by Decked (lit)
“I appreciate your help,” Livingston said as he bowed slightly.
“I’m scheduled to leave tomorrow, but I’d like to remain in contact with you and do anything I can to find out who could have done this to Athena.”
“Absolutely.”
Regan suddenly felt as if the room seemed too close. It was almost as though the smell of death were in it. She realized that the scent of flowers coming through the open windows was reminding her of the Reilly funeral homes. She turned to Kit. “Why don’t we walk back?”
“Good idea. We can stop at the pub down the road,” Kit whispered.
Hurriedly they again extended good wishes to Philip and Val. “I’ll be thinking of you on your big day,” Regan said, “September fourteenth, isn’t it?” She shook Penelope’s hand and kissed Lady Exner’s rouged cheek. “I know you’ll love sailing to New York,” she said.
“I’ll keep careful notes of my journey,” Veronica promised, “so that when I finally get to meet your mother I shall have a complete account of this new adventure in my remarkable life. You must give me your mother’s number. I understand New Jersey isn’t far from where my nieces live in Long Island.”
“Your nieces? I thought they were your cousins?” Regan asked.
“Nieces, cousins, whatever.”
“Well,” Regan said tentatively, “maybe you could get together with my mother for lunch in New York City.”
“SPLENDID!” Veronica cried. “Penelope,” she shouted, “get me a pen.”
For the rest of the day Regan and Kit attempted to pick up the schedule of the disrupted reunion. In the late afternoon they went punting on the river, followed by a buffet dinner in the home of the headmaster.
“A nice spread,” Kit commented to Regan. “What do you bet we get letters next week asking for alumnae donations?”
“You’re a born cynic,” Regan said in a low voice as she helped herself to potato salad. “We’ll just have to pretend they got lost in the mail.”
A number of the professors at the dinner had known Athena and invariably the conversation centered on the discovery of the body and the questioning by Superintendent Livingston.
It was 11 P.M. when Regan and Kit finally walked up the two flights to their room.
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Kit said. “This dorm seems even more depressing than usual. At least we had a good time in Venice and Paris last week. What time did you say your flight is?”
“One o’clock. Just an hour after yours.”
Kit was flying to New York, Regan to Los Angeles.
They were at the room. Regan pulled the key out of her pocket and pushed open the door. There was an envelope on the floor addressed to her. “Call me no matter what time you get in. Desperately important.” It was signed Philip Whitcomb.
KNOWING JOLLY WELL it was useless, Philip Whitcomb had tried to dissuade his Aunt Veronica from travelling alone on the Queen Guinevere. He, Val, the doctor and a most determined Lady Exner were in the small waiting area down the hall from Penelope’s room at Royal Oxford Hospital. Penelope’s moans could be heard the length of the corridor. She would be here at least two days recovering from acute food poisoning, and under no circumstances would she be well enough to go on holiday, at least not till the end of the week.
“I am absolutely not going to defer my trip,” Lady Exner said vehemently. “I don’t care if there is a sailing in two weeks. I may not be alive in two weeks. Penelope can fly over to New York when she recovers. I am leaving tomorrow.” Her face took on the mulish look that Philip knew only too well.
“Lady Exner, if I may suggest,” the doctor began.
“You may not suggest that I stay home,” she snapped at him. “A trip deferred is a trip denied. He who hesitates is lost. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, and tomorrow is the first day of my holiday.” Her smile was more forceful than pleasant.
“Don’t you think Miss Atwater will feel bad if you leave without her?” the doctor suggested timidly.
“Not nearly as bad as I’ll feel if I’m not on that ship. And besides, I told her to stop stuffing her face yesterday.” She got up. “I must go home and complete my packing. Penelope is really quite all right, isn’t she, Doctor?”
“She’s most uncomfortable, really quite ill, but I believe she will be fine,” the doctor agreed.
“Thank you. Philip, Val, come along.”
“May I make a suggestion, Lady Exner?” Val asked.
“It depends on what it is.”
