Set For Murder (Showbiz Is Murder Book 1)

by Jolie Beaumont

  Travers placed his hand on hers and said, quietly, “There will be other nights, other dances.”

  To his relief, he saw a small smile curl about her lips.

  “You are beginning to sound like a Hollywood movie star, Inspector.” Then she turned to Roberto and said, “You are right, Roberto. This is our dance.”

  The two took their places on the dance floor. The countess was an excellent dancer. Roberto was surprisingly light on his feet as well. Travers gave a sigh of relief. At least that crisis was over.

  He continued to watch the dancers as they moved in and out of his line of vision. Some looked impossibly young and carefree, enjoying their missteps as much as their successful dips and turns. Others were old and danced with a sense of grim duty. Then there was the girl he had seen on the deck earlier that day, the Broadway dancer. He noted that she was dancing with Bert Ayres—Travers had been given a seating chart of the dining room, and so by then he had put a name to most of the faces. He also noted that Penny Garnett was a pleasure to watch. Ayres wasn’t bad either, when it came to it.

  It’s like the stage set of some West End show, he thought, as he watched the dancers glide in and out of his imaginary spotlight. But set for what?

  The next action took him by surprise. Bert Ayres and Penny had ended up near to where the duchess and her partner were dancing. It was while the duchess was in the middle of a dramatic back dip—Travers wondered how she had the courage to rely on therevealing dress to not reveal too much—that she suddenly looked up at Ayres and exclaimed, “Bert! Imagine meeting you here!”

  “Honey! I mean, Duchess,” Ayres stammered with happy surprise.

  “Don’t you dare ‘duchess’ me, Bert,” she said with a laugh, as she straightened herself back into an upright position. “All my old friends call me Honey, and we are certainly old, old friends.”

  The two exchanged a few more pleasantries. Then they returned to their respective partners and continued the dance. It was the sort of exchange that could happen anywhere; two people meeting unexpectedly on a voyage happened all the time. Yet ...

  There was something in the duchess’s look and tone of voice which made Inspector Travers murmur to himself, I wonder.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Penny and Nick were back on the deck, busy taking photographs of each other with the Kodak box camera that Nick had brought along. This time they weren’t the only ones enjoying the blue skies and fresh air. Near the shuffleboard court, several American families had gathered, while one of the members of the crew explained the rules of the game to the children. A net set up for hoops had also attracted a small crowd.

  Roberto, who had never been one for games, was strolling with Countess Scharwenka, regaling her with tales about his experiences among the fashionable ladies of South American high society—experiences that at least he thought were amusing. Cecil Arden was leaning against the railing, smoking his pipe and surveying his fellow travelers with an amused, slightly mocking air. Jeffrey Baird was settled on a deck chair and reading a novel.

  Mrs. Hardwick was occupying a chair further down the deck, sipping the last of a cup of bullion. “Take this away, Watson,” she said, handing over the empty cup. “And find me something to read.”

  “A newspaper or a magazine, Mrs. Hardwick?” asked the companion, in a flat tone that suggested either absolute submission or concealed rage.

  “A magazine. And make sure it’s a recent one.”

  Miss Watson headed in the direction of the library, passing by Inspector Travers before she disappeared into the interior of the ship.

  At the moment, the inspector had nothing to do. The Tarrington pearls had been safely locked away the night before. It had been a bit annoying having to wait for the duchess to retire, before he himself could go to bed, like a servant. But it had been even more annoying, not to say embarrassing, for Lady Lambton-Keene, who apparently had also been waiting up for the duchess. In the early hours of the morning he had heard Lady Lambton-Keene drag the duchess from wherever that woman had been getting blotto and bring her back to her cabin.

