by Blake Pierce
Then she had unleashed her ire toward everyone else at the table.
“I can’t trust any of you,” she’d said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
And now London felt a surge of pity as she remembered the last thing she’d heard Mrs. Klimowski say.
“I’ll leave here just the way I’ve gone through life—alone!”
London couldn’t imagine how awful it must have been for the poor woman to die without feeling as though she could trust anyone around her. She couldn’t help thinking she should have left that restaurant with Mrs. Klimowski, even if she hadn’t wanted her company.
Maybe I could have done something.
Maybe I could have …
But could she really have done anything at all? If Mrs. Klimowski really had died from natural causes, was there anything anybody could have done to save her?
And what if someone had really done the woman harm, as London couldn’t help but suspect?
She had no idea what she could have done.
She did feel sure of one thing, though. She would have to take care of Mrs. Klimowski’s dog until a place was found for it.
It has to be me.
She called for a steward to help her lug the portable potty and the food and bowls to her own stateroom down on the Allegro deck. Then she looked through an assortment of fancy leashes and collars lying on a table. She selected a fairly modest pair that weren’t jewel-studded and put them on the dog.
Sir Reginald Taft wagged his tail, instantly delighted.
London escorted him out of the suite to the elevator and down to her own stateroom, where the steward had already deposited the dog’s supplies. When she let him off the leash, Sir Reginald darted around looking keenly and enthusiastically at his new surroundings. He checked out his food and water bowls and his potty, and then looked up at London as though it all met with his approval.
Exhaustion from today’s ordeal was catching up with London. She wanted to get a shower and a lot of sleep before she faced whatever tomorrow might bring. As she headed toward the bathroom, she heard a telltale plop. She looked around and saw that Sir Reginald had jumped up onto the bed and was curling up to make himself comfortable.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” she said.
She picked up a cushion from one of the chairs and set it on the floor. Then she gently scooped up the dog and placed him on the cushion.
Sir Reginald let out a sound of discontent—more of a grumble than a growl.
London wagged her finger at him.
“None of that attitude,” she said. “If we’re going to be roommates even for a short while, you’ve got to be nice about it.”
Sir Reginald stopped grumbling. London almost thought she saw him nod slightly in agreement.
She took a welcome shower and dressed for bed. Then she came out of the bathroom, only to find Sir Reginald curled up on the bed again.
Again, she picked up the animal, who felt limp and sleepy, and deposited him back on the cushion on the floor. He made another sound, which was more like a sigh this time.
London lay down on the bed and dozed. In just a few moments, she was wakened by the sound of soft snoring. She opened her eyes and saw that Sir Reginald was lying on the bed a couple of feet away from her, fast asleep. It was London’s turn to sigh with resignation. There was obviously no way to make the dog change his mind about his place for the night.
Well, at least it’s a queen-size bed, she thought.
With some luck, she wouldn’t roll over and squash him.
As she began to doze again, she found herself wondering about what had happened to Mrs. Klimowski. Conflicting words kept echoing through her mind.
Natural causes, not foul game.
Why did she find herself doubting that explanation for Mrs. Klimowski’s death?
One seemingly insignificant detail kept nagging at her—the fact that Mrs. Klimowski’s pendant had turned up in her purse, not hanging around her neck.
After flaunting the object so brazenly, why had she taken it off?
Had she done so out of respect for her sacred surroundings?
Or …
Did she take it off at all?
Had some would-be thief removed the object, perhaps when the lady was unconscious or dead?
If so, why hadn’t the thief stolen it?
Why put it in the purse?
London remembered how empty the sanctuary had been when she’d arrived.
She’d seen no one else except Mrs. Klimowski.
So who had been there when she’d died?
The dog, perhaps?
London reached over and petted the dog lightly.
“I wish you could talk,” she whispered.
The dog made what sounded like a murmur of agreement.
Maybe he’ll still find some way to tell me, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Early the next morning, London and Elsie were struggling with a roulette table when London’s phone buzzed. A text message informed her:
Captain Hays wishes to see you in his quarters.
Checking out the message, Elsie muttered, “What do you think that’s about?” With a sigh, she dropped the heavy table leg on the floor among the other oddly shaped pieces of wood that lay scattered there.
London put down her screwdriver and considered the question.
“It could mean that Alezredes Borsos is here,” she said. “He said yesterday he wanted to talk to me this morning. Maybe he’s ready to wrap things up.”
“Wrap things up?”
“Yesterday the coroner told him Mrs. Klimowski probably died from natural causes. I have to admit, I’ve had my doubts—and my worries. But with some luck, maybe they’ve confirmed that once and for all. And if they have, we can set sail for Vienna today.”
Elsie’s expression brightened. “Better late than never, I guess,” she said. “The passengers are getting pretty restless—starting to look like some kind of herd on the verge of a stampede.”
London couldn’t disagree. Nobody aboard was happy to have their cruise interrupted. A few took the delay as a personal inconvenience. Most were disturbed at the death of a fellow passenger, even though no one claimed to have known Mrs. Klimowski well.
