At least during the valuation of all her jewelry I don’t have to worry about someone asking why so many pieces are cheap. Maybe they’ll think that with everything she bought over the years, she might have been taken by a crooked jeweler who sold her the junk. Lady Em insured only the jewelry that was worth more than one hundred thousand dollars. Those are the pieces they’ll focus on. Ralphie and I luckily stayed away from the insured jewelry.
Brenda reassured herself with that thought until it occurred to her that Lady Em might have asked Celia Kilbride to take a look at her “picnic” bracelet. I should find out a little more about this gemologist, Brenda thought to herself, as she opened her laptop. She typed Celia Kilbride into Google. The first story that appeared was about Celia’s potential link to her former fiancé’s hedge fund swindle. But Brenda’s eyes widened as she saw another headline exclaiming “Philanthropist Lady Emily Haywood Murdered on Luxury Cruise Ship.”
After quickly scanning the story, she closed her computer. She felt herself breathing rapidly. I was going to be okay, she thought, if Lady Em had died in her sleep. That’s what old people do. If they’re right and she was murdered, will that change the way they look at me?
It might provide cover for me and Ralphie. The article had said that the Cleopatra necklace was missing. That means the killer probably got into Lady Em’s safe. Unless he’s caught, nobody will know how much jewelry or which pieces were stolen. If I’m asked, I can say that Lady Em used to make copies of various pieces of her jewelry. She brought a number of legitimate pieces and a number of copies on the trip. The thief must have taken some of the good stuff and left the junk.
Brenda was now feeling infinitely better. That also explains the guard at the door of her suite and not letting me in, she thought. The ship was trying to cover up the murder and theft by saying she died of natural causes.
Lady Em’s gone and I have an alibi regarding the jewelry, but I’m not completely home free.
If Lady Em told Celia she suspected I had substituted the bracelet, would Celia tell that to the police when the ship docked? Or would she tell the Captain now, and will the police be waiting for me? If Lady Em was murdered, would Celia feel even more compelled to report anything Lady Em told her? But will Celia have any credibility because of the fund swindle?
If she tells them anything, it will be her word against mine, Brenda told herself nervously, as she returned to the dining room and asked the waiter to bring her a fresh cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin. Five minutes later, after she had taken a big bite of her muffin, her jaw froze. I’m the only one who has a key to Lady Em’s suite. Is anybody going to think I might have killed her?
58
Ted Cavanaugh was finishing breakfast and winding up a telephone conversation with his law partner when the announcement of Lady Haywood’s death came over the public address system. He was holding a cup of coffee and had to grasp it tightly to keep from dropping it.
He felt sorry for Lady Em, but his next thought was, I hope that the Cleopatra necklace is safe. I wonder if word of her death has reached the press, he thought, as he began tapping on his iPhone. It certainly had.
“Lady Emily Haywood Murdered and Famous Necklace May Be Missing” was the headline on Yahoo News. That can’t be true, he thought, even as he realized there must have been some verification. The Captain’s announcement had said nothing about murder. There are always wild rumors online, but he guessed this was too extraordinary to not be true. The story went on to say that in the early hours of this morning, Lady Haywood had been smothered with a pillow as she lay in bed. It said that her safe was open and jewelry was scattered on the floor.
The Cleopatra necklace. What a tragedy if it was lost. It was the last piece of jewelry Cleopatra had sent for as she prepared to commit suicide rather than be taken prisoner by Octavian.
He thought of the antiquities he and his law partners had recovered for the rightful owners. Paintings for the families of Auschwitz victims. Paintings and sculptures for the Louvre museum that had been stolen when France was occupied in World War II. And they had successfully sued antiques and art dealers who had peddled to unsuspecting buyers copies of valuable artifacts as if they were the real thing.
His mind raced as he thought of the people on the ship who were close to Lady Em.
Brenda Martin, of course.
Roger Pearson, but he was dead. Were Lady Em and Pearson’s widow close?
How about Celia Kilbride? Lady Em had attended her lectures, chatted with her when they ended and invited the gemologist to sit at her table.
He typed “Celia Kilbride” into Google. The lead story was a People magazine interview with her accused former fiancé, who swore she was in on his swindle.
As a lawyer he knew that after the release of the interview the FBI would be compelled to take a closer look at her potential involvement in the theft. Her legal fees must be exorbitant.
Could she have been driven to steal the necklace? If she stole it, how did she get into Lady Em’s room?
He tried to imagine what had transpired in Lady Em’s suite. Did Lady Em wake up and find her opening the safe?
And if that happened, would Celia Kilbride have panicked, grabbed a pillow and smothered Lady Em?
But even as all this occurred to him, Ted could visualize Celia Kilbride coming into the cocktail party last night, looking absolutely beautiful as she warmly greeted other people in the room.
59
With increasing despair, Roger Pearson had watched the sun come up. His arms were leaden. His teeth were chattering. A cold rain had provided essential freshwater for him to gulp, but left his whole body shivering.
It was an effort to keep his arms and legs moving. He knew that if he was not in hypothermia, he was very close to it. He didn’t know if he would have the energy to re-inflate the pants he was using as a flotation device when the remaining air escaped. I can’t last much longer, he thought.
And then he thought he saw it. Some type of ship coming his way. He had long ago given up any semblance of religion, but now he found himself praying. Dear God, let somebody be looking this way. Let someone see me.
There are no atheists in foxholes was his last conscious thought, while forcing himself not to wave until he was in visual range of the ship. Now he was struggling to keep afloat in the swells that had suddenly begun to choke his nostrils and push him away from the oncoming vessel.
60
Alvirah and Willy were deep in conversation as they put in their daily mile and a half stroll on the promenade deck. “Willy, there was always the risk of someone stealing the Cleopatra necklace, but for someone to smother that poor lady to get it is so awful.”
“Greed is an awful motive,” Willy said somberly, then noticed that Alvirah was wearing the sapphire ring he had given her for their forty-fifth wedding anniversary. “Honey, you never wear any jewelry during the day except your wedding ring,” he commented. “How come you’