“Not that you stay home,” Val said soothingly. “But you’ll enjoy the trip that much more if you have a companion.”
“Val, who-who-who could you possibly expect to get on such short notice?” Philip asked impatiently. “The bloody ship sails in thirteen hours.”
Val’s narrow smile was triumphant. “Someone who is already packed, who, according to her own words, has just completed an assignment, and who would probably welcome the chance to spend some time with dear Veronica—Regan Reilly.”
Regan listened with increasing dismay as Philip pleaded with her to accept the assignment of playing guardian angel to Veronica for five days and nights.
“If-if-if she goes on that ship alone, I kn-n-now she’ll end up in the middle of the Atlantic. A second sherry goes directly to her head, and I’m told the main activity on those ships is drinking. Penelope loves to eat. She could chew her way through an oak tree faster than a hoard of beavers, so-so-so she keeps Veronica’s drinking down by steering her to the buffet table instead of the bar. I’ll p-p-pay you double your daily rate. It’s a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. In fairness, I must warn you. Her sleeping habits can be odd. Sometimes she loves to stay up half the night, which means she will take a three-hour afternoon nap.
“If she naps in the afternoon, at least you’ll have some time for yourself,” Philip continued.
Double pay, Regan thought. And five days at sea on a luxury vessel. She had the time. She had even called Livingston and offered to stay on for a bit, but he had said that at this point there was really nothing she could do. Maybe when Veronica was napping she’d be able to sneak in some visits with her parents.
“All right, Philip, what time will they pick me up?”
“You’re doing what?” Kit’s voice was almost a shriek when Regan explained the phone call. “Reilly, I’ve got to tell you. I think you’ve really lost it this time.”
“I’m being paid. It eases the pain.” Regan kicked off her shoes. “Believe it or not, I’m riding all the way to Southampton in a Saint Polycarp’s van with shake-em-up Edwin at the wheel. I’d better get some sleep.”
Kit, who had already changed, yawned as she got into bed. “Well, one thing I do agree with. Veronica shouldn’t be let out without a leash. But better you than me. I’ll drive down from Connecticut and be your welcoming committee when your ship comes in. Hopefully you won’t have to be carried off.”
MONDAY, JUNE 22
LONDON
NOT FOR THE first time in their thirty-five years of marriage did Nora Regan Reilly wish that somewhere along the way Luke had learned to pick up the pace of his speech. That thought was followed by the acknowledgment that she had fallen in love on their first date with his Jimmy Stewart looks and vocal pattern. She eyed him affectionately and then anxiously glanced at her watch. They had been just about to follow the bellman out of their suite in London’s Stafford Hotel when the phone rang.
It was Herbert Kelly, director of the Summit branch of the Reilly Funeral Homes of New Jersey, and he had a problem. The ninety-year-old widow of the ninety-eight-year-old former mayor was insisting that her husband be laid out in the central parlor. Unfortunately it had been a bad week for retired politicians in Summit, and the main parlor would be occupied for the next day and a half by a former congressman.
Usually Kelly would have taken care of this matter without bothering Luke, but this was truly a delicate situation. Mrs. Shea was the recognized matriarch of the awesomel
y large Shea clan and had been Luke’s first important client when he bought the then struggling mortuary the year he and Nora were married. That was when, as Mrs. Shea put it, her octogenarian mother had been “gathered by God.”
“The other funeral parlor in town doesn’t make people look nice and natural,” she had told Luke, and had given him the chance to “make Mother took as pretty and content as she was when she watched the ‘Ed Sullivan’ show every Sunday night. She always looked forward to it.”
Luke knew she had also checked out his big parking lot out back. He had worked hard on his first big client. It paid off. The deceased looked as though Topo Gigio had just performed an encore. Since then, the Reilly Funeral Home of Summit had been handling the “arrangements” for members of the Shea dynasty, most of whom lived to a truly great age. A few had even lasted long enough to see snapshots of their century-old visages flashed on television by Willard Scott of the “Today” show.
