Decked

by Decked (lit)

  Regan entered, smiling.

  “Regan, did you have a nice time?” Veronica asked gleefully.

  “Veronica, you got your wish. The guy from bingo asked me to dance.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait to hear about it,” Veronica said eagerly, “but first, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Gavin sat there in disbelief as he watched her slam the bathroom door shut.

  “Thank you,” Regan said to him as she took a seat. “You’re so nice to help out with the party planning.”

  Gavin’s smile was a grimace of pain. “The pleasure was all mine.” He stood up. “I’ll let you two have a chance to chat before bed. Tomorrow morning please bring her to the Sit-and-Be-Fit class again. I’ll be there . . . probably every day this week. Now I must really be going.”

  He let himself out. Regan took off her clothes and put on a robe. Veronica re-emerged and queried, “Where is Mr. Gray?”

  “I think he was tired. He said he’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Poor fellow must be. He’s so thoughtful, but tonight I caught him just staring into space. He takes his responsibilities on this ship so seriously that he’s busy from early in the morning until late at night.” Veronica turned for Regan to unzip her dress. “I had to use the facilities so desperately, but he’s so generous with his time I didn’t want to leave him for a moment. It was embarrassing enough having to go this morning. Naturally I turned on the tap.”

  Veronica retreated into the dressing area as Regan pulled out the couch.

  “You can’t go to sleep, Regan, until you tell me all about your adventures tonight. Perhaps you should invite this young man to our party—it’s going to be smashing. I’m sure everyone would love to have the chance to meet him . . .”

  Regan pulled the covers over her head and thought, three and a half days to go.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24

  BRIGHT SUNLIGHT STREAMED through their portholes as Luke and Nora sat in companionable silence, sipping their morning coffee and sharing the miniature shipboard newspaper that was slipped under their door each day.

  “Darling, what should we plan to do today?” Nora asked as she picked up a copy of the Daily Program.

  A knock at the door precluded a response.

  “Could it be? . . .” Nora asked as Luke opened the door.

  “I want my CAWFEE,” Regan yelled, imitating Nora’s roommate from a brief hospital stay earlier in the year.

  “Well, come in and shut the door before the men in their white jackets take you away,” Nora laughed.

  “One almost did last night.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Never mind,” Regan mumbled as she slumped in the chair opposite Nora and poured herself a cup from their breakfast cart. “There’s nothing like the third cup of the day.”

  “It’s okay, I was finished anyway,” Luke said wryly as he sat down on the love seat.

  “Oh, sorry, Dad. If you don’t mind, I’m going to put through another phone call, so sit here.”

  Nora looked curious. “Who are you calling now?”

  “The Inspector in Oxford again. I want to see if he had any luck with getting the newspapers from Greece.” Regan frowned. “Isn’t it too much of a coincidence that two people from the same family were murdered within months of each other? I don’t know. There’s got to be a connection.”

  “Regan, what are you saying?” Nora asked quietly.

  “I guess I’m hoping that something in those Greek papers will jump out at me.”

  Nora hesitated. “I’ve always taught you to trust your instincts, but after the way that psychic reacted to you yesterday—Regan, she was afraid for you.”

  “Mom, that woman is a quack. You know what she’s doing today?” Regan did not wait for an answer. “Running a scarf-tying session. Give me a break. The next thing you know she’ll be selling crystal balls with the Queen Guinevere logo. I bet she just needed a free ride across the Pond.” Regan scooped up blueberry-muffin crumbs from Luke’s plate and dropped them into her mouth.

  Nora handed her a napkin as Regan got up and walked over to the phone. “Besides,” she added quietly, “even though we weren’t close, I wish I had made more of an effort with Athena ...”

  OXFORD

  CARRYING A PIPING-HOT cup of tea, Nigel Livingston walked down the drab hallway of the police station in Oxford, heading for the last door on the left, his office. My home away from home, he mused, with pictures of his wife and daughter adorning his massive desk. He quickened his pace when he heard his phone ringing, causing the steaming brew to spill over onto his stubby fingers. “Oh, buggers,” he muttered angrily as the tea dripped down the side of the cup and splashed onto the gray tile floor.

