by Blake Pierce
Scratching his head, she asked him, “What was bothering you, little guy?”
The dog gave her an odd look, as if he wished he could answer her question, but of course he couldn’t talk. Then he snuggled quietly against her shoulder and let him carry her.
As they continued on their way to the boat, London felt all kinds of nagging worries.
She kept remembering how surprised she’d been when Borsos had pulled the pendant out of Mrs. Klimowski’s bag. Until that very moment, she’d felt positive that the jewelry had been stolen.
But now she didn’t know what to think.
Why had Mrs. Klimowski taken off the pendant?
Had she taken off the pendant, or had somebody else done it?
And why does it matter, anyway?
London knew that the truly hard work of dealing with Mrs. Klimowski’s death was about to begin. There were already too many questions and too few answers.
But how could she possibly come up with any answers about a woman’s death in a country where she had to struggle with the language?
She kept reminding herself of something Borsos had said.
“The lady was quite elderly, and probably died of natural causes.”
London had absolutely no reason to think otherwise.
And yet …
She sternly warned herself not to let her imagination run away with her.
Nobody was murdered.
But what was bothering her about the necklace not being stolen? And why did she keep seeing that big yellow flower in her mind?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As she neared the boat again, London couldn’t get the words foul game out of her mind. The alezredes had worded the idea clumsily, and even he had said that Mrs. Klimowski’s death was “probably natural causes.” The elderly woman had been frail and apparently in ill health. Nothing had been stolen.
But for some reason, the terrible idea kept nagging at her …
Foul game.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the portly, walrus-mustachioed Captain Hays, who was waiting for her at the far end of the gangway. The captain looked positively despondent as London walked toward him.
The news of Mrs. Klimowski’s death had obviously hit him very hard. However, as they stepped into the reception area, Captain Hays’s first concern seemed to be with London herself.
“Amy told me you found the poor woman,” he said. “And in a cathedral, no less! What a terrible shock that must have been. How are you bearing up?”
“OK, I guess,” London said.
But really, she felt too numb to know for sure just how she was “bearing up.”
“Do you have any other news?” the captain asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” London said. “The police chief told me it looks like Mrs. Klimowski died from natural causes. They expect to know more tomorrow.”
“Well, I suppose we should at least be relieved it wasn’t foul play,” the captain said. “I’ve been trying to take care of things here as best we can. Before Amy left for the tour just now, she found Mrs. Klimowski’s emergency contact number for me. It was her lawyer in New York City.”
“A lawyer?” London asked with surprise.
“Yes, I found that odd. She didn’t list friend or a relative or anyone like that. Just her lawyer. I tried to call him, but of course there’s a huge time difference. I left a message, so I hope I can speak with him tomorrow.”
Captain Hays shook his head sadly.
“It’s going to be a very difficult process, I fear. And I don’t look forward to telling Mr. Lapham that our voyage has been disrupted.”
London was startled to realize that the CEO really did have to be informed—and it wasn’t likely to be a pleasant conversation. She remembered what Lapham had said to her over the phone.
“There’s a lot at stake in this new venture. I want to get things off to the best possible start.”
A dead passenger and at least one night’s delay in Gyor surely weren’t what Lapham had in mind as “the best possible start.” London herself felt terrible about disappointing the man who had made her feel so proud of her new job. She was sure that the captain felt the same kind of dread about that.
Captain Hays shook his head sadly and added, “I’m counting on you to help maintain some sense of order through this crisis.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” London replied.
The captain squinted curiously at Sir Reginald, who was still nestled against London’s shoulder. Sir Reginald peered back at him intently.
“But tell me please—where did this animal come from?” Captain Hays asked.
London realized that the captain hadn’t seen the dog before.
“This is—was—Mrs. Klimowski’s dog,” London said. “Sir Reginald Taft.”
“My! Such a long name for such a small creature!”
“He led me right to Mrs. Klimowski’s body,” London said. “If he hadn’t, we still might not know what had happened to her.”
“A fine dog, then,” Captain Hays said with a nod of approval. “Perhaps the lawyer will give us instructions as to his care. Or I suppose one of the other passengers might give him a new home.”
“I hope so,” London said.
London’s head reeled from all that she had to do right now—and had to do fast. But first, she knew she had to take Sir Reginald back to Mrs. Klimowski’s stateroom, which was right there on the Menuetto deck.
She used her master keycard to open the grand suite. As she had when Elsie had shown her this room yesterday, she heard soft and lovely piano music—Beethoven’s “Für Elise”—and she saw Beethoven’s portrait scowling down from above the bed.
She was struck again by the size and luxury of the stateroom, with its balcony and separate seating area. A few of Mrs. Klimowski’s belongings were placed tidily here and there. London felt a sudden pang of sadness for the unhappy woman who’d said that her life had been so tragic. Surely she’d come on this cruise of the Danube to make herself feel better.