That was why London and Elsie had decided to set up an unused roulette table. Turning the Amadeus Lounge into a makeshift casino would offer at least some of the passengers a new pastime. Unfortunately, the roulette wheel was brand new and awaiting assembly.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you finish this,” London said, gesturing at the clutter on the floor.
Elsie laughed. “Obviously, I should have gotten a steward to take care of it in the first place. I’ll call for one now. Go. The captain calls.”
As London hurried to go down to the captain’s quarters, a suite-sized complex on the lower level, her own words rattled through her brain.
“With some luck …”
She certainly hoped that the coroner had determined that there had been no “foul game,” to use the alezredes’s phrase, in Mrs. Klimowski’s death. But her worry rose as she saw several police officers in the passageway.
Why would they be here if nothing was wrong? she wondered.
She knocked on the door to the captain’s quarters. Captain Hays opened the door and welcomed her into a small suite that was similar to her own stateroom plus a sitting area outfitted as an office. The simple décor showed that the amiable captain wasn’t inclined toward ostentation.
At the moment, he looked rather nervous.
Standing squarely in the center of the room was Alezredes Borsos himself. His chin and his barrel chest jutted ominously in his customary military bearing. He looked a lot larger and more intimidating than he had yesterday outside the basilica.
“Good morning, Miss Rose,” he said in his stiff English. “I wish we were meeting again under better circumstances.”
London stood staring at him, waiting for him to explain what he m
eant. He stared back with a strangely cunning smirk, as if he knew something about her that even she didn’t know.
The captain stammered, “London, I—I’m afraid that the coroner has determined that Mrs. Klimowski’s death was a case of … well …”
“Foul play,” the Alezredes said, with an emphasis on the second word.
He seemed pleased with himself to have learned the proper expression at last. Perhaps the captain had said it correctly in the moments before London had arrived.
London’s heart jumped up in her throat. She couldn’t say she was entirely surprised. Still, it was terrible to have her worst suspicions confirmed.
“I’m—I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” London said.
Of course, that was putting it mildly. London felt a rising panic as she wondered what kinds of trouble were about to ensue.
Meanwhile, Borsos was eyeing London silently.
“My I ask what was the cause of death?” London said.
Borsos’s lips shaped into a slight smile.
“Hamarosan megtudjuk, asszonyom,” he said.
With her imperfect Hungarian, it took London a couple of seconds to understand what he’d said.
“In good time, ma’am.”
London felt mystified.
“What do you mean, ‘in good time’?” she asked. “If you know that Mrs. Klimowski was, well, murdered, you must have some idea of how she was murdered. Well, don’t you?”
Borsos’s smile broadened ever so slightly.
“Hamarosan megtudjuk,” he said again.
London squinted at the man, trying to understand what was going on.
He seems to be playing some kind of game with me, she thought.
Which hardly seemed fair to her, considering that she had no idea what sort of game it was.
Unless …
London stifled a gasp of alarm.
Am I a murder suspect?
Alezredes Borsos held London’s gaze for a long moment, as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny, she glanced over at Captain Hays, who did his best to smile reassuringly.
“I’m sure if we all cooperate with the alezredes, we’ll get to the bottom of this,” the captain told her. “Just answer his questions as best you can.”
London nodded silently.
Then Borsos began to walk in a circle around her, making her feel even more insecure.
“You were the one who found Mrs. Klimowski’s body, were you not?” he asked gruffly.
London fought down an impulse to snap back at him, I told you about it yesterday.
But she didn’t dare provoke his anger.
“I was,” she replied instead.
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Klimowski before you found her in the church?” Borsos asked.
“Like I told you yesterday, she was part of a group I took for an afternoon meal at the Magyar Öröm. But I’m afraid she left before she ate much of anything.”
“And why was that?” Borsos asked.
London hesitated. She knew she’d better consider her answers very carefully.
“I’m not sure exactly,” London said. “She got irritated by a street musician—a violinist. This led to a rather testy exchange with another passenger.”
Borsos tilted his head as if he didn’t quite understand.
“What does this mean, ‘a testy exchange’?”
“Um, it means a slight quarrel,” London said, explaining the idiom.
“Anything serious?”
London thought back to Cyrus Bannister’s curt defense of the musician.
“You should show some respect.”
“Not really,” London said. “It was about a difference in musical taste. A silly thing. But Mrs. Klimowski overreacted, I’m afraid.”
“Overreacted?” Borsos asked.
“She suddenly seemed to be angry with us all. That’s when she left.”
“Ah.” Borsos closed his eyes and seemed to ruminate on her words for a moment. Then his eyes snapped open and he barked, “But you said she did eat something while she was there with you.”
“I think she did,” London stammered. “We all had soup, but she left before the main meal. And she drank a bit of water to take some pills.”
Again Borsos closed his eyes for a moment. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“What were your own feelings toward Mrs. Klimowski?” he asked.
