34 - The Queen's Jewels (12 page)

The waiter, a charming young Swedish fellow, laughed. “It seems no one was in the mood for breakfast this morning,” he said, “unless they preferred to dine in their cabins.”

“Well, then it looks as if I’ll be having breakfast alone,” I said.

I’d brought that day’s program with me and settled back to go through it in search of activities that appealed. My photo was on the front page again promoting my eleven o’clock lecture. My topic that morning was the state of the publishing industry, including the impact of electronic books on book sales. I’d amassed a number of statistics to enhance my talk, including one that found that e-books accounted for only one or two percent of all books sold. But I’d also gathered prognostications from industry leaders that promised an increase in the popularity of books read on a screen, rather than between covers. I still prefer to hold a printed book in my hands, but at the same time I didn’t want to appear to be hopelessly mired in the past. I had boned up on “cloud computing”—which is expected to take the place of hardware and software—as the wave of the future, a future in which all we’ll require is access to the Internet, which will provide all the services we want without the need to buy special programs or devices, an intriguing idea that is rapidly coming true.

After breakfast, I took a walk outside on Deck Seven. The improving weather had lured many people there, some power walking, some relaxing in lounge chairs, others taking a morning stroll. I fell into step with them and basked in the fresh air and views of the ocean. I hadn’t been walking long before coming on the newlyweds Richard and Marcia Kensington, who stood at the rail, their attention on the sea. Richard wore a dark blue polo shirt and white shorts. Marcia looked cute in a yellow sundress that reached her knees. A large pair of binoculars tethered to a strap hung from her neck.

“Good morning,” I said.

Richard mumbled a return greeting, but Marcia broke into a wide smile. “I’m looking for dolphins and whales,” she said.

“I’d love to see some before we reach New York,” I said. “I’ve seen quite a few on previous crossings on the old
QE Two
, but none so far on this trip. The weather hasn’t been cooperative.”

“Look!” Marcia suddenly shouted.

I looked to where she pointed and saw a slice of black back break the surface of the water a few hundred feet from the ship. Then two more whales rose, sending plumes of mist from their blowholes into the air.

She raised her binoculars to her eyes.

“May I see, too?” I asked, but Marcia didn’t answer. She kept watching until the whales disappeared from view.

“Those must be autofocus binoculars,” I said. “I haven’t seen that before. Would you mind?” I held out a hand.

“What?” Marcia said.

“Yes, they are,” Richard said. To Marcia: “Come on. We have to go.”

She gave me a slight smile and followed him away, and I silently hoped that his gruff, discourteous demeanor would soften with age—for her sake.

I returned indoors and wandered through the Images Photo Gallery on Deck Three, where photos taken of passengers as they’d boarded in Southampton, or snapped during dinner in the ship’s various restaurants, were on display and for sale. The array of color pictures was staggering, hundreds of them grouped according to where they’d been taken. I looked for my boarding shot and found it. The photographer had caught me with a silly grin, and I decided this was not a photo I wished to keep for posterity. I perused others, men and women (and some children) with happiness written all over their faces as they embarked on what they anticipated would be a splendid vacation. I couldn’t help smiling back at them.

I walked away from the boarding photos and had started to look at pictures taken in the Princess Grill when something drew me back. Could it be? I wondered as I leaned closer to a picture a few rows below mine. No, it couldn’t be.

But it was.

The picture was of a man wearing a tan safari jacket and a blue British-type golf visor, its bill pulled low over his eyes. Hair sprouting from under the cap was silver, and his mustache was the same color. He looked as though he’d tried to shield himself as much as possible from the photographer getting a clear shot of him. But it was clear enough for me to recognize him.

