34 - The Queen's Jewels (18 page)

The casino! It would still be open, and maybe Harry had gone there. I could apologize for having abandoned him—again.

He wasn’t there, but a parade of well-dressed, happy people—probably coming from the Royal Court Theatre—were enjoying another formal evening on the ship. Apparently not everyone had heard the rumor that someone died on the ship, given the cheery demeanor of the men and women, and a few children, who strolled by, chatting, laughing, reveling in the floating palace that was the
Queen Mary 2
.

It was time to meet Haggerty at his cabin. As I headed for the elevator, I saw him in the distance accompanied by another man. I walked quickly in his direction but couldn’t get there fast enough before they stepped on an elevator and the doors closed. But I’d gotten close enough to see the person with him. It was Rupesh, my cabin steward.

I’d almost called out Michael’s name but held back, not knowing whether he still used the Wendell Jones alias when not conferring with the ship’s staff. Besides, my mind was now focused on Rupesh’s reemergence and the circumstances surrounding it. I was certain that it was no coincidence that he and Haggerty ended up together. They’d walked side by side to the bank of elevators. I would ask Haggerty in a few minutes, assuming of course that he was on his way to his stateroom. Maybe Rupesh would be there, too.

I took my time going to Haggerty’s deck, walked slowly down the long hallway, reached his door, and knocked. Haggerty answered. “Good timing,” he said. “I just got here myself. Come in.”

I looked past him and saw that no one else was there. The TV was on, tuned to the ship’s twenty-four-hour-a-day channel. A video of my second lecture filled the screen.

“You look good,” Haggerty said, nodding at the TV.

“Thank you, but I’d really prefer that you turn it off so we can talk.”

He shrugged and did as I asked. The room was now bathed in silence, the only sound coming through his open glass doors to the balcony. The liner’s thirty-knot-an-hour move through the Atlantic created a soothing “white sound.”

“I have some champagne my steward delivered to me.”

“No thanks, but you go ahead.”

He carefully hung up his tux jacket, and shed his tie and cummerbund, dropping them on the desk atop some papers, then pulled the champagne from a bucket of ice and water. “Just let me get a towel,” he said, carrying the dripping bottle to the bathroom.

“I just saw you get on the elevator in the Grand Lobby with my cabin steward, Rupesh,” I said loud enough for him to hear me. I brushed aside his cummerbund to see what was beneath it.

“You did?”

I heard a pop, and turned as he came back with the bottle, now foaming. “Yes,” I said. “The last time I’d seen him, he was being led away from Kim Chin-Hwa’s stateroom. Now he shows up with you. What’s going on?”

“Sit down, Jessica,” he said, indicating the couch. Michael poured himself a flute of the bubbly wine and took the chair across the cocktail table from me. “You’re very observant,” he said.

“Is that bad?”

“No, not at all. I mean it as a compliment.”

“Well?”

“Well
what
?”

“Tell me about Rupesh. Is he in trouble?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Oh, come on, Michael, you’re fudging. Why was he with
you
tonight?”

“That question’s off-limits, Jessica.”

“I don’t accept that, Michael. You invited me here, supposedly to fill me in on what’s been going on. The man that you suspect stole a precious blue diamond in London has been murdered. My cabin steward—who, by the way, happens to be a cousin of friends back in Maine—is taken away like a criminal, and then shows up with you. You meet with the staff captain, obviously about the murder, and tell me that the top-level staff members know that you work for British intelligence. You end up flirting with an international jewel thief and—”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising both hands. “Say that again.”

I hadn’t meant to mention Jennifer Kahn. It just came out. But I was instantly glad it had. I’d reached a point where I wanted as much information as Haggerty possessed. Maybe by sharing something with him that he didn’t know—or so I believed—it would grease the skids. But I wouldn’t cite Dennis Stanton as my source. That wouldn’t have been fair unless Dennis gave me permission.

“All right,” I said. I leaned closer to Michael and said, “Jennifer Kahn is reputed to be one of the world’s most successful jewel thieves. She runs a gang that steals gems from countries around the globe—England, France, Egypt, Hungary, Canada—you name it.”

“That’s absurd,” he said. “Your fertile imagination has run away with you.”

“Not so, Michael. Jennifer may have been behind those three break-ins in London last week. It’s not my imagination; it’s what the authorities believe.”

“Who told you this?”

“I can’t say at the moment.”

He guffawed. “You want me to tell you everything, but you clam up. This isn’t a one-way street, Jessica.”

“Nor do I intend it to be. I’ll tell you my source as soon as he gives me permission.”

“Aha,” Haggerty said, snapping his fingers. “It’s that older guy, Harry. Right? He’s full of stories.”

“I’ll tell you when I think it’s the right time. Meanwhile, I suggest that you take seriously what I’ve just said. At least consider it a possibility.”

Haggerty shook his head. “A jewel thief?” he said, more to himself than to me. “That ravishing creature steals jewels for a living?” He shook his head again, more vigorously this time. “Can’t be, Jessica. She
designs
jewelry. She doesn’t
steal
it. You’ve spent time with her. Be serious. I can’t believe that someone with your intelligence and insight into people could buy such rubbish.”

I was tempted to counter with, “And someone with all your worldly smarts shouldn’t dismiss it out of hand.” I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Check with, well, whoever it is you check with. In the meantime, all I ask is that you consider the possibility in relation to your investigation into the Heart of India case. I think you know me well enough that I don’t blithely toss around accusations about people. All I can say is that my source is credible. Now, what about Kim Chin-Hwa? How was he killed?”

“A knife in the chest.”

“Where did it happen?”

