by Blake Pierce
Gus sat down on the edge of the bed.
“The captain called for that Cyrus Bannister guy to come to his quarters,” Gus said. “He’s the one who’s telling on me, isn’t he? Now there’s a weird guy for you. And he and the old lady got into an argument just before she went away. If any of us killed the woman, I’ll bet he did.”
Honey rolled her eyes.
“They were just arguing about music,” she said. “It was nothing to kill anybody about.”
“You never know,” Gus said. “He might have been a ticking bomb, ready to blow up over the tiniest little thing.”
London scratched her chin thoughtfully. Was it possible that Gus was right? She’d felt uneasy about Cyrus since she’d first met him, and he certainly hadn’t liked Mrs. Klimowski—especially how she treated her dog. And he’d been sitting right next to her at lunch. Could he have slipped something into her soup or her glass of water?
Maybe, she thought. But why? Because of music?
She shook her head and muttered aloud.
“It doesn’t make any sense. None of it makes any sense.”
London was startled out of her thoughts by a loud knock at the door.
The police! she realized.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
There was a louder knock at the door, followed by a sharp, authoritative voice.
“Ez a rendõség. Nyissa ki az ajtót.”
“Huh?” Honey yelled back.
“They want to come inside,” London explained to her quietly.
Sure enough, one of the police repeated the orders in English.
“This is the police. Open the door.”
Gus was pale and silent and shaking with fear. But Honey seemed as calm as she possibly could be.
“What do you want?” Honey called back.
“Alezredes Borsos wishes to speak with Mr. Gus Jarrett. We’ve come to take him to the captain’s quarters for questioning.”
Gus jumped up from the bed and took a few steps toward the bathroom, but Honey held up her hand to stop him.
“Huh-uh, baby,” she said. “You can’t hide now. We’ll all get in in trouble if you try. You’ve just got to go to the captain’s room and explain to the nice cops that you’re not a bloodthirsty killer. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can do it. Who’d take you for a killer, anyway?”
Opening the door, Honey said, “Come on in, boys.”
London had to restrain her own giggles at the looks on the officers’ faces as they encountered the pink-clad Honey Jarrett with her flaming red hair. One of them looked at London instead, apparently trying to conceal his embarrassment.
Finally one of the officers made his way past Honey and asked her husband, “Are you Gus Jarrett?”
“Uh-huh,” Gus murmured almost inaudibly.
“He means yes,” Honey said. “But really, you guys are wasting your time with him. Gus is the most harmless little soul on the face of the planet—and one of the most boring, too. He wouldn’t even hurt an old lady—even though I guess that’s exactly what you think he did. It’s all some mistake. Your boss will know it the moment he sets eyes on him. Well, be as nice as you can to him. He won’t give you any trouble.”
The cops started leading Gus into the hallway. Before she shut the door behind them, Honey called out to them.
“And don’t even think about torturing him! That’d really make me mad, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m mad. You hear?”
“Yes, madam,” the English-speaking officer replied.
They left, and Honey shut the door behind them.
“This whole situation’s crazy,” Honey said to London. “Maybe you’d better get back to your Nancy Drew gig and figure out who did kill Mrs. Klimowski.”
London put the dog on the floor and sat down on the bed.
“If only I knew where to begin,” she said.
“Well, do you have any hunches?” Honey asked, sitting beside her.
London thought hard for a moment.
“It’s hard for me to believe it was anyone on the ship,” she said.
“Maybe you just don’t want to believe it,” Honey said.
She’s right, London thought with a sigh.
After all, if someone on the boat was a murderer, it made London’s failure to protect Mrs. Klimowski seem all the worse.
She and Honey both fell silent for a moment.
Leaning over to scratch the dog’s head, Honey muttered, “Such a sweetie.”
London said, “You know, if anybody knows who killed Mrs. Klimowski, it’s …”
London’s voice faded.
“It’s this adorable little dog,” Honey said.
“That’s right,” London said. “He was right there in the church when she died.”
“If only he could talk,” Honey said.
London agreed and left the stateroom and headed for her own quarters. Sir Reginald seemed to have gotten a bit tired, so she set him on the bed, where he quickly dozed off.
What do I do now? she wondered yet again.
She figured she’d better explore the ship looking for clues. She left Sir Reginald asleep in the room and took the elevator back up to the Menuetto level. When she got off the elevator, she found a number passengers milling about the reception area and chattering in small, restless groups.
A woman spotted her and cried out, “Oh, look! It’s the social director!”
“Maybe she can explain things!” said a man in her group.
A small cluster of passengers rushed anxiously toward her.
“Could you please tell us what’s happening?” the woman begged.
“There are policemen on board!” said a man, who London remembered was the woman’s husband.
Another passenger broke in, “Why do we have to stay on the boat?”
“Are we prisoners?” said another.
Yet another said, “Are these really police? Or are they terrorists disguised as police?”
Another passenger let out a gasp.
