34 - The Queen's Jewels (25 page)

“Yes, I’ve heard one or two,” I said, drawing a series of deep breaths. “I’m ready any time you are.”

He went to the podium and introduced me, adding as a final line, “And I’m sure you’ll find Mrs. Fletcher’s final lecture to be unique and exciting. Please welcome back to Illuminations—Jessica Fletcher!”

I walked to the podium and looked out over the audience. The entertainment director had been right. Every seat in the massive planetarium had a body in it, and the overflow crowd sat on the steep steps leading down to the stage. The applause was loud and sustained, which, of course, heartened me. I held up my hands to quiet the audience and looked up at the planetarium’s faux sky and its multitude of twinkling stars. I smiled and said, “I feel as though I’m delivering this talk in heaven. You are all very kind in your greeting, and I truly appreciate it. So I’m going to take advantage of your forbearance. I trust you’ll allow me to deviate from my originally advertised program to speak about something considerably more immediate—real-life murder and how it might influence a writer of crime novels. I’ll be taking you through a writer’s thought process as she—in this case me—bases a fictitious murder mystery on real life.”

I paused, and there were murmurings from the crowd. Some people must have connected my opening remarks with the rumors they had heard. I took that moment to scan the faces in the crowd in search of those individuals whom I counted on being there.

I saw Haggerty standing at the back of the room, arms folded. Next to him was Uri Peretz.

To my right, Stanton had an aisle seat halfway up the steps; sitting next to him were Jennifer Kahn and Kiki Largent.

A glance to my left confirmed that Richard and Marcia Kensington were flanked by two members of the hotel manager’s staff.

And directly in front of me, in the first row, was Betty LeClair, with Kim’s two bodyguards on one side and two uniformed crew members on the other.

All present and accounted for.

“Let me begin,” I said, “by recounting for you a murder that has intrigued this writer. Let us say hypothetically that it happened right here on the
Queen Mary Two
. Let’s assume one of our fellow passengers was found stabbed to death in a whirlpool on Deck Thirteen. He was a successful businessman and he’d had a partner, a wealthy gentleman in London. Recently his partner had purchased a rare and expensive diamond, the Heart of India. Deep blue, its history steeped in mystery and violence, it carried with it a legendary curse; those who possessed it would attain only one of two possible futures in their lives, either great happiness or great tragedy. Unfortunately the curse came true for its new owner. Thieves broke into his home, stole the diamond, and brutally killed him in the process.

“Now, if I were concocting a novel based upon that occurrence, I would begin by creating a cast of characters who had some connection to the partners, our two victims.”

I looked again at those people in the audience who’d been enticed to come to the lecture under false pretenses. Betty squirmed in her seat; the expression on her beautiful face said that she preferred to be anyplace but there at the moment. If Jennifer and Kiki wanted to leave, they would have to crawl over Dennis Stanton, who occupied the aisle seat. Haggerty and Peretz hadn’t moved. Members of the staff captain’s security staff now stood at the entrances to the planetarium.

I continued. “Police reports revealed that whoever stole the diamond and murdered its owner knew precisely when he would take the precious gem from his safe. Why had he removed it? Evidence points to someone having been with him, and in all likelihood it was a woman. There was the lingering scent of an expensive perfume. I’m not an expert on perfumes, but I’ve heard of one called Shalini that is expensive and distinctive, so that’s the one I’ll use in the novel. One of the victim’s security staff told the police that his boss often entertained women in his private study, and when he did, he left instructions that he was not to be disturbed. Let’s suppose that he removed the precious diamond from the safe to show it off to his visitor.

“That leads me to speculate that the woman he was with was acting in concert with those who broke in. At least that’s how I would structure the plot for my book. Please bear in mind that I’m talking about creating a work of fiction using actual events as a blueprint.”

I had their undivided attention.