  The call was from Regan Reilly. “Just a second, Miss Reilly.” With the receiver in one hand, Livingston circled his desk and sat down on his swivel chair. The file on the Popolous case was open on his desk. The first faxes from Greece had just arrived. He had spread them all out, anxious to read the new material as well as go over his notes, when he had gone for the cup of tea.

  On the other end, Regan held out her cup as Luke freshened it with the last few drops of coffee in the pot. “Thanks, Lukey.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Nigel asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” Regan replied. “I’m calling from my parents’ room. They’re heading home from a trip to Europe and coincidentally were booked on this same crossing.”

  “Didn’t I hear your mother is a mystery writer?”

  “Yes. And by the way, I haven’t told Lady Exner she’s on board. She’s rather anxious for my mother to write the story of her life. She can be quite determined.”

  “I understand,” Livingston replied as he remembered the discussion he’d had yesterday with Philip Whitcomb and his fiancee. “Has Lady Exner expressed any concern for Miss Atwater’s condition?”

  “Not really. Although she did say that it was probably better Penelope wasn’t along. With all the food they serve here, Penelope would have been eating day and night and ended up with a perpetual case of heartburn. Veronica said there’s nothing more frustrating than traveling with someone who’s always sick and complaining.” Regan twirled the cord in her fingers, suddenly uneasy. “Why do you ask?”

  “To get right to the point, do you think Veronica might have tried to eliminate Miss Atwater?” Livingston asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then let’s put it a different way,” Livingston continued. “From all accounts, Miss Atwater had become something of a nuisance to Lady Exner. Do you think that she might have wanted to make it impossible for Miss Atwater to travel?”

  Regan thought to herself, I suppose it’s possible, but replied, “I don’t believe that.”

  “I notice some hesitation in your voice, Miss Reilly.”

  “It’s not meant to be there. I didn’t even tell her about the arsenic found in Penelope’s system because I didn’t want to worry her. As far as Veronica knows, Penelope is suffering from a case of food poisoning, nothing more.”

  “I was over at Llewellyn Hall yesterday and Philip Whitcomb and his fiancee mentioned that Lady Exner had joked about sprinkling a bit of the arsenic on those hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Philip mentioned that?” Regan sounded incredulous.

  “Well, Miss Twyler brought it up first. Which brings me to another matter. I saw your classmate Claire James yesterday, and again she talked about Athena taking a fancy to Philip. She says Athena had bicycled past Llewellyn Hall to see him. Do you think Philip could have been even a little keen on Athena?”

  Regan furrowed her brows. “I really don’t think so, but I just can’t be sure. Athena and I never really did anything together. Claire has a talent for ferreting out that kind of information. She was always in the middle of whatever gossip was going on in the dorm, who was dating whom, whose boyfriend from the States was coming to visit ...”

  “That’s rather the impression I get.” Livingston glanced down at his notes. “
One final thing. In Miss Popolous’s jacket pocket we found a matchbook from the Bull and Bear with initials and a few numbers on it. We’re trying to track that down and see if we come up with anything useful. Do the initials ‘B.A.’ mean anything to you?”

  B.A., Regan thought. B.A. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about the numbers three-one-five?”

  “No . . .”

  “Well, in the meantime I’ve just received the first set of faxes from Greece. Athena’s small home town newspaper in Skoulis is published every Wednesday, which is today, so we should have the translated version of that by tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll have the first lot sometime this morning.”

  “Good. If anything strikes me about B.A. or three-one-five while I’m reading the papers, I’ll give you a call.” Then she remembered to ask for the address of Athena’s parents. She hung up, sure she would have to field questions from her parents about the suspicion cast on Veronica.

  “I should get some faxes today,” she told them quickly. “Right now they’re just trying to follow whatever leads they can. I’d better go get Veronica and bring her to the poetry seminar. What are you two up to?”

  Nora’s expression changed. “I was going to go to that as well, but I think I’ll pass. Let’s see what else they have listed. Oh dear, they’re having a contest at that time for all the grandparents on board . . . they’re giving out prizes for whoever has the oldest grandchild, whoever has the youngest . . . maybe we’ll be eligible for that in a couple of years ...”

  “Good-bye, folks,” Regan muttered as she shut the door behind her, wishing for the umpteenth time she were one of ten children at least one of whom had made her an aunt by now.

  AT SEA

  “REGAN! YOO-HOO! THERE you are!” Veronica cried as she and her fellow Sit-and-Be-Fitters extricated their hindquarters from their seats.

  Regan decided that just as the gymnast has the uneven bars, a hockey player his stick, and the bodybuilder his barbells, these athletes had all the equipment they needed for their favored sport—a folding chair. “Yes, here I am,” she agreed. “How was class?”

  “Splendid. Did you enjoy it, Mr. Gray?”

  “Oh yes.” Gavin smiled, having awakened this morning with all the hope a new day can bring, feeling a fresh surge of energy to accomplish his mission, no matter what. “But, Regan, you didn’t have to come down here. I told you we’d meet you back at the room ...”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Veronica said she wanted to go to the poetry seminar. I thought we might take a look at the pictures from last night and then head straight there.” Regan turned to Veronica. “Unless of course you need to go back to the suite.”

  “Certainly not. Mr. Gray, take some time for yourself. Ohhh, I can’t wait to see the pictures. Come along, Regan. Thank you, Mr. Gray, we’ll see you later.”

  As they walked off, Regan couldn’t help but notice how Gabby Gavin’s smile had crumpled. Could he be that disappointed about not walking Veronica back? Why?

  A half hour later, with six pictures tucked under her arm, including several candid shots from the Captain’s party which contained no one she knew but would be good to “show off the lovely atmosphere,” Veronica paraded into the library where the poetry seminar was about to begin.

  “Regan, I don’t know why you didn’t have me order an extra photo of you for your parents. I’m sure they would love one.”

  “Oh, Veronica, they have plenty of pictures of me. Being their first and only child, they recorded every event in my life, no matter how insignificant.”

  “Oh, how I would have loved to have had a child,” Veronica sighed. A look of genuine sadness was evident on her face.

  Glancing at her, Regan felt a stab of pain in sympathy. Veronica always kept up such a cheerful front that Regan never really entertained the thought that she had probably known plenty of disappointment in her life.

  “However,” Veronica continued, “since Sir Gilbert’s first marriage of over fifty years did not produce an heir, I’ve sometimes reflected on the possibility that he was firing blanks.”

  Good old Veronica, Regan thought. Back to your old self in no time.

  At the librarian’s desk, the poet, a little man who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy with black glasses, white button-down shirt, Bermuda shorts, black ankle socks and wing-tip shoes, began to address the group.

  “From the time I was very young,” Byron Frost proclaimed in a nasal voice, “I always liked to write poetry. My fifth-grade teacher got us started by having us write haikus. Does everyone know what a haiku is?”

  “It’s Japanese,” Veronica responded. “It’s a three-line poem with five syllables in the first and third lines and seven in the second. And it doesn’t rhyme!”

  “Yes, that’s right. And it takes discipline. Before the end of class we’re each going to write one. But I want to start off by saying that you should write about what you know or what you feel strongly about. For example, I wrote an ode to my lovely wife Georgette, which I will recite for you right now.” He took off his glasses, folded his hands in a reverential manner, and lovingly looked over at a woman who Regan guessed had to be Mrs. Frost. “Georgette, my rare love ...”

  The lovely Mrs. Frost sat enthralled listening to her husband. As Regan watched her she was reminded of what Claire had said about Athena being mesmerized by Philip’s poetry readings. The scene of Philip saying to her years ago, “It’s one of the hazards of being an heiress . . . she’ll be back . . .” kept replaying itself in Regan’s mind. And now the Inspector was asking again if she thought there had been anything between Philip and Athena. Her body was found in the woods next to the Exner property. Regan realized her mind was darting between Oxford and Greece. Maybe the faxes will be here when we get back to the room, she thought. I need something tangible.