But she only got to spend one night here, London thought. And all this didn’t seem to have helped her feel any better.
London hadn’t liked Mrs. Klimowski very much, and as far as she knew, no one else aboard the Nachtmusik had liked her either. But even so …
She didn’t deserve to die like this. All alone in a foreign country.
But again she wondered—just how and why had she died?
She still couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone had done something terrible to her. But how could she know for sure?
Maybe the answer is right here in this room, she thought.
As she started to look around, she noticed something on the side table next to her bed. It was a piece of Nachtmusik stationery with Mrs. Klimowski’s handwriting on it. It was the start of a message addressed to Mr. Lapham himself.
“I regret to inform you that I am most displeased by conditions and service aboard the Nachtmusik so far. I’m lucky (if that’s quite the right word) to have gotten aboard at all, there was such an uncalled-for fuss about Sir Reginald Taft, my show champion dog and most trusted companion. It was quite traumatic. Mine has been a tragic life, and I’m a deeply sensitive person, and I require more kindness and consideration than most people, and …”
The note ended there. Apparently Mrs. Klimowski had planned to finish it later. London couldn’t imagine how much longer the woman might have gone on complaining about one thing or another. It certainly reminded her that she hardly missed this disagreeable person. But nor did anybody else aboard the Nachtmusik that she knew of.
Could the woman’s nasty disposition alone be enough to drive someone to murder?
Next she saw that the closet door was partially open. She found it to be fairly crammed with expensive clothes, shoes, and furs. It looked as though Mrs. Klimowski could have spent months aboard the Nachtmusik without wearing the same outfit for more than one day.
London walked over to the chest a
nd pulled a drawer open, then recoiled at the jumble of gold, silver, and precious gems scattered inside.
There were necklaces, bracelets, brooches, a tiara, and elegant hair fasteners. Some rings and earrings were displayed on black felt stands; others had been tossed casually inside.
London’s mind boggled at how much this trove must be worth. Mrs. Klimowski must have been very rich. It wasn’t hard to imagine that someone might have killed her for just some of these treasures.
And yet, nothing had been stolen from Mrs. Klimowski’s person when she’d died. The heavy diamond and ruby pendant that she’d been flaunting hadn’t been taken, although it still seemed strange to London that it had wound up in her purse when her body was found. And these precious items were just loose in a drawer in her stateroom.
London wandered into the bathroom. She gasped to see that the countertop was practically covered with containers of prescription medicine. She found it hard to believe her eyes.
Were all these for her? she wondered.
Mrs. Klimowski had been such a little woman. What use could she have possibly had for such a huge hoard of medications?
She was also startled by how tidily they were arranged—row after row, like an army. Most noticeable were three bottles lined up in front of the rest, as if leading some imaginary battle.
Meanwhile, Sir Reginald began wriggling in her grasp, so she leaned over and put him down gently. She followed him out of the bathroom into the bedroom, and he trotted straight to a flat, rectangular pad, then relieved himself right there. When the little dog stepped off the pad, it made a slight whirring sound, and the soiled area disappeared into a cylindrical shape on one end of the pad’s plastic frame. A fresh clean pad appeared from a similar shape on the other end of the contraption.
A dog potty, London realized. And Sir Reginald was obviously accustomed to using it.
London had never seen such a thing before, and she’d given no thought to the niceties of keeping a dog in a stateroom. She was happy to realize that the cleverly designed conveyor belt left no odor behind.
“I’m glad that’s taken care of for you,” she told the dog. “Now how about food and water?”
She found bowls of both nearby, and spare food handy in a dresser drawer. The dog began drinking thirstily, so when he finished she added more water. There was plenty of food in his dinner dish.
“I’ll have someone check in on you later,” she told Sir Reginald.
She remembered how Cyrus Bannister had described Mrs. Klimowski as “high maintenance.” With sad irony, it occurred to London that Sir Reginald probably wouldn’t be nearly as “high maintenance” as his owner. It looked like he was going to be quite easy for someone to take care of.
Meanwhile, I’ve got work to do.
But she heard a whine as she walked toward the door to leave. She turned and saw the little mop of a dog staring up at her sadly.
For the first time since Mrs. Klimowski’s death, London really felt like crying.
She wondered—how often had this little animal ever had to be alone?
He might not have enjoyed getting toted around in Mrs. Klimowski’s handbag, but at least he was used to it—and he was used to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really have to go.”
The dog whined again.
“Okay, I’ll check back on you myself,” London promised. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Sir Reginald whined some more.
“I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of,” London said.
His little ears drooped but he didn’t whine again.
London was tempted to pick up the dog and take him with her. But she had to get back to work, and the animal would be too much of a distraction, both for her and the people she had to deal with.