“Now,” I said, “let’s move on to the topic of rare gems and the underground market for stolen goods. The Heart of India was reported to be worth more than ten million dollars. And during the same week it was stolen, three posh London jewelry stores were broken into with millions of dollars of gems taken. Were the subsequent robberies carried out by the same gang of thieves? Or were they the work of others who were sure the authorities would be distracted investigating the theft of the Heart of India? Either way, the thieves who stole the precious stones had to have a way of spiriting them out of the country, and were then faced with the problem of selling them without being detected.

“As the writer of this novel, I would conjure a scenario in which these things could be accomplished. My story really doesn’t need any further embellishment—the theft of a diamond worth ten million dollars coupled with the brutal killing of its owner is gripping enough. Add to those elements the fact that the victim’s partner was also murdered—right here on the
Queen Mary Two
.

“But it would be appealing to me as a novelist to add yet another dramatic dimension to the plot. What if the potential buyer of the gems was a terrorist group that would use profits from the sale to further its evil agenda? That possibility would capture the attention of various intelligence agencies around the world, especially in those countries that represent prime targets for terrorist activities.

“And so we have two separate but equal agencies—law enforcement and intelligence—interested in solving both murders and thwarting any attempts to use the stolen gems to advance terrorist aims.”

I said through a sardonic laugh, “Our novel is now taking shape quite nicely, isn’t it?”

There were verbal agreements from members of the audience, and one gentleman in the second-row center loudly asked, “Do you know the ending before you start writing?”

“I usually have a good idea when I start how the pieces will fall into place at the end, but the story and some of the characters often go off in their own directions as the writing progresses. But in the case of this particular novel, I’ve come to conclusions that will form the basis of my dénouement. Sometimes I struggle to reach this point, but in this instance I believe that a resolution has become clear.”

“So?” the same man asked. “Who did the dastardly deed?”

His question spawned laughter.

“I’ll be getting to that,” I said. “But before I do, let’s add another dollop of drama to the story. The murder victim on the ship—I haven’t decided what name to give my fictional character in the novel—is accompanied by a beautiful woman. Naturally she’s bereft at the death of her companion, as any of us would be.”

I looked down at Betty, who glared at me. She started to get up, but one of the bodyguards placed his large hand on her arm and gently restrained her.

“I’m sure the real woman upon whom I’ve based my character won’t take offense at being used as a model for my fictitious character, which, as I’ve said, is only a creative exercise on my part.”

I waited for the buzz to fade.

“It struck me that it would enhance my novel if such a beautiful woman was not only romantically involved with the murder victim on the ship but also his partner. She’d been having an affair with the owner of the Heart of India, and had been the woman in his study the night he was killed. Of course, that would make her an accomplice to the crime. Why would she do it? If my flight of literary fancy is correct, she would likely be the recipient of money generated from the private sale of the Heart of India, because such a treasure could never come onto the open market unless it was recut, significantly lowering its value.”

I stole a glance at Jennifer Kahn and Kiki Largent, neither of whom seemed to be contemplating leaving. Good! The Kensingtons sat placidly, Richard with his perpetual scowl, slumped in his seat, and Marcia nervously fiddling with the strap of the binoculars that she seemed never to be without, although she hadn’t raised them to get a better look at me.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Where was I? Oh, yes, once I’ve decided to move forward with a plot that involves a beautiful woman, I then have to decide how to structure the spiriting of the stolen Heart of India and the other jewels out of Great Britain. A friend of mine, an intelligence agent, told me that some jewel thieves these days prefer to travel with their contraband on ships rather than by air. That makes sense. Ships like this, with more than two thousand passengers, make it relatively easier to get lost. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee unimpeded passage, but the odds against being intercepted are more favorable than going through, say, Heathrow or Kennedy airports.

“Savvy, professional jewel thieves, not your garden-variety burglars, continuously seek ways to stack the deck in their favor, pardon the pun. Before boarding this ship for the crossing to New York, I was given a DVD of a new documentary about the smuggling of drugs from Africa into the United Kingdom. One of the smugglers was interviewed on camera, his face blurred of course. He said one of the most effective ways to avoid interception by authorities is to choose individuals to carry the drugs—they call them ‘mules’—who are least likely to be suspected of engaging in such behavior. That makes sense to me, and if I were smuggling drugs—or stolen jewelry—I would certainly follow that advice, which means that’s how I would have the jewel thieves in my novel do it.”