“My God! Are we in a hostage situation?”
London felt a twinge of alarm.
I’ve got to stop this idea from getting around.
Calling up her calmest demeanor, she told them, “I can absolutely assure everybody that these uniformed men really are police, and they’re only doing their jobs, and this is definitely not a hostage situation. The police are here about Mrs. Klimowski’s unfortunate passing.”
“Unfortunate passing!” snapped one passenger. “I think you mean murder!”
A murmur of agitated agreement passed through the group.
London fought down a sigh.
It was no longer possible to evade the topic with more soothing terms like “unfortunate passing.”
The group of people clustering around her was getting larger.
“Yes, the police do suspect foul play,” London said. “And the more we cooperate with them, the sooner they’ll solve this case.”
Another woman let out a gasp.
“Are you saying there’s a killer in our midst?” she said.
“Right here on the boat?” another said.
“A serial killer, maybe?” another asked.
“Maybe one of us will be the next victim!” yet another exclaimed.
London knew she had to stop the rumor mill from getting out of hand.
“There’s no serial killer,” she said. “And no one on the Nachtmusik is in any danger—not with these policemen on board.”
More passengers had arrived and gathered around her, and the passageway was effectively blocked. She tried to gauge their reactions. At least some of them appeared reassured by her words.
But London felt a sharp flash of worry.
How do I know I’m telling them the truth? she thought.
How did she know that no one was danger?
How could she even know for absolute certain that there wasn’t a serial killer aboard, getting ready to take another life right now?
She actually knew very little herself—and yet
it was her job to inspire these people with confidence and assurance. And to do that, she had to appear a lot more sure of herself than she really felt.
She swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected bluffing to ever be part of her job. But now she really had no choice.
“I wish I could tell you more,” she said, “but everything will be all right as long as everybody cooperates and stays calm. Now—will you please make sure that none of the other passengers spread any rumors? If you hear any crazy theories, try to set people straight. You know all there is to know at this point. Try to make sure everybody understands that.”
Somewhat to London’s surprise, several people nodded in agreement. She seemed to have genuinely managed to calm at least some of them down. Putting out fires like this was part of her job, of course, and sometimes she forgot that she was really good at her job.
As the passengers began to go their separate ways, London found herself watching them closely, wondering what they might be thinking.
A frightening possibility occurred to her.
What if one of them is the killer?
She shuddered as something else dawned on her.
They might be wondering the same thing about each other.
They might even be wondering the same thing about me.
For that matter, it now occurred to her—how certain could she be that Gus wasn’t the killer after all?
Or Honey?
Or both of them together?
They’d both seemed perfectly innocent back in their stateroom. But maybe they were just really good actors—and really bad people.
She inhaled slowly to settle her thoughts. She told herself that now was no time to get paranoid.
Suddenly, Walter Shick came charging into the reception area.
“Someone, come quick!” he called out. “It’s my wife! She’s … she’s not well!”
Then he turned and ran out of the lounge.
London gasped aloud as she got to her feet and started to dash after him.
Something had happened to Agnes Shick—but what?
Has the murderer struck again? London wondered.
Might there be a serial killer aboard the Nachtmusik after all?
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
As she ran out of the lounge after Walter Shick, London grabbed her cell phone to call Bryce Yeaton, the ship’s medic. But her fingers were shaking too hard to punch in his number.
Then she saw Bryce coming out of the ship’s elevator with his black bag in hand.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Something has happened to—”
“Yes, I know,” Bryce interrupted her. “Agnes Shick is unwell. Walter just called me, and I came straight from the infirmary.”
London and Bryce followed Walter into the hallway and to one of the smaller suites—the Johann Strauss II—where he and Agnes were staying.
When they both went inside, London saw that this suite was slightly smaller than the one that Mrs. Klimowski had inhabited, but she thought that it was much more cheerful. Decorated as a tribute to Johann Strauss II—the famous nineteenth-century “waltz king”—it featured pictures of the composer at every age of his life, pages of musical scores, and lush paintings of glamorous balls and exquisitely dressed dancers.
Agnes Shick was sitting on the edge of the bed, sweating and crying and gasping for breath. Her husband sat down beside her and gently smoothed her hair with his hand.
“Brian … Brian … is the doctor here?” she gasped.
“Yes, he’s here.”
London was startled.
Why was Agnes calling her husband Walter by the name “Brian”?
“Oh, Brian, Brian,” Agnes repeated.
Walter gave London a quick, anxious look, then turned back to his wife.
“Hush, dear,” he whispered soothingly. “It’s Walter. I’m here for you. And so is the medic. London is here too.”
Then Walter turned toward London and Bryce and said, “A few minutes ago Agnes and I came back to our room after being questioned by that awful police chief. The attack started just now.”
Agnes looked around nervously as Bryce crouched beside her.
“Tell me how it feels,” he said to her in a gentle voice.
“It hurts,” she said.
