34 - The Queen's Jewels

by Fletcher, Jessica

  “Nice shot of you,” Michael said, pointing to my picture on the cover of the Daily Programme. He opened it to see what was on tap that day, while I enjoyed a second cup of coffee. A schedule for the next day was left outside each cabin door the night before, and was chock-full of useful information. Michael put it down and glanced toward the empty table where the Kim party usually sat. “Late sleepers, huh?”

  “Oh, look at the time. I need to get back to my cabin, Michael. I have things to do before I give my lecture. Excuse me.”

  “Call me Wendell,” he said, looking around to make certain no one had overheard me. “Look, Jessica, before you go, I’m still counting on you to find out what you can from Kim.”

  “We’re not discussing this anymore, Michael, ah, Wendell, whatever your name is.”

  “Ignoring terrorism won’t make it go away, Jessica. If you ended up being instrumental in heading off funding for a terrorist organization, you’d have saved many lives, including Americans—mostly Americans.”

  His treading on my patriotism was annoying, but as he knew it would, it touched a chord somewhere inside. However, it was a reminder I hadn’t needed. Before retiring the night before, I’d already gone over in my mind everything that had occurred over the past few days, thinking about the possible connections.

  A rare blue diamond, the Heart of India, had been stolen. The legendary gem was said to bring its owner either great happiness or great tragedy. In the case of Walter Soon Yang, his happiness ended quickly, and the tragedy was his death at the hands of thieves who’d taken the prize he’d been so thrilled to have acquired. Yang was rumored to be connected to terrorist organizations. Was it true? And if so, who killed Yang? Jewel thieves? Terrorists?

  I go to dinner at the home of my British publisher, who introduces me to Kim Chin-Hwa, a Korean businessman, who just happens to be a business partner of the murdered owner of the Heart of India. Mr. Kim tells me he is booked on the Queen Mary 2 along with his beautiful girlfriend, Betty LeClair, a former Paris model, the pair accompanied by two formidable-looking young men. Employees? Relatives? Bodyguards?

  Michael Haggerty, a former MI6 intelligence agent and old friend, now back in the intelligence game, also shows up at my publisher’s home, using an alias, Wendell Jones, antiques dealer. He tells me that he, too, will be joining me on the crossing to New York, and asks me to spy on Mr. Kim for him. We’re tailed by an Israeli intelligence agent. Why?

  It was an odd confluence of events, to be sure, but what did it mean? Haggerty had always had a knack for attracting trouble. It was as if he was a magnet for the bad guys. He wanted me to get close to the victim’s partner in the hope that I’d pick up on something he said or did that might help the MI6 investigation. This man could be completely innocent and know nothing about either the theft or terrorists. He was a victim himself since he’d lost his good friend and partner. I refused Michael’s request. Now he was suggesting that if I continued to refuse, I’d be aiding and abetting terrorists.

  Ridiculous!

  As I was about to leave the table, my cloak-and-dagger friend added, “And don’t forget, Jessica, that the owner of the Heart of India was murdered, and that his murderer could be aboard this ship. Murder! Your specialty!”

  I ignored the jab. What nagged at me as I walked away was that there was a modicum of truth to what he’d said. Not that I consider murder to be my “specialty.” Sure, I deal with murder day after day as I sit at my computer and weave tales of mystery and mayhem, deeds most foul. But that’s what I do for a living. I’m a writer. My fascination with murder and murderers has to do with the characters and plots in my books.

  But I can’t deny that I too often end up leaving my computer and the pages I’ve written and find myself immersed in murder of a more human and realistic type. Seth Hazlitt accuses me of seeking out those situations. Do I? I prefer to think not. But if I’m to be totally honest—and I like to think that I am—real murders exert a powerful pull on me. Is it because I’m able to take what I’ve learned from them and make use of it in my writing? I’ve used that rationalization at times. But truth be told, there’s more to it than that.