With painful determination, London closed the door.
Surely Mrs. Klimowski would have made arrangements for someone to take care of her dog.
I’ll just have to fill in until the proper person is identified, she told herself as she hurried off to deal with the awful event of the day.
She had to find a way of sharing this terrible news with all the passengers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As she handed out printed letters to the passengers she met, London became uncomfortably aware that she was getting strange looks from at least some of them. Did they think she was somehow responsible for Mrs. Klimowski’s death?
In any case, London had figured the best way to get the word out was via a dignified printed note. She’d written a short statement that began …
Dear Epoch Voyager:
The staff and crew of the Nachtmusik deeply regret to report the untimely passing of Mrs. Lillis Klimowski earlier today.
There hadn’t been much more for London to write at this point, except to assure the passengers that they’d be informed of any new developments and information as soon as possible. She signed the note:
London Rose, Social Director.
She’d saved the message on a thumb drive, taken it to the lobby, and given it to the receptionist with instructions to print copies of it on the Nachtmusik’s letterhead and put the notices in the passengers’ mailboxes and to distribute them to the crew.
Of course, she knew it was best to deliver such news personally and face-to-face whenever it was possible. Since both Emil and Amy were leading a tour group through Gyor, and other passengers were also out in town, she was passing the notes out to whomever she happened to meet, and also answering people’s questions.
Meanwhile, some of them were looking at her suspiciously.
I shouldn’t be surprised, she told herself.
She’d been the only one there when the poor woman was found. She’d been the first one to talk with the police. A few of the passengers were bound to at least wonder if she’d been negligent somehow.
She shook off the unpleasant thoughts and turned her attention to already-scheduled activities, which included swimming lessons, games of shuffleboard, table tennis, bridge, and a movie to be shown in the Amadeus Lounge.
When London arrived in the lounge just before the movie was about to start, Elsie was stunned about the news.
“The poor woman!” Elsie exclaimed. “But what about you? You’ve had such a shock. Are you sure you should try to keep working like this? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Surely somebody else on the staff …”
“Everybody’s already hard at work,” London said. “And I need to stay hard at work too. It’s the best thing for my nerves.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Elsie said. “Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
London thanked her and went back to her duties. The sight of the dead woman in the basilica kept flashing through her mind, and she really was glad to keep herself occupied.
Meanwhile, passengers were trickling back aboard from their ventures ashore and got the news either from the notice or from London directly. When Emil and Amy finally returned with their large tour group, London was relieved that Emil had already broken the terrible news to them, and judging from everybody’s composure, he’d obviously handled it with grace and tact.
After asking London how she was doing, he got to another pressing issue.
“What about the dog?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” London said. “Maybe there’s somebody back in the States who will want him, and we can find some way to send him back. In the meantime … you wouldn’t be interested in taking care of him, would you?”
Emil seemed to bristle at the very idea.
“I’m afraid not,” he said with a touch of defensiveness in his voice. “I don’t get along well with animals, especially dogs. I was actually thinking of some kind of makeshift kennel, perhaps in the cargo hold.”
London was a little startled by his brusque words.
“I’d like to come up with something … a little easier on the dog,” London said. “Tell me if you get any ideas.”
/> “I will,” Emil said, as he walked stiffly away toward his stateroom.
London spent the rest of the waning day making sure that the passengers were both well-informed and well-occupied. She barely nibbled at a delicious dinner and then made her rounds of the evening activities. She was sure those occasional glances still came her way, but she was too tired to worry about any of that now. The remaining social events went smoothly, although somewhat subdued. A lot of passengers seemed to have turned in early.
Finally London assigned Amy to keep check on the remaining social events. She knew that she needed to get some rest, but when she headed for her stateroom, she remembered what she’d promised the dog.
“I’ll check back on you myself.”
She sighed and went to Mrs. Klimowski’s stateroom instead. As soon as she approached the door, she heard the dog yapping as though he knew she was out there.
When she opened the door and walked inside, Sir Reginald ran in eager circles around her feet, yapping until she picked him up into her arms. Again, London felt a deep pang of sympathy.
“I’m sorry I had to leave you alone,” she told the dog. “But I won’t have any choice until …”
Her voice faded as she asked herself …
Until what?
Until someone else took responsibility for the dog?
As London scratched Sir Reginald’s ears, she realized that she hadn’t really begun to process her emotions over Mrs. Klimowski’s death. All she knew was that a vague feeling of guilt was rising up inside her. She tried to convince herself that she couldn’t have helped what had happened to the woman.
And yet …
She remembered that moment at the restaurant when the irate Mrs. Klimowski had gotten up from her chair to say that she was heading back to the boat. She remembered, too, how she had offered to go with her.
“No!” Mrs. Klimowski had snapped.