My gaze dropped to the seat usually occupied by Harry Flynn and across the sea of other faces. Harry had attended each of my previous lectures, but I didn’t see him in the audience for this one. Since he hadn’t appeared at dinner, I wondered if he wasn’t feeling well. I hoped that wasn’t the case and that he’d simply decided to eat elsewhere and try his hand again at the casino’s craps table. I did, however, see another familiar face in the crowd. Rupesh had entered the planetarium and stood near Michael Haggerty and Uri Peretz. He was out of uniform, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Did room stewards get an evening off?

“Is everyone still following me?” I asked.

A chorus of “Yes” answered my question.

“Good. So far I’ve put together the elements for a pretty solid murder-mystery novel, or, as my British friends prefer to term them, ‘crime novels.’ It has everything going for it—a beautiful woman, ruthless killers, expensive diamonds and other precious gems, terrorists, and government intelligence agencies—and I’m now ready to start writing. But—”

The gentleman in the second row interrupted again. “But do you know how it ends before you start?” he repeated.

I paused for effect, cocked my head, placed an index finger on my chin, and replied, “Yes, I think I know how it ends.”

That answer fostered a flurry of comments between members of the audience.

Richard Kensington stood and yanked at his girlfriend’s arm.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” I said, directing my comment at them.

Everyone turned to see whom I was addressing.

“Before you go,” I added, “you might want to hand over the binoculars you’re wearing to one of the uniformed crew members stationed at the doors.”

Richard pulled Marcia to her feet and tried to drag her up the aisle. She dug in her heels and said, “No! I won’t do it anymore!”

Richard released his grip and proceeded toward an exit but was stopped by the ship’s security crew. He struggled, but they easily subdued him, one on either side, his arms firmly in their grip.

“Why don’t you come up here with me,” I said to Marcia.

The commotion had left audience members in the dark, and they verbalized their confusion. I waited for Marcia, who now stood trembling in the aisle, to decide what to do. Slowly, using the backs of seats to steady herself, she approached the podium. When she drew near the podium, she halted, her expression fearful.

“May I?” I said, holding out my hand.

Slowly she lifted the strap that held the binoculars from around her neck, and placed them in my hand. I glanced at Jennifer and Kiki, who sat with Stanton. I expected some sound of protest from either of them, but they remained silent.

I faced the audience again and held up the binoculars. “In the novel I’m writing, I’ve decided that these binoculars will have a function aside from bringing things closer. If I’m wrong, then, well, I’ll have to come up with a different ending.”

People leaned forward in their seats as I fiddled with the twin lenses in search of a way to open them. One wouldn’t budge, but the other opened easily. I unscrewed it, tipped it over my open hand, and let out an involuntary gasp when my fingers closed over a small black velvet pouch.

“What is it?” someone yelled.

I emptied the pouch and held up the blue stone. The Heart of India caught the spotlights trained on the podium and set off a dazzling light show, a breathtaking display of brilliance and fire. Oohs and aahs filled the spacious planetarium. One voice cut through. “Is that real?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the Heart of India, the diamond stolen in London, the one a man was killed for, that man who was the partner of the murder victim on this ship.” I motioned to a pair of security guards, who took possession of the diamond and the binoculars and, accompanied by the
Queen
’s purser, left to secure them in the ship’s safe until the ship docked in New York and they could be handed over to the proper authorities.

I waited for the multiple voices to wane before continuing. “In order to be fair to my readers, I’m obliged to explain how I came to suspect the binoculars might be used for more than their usual purpose. This young woman, like many of us, was eager to look out over the waves in hopes of catching a glimpse of whales or dolphins. I’d noticed that whenever she raised the binoculars to her eyes, she would look over them, more than through them. That struck me as odd, although I might not have connected it with the theft of the Heart of India had it not been for the behavior of her male companion, Richard Kensington.