  Actually, he couldn’t have wished for a better chaperon for the duchess than the Lambton-Keene family, who were, thank goodness, perfectly sound. Sir William, the head of a large banking establishment, had been friends with the Duke of Tarrington since their school days at Eton. Lady Lambton-Keene, a cousin of the duke—her mother and the duke’s father had been siblings—was something of an eccentric but in a reassuringly British way. The gossip pages loved to report on her newest antic,whether it wasflying an airplane, riding an elephant or climbing Kilimanjaro. But whatever she did, she did it with style. And there was never a breath a scandal.

  For this trip to the States, they had brought along their son, Frederick, who, Travers knew, was fresh out of Oxford and safely engaged to a young lady back in England. It was “Freddie” who had danced the foxtrot and tango the night before with the Duchess of Tarrington. He had been a young and handsome dance partner—and a safe one, thought Travers. He had danced with the duchess as he would have danced with an aunt or friend of his mother’s, politely attentive while preserving the correct distance for decorum’s sake.

  What the duchess thought of her chaperons, Travers couldn’t say. He wouldn’t be surprised if at some point she escaped their watchful eyes and started a flirtation with some eligible man on the ship. Thankfully, it wasn’t part of his job to watch over her morals.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” a cheery voice boomed behind him.

  He turned and greeted Lady Lambton-Keene, who was dressed in her tennis whites and swinging a racket as she walked. Her ash blond hair was held back by a white headband, but its fullness and color lent her face a vibrant leonine air. Indeed, everything about her radiated confidence, both about her own abilities and her exalted place in the world. Yet it wasn’t a snobby, frigid sort of mastery. Although she was in her late forties, she had a joie de vivre which gave her an appeal that even younger women might envy.

  “We need a fourth to make up our tennis set,” she continued. “Freddie drank too much champagne last night, and so he won’t be good for anything more taxing than keeping score. Can you suggest anyone?”

  “You need a male, I presume.”

  “Yes, the duchess is partners with my husband. I need someone to partner me. But not that Roberto person. I’m allergic to dressmakers with foreign-sounding names.”

  “What about Jeffrey Baird? He’s the one reading the book.”

  Lady Lambton-Keene considered the young man, who was lazily turning to a new page. “I’m sure the duchess wouldn’t mind. But who is he? Anyone dangerous?”

  “Foreign Office. The danger level will depend upon the duchess, I presume.”

  Lady Lambton-Keene laughed. “Well said. Does he know how to play the game?”

  “Tennis, or life?”

  “In my world, the rules for sports and the game of life are one and the same.”

  “I should think he knows the rules. His mother was a daughter of old Lord Croftsbury.”

  “That’s all right, then. Mr. Baird it is.”

  She went over to where Jeffrey Baird was sitting. After the introductions and the invitation had been made, Baird said, “I’d love to, but I didn’t bring my tennis clothes.”

  “I won’t tell Wimbledon,” replied Lady Lambton-Keene. “If you’re any good on the court, next time I might be able to persuade my son to lend you his whites. He absolutely hates tennis. We’ve reserved the indoor court.”

  “I’ll just go and change my shoes.”

  “Don’t be long. The duchess doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The countess, who had overheard the exchange, watched as Jeffrey Baird disappeared into one of the doorways that led inside the ship. She glanced at her watch and said to Roberto, “I have an appointment for a manicure.”

  In her hurry to leave, she almost ran into Peter Carroll, who had come onto the deck. He doffed his hat at the
fast-disappearing figure, and then he noticed that Lady Lambton-Keene was observing him.

  “Do I say hello, or wait until you acknowledge me?” Peter asked her. “I still don’t have the hang of your British P’s and Q’s.”

  “You’re doing better than that wife of yours.”

  “Margaret hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “If she wants to stay in her cabin the entire voyage and make a fool of herself, that’s her business. But I suggest the two of you join us for afternoon tea in the drawing room. All Margaret has to do is say hello, lovely weather we’ve been having, and other such nonsense. Twenty minutes of civility won’t kill her, and it will keep the gossiping tongues from wagging.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And if you can arrange a truce between Margaret and her stepmother, I’m sure the duke will be very grateful. This childish war has been going on for too long.”