Dennis was a reformed second-story man, a crafty jewel thief who’d gotten into that line of dishonest work following the death of his wife, Elizabeth, when the firm that insured the couple, the Susquehanna Fire and Casualty Insurance Company, refused to cover Elizabeth’s medical expenses. Dennis took revenge by stealing jewels—but
only
jewels insured by that company. His ill-advised foray into crime came to an end, of course, although his punishment was mild, thanks to a judge who sympathized with Dennis’s motive. Eventually he moved to San Francisco, where he became a successful insurance investigator for the Consolidated Casualty Company, specializing in recovering stolen gems. We’d ended up embroiled in a few murder cases over the years, but I’d fallen out of touch with him and often wondered what he was up to.

Like Michael Haggerty, Dennis was handsome, charming—and cunning, a little too much for my blood at times. I suppose “smooth” would adequately describe his persona; his British accent and love of fine clothes added to his aura of erudition. I admit to having felt romantic stirrings a few times when with him—they never lasted long—but I did enjoy his company; he was the perfect companion for tea when he wasn’t off using what he’d learned as a thief to outwit other bad guys.

Seeing him provided a shock, and a sudden knot in my stomach. Obviously, he was a passenger on the ship, unless he’d decided at the last minute to abandon his plans after being photographed.

All right, I thought as I found a comfortable armchair near a window and sorted out my thoughts. I answered my first question, which was why Stanton had elected to be on that particular crossing.
Jewels!
A rare blue diamond had been stolen, and there had been a string of jewelry robberies in London just prior to our setting sail. Those factors could explain Dennis’s presence on the
QM2
.

Did he know that I, too, was a passenger? He did if he read the daily program, on the front page of which my lectures were promoted, complete with photograph and my name in large type.

Why hadn’t I seen Stanton on board? Of course, the ship was immense; it was easy to become lost in the more than two thousand passengers and thousand crew members. I wondered in which dining room he took his meals. Not the Princess Grill. I certainly would have seen him there. I’d been told by a crew member that there were those passengers who took every meal in the Kings Court, electing to opt out of dress requirements. Somehow I doubted that Dennis would have been one of them, not with his devotion to male sartorial splendor. It had taken me a day to spot Uri. Maybe I’d better become more observant of my fellow passengers from now on.

I left my comfortable chair and went down to the purser’s office on Deck Two, where I fell in line behind some other passengers with business to conduct. When I reached one of the staff, I said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher, one of the lecturers on board.”

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. Enjoying your crossing?”

“Oh, yes, very much. I, ah—I’ve been told that an old friend might be on board, and was wondering if you’d be good enough to check to see whether he’s listed as a passenger.”

The slight tightening of her face said what I’d expected: that it wasn’t policy to release such information.

“I can’t believe that it’s possible,” I said with a light-hearted chuckle, “that this old and dear friend actually ends up on the same ship with me. I’d hate to miss the opportunity to at least say hello.”

A small smile crossed her pretty face. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Dennis Stanton.”

She consulted her computer, looked up, and shook her head. “Afraid not, Mrs. Fletcher. No one registered by that name.”

“Silly me,” I said. “I thought it was too good to be true. Thank you so much.”

As I walked away, I wondered whether Stanton had booked passage using a false passport. Haggerty was aboard with phony credentials. Working for MI6 had provided him with a variety of such ruses over the years. Stanton, as far as I knew, was still a private citizen without easy access to false documents. That didn’t mean, of course, that he’d be unable to come up with a passport bearing a different name. Unfortunately that sort of thing happens all too often, with the wrong people.

The last time I’d been with Dennis Stanton was on a ship in the Caribbean. He’d signed on as head of security: “I needed more adventure in my life than just chasing down missing trinkets,” he’d told me on that cruise. That was my final contact with him.

I had time to return to my cabin before the lecture. As I walked down the narrow hallway, I saw two of the ship’s officers conversing at the open door leading to Kim’s stateroom. I recognized one of them from the cocktail party I’d attended. He’d been there to greet lecturers, and I’d had a chance to chat with him. He was the ship’s staff captain, second-in-command after the captain, and head of the security force.

They stepped inside the door to allow me to pass. As I did, I paused to look beyond them into the room. Betty was seated on the edge of the bed talking with a woman wearing officer whites. It appeared to me in the brief glimpse I had that she was crying.