Tersely for him, Luke had explained the problem to Nora to stop her from pacing back and forth in front of him.
The normal solution would be simply to combine the two medium-sized viewing rooms, which were separated by a sliding door. As Nora knew, Mrs. Shea would consider that a second-best solution.
“Tell her the next Shea funeral is on the house,” Nora hissed. “Luke, we’re going to miss the boat.”
Luke’s glance was reproachful, and as usual he came up with a solution. “Herbert, remind Mrs. Shea that Dennis’s favorite color was green and we’ve just redecorated those two rooms in green. He’ll rest more comfortably there. After all, green and white were his campaign colors.”
“You’re a frigging genius,” Nora said as Luke hung up the phone. “Another problem solved at Reilly’s Remains.”
“Bad enough I have to hear that kind of talk from our daughter, it’s positively obscene to hear it from her mother’s lips.”
They grinned at each other.
At five feet four, Nora often felt dwarfed by her husband, who was a foot taller. “You’re a bigger person than I am in every way,” she was fond of telling him. “You don’t lie about your age . . .” Luke was sixty-five to her fifty-eight. She could never keep track of what age she had told interviewers she was. “But Mrs. Reilly,” one of them had said recently, “three years ago you told me you were fifty-two.” And Nora’s hair color was a dishonest blond. Luke’s silver was natural.
“Now can we please get out of here?” she begged.
The phone rang again. “I don’t care if they’re looking for a room for the Pope, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Luke reached for the phone, but Nora beat him to it.
“Hello,” she said impatiently. “Regan honey, nothing’s wrong, is it? ... I can’t talk now. We’ll have to call you from the ship. You what? . . . Why? . . . What? . . . Good God ... I never thought I’d deny my own child, but I guess it’s never too late to start. Got to run. See you there, love.” She hung up quickly.
“See her where?” Luke demanded. “What was that all about?”
Nora began to laugh. “You’ll never believe it. I’ll tell you in the car.”
SOUTHAMPTON
THE PASSENGER CHECK-IN for the Queen Guinevere was located in the vast waiting room between the boat train and the dock. Cameron Hard wick had been told the ship was booked to near capacity and wondered if he’d missed the old lady in a disorganized crowd of twelve hundred people trying to find the appropriate desk for registration. The areas were broken down by class of passenger and then alphabetically. He had been one of the early check-ins at the first-class desk, then sat on a nearby bench, ostensibly deep in the morning paper, as fellow passengers milled around, chatted, complained, and introduced themselves as they waited for the boarding announcement. One and all seemed to be laden down with totes, carry-on cases, and shopping bags with Harrods’ name emblazoned in gold.
The first boarding call sounded and the crowd began to surge toward the dock. The lines at the check-in desk thinned. Was the old lady going to miss the ship? The request came over the loudspeaker for all remaining passengers to board immediately.
And then he saw her. There was no missing her. The old girl looked as though she had a sailor’s uniform on. White pants, a dark blue top loaded with brass buttons and anchor emblems, and a striped blue-and-white overseas cap. For her age she could certainly move fast. She rushed up to the first-class desk like a runner crossing the finish line.
“Smashing. Smashing,” she cried. “We made it. The van broke down three times on M5. Created a most dreadful traffic jam. All those rude people honking and honking.” Her voice echoed through the cavernous room, almost drowning out the Scottish bagpipers who had just struck up their noisy welcome on the dock.
“My expected guest, Miss Penelope Atwater, is presently in a wretched state.” She waved vaguely to her midsection. “Tummy problems, don’t you see?”
He was aware that everyone in the general area as well as the clerk attending to Lady Exner had the same dumbfounded expression.
“Miss Regan Reilly will share the voyage with me. It’s quite all right. Her passport is in order. She’ll be along directly. There are quite a few carry-on bags. I have tons of presents for my dear little nieces whom I’ve never met.”
The clerk finally managed to interrupt the torrent. “Your name, madame?”