  After Lady Lambton-Keene left, Peter strolled aimlessly down the deck. Lady Margaret had gone to the beauty salon to have her hair done. He had looked forward to having an hour to himself. But now that he had it, he didn’t know what to do. He felt too restless to read, yet too dispirited to try his hand at the sports offered for the passengers’ amusement. Then he saw Penny and Nick, who were still amusing themselves with their camera, and joined them.

  “Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you?” he asked.

  “That would be wonderful!” said Penny.

  Penny and Nick struck a pose, while Peter snapped the photograph.

  “You’re Penny and Nick Garnett, aren’t you? I saw your show. I thought it was swell.”

  “And that’s swell of you to say so,” said Penny.

  “Irwin Hamburg is a very talented composer.”

  “He is,” agreed Nick.

  There was an awkward pause. Peter still had the camera in his hands, as though reluctant to give it up.

  “Do you also dance?” asked Nick. This wouldn’t be the first time some aspiring performer had approached them, awkwardly, hoping for some words of encouragement or advice.

  “I’m a composer,” said Peter. “Not for Broadway. I write symphonies. Or at least I’m trying to write a symphony.”

  They were interrupted by the appearance of the chief steward. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering, Mr. Garnett, if you and Miss Garnett would mind dancing this evening, instead of tomorrow night. The gentleman who was scheduled to give a talk about rose garden design isn’t feeling well. If you could perform instead, that would give him another day to get his sea legs.”

  Nick looked over at Penny, who said, “My sea legs are fine.”

  “We’d be delighted,” said Nick. “Is there somewhere we can rehearse?”

  “The music room is usually empty at this hour. Shall I reserve it for you?”

  “Thanks. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  After the chief steward left, Penny said to Nick, “We don’t need to rehearse. We’ve performed those numbers 493 times.”

  “And we’ve been on vacation for three weeks. Get your tap shoes, Penny, and I’ll see you in the music room.”

  “You worry too much. It’s not good for your health.”

  “Having you step on my toes with your high heels isn’t good for my health, either.”

  “When did I ever step on your toes?”

  “Let me see, there was that time in Omaha, Nebraska, and then there was Dubuque—”

  “Dubuque wasn’t my fault. The stage was crooked.”

  “I hate to intrude on a family quarrel,” said Peter, “but do you need an accompanist for your rehearsal? I could play the piano for you.”

  “That would be a great help, if you don’t mind,” said Nick.

  “On the contrary, I’d love to.”

  Twenty minutes later—Penny had to change into her rehearsal clothes, as well as her tap shoes—the three of them were in the music room. By then, Nick had rolled up the Persian carpet and moved it aside, along with the other furniture that threatened to get in their way. It didn’t take long for Peter to master the music, and soon Penny and Nick were tapping, leaping, and laughing around the room.

  “Gee, that was fun,” Penny said to Nick, when they came to the end of the first number.

  She then noticed the change that had come over Peter. He, too, had been enjoying himself while playing the piano and watching the pair dance. He now looked a good five years younger than when they had seen him on the deck.

  “You played that song like you’ve been playing show tunes since you left the cradle,” she said to him. “Are you sure you’re not really a Tin Pan Alley songwriter waiting for his big break?”

  “I wish I could write for the theatre,” said Peter.

  “Why don’t you?”

  Peter hesitated.

  “Spill it, Carroll,” said Nick, imitating the gangster style popular on the screen and in the dime detective novel. “If you’ve written some songs, we want to hear them.”

  “There is one ...”

  He began to play a ballad. Penny sat down on the piano bench, beside him. When Peter repeated the verse, Penny began to hum along.

  “That’s nice,” she said. “Are there words?”

  “I did write something. It’s not very good, I’m afraid.”

  “Let us be the judge of that,” said Nick.

  Peter started the song from the beginning, softly singing the lyric. Midway through the verse, he stiffened, removed his fingers from the keys and turned toward the door. Penny also looked around. When she saw what he was staring at, she quickly slid off the bench and stood up.