“Where?”
“In my chest. And I … I can barely breathe.”
London wondered whether Agnes was having a heart attack.
She also wondered—had Mrs. Klimowski suffered these same symptoms before she died? Had Agnes Shick been poisoned, too?
Bryce took out his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and quickly checked Agnes’s heartbeat and blood pressure.
“Has she had episodes like this before?” Bryce asked Walter.
“Yes, but not for years.”
“How long have the attacks lasted?”
“Oh, usually just a few minutes. But that was long ago. And this one seemed worse, and I—well, it really frightened me.”
“I can understand why,” Bryce said. “But don’t worry, everything will be all right.”
London was taken by the quietly authoritative, reassuring tone in his Australian-accented voice.
For the first time she realized that he was really quite an impressive man.
And handsome too.
As if London needed any further cause to feel attracted to him, he looked directly at her with clear, sensitive blue eyes and smiled.
“London, could you get us a glass of water?” he asked.
London nodded and headed for the bathroom. As she turned on the faucet and poured water into a glass, she tried to shake off her sudden surge of interest in Bryce. It hardly seemed to suit the moment.
What am I, some schoolgirl?
Then she advised herself, Focus.
She needed to keep her wits about her and deal with whatever was happening. And whatever was happening seemed very strange.
It didn’t sound like Agnes had been poisoned, after all. But something must have happened to set off an anxiety attack. Was it just the stress of being interrogated by the alezredes? And why had she gotten confused about her husband’s name?
Agnes called Walter “Brian.”
Why had she done that?
Had her attack caused her some sort of mental confusion?
Or was there some other reason?
As she walked back into the room with the water, Bryce was sitting on the bed next to Agnes speaking to Walter.
“This is the Strauss room, eh? Nice music comes with these rooms, I believe. A waltz or two might be rather helpful right now, eh?”
Walter smiled slightly in agreement. He got up from the bed and flipped on a wall switch, and sure enough, a familiar melody began to play.
It was “The Blue Danube” waltz by Johann Strauss II. It began slowly and softly, then grew faster and more cheerful. With its steady, regular, dance-like beat of 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, it was also soothing and calming and cheerful. Soon both Agnes and her husband were visibly more at ease.
This attractive medic and chef had been clever to recommend it.
Meanwhile, Bryce had taken a small medicine container out of his bag.
He spoke to Agnes, who was still breathing quickly but was noticeably calmer.
“You’re having a panic attack,” he said. “I know it’s frightening, but you’re not in any danger, believe me. It will soon pass—just like all the attacks you used to have. Do you have any idea what might have triggered it?”
Agnes closed her eyes tightly.
“It’s the police,” she said. “It’s all these police all over the place, and—”
Walter gently but firmly interrupted her.
“And being confined to this boat, I think,” he said to Bryce.
“Understandable,” Bryce said. “It’s getting on a lot of passengers’ nerves, I’m sure. Agnes, are you allergic to any medications?”
“No.”
“Are you taking any prescription medicines?�
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“A couple,” Agnes said. “I can’t remember their names.”
Walter said, “She takes amlodipine for her blood pressure and pravastatin for her cholesterol levels. That’s all. She’s really very healthy.”
Bryce opened the medicine container and took out a pill.
“I’d like you to take one of these, then,” he said.
“What is it?” Agnes asked.
“Oh, it’s a commonly prescribed mild tranquilizer, and you may well have taken it at other times for one reason or another. It’s got a lot of trade names, but clinically speaking, it’s a variety of benzodiazepine.”
Agnes swallowed the pill with some water.
“There, now,” Bryce said, patting her hand. “I’ll bet you feel better already.”
“I do, actually,” Agnes replied.
London couldn’t help but smile. Of course the pill couldn’t possibly have taken effect yet. But Bryce’s kindly manner and even his suggestion of music were already producing positive results.
“You’ll feel just fine shortly,” Bryce said to Agnes. Handing the medicine bottle to Walter he added, “I’m giving your husband four more pills for you to use as needed. I don’t imagine you will need all of them during the rest of this trip, but if you do and you need more, come to the infirmary or give me a call.”
Walter and Agnes both warmly thanked Bryce, and he and London left the room.
“It’s nothing unexpected,” Bryce said to London in a reassuring voice. “Mrs. Klimowski’s death naturally has everyone aboard on edge—me too, to be perfectly honest. And now we’re all confined to this boat, which is swarming with police. Nerves are rattled. But we’ll all get through it, I promise. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to the infirmary. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ll be having similar cases in the next little while.”
As Bryce headed toward the elevator, London was seized by a renewed wave of exhaustion. She felt herself jump nervously when the elevator doors opened and a pair of the roaming police officers marched off.
How much more of this would it take, she wondered, for me to have my very own panic attack?
She hurried into the elevator before the doors closed again and took it down to the Allegro deck. Maybe she could find a few moments of peace and quiet in her own stateroom.
