34 - The Queen's Jewels (28 page)

“How tragic,” he said, dropping the note on his desk. “You’re certain Mr. Flynn went overboard.”

“I don’t have any reason to doubt it,” I said.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his eyes against an obvious lack of sleep. “This has turned into quite a crossing, unlike any we’ve ever experienced before.”

“And hopefully never to be repeated. I will, of course, carry out Mr. Flynn’s wishes and deliver the note and the money to his daughter in New York.”

He managed a small smile. “I’m sure Mr. Flynn’s faith in you, Mrs. Fletcher, has been well-placed. Thank you for the news. I’ll follow up on it immediately, including arranging for his daughter to be notified.”

I also broke the news to Haggerty, Stanton, and Peretz at lunch in our private room.

“I liked him the minute we met,” Stanton said.

“I did, too,” Haggerty chimed in. “You’d never know that he was that ill.”

“Because he was determined to not let it show,” I said. “He wanted to be very much alive right up until the moment he decided it was time to end it. I miss him and his stories already.”

And I knew that I would continue to miss Harry Flynn for the rest of my days.

I used my remaining time on the
QM2
pursuing all the wonderful amenities I had neglected up until then. My spa treatments were welcome and soothing. I left feeling rejuvenated and positive. While enjoying a massage, I had decided to spend the rest of the time on the
Queen Mary 2
, as brief as it might be, thinking of Harry as testimony to the joys of life, and making every moment count. I had dinner in my stateroom, packed and left my suitcases in the hallway outside my door as instructed, and watched some TV, including the oft-repeated instructions about what to do when witnessing a fellow passenger going overboard. Had I seen Harry prepare to take his dive into the Atlantic, I would have followed those instructions—yelling loudly “Man overboard” and looking for a lifeline to toss to him—knowing that he would have been annoyed that I had.

I finished the book I’d been reading and climbed into bed early. We’d be approaching the Red Hook section of Brooklyn at approximately four the next morning and I didn’t want to miss our arrival, sailing beneath the Verrazano Bridge, whose span the ship’s funnels would clear by only ten feet, passing the Statue of Liberty, and seeing the Manhattan skyline grow closer as we approached. I’d enjoyed that experience on previous arrivals on the
Queen Elizabeth 2
and never failed to be awed by the spectacle.

I was on my balcony at four the following morning. Once we were nestled up next to the pier that had been specially constructed to accommodate the size of the
Queen Mary 2
, I went to the Grand Lobby, where I’d agreed to meet Michael, Dennis, Rupesh, and Uri.

“Well,” I said, “here we are. Have the suspects been taken off?”

“They’re in the process of doing that as we speak,” said Haggerty. “Half of New York City’s police department is waiting for them along with a contingent from Scotland Yard.”

Including George Sutherland.
That thought warmed me.

“For your information,” Haggerty said as we disembarked, “Ms. LeClair has decided to cooperate. She’s admitted that she was the one with Walter Wang when he was killed, and that she’d set him up. She’s looking for some sort of plea deal. I doubt if she’ll get it.”

George was there on the pier when I left the ship along with my four colleagues-in-crime. They watched as we embraced.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “this is a very, very dear friend, Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard.”

“Jessica did quite a job helping me break the case,” Haggerty said.

I said nothing.

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” George said. “She always does.”

We all stayed over in Manhattan that night and had dinner together. It was a lively gathering with much laughter and good-natured kidding. As we parted in the lobby of the hotel in which we were staying, Haggerty took me aside.

“Do I sense more than a friendship with your handsome Scotland Yard buddy?” he asked, thickening his Irish brogue for effect.

“We’re—we’re fond of each other,” I said.

“You know how to break a man’s heart,” said Haggerty. “I thought that once we hooked up again that we might—”

“Think again, Michael. It’s been lovely seeing you and Dennis again, and meeting Rupesh, and I have to admit that being involved in bringing murderers and jewel thieves to justice has been satisfying. But I’m heading back to Cabot Cove in the morning, where I intend to settle in to write my next novel. The only crimes I intend to confront will be committed by my characters. As for George ...”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you know if I ever decide to do something rash. Good night, Michael. It’s been fun.”

I met George for breakfast the next morning. My flight to Boston was scheduled for three that afternoon; George’s flight to London left at six. But we had an important mission to accomplish before catching planes. I’d told him about Harry Flynn’s request that I deliver money and a message to his daughter, and asked him to accompany me, which he readily agreed to do.

Melanie lived on a pretty treelined street of four-story brownstones on Manhattan’s East Side. I was relieved that the staff captain had arranged for her to be notified of her father’s apparent suicide; I would not have wanted to be the one to break the sad news.

Melanie greeted us at the door. She was a tall, striking woman whom I judged to be in her early fifties. She wore tan slacks, a burgundy turtleneck sweater, and sneakers. Her brunet hair was long and secured in a ponytail that reached her waist. No doubt about it; she was Harry Flynn’s daughter. His strong genes had been passed to her.

I explained why we were there. She seemed at first to not understand what her father had done to cause our arrival, but when I said that the money represented his winning at the ship’s craps table, she laughed. “That devil,” she said. “The last time he was here, he ran off to Atlantic City and lost a bundle. He promised he’d never play again.”

“He evidently felt lucky,” I said, “and he was.”

She opened the sealed envelope and read what her father had written in the note it contained. She began to weep softly halfway through. When she’d finished reading, she wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “I never saw much of him,” she said, “but he always made sure my mom and I never wanted for anything. The money always arrived on time along with a silly letter filled with sayings and jokes and—”

“And the origins of nautical phrases and myths,” I said.

“You heard a few of those?”

“Oh, yes, and enjoyed every one of them.”

She made us coffee and served pound cake and a bowl of fresh fruit. We stayed for more than an hour. When we were readying to leave, she handed me a five-by-seven color photo taken recently of her father. “Would you like to have this?” she asked.

I looked at the man in the picture: nattily dressed, standing erect, his steel gray hair carefully combed. What was most striking was his smile, wide and genuine and with a hint of playfulness in it.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like it very much.”

George saw me to my flight at LaGuardia.

“I feel as though I haven’t even seen you,” he said.

“That’s because it’s true,” I said. “This could hardly be called a reunion.”

“We have to remedy that,” he said. “Go on, now—they’ve called your flight, and I have to get over to Kennedy for mine.”

Needless to say, we reluctantly parted.

Rupesh’s Cabot Cove cousins were astonished when I told them of his heroic feat, but I left the information that his latest job was with India’s top intelligence agency for him to share with his family. “And by the way,” I added, “he did call his mother at my urging.”

Michael Haggerty and Dennis Stanton stayed in touch and kept me up-to-date on the fates of Jennifer Kahn, Kiki Largent, Betty LeClair, Richard Kensington, and his lady friend, Marcia. All had been returned to London to face an assortment of charges and still awaited trial.

The photo of Harry Flynn now stands in a leather frame on my desk, next to my other family photos. Whenever I feel down, I look at it and a smile returns to my face and infects my spirit. Harry had included a verse in his note to Melanie that I think of often when gazing at his picture.

And may they smile on you, too, Harry Flynn.