  The theft of the rare blue diamond the Heart of India, and the murder of its owner, Walter Soon Yang, had captured my imagination. No debate. And while I feigned disinterest in Michael Haggerty’s involvement, I’d very much been interested in Inspector George Sutherland’s take on the case. Should I bring these new wrinkles to George’s attention? Would he welcome the information? Or would he think my vivid imagination—and Michael Haggerty’s—was conjuring connections where none existed? What to do? I found myself mentally questioning every aspect of the case, and I had a lecture to give in two hours. Perhaps a good long walk would clear my mind.

  My self-generated tour of the QM2 was both interesting and tiring. I started at the ship’s stern, where I’d just had breakfast, and checked out the outdoor Terrace Pool and Bar, although through a window because of the foul weather. I made my way down a few decks to the art gallery, where auctions would take place each day that we were at sea, then peeked in the Golden Lion Pub and other bars and restaurants, browsed the high-end shops, took in the huge Royal Court Theatre—a British theatrical troupe would be performing plays there later in the day—and finally looked into Illuminations, the floating planetarium in which I’d be delivering my lecture. I checked my watch. I was due there in an hour and realized that I’d better get back to my stateroom and review my notes.

  As I approached my cabin, Betty emerged from the door next to mine, abject fury written all over her cameo face.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  She ignored me—perhaps she didn’t hear me—and strode away down the corridor.

  My door had been propped open by Rupesh while he made up my stateroom.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said. “Did you have a pleasant night?”

  “Yes, very much, thank you. I see that Mr. Kim has a cabin next door.”

  “You know him, madam?”

  “I recently met him. I just saw his friend leave.”

  Rupesh raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and I had the feeling that he wanted to say something but decided it would be indiscreet to discuss a passenger.

  “The woman with Mr. Kim is very beautiful,” I said, hoping to elicit a further comment. He simply nodded and finished making the bed, then left with his cleaning materials. I closed the door behind him, but opened it again to a knock. Rupesh handed me an envelope.

  “This was in your mail basket,” he said. “Have a pleasant day.”

  “Yes, thank you, Rupesh.”

  My balcony had two comfortable chairs and a small table, but it was too rough and windy to sit out there. I cracked open the door to allow some air inside, but quickly changed my mind when the breeze scattered the papers on my desk, including all my lecture notes. I pocketed the envelope Rupesh had given me, and knelt to retrieve my papers, sorting them several times to put them in the correct order before securing them with a paper clip.

  I reviewed my lecture from beginning to end, taking out one story and substituting another. I have always found that anecdotes are the best way to entertain a crowd, and I leave the details of my writing process—how long it takes to write a book, how many pages I write a day, and where I get my ideas—for the question-and-answer period when those topics inevitably arise. Satisfied I had everything in order, I checked myself in the mirror, reapplied my lipstick, and picked up my shoulder bag, sliding the paper-clipped notes inside. I looked around for my room key, but it wasn’t on the desk. I patted my pockets and discovered the key along with the envelope Rupesh had delivered.

  On the front was typed J. FLETCHER. I opened the envelope and pulled out a folded slip of paper. The message was also typed, and terse: CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT!

  Chapter Nine

  “. . . and thank you so much for being here. I hope to see you again tomorrow, same time, same . . . planetarium.” A few people laughed.
“In a few minutes I’ll be signing copies of my latest novel in the bookshop on Deck Eight, at the front of the ship—or I should say the bow. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  The lecture had been successful. I estimated that three hundred people were in the audience. They were attentive throughout, and had lots of questions at the end. I stayed for ten minutes to shake hands with the people who came forward, and then followed the cruise director to the bookshop, where a long line of people awaited me, my book in their hands.

  Focusing on the lecture had kept me from dwelling on the strange note that had been left for me. But it had intruded on my thoughts a few times while I’d been speaking, and was very much with me as I greeted book buyers and personally inscribed their purchases. The signing took almost an hour, and I was glad when the last person in line reached the table. I love meeting my readers and finding out something about them, but the process can be tiring. I also knew that once the video of my talk played on TVs in every cabin, there would be plenty of passengers throughout the ship who’d want to stop and talk.

