Kiki stopped and looked around, as though unsure where to go next, or possibly to see that she wasn’t being followed. Uri turned his back to her. So did I. She then walked away in the direction of Sir Samuel’s wine bar, a tribute to Cunard’s founder, Samuel Cunard, with Uri in pursuit. I debated continuing. I didn’t want to leave Harry Flynn alone for too long. But he seemed the understanding type, and also appeared to have settled in nicely to enjoy the jazz. He didn’t need me for that.
The three of us proceeded through the Mayfair Shops to the Grand Lobby, where Kiki rang for an elevator. I took a box from a shelf in the store, pretending to look at it while checking Uri to see what his next move was. He did what I did, watched Kiki get into the elevator and disappear behind the closing doors. My eyes went to the floor numbers displayed above the elevator. It went directly to Deck Seven, the highest deck served by that bank of elevators.
“That shaving kit is usually meant for men,” a sales-woman said to me. “I saw you studying the label. Are you looking for a man’s gift?”
“Not today,” I said, returning the box to the shelf and hurrying from the shop.
When the next elevator door opened, I dashed in front of a group of people who had been waiting patiently and, ignoring scowls aimed at me, huddled in the corner of the cab as the others squeezed in, last of all Uri. Everyone exited at Deck Seven.
There was no sign of Kiki. Uri entered the area called Kings Court, a twenty-four-hour food court that served a wide variety of ethnic dishes—pizza, Chinese, salads, burgers, and other simpler fare than the formal dining rooms. I followed him. As I did, I saw Marcia Kensington sitting alone at a table far removed from where I was. I then spotted Kiki standing in front of a set of doors leading to the Outdoor Promenade. Uri saw her, too, and stopped. So did I.
Despite the captain’s PA announcement earlier in the day that outdoor areas were closed until further notice, Kiki skirted a temporary sign that read DECK CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER, pushed through the heavy door, and stepped into the night.
Uri seemed confused about what to do next. I waited until he finally ducked into a bay of tables that were set up along a line of windows. I pulled a foldout map of the QM2 from my purse and held it in front of my face as I positioned myself at another window, hoping not to be seen by him. But he was so intent on Kiki, I needn’t have bothered.
The scene on the deck was straight out of a gothic movie. A dense fog had settled in, shrouding everything in ghostly gray and rendering the exterior lights almost useless. Kiki leaned into the fierce wind and made her way to a nearby alcove that shielded her somewhat from the gale. Engulfed in fog, she was almost invisible to me from my vantage point, but not completely. What surprised me was that there was another figure already in that alcove, a form so vague that it was impossible to determine who it was, even whether it was male or female. Kiki extended her arm, and the other person did the same. They’d exchanged something, but I couldn’t tell who’d offered it and who was on the receiving end.
Kiki left the protection of the alcove and was buffeted by the wind as she made her way back to the door. I slipped behind a pillar and held my breath. The wind slammed the door closed, and she walked quickly past me, her black shirt and hair gleaming with water. I waited. Uri was next to pass. I turned back to the window in the hope of seeing who it was that Kiki had met with, but there was no sign of him, or her.
My final glimpse of the pair was at the staircase leading to the Grand Lobby. I saw the back of Uri’s head as he descended the stairs, and assumed Kiki had preceded him. I considered following after them but decided against it. If Kiki had left the dinner table in order to rendezvous with this other person, she’d accomplished her mission and was probably on her way back to her stateroom. As for Uri, simply knowing that he was on the ship was discovery enough for the night. I glanced to where I’d seen Marcia Kensington, hoping I hadn’t attracted her attention. She was gone.
I returned to the Chart Room to find that Harry had left. Our waiter from earlier that evening handed me a folded sheet of paper. “The gentleman asked me to give this to you should you return.”
“The music is grand, Jessica, but I felt the pull of the craps table and decided it was useless to resist. I’ll probably cap off the evening with a drink in the Commodore Club. Please join me in either place. But if not, I certainly understand. Hope you don’t have a touch of mal de mer, but if you do, try a stabilizer. If not, see you in the morning. Harry.”
It didn’t sound as if Harry was annoyed by my sudden absence. However, I owed him an apology the next time we were together. I debated joining Haggerty and Jennifer Kahn, who were likely to be dancing in the Queens Room. Did Haggerty know that Uri was on the ship? If so, he’d never mentioned it. Why not? I’d have to ask him, but tomorrow was time enough to talk, particularly if I could get him alone for some frank conversation.
I went to my cabin and stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and damp; would this foul weather stay with us for the remainder of the crossing? I retreated back inside, got into my pajamas and the fluffy robe provided by Cunard, and sat at the small desk, my mind still turning over the events of the evening.
Whom did Kiki Largent meet on the deck, and why had they chosen such an uncomfortable setting for their brief encounter?
Did Kim’s sudden change in behavior toward me signify anything, or was he merely reflecting his companion’s mood?
Why did Uri—and I wished I knew his last name—find Kiki to be of sufficient interest to follow her around the ship? Had he been following Michael in London in the hope that my MI6 pal would lead him to her?
My idyllic crossing on the Queen Mary 2 was turning into something quite different from what I’d anticipated. Maybe I did carry some sort of curse that led me into these situations.
I checked out movies playing on the TV and found none of them to my liking, but when I returned my eyeglasses to my purse, I found the DVD given me at Tom Craig’s dinner party by the husband-and-wife filmmakers, Madge and Gerald Wilson. I slipped it into the DVD player provided in every stateroom and pressed play. It took only a few minutes for me to become captured by the documentary, which cut back and forth between British authorities and two North African drug smugglers, who appeared on camera with their faces obscured by an electronic pattern to conceal their identities. I’m always impressed with how documentary makers manage to convince lawbreakers to speak freely about their nefarious activities, even with faces masked out. Halfway through the DVD Gerald Wilson interviewed two very young women who’d been enlisted by the smugglers to carry their contraband into the UK. Their stories were heartbreaking, girls no older than teenagers putting their lives at risk for money. They’d come from harsh, poverty-stricken backgrounds, the lure of the smugglers’ money too tempting to ignore. Toward the end, one of the smugglers justified his use of these young, vulnerable women as drug carriers: “The trick is to use people who the authorities are not likely to suspect, young, pretty, wide-eyed women with no criminal backgrounds.”
The documentary ended. It had been an emotional, wrenching story expertly told by the Wilsons, and had inspired me to get hold of a copy of the book on which it had been based.
I still wasn’t ready for bed and pulled out my lecture notes for the next day’s talk in the planetarium and soon became lost in them, a welcome respite from the dark thoughts with which I’d been consumed from recent events on the ship, magnified by the documentary I’d just watched.
But every now and then when I looked up, I wondered, Who sent me that strange note?
The curious cat—me—wanted to know.
Chapter Eleven
Third Day at Sea
I put on my robe and slippers upon awakening the next morning and went to the balcony to check on the weather. The fog had lifted, the seas had calmed, and ahead of us was blue sky.
I considered calling for room service—such service is available on the Queen Mary 2 twenty-four hours a day at no additional charge�
��but decided I’d better look for Harry Flynn to apologize for having abandoned him last night. By the time I’d showered, dressed, and reached the Princess Grill, everyone else had eaten and departed, including Harry.
“Were the two ladies who were at dinner with Mr. Jones last night here this morning?” I asked our waiter.
“No, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Jones and Mr. Flynn were the only two at breakfast.”
“Mr. Kim and his party?” I asked.
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 Stanton!
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 ol
d 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.
Until now?
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.
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