“The Lookout on Deck Thirteen, at the front of the ship. He was found in one of two small whirlpool baths up there. At least whoever did it had the sensitivity to not mess up one of the inside rooms.”

“Who found the body?” I asked.

“His lady friend, Betty.”

“Who just happened to be up on an outside deck in the dark of night and looked in a whirlpool bath?”

“I’m simply giving you what I know. There’ll be a lot more information once the security staff—which, by the way, is top-notch—and I have a chance to interview everyone connected with Kim. That process will start in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest you get some sleep. You have a lecture tomorrow?”

“Yes. You won’t tell me anything about my cabin steward?”

Haggerty gave me one of his self-satisfied smiles that I’d seen him use many times before when he was holding his cards close to his vest. “Forget about him,” he said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Our little confab was over. I thanked him for what information he had shared and went to the door.

“A word of advice?” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Maybe you’d better keep your best jewelry in your safe for the duration of the crossing, especially when Jennifer is around.”

“Very funny, Michael.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Very funny. Sleep tight.”

H
aggerty had suggested that we get some sleep, but it seemed that was out of the question. I was “wired,” as some term it, and felt a need to keep moving. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go, but knew that retiring to my cabin for the night wasn’t the answer.

I decided to go to the Queens Room to see if I could find Stanton, Jennifer, Kiki, or Harry. Passengers had enjoyed their formal dinners and after-dinner entertainment, and most were probably getting ready for bed. Although from the look of things in the Queens Room, plenty of them had decided to extend the evening—but not the quartet I was looking for.

As I gazed around the regal room in which dozens of couples swayed on the dance floor, the immense size of the ship hit home. Looking for someone on board was a daunting challenge. There were thirteen floors, each the length of four city blocks in Manhattan, and literally dozens of public rooms, bars, shops, restaurants, meeting rooms, exercise facilities, including those outdoors on the decks, hundreds of places for people to seclude themselves, including, of course, all the staterooms. Finding a specific person was akin to searching for that elusive needle in a haystack, albeit a haystack in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I decided that I was getting nowhere, conflicting ideas pulling me in too many directions. What I needed was some fresh air.

I went to Deck Seven and fought the wind to open one of the doors leading out to the promenade that circled the ship. Hit with a cold gust, I briefly reconsidered my action, but the chilly air would clear my mind and that was exactly what I needed. The moon was hidden behind some clouds, but most of the sky was clear, promising a beautiful day to come in not too many hours. I marched off in the direction of the bow and realized that since coming aboard I had been so involved with the case, I had neglected to enjoy a brisk constitutional on the deck, an exercise I had faithfully undertaken on my
QE2
trips, where five circuits equaled a mile. Because the
QM2
was significantly larger, it would take only three times around to achieve the same distance, a sign informed me.

I saw a few other people battling the breeze with me, their bodies bent forward in the face of the wind, working to keep from being pushed into the railing, the only structure separating us from the churning waters below. We gained a moment’s respite in the shelter of the bow’s covered walk before taking up the fight again—this time with the wind at our backs—as we headed toward the stern.

I watched as the other intrepid walkers hauled open the heavy doors and retreated inside, one by one, until I was the only one on deck. As I walked, I told myself that I had no reason to be concerned about my safety. But being out in the elements with no other passengers in sight created a certain apprehension, and I frequently stole a glance over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone. I justified my heightened awareness. After all, there had been a murder that night; a man I’d gotten to know to some extent, and had even danced with, had been killed, a knife rammed into his chest.

Envisioning that gruesome scene sent a chill up my spine that had nothing to do with the bracing air.

I reached the bow again, circumvented it, and was halfway back on the opposite side of the ship when I was surprised by a solitary figure sitting against the side of the ship in an alcove. Although the ship’s lights illuminated portions of the deck, the hooded person was in the shadows, arms crossed. It took me a moment before I recognized who it was—the honeymooner Marcia Kensington.

Should I intrude on her private thoughts? I debated only for a few seconds before approaching.

“Marcia?” I called out. “Are you okay?”

My unexpected words caused her to flinch and to gasp.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said, coming to where she sat on a large wooden box the crew used for storage.

“I just didn’t know you were there,” she said, pushing the hood back to get a better look at me.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “We met that first night at dinner in the Princess Grill.”

“I remember.”

“Getting some fresh air?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

She nodded and stared straight ahead toward the sea. The wind whipped strands of hair across her eyes, which she brushed away impatiently.

“It’s breezy tonight, isn’t it?” I said, taking a deep, prolonged breath.

“Yes.”

Then, without warning, she began to sob, the binoculars around her neck bouncing on her lap with each heave.

I took a seat beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

When she didn’t answer, I said, “A spat with your husband? Those things happen now and then.”

“We’re not . . . he’s not—”

I waited.

“He’s not my husband,” she said, and her sobbing intensified.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought you said—”

She turned to face me. “It’s all a lie,” she said.

More silence ensued before she added, “He wanted us to say we were married.”

I tried to imagine why he would have done that, unless, perhaps, he was protecting her reputation, wanting people, especially older ones, not to view her with disdain for traveling with him before they got married.

“I don’t know about your relationship,” I said, “but I can understand his—his name is Richard, right? His wanting to—oh, how can I put it?—not wanting people to think unkindly about the two of you sharing a cabin and—”

She faced me again. Her tears had subsided. The pretty face that had been softened by the tears was now hard.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“That wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “If you’d rather not discuss it, I certainly understand.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” she said. “It was wrong.”

“What was wrong?”

“Pretending we were married.”

“Oh,” I said, injecting a laugh to make light of it. “Saying that you were a married couple isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

But saying they were on their honeymoon
did
strike me as an unnecessary addition to the lie.