  Curiosity killed the cat!

  Who would have sent me such a message? Was it a joke? Could it possibly have something to do with the missing diamond, its murdered owner, and terrorists? Mr. Kim had asked if I planned to write about that, and expressed relief when I’d said I hadn’t. Was he pressing his point? Couldn’t be, I decided. He was more direct than that. Had he shared his concerns with Betty and had she taken it into her own hands to warn me off? I didn’t see why. I hadn’t asked provocative questions of anyone, hadn’t done anything that even smacked of probing. No one knew—or at least I thought no one knew—that Wendell Jones was, in fact, an MI6 agent. But in any event, no one knew that I knew. Was I really the intended recipient? Perhaps the note should have been left at Kim’s cabin next door. But, no, that wasn’t right. It had my name on the envelope.

  Kim and his two male colleagues—I kept thinking of them as bodyguards—were at lunch when I arrived. Haggerty was sitting alone at our table. I saw the Kensingtons at a table for two when I entered the grill and was pleased to see them talking easily with each other. Michael was right. As newlyweds, they probably hadn’t been happy being consigned to dine with older passengers. The change would be good for them.

  I was disappointed not to see Harry Flynn. I’d quickly developed a liking for him, and thoroughly enjoyed his stories of life on the high seas. He was the quintessential gentleman, well-spoken and kind, and reminded me of my late husband, Frank, who shared those same qualities. Then, too, his presence would have ensured that Michael refrained from pressuring me to spy on Kim.

  “That went very well this morning, don’t you think?” Michael said when I’d taken my seat.

  “Yes. I do. I didn’t see you. Were you there?”

  “Of course. I said I would be and I was. You had so many admirers, you just didn’t see me. I’ll have to bring you a book to sign when there isn’t a long line. You will sign one for me, won’t you?”

  “Any time,” I said, picking up the menu. I ordered the spa luncheon. Despite what Harry had correctly labeled my “hike” around the ship, I was acutely conscious that eating three full meals a day—plus sandwiches, scones, and pastries at the QM2’s afternoon tea, should I decide to take advantage of that appealing meal—would soon leave me unable to fit into my clothes. I was grateful that the ship provided diet selections, and was certain they’d be every bit as delicious as their more caloric offerings, which they were.

  “I met Harry coming here,” Michael said later. “He was on his way to the bridge. Apparently the captain invited him up.”

  “How nice for him. Perhaps they’re old friends. I imagine sea captains know each other—or at least know of each other—the way, oh, say, captains of industry do.”

  “Or like mystery authors do?”

  “Yes, that’s true, too. I know many mystery writers personally, and have heard of or read the works of many more. Isn’t that true of spies, as well?”

  Michael gave me a mock scowl and glanced over his shoulder. “Shh. This table could be bugged. See this salt cellar? It might contain the new crystalline eavesdropping device, indistinguishable from regular table salt.”

  “Another reason to avoid extra salt on my food,” I said.

  The odd note I’d received—was it a threat?—was in my pocket. I debated showing it to Haggerty. What could he tell me? It was innocuous enough, but clearly there was something calculated about it. A message behind the message. After a half hour of banter—Michael is good at banter—I decided to share it with him.

  “I’d like you to look at something I received this morning,” I said, reaching into my pocket.

  He adopted a puzzled expression as he read it, turned it sideways and upside down, and ran a finger over the typed letters. Finished with his perusal, he handed it back to me with a shrug.

  “Any suggestions?” I asked.

  “Can’t imagine who’d send it, Jessica, unless it’s one of your many fans on the ship. Your picture was in the program this morning, and now that you have one lecture under your belt, your fan base will grow by leaps and bounds.”

  “Yes. But I received this before the lecture.”