London swallowed hard.
“I—well, I barely knew her, sir,” she said.
“But how did you feel about her?” Borsos demanded.
London knew that she needed to be perfectly honest.
“I can’t say I liked her, sir,” she said.
“No?”
“I suppose I did feel sorry for her, though. She seemed awfully lonely, and she kept talking about what a tragic life she’d had. But she had a disagreeable personality. She was difficult to get along with, and …”
“And?” Borsos prodded.
“Well, as far as I know, nobody aboard the Nachtmusik liked her very much.”
“Ah,” Borsos said, as if she’d said something highly significant.
She couldn’t imagine what that something might be, though.
“Did you mean the victim any harm?” Borsos asked.
“Of course not,” London said.
“Are you aware that anyone else aboard the boat might have wished her harm?”
“Not that I know of,” she said.
Borsos let out a chuckle, as if he knew better.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “I need for you to write down the names of all the people who were with the victim at the restaurant. Better yet, draw it for me. Show me exactly where everyone was seated. Specifically who was next to her. And put a mark by the person she had that, eh, ‘tested change’ with.”
It was all London could do to keep from correcting him.
“Testy exchange.”
But that would only make things worse than they already were. London took out a pad of paper and drew a rectangle to represent the table. Then she thought for a moment and drew little circles to represent the people sitting there. She jotted down a name beside each circle, showing all of the people who had eaten at the Magyar Öröm. And she put a check beside Cyrus Bannister’s name to indicate that he’d been the one who had quarreled with Mrs. Klimowski.
Borsos turned toward the captain and said, “Meanwhile, I must order that the Nachtmusik remain in port. All your passengers, crew, and staff must remain aboard.”
Captain Hays’s face was red with anger.
“Now see here, Alezredes Borsos,” he said. “If you suspect anyone in my employ—or any of my passengers, for that matter—of foul play, you’d better come right out and say so. And if you try to arrest anybody, I’ll have no choice but to contact the U.S. Embassy in Budapest. I’m sure that no one wants this unfortunate incident to assume international proportions.”
“Nor do I,” Borsos said. “But …”
After a pause he repeated those words, “Hamarosan megtudjuk.”
London reminded herself of their meaning.
“In good time.”
She had a sinking feeling she was going to be hearing those words a lot before this awful ordeal was over.
Borsos nodded as she handed him the diagram she’d made.
“That will be all for now,” he said. “You may go.”
Trembling with agitation, London left the captain’s stateroom.
I’m one of his suspects, she realized.
As she headed down the passageway toward her own stateroom, two crew members came storming down the circular staircase from the deck above.
“It’s chaos up there,” one proclaimed as they trotted past her.
“What do those cops expect to find, anyway?” the other replied as they disappeared in the direction of the crew quarters.
And indeed, the sound of shouting voices drifted down the stairs. She scrambled up the spi
ral stairs to the Romanze deck, where she saw a few more confused-looking crew members scrambling about.
She also found herself face to face with Cyrus Bannister, who was on his way either to or from his Schoenberg Suite.
He asked her sharply, “Does anybody have any idea what’s going on?”
London simply didn’t know what to say.
“Well, why don’t you know?” Cyrus added. “You’re the social director, aren’t you?”
Before London could reply, a voice came over the intercom.
“Fellow Epoch voyagers, this is your captain speaking. As you already know, the Nachtmusik has been detained in Gyor due to the untimely passing of one of our passengers. Unfortunately, this delay must continue for a while longer.”
As the captain continued, several of the passengers let out a murmur of disappointment.
“The chief captain of the Gyor Rendőrség—the local police—also insists that everybody remain aboard the Nachtmusik until further notice. I apologize for this inconvenience, and I assure you that we will set sail again as soon as we possibly can.”
The passengers were looking at London now, as if she could explain everything. She started avoiding their eyes.
The captain added, “Meanwhile, Alezredes Borsos wishes to speak to several passengers, who should come to my quarters as I call their names. The first are … Walter and Agnes Shick.”
“Do you have any idea what this all about?” Cyrus asked London with annoyance.
“He just wants to ask all of us some questions,” London said.
Cyrus squinted at her suspiciously as he headed away.
London felt a pang of guilt. She wished Borsos hadn’t insisted that she write down that list. Her heart sank as she imagined the ordeal the elderly Shicks were likely to endure under the onslaught of Borsos’s questions.
She also wished she hadn’t had to single Cyrus out as the person who had quarreled with Mrs. Klimowski. She couldn’t imagine that Cyrus or anybody else who had been at the restaurant had anything to do with Mrs. Klimowski’s death. She hated the thought of getting them into any kind of trouble, even if only fleetingly.
But it’s not like I had any choice, she reminded herself.
London rode the elevator down to the Allegro deck and headed for her stateroom. When she opened the door, she was a bit startled to be eagerly greeted by a little mop of a dog. She’d almost forgotten that she was taking care of Sir Reginald Taft for the time being.
