work she was in.

“Design,” she replied. “I design jewelry.”

“Oh, and have you designed what you’re wearing?” I asked, noting the elaborate garnet and diamond necklace set off by the green silk of her dress.

“Yes,” she said brightly, her fingers fluttering near the diamond pendant. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, “but I would have thought pieces designed by such a young woman would be more modern. Your necklace doesn’t look modern at all. In fact, it looks like an antique.”

“I adore antique jewelry. I’ve collected antique pieces my whole life.” She shot a wink at Kiki, who dropped her head and focused on buttering her roll. “They have so much more depth and grandeur, don’t you think? I like to think my work would have fit in in the days of royal courts, pre-French Revolution, of course. Gems and jewelry from those days are my inspirations, although I confess I love all jewelry. I’ve always been attracted to sparkly things.”

“How fascinating,” I said, turning to her friend. “And you, Kiki? Are you a designer, too?”

“No,” she said. “I’m Jennifer’s assistant.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” said Jennifer.

“We can all use a good assistant,” Haggerty said. “Makes life considerably easier, doesn’t it?”

“I have some antique jewelry that my mother left me,” Harry said, slipping off a small diamond ring he wore on his pinkie. “I managed to keep this out of my last wife’s hands during the settlement. Not nearly as valuable as your jewelry, of course, Jennifer.” He turned to Haggerty. “But maybe Wendell here could tell me more about it. I’ve always wondered about its origin.”

Michael had been sipping his drink when Harry addressed him. He sputtered and coughed, until Harry pounded him on the back. “You okay, old man?” Harry asked.

Recovering, Michael nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you so much. Wrong pipe, I fear. You were saying?”

“I was asking you about my mother’s ring,” he said, holding it up.

Michael cleared his throat and nodded. “Movie memorabilia,” he said.