“Oh, dear me. Of course. Exner. Lady Exner. Veronica. Perhaps you’ve heard of my husband. Sir Gilbert Exner. He died forty years ago. He was an unpublished poet.”
The last stragglers were hurrying to board the ship. Hard wick did not want to be seen staring at Lady Exner. He would have to wait to get a look at the companion. Just as he turned away, he heard Lady Exner’s ringing order.
“There you are, Regan. Step smartly. We mustn’t miss the boat.”
He glanced back over his shoulder and managed to get a good look at Lady Exner’s new companion. From behind the mound of packages he could see that she was young and pretty. As he reached for his boarding card he realized that his immediate instinct was that she was also very sharp. This would not be easy.
In the background he could still hear Lady Exner. She was thanking someone for driving her in. “. . . I do hope you get home without further difficulty, Edwin. There’s a little tea left in the thermos on the back seat ... oh dear, Regan tells me I drank it.”
There was just one couple ahead of him at the first-class entry. A tall, lanky man with silver hair and a small blond woman. The ship’s photographer was about to take their picture. Hardwick cursed under his breath. He did not want his picture taken, but it might look conspicuous to refuse it. He would insist on keeping on his dark glasses.
When the photographer snapped the picture he turned his head to the side. He tried to sound genial when the photographer said, “Let’s take another one.”
“No. Really. One’s enough.”
He walked up the ramp and stepped onto the ship. Members of the staff had formed a receiving line to greet the boarding passengers. Piano music was playing in the background. He hung around near the top of the ramp until he saw Lady Exner posing excitedly for the photographer, her arm draped around her young companion, a sea of packages at their feet. The couple he had followed up the ramp were standing near him. The woman was laughing. “It should be an interesting trip, Luke.” You bet it will be, Hardwick thought grimly.
AT SEA
THE CAMELOT SUITE was one of two ultra-deluxe penthouses at the top of the ship. Lady Exner fluttered around admiring the pale blue motif as Regan began unpacking. Her own two suitcases she set aside, electing instead to take on the awesome task of organizing the wildly eclectic contents of Veronica’s luggage.
She decided that Veronica must have emptied every closet in Llewellyn Hall into the numerous Gucci bags. One oversized valise she opened and closed immediately. It smelled of mothballs and was filled with heavy woolen garments, tweed walking suits, fur-lined boots, woolen gloves and a black velvet cape. “Veron
ica, are you sure we’re not on the World Cruise?”
Veronica was examining one of the closets. “Regan, if we should hit an iceberg just as the Titanic did, we must rush directly here for our life preservers. Do you think we should try them on now? . . . What did you ask? ... Oh dear . . . that’s one of the bags I lent Penelope. Philip must have gathered it up by mistake.”
Regan felt relieved.
“My woollies are in a different case. I thought we could leave some winter clothes at my niece’s for future visits, and of course I’m always worried about a cold snap. But never mind about unpacking now. You haven’t even gone out on our private deck. We’re about to set sail. Let’s go wave to the poor dear people on the dock who won’t be accompanying us.”
At this point Regan wondered if it wouldn’t be so bad to be one of those poor dear people. Luxurious as the suite was, she had been surprised to see that it was really one large open room with two levels. And one king-sized bed. Just inside the cabin door there was a small foyer with a bath to the left. Directly ahead was the bedroom, with another bath off it. Three steps up to the right was the sitting room with sliding doors that opened onto a private terrace. The huge windows offered a breathtaking view of the Atlantic.
I want my own bed, Regan thought. I want to be able to roll over ten times a night without worrying about being mistaken for Sir Gilbert. Polite sleeping for the next five nights sounded exhausting. Veronica was sweet, but sharing a bed was just too much. Regan prayed that the couch was a Bernadette Castro special.
She followed Veronica out onto the deck, which was the highest point of the ship and stretched almost completely to the bow. The front end looked over the roof of the bridge. Veronica pointed to it. “That’s where the Captain and all those handsome officers guide us into the wild blue yonder.”