  “It’s probably nothing. I certainly wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I decided that he was right. Some fan of my books may have thought it would amuse me to receive an anonymous note. Some friends at home had thought that once, too—sending me anonymous mail with letters cut from magazines—but once I learned of their prank, I quickly disabused them of the idea that it was amusing. Were I able to speak with the author of this note, I would courteously inform him or her that I’d just as soon not be on the receiving end of such well-meaning frivolity.

  Kim came over to our table as we were finishing up.

  “I thought you two might be up for a game of bridge,” he said. “The weather is foul, perfect time to sharpen our wits. But I should warn you. I play to win.”

  “I haven’t played bridge in ages,” I said. “I’m more of a chess fancier.”

  “Like falling off a horse,” Haggerty suggested. “You’ll pick it up again in no time.”

  “And you, Mr. Jones?” Kim said.

  “No thanks, count me out. I’ve never gotten the hang of it. You two go ahead. I’m sure you’ll find others looking for a game.” He slapped Kim on the shoulder. “Don’t believe the lady that she’s a novice, my friend. She’s a cardsharp if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Do I go to the spa, or take Mr. Kim up on his offer?

  “I’d be happy to play,” I said, “provided you’ll excuse my mistakes.”

  “Of course.”

  The cardroom was located in the Atlantic Room on Deck Eleven. On our way there, I asked Kim whether Betty wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t appeared at lunch.

  “She’s fine, just a trifle weary, that’s all.”

  Somehow, I didn’t believe him but didn’t press. When I’d seen her furious expression that morning, I assumed that they’d had a spat. Her absence at lunch might be her way of sending a message to him that she was still angry.

  Kim’s two associates rode up on the elevator with us.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said, and extended my hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  My forwardness seemed to unsettle them. They awkwardly shook hands, mumbled their names, and said nothing else.

  “Do you play bridge?” I asked as the elevator door opened on eleven.

  “They’re not cardplayers, Mrs. Fletcher,” Kim said, and left it at that.

  Finding two others to join us wasn’t difficult. At least a half dozen bridge aficionados were in the room when we arrived, and two of them, a husband and wife, eagerly accepted our offer to make a foursome. Kim’s “business colleagues” sat together in a far corner and picked up magazines.

  Kim was as practiced and smooth at bridge as he was at dancing. At one point, he suggested we wager on the game—“to make it inte
resting”—small stakes, he assured us. I was relieved when the other couple declined: “We never play for money,” said the wife.

  My bridge skills improved as we played, but I was never able to match Kim’s ability or his concentration. He was so engrossed in his cards that barely a word passed between us other than what was required for the game’s bidding. I found it amusing that Haggerty had wanted me to cultivate a friendship with this man to elicit useful information. From what I’d seen of Kim Chin-Hwa, he rarely spoke beyond the social needs of the moment, and since we’d been introduced, I’d learned nothing more about him than that he liked to dance and play cards—hardly the stuff of valuable intelligence.

  The game ended an hour later with a grand slam in our favor. Kim was willing to continue playing, but the couple announced that they’d had enough. Another couple offered to take their place, but I declined.

  “Smoke?” Kim asked as we left the cardroom.

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you smoke? I’m in the mood for a good cigar. They have a special room for cigar and pipe smokers, Churchill’s, two decks down from here. Please join me.”

  “I don’t smoke,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to accompany you. I didn’t get to see that room on my tour this morning.”

  Churchill’s was a good-sized space that I now remembered seeing through its glass doors when I attended the welcoming party for lecturers that had been hosted at the Commodore Club. Kim held the door open for me, and we stepped inside. Four people sat in large leather armchairs that ringed the room, one smoking a pipe, one a cigar, and two puffing away on cigarettes. Smoking areas on the ship were limited, with the dining rooms and most bars smoke free. Only the casino and a few designated tables in the Golden Lion Pub accommodated those who still had the habit.

  I stood with Kim as he admired an array of cigars in a locked glass cabinet. “They have Cuban cigars,” he said. “You can’t get them in the States because of your silly embargo on Cuba.”