The staff captain turned, acknowledged me, stepped inside with his colleague, and closed the door.

I was naturally curious about what had happened to Kim’s beautiful companion but pushed it aside as I freshened up in preparation for going down to the planetarium, where I would deliver my second lecture. I was taking a fast look at my notes when there was a knock on the door. It was Rupesh.

“Come in,” I said.

He held the door open but remained in the hall. “I have checked about a typewriter or computer, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “The party next door, Mr. Kim, has a small computer and printer.”

“A printer?”

“Yes, madam, a very tiny one, no bigger than a loaf of bread.” He smiled. “A small loaf, of course.”

I’d wanted to know whether any of the few people I’d met so far had brought with them their own printer. The note left for me—“Curiosity killed the cat”—appeared to have come from a computer printer, an ink-jet from the look of it, and I wondered whether one of those persons had originated it. Of course, the note could have been written and printed by anyone from the ship’s computers, including dozens in the computer learning center.

“Is there a problem next door?” I asked. “I saw the officers and—”

“It has to do with something, or someone, missing. That is all I know.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said.

“I wish that, too,” he said. “Is there anything else I can provide for you?”

“Not at the moment. I’m giving another lecture this morning.”

“Yes, I saw it in the program. You are a very popular speaker, I’m told.”

“Thank you. I’d better run. Thank you for the information about the computer.”

“My pleasure, madam.”

The door to Kim’s stateroom was closed as I passed it on the way to the bank of elevators, one of which I took down to Deck Three and the Images Photo Gallery. I plucked Dennis Stanton’s photo from the display rack, took it to the counter, and paid for it. “My friend will love that I bought this for him,” I said, not needing to explain my purchase but feeling better having done so. I went directly from there to the bow of the ship, a healthy walk, and entered the planetarium, where the social director awaited my arrival. The room had already begun to fill; it looked as though I’d draw an even bigger crowd than the previous day.

“Your first lecture was very well received,” the social director told me as we went together to the podium, “very well indeed.”

“That’s always nice to hear,” I said as I looked out at the arriving audience. I recognized Harry Flynn and waved. He returned it with an energetic smile. On the opposite side of the planetarium sat Michael Haggerty. He was alone; his new female friends evidently had something better to do that morning. Upon seeing me, he got up and approached the podium. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”

“Good morning, Michael,” I said. “Can we get together after my lecture?”

“Yes,” he said sternly. “Meet me in the Commodore Club.”

“I have a book signing right after my talk.”

“I’ll wait.”

He walked away. I’d hoped that he’d stay for the lecture, but instead he went up the aisle and left the huge room with its twinkling heavens above.

His demeanor was off-putting. I simply wanted to tell him about having seen Uri the previous night, to let him know that the Israeli was aboard. But from the sound of Haggerty’s voice, and the somber expression on his face, what he had on his mind was considerably more serious.

H
arry Flynn came to the podium following the lecture, and we walked together to my signing. “About last night,” I said. “I owe you an apology.”

“Nonsense! I stayed through the trio’s first set—they were very good, by the way—and decided that you’d either gotten lost, become ill, or fallen into a more interesting situation. I hope you weren’t ill.”

“No, I seem to have my sea legs. That’s not—”

I had to walk fast to keep up with him.

“So,” he continued, never losing a step, “I made my usual foray to the casino, where I did quite well again at the craps table—a little over five hundred dollars—I have the feeling they’d rather not see me show up again—and I topped off the evening in the Queens Room, where I played gentleman host, unofficially of course, to a few charming ladies, a few of whom danced quite nicely. I considered putting out an SOS in the event you’d run afoul of something. You know, people think SOS means ‘Save Our Souls’ or ‘Save Our Ship,’ but it doesn’t. It doesn’t really stand for anything. An SOS is made up of three dots, three dashes, and three dots again, in Morse code. It became the international distress signal because its repetition could be heard over noisy engines. Plus it was simple to remember, and easy for the intended savior to understand.”