  “Margaret, I—” Peter stammered.

  “I thought you said you were going to work on your symphony.”

  “It’s our fault,” said Nick, in an attempt to salvage the situation. “Your husband didn’t know we had already booked the music room. He was only trying to help us out, with our rehearsal. We’re performing tonight after dinner.”

  “Are you coming, Peter?” Before he could answer, Lady Margaret turned and left the room.

  Peter stood up and sheepishly glanced over at Penny and Nick. “Sorry, I ...” Without finishing the sentence, he hurried after his wife.

  “That serve of yours is treacherous, Baird,” said Sir William, picking up the tennis ball that had eluded him.

  “You’re just out of practice, dear,” said Lady Lambton-Keene. “Shall we have another game?”

  “Not for me,” said the Duchess of Tarrington. “I think I’ll have a rest before lunch.”

  The duchess, who was wearing a svelte knit two-piece tennis outfit, topped by a knit beret, strolled off the court. The dress, whose only nod to practicality was the skirt that flared slightly below the knees, fit her like a glove.

  Jeffrey Baird had succeeded in playing a decent game only by forcing himself to keep his attention on the tennis ball. Now he relaxed and followed the duchess’s retreating figure with his eyes.

  Sir William noted the direction of the younger man’s gaze and raised an eyebrow, a gesture his wife had learned to recognize many years ago. It came most often when a weekend guest showed signs of becoming a nuisance to one of the other guests.

  “I’ve always wondered why in tennis a score of nothing is called love,” said Lady Lambton-Keene.

  “I believe it comes from the old expression ‘to play for love’—to play not for money or prestige or any other tangible reward, but strictly for the love of the game,” replied Sir William, picking up the cue. “Playing for the love of the game sounds harmless enough, but it can have disastrous consequences for at least one of the parties involved, if he’s not careful—especially when the lady’s husband is a suspicious chap with friends in high places.”

  Jeffrey Baird turned his eyes back to the tennis court. He had taken the hint. “What about you, Sir William? Care for another game?”

  “Not me, but I can see that my wife is eager to pit her backswing against your serve.”
>
  Baird and Lady Lambton-Keene took their places on the court, while Sir William found a chair. The two players tossed a coin. Lady Lambton-Keene won the toss.

  “Love-all,” she called out, and the new game began.

  CHAPTER 5

  HONEY HOLDENDALE, THE Duchess of Tarrington, threw her tennis racquet on the bed. Her beret followed. Next, she glanced over at the door to her private bathroom and considered. Did she have time for a bath, or didn’t she?

  Her question was answered by a knock at the door. She picked up her hairbrush—it was part of an expensive silver vanity set, complete with the duke’s coat of arms engraved on the back of the hairbrush and hand mirror—and quickly ran the brush through her hair. She then went over to the door and opened it. She was about to fling her arm around the young man she was certain would be standing on the other side of the cabin door, and playfully drag him inside, when she stopped in mid “Darling.”

  “Why are you here?” she snapped.

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  Bert Ayres pushed past her, shutting the door behind him, and went into the cabin. It was a two-room suite furnished with some of the ship’s most luxurious furnishings. Bert stood still for several moments, taking it all in: the comfortable sofa and armchairs upholstered in French Empire-style yellow with red accents; the deep red Turkish carpet, the ornate gilded mirror that reflected back to him his awkward fumbling with his tie. His own cabin, although located in the same first class corridor, was a one-room affair decorated in a more modern and utilitarian style.

  “Not bad,” he said, moving across the room. He looked through the doorway into the bedroom and at the canopy bed with its red velvet curtains. “Not bad at all.”

  Honey had stayed by the cabin door, an immobile column of pent-up fury. “Anything I have to say to you can be better said in public.”

  “Is that so?”

  Bert strolled into the bedroom and walked around. Honey, exasperated, followed him. When he reached the dressing table, he picked up the hairbrush and examined it. “Nice. Very nice, Mrs. Ayres.”