  “Does anyone here have any poems that they would like to recite?” the emotionally spent Byron Frost asked of the flock.

  Even before Veronica sprang to her feet, Regan braced herself, knowing Sir Gilbert was about to be resurrected.

  “My dear departed husband Sir Gilbert Exner was a poet. Anytime and anyplace he would make up poems. When we were in bed he would hold me in his arms and recite his favorite creations. Moments before he died, he gathered me close and whispered his last original verse:

  “I would like to say, say, say In a special way, way, way. . .”

  Nay nay nay, Regan thought.

  THE STEWARD HAD left a manila envelope propped up on the dresser in the suite.

  “For you, Regan,” Veronica pronounced, glancing at it. “How sweet. An admirer, I hope. It will just take me a minute to change.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

  Regan ripped open the envelope. Photocopies of news stories from several Greek newspapers were enclosed with English translations. Thank God, she thought as she dropped them into her tote bag. They had elected to have a hamburger by the grill instead of a formal lunch.

  When Veronica emerged from the bathroom she was sporting a striped red-and-white T-shirt, matching shorts and red sandals. She gathered up her sunscreen, her Jackie-0 sunglasses and the latest book by Nora Regan Reilly.

  At the pool they managed to find two deck chairs that were not already occupied or “saved” by the presence of a towel. Getting settled in her chair, Regan glanced at the ship’s wake. We’re in the middle of the ocean, she thought. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be lost at sea.

  “This picture of your mother is lovely,” Veronica pronounced as she studied the back cover of Nora’s latest effort. “You do resemble her. I feel I’d know her anywhere.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, Regan thought.

  Veronica opened the book. “I’m so happy to be reading this book while I’m with you, Regan. Now if I have any questions I can go practically to the source and find out all the inside information on the rascals and murderers I’ll meet in here,” Veronica said gaily as she flipped the pages from the back to the
front with her thumb. “And now you must get to work.”

  Regan smiled absently and reached for the faxes in her bag. She unfolded them in her lap and began to read. The first headline, “Tragedy Strikes Prominent Family Twice,” was followed by, “The decomposed body of Athena Popolous was discovered over the weekend in a wooded area in Oxford, England ...” The columnist had an in-depth gossipy story worthy of the supermarket tabloids. “Nearly eleven years ago, Miss Popolous’s aunt, Helen Carvelous, was murdered when she unexpectedly returned home as a burglary was taking place. Her death was also caused by strangulation. Priceless antique jewelry was stolen. Miss Popolous had been very close to her aunt and was most distraught.” Regan stopped reading for a moment. We were just talking about stolen jewelry the other night at dinner, she thought, and somebody said something about antique jewelry. Gabby? No. Who? It would come back to her.

  Reading on, Regan learned that Athena, the youngest by ten years in her immediate family, had often been left with servants by her parents. She had adored her aunt, spent every possible moment with her and her children, and, as the article put it, “seemed to blossom when she was in that joyous, loving atmosphere.”

  I wish I had understood, Regan thought sadly. Why didn’t she ever tell me she had been that close to her aunt? Athena’s parents had been abroad that summer and she was living with her aunt when the tragedy occurred. Regan studied the picture of Athena’s family. Her sisters and brother were all in their forties now and very attractive. Athena had obviously taken after her heavy set father, inheriting his broader features. Her brother Spiros was quoted as saying, “After my aunt died, we thought a change of scenery would be best for Athena. We sent her to school in England in the hopes that it would help her recover. Obviously we never thought it would end in another tragedy.”

  Helen’s now eighteen-year-old daughter was quoted, “I always thought of Athena as a big sister. She spent a lot of time with us. The day my mother died our governess had joked to her that she didn’t really feel needed because Athena was always helping out. But my mother didn’t care because she thought it was more important we were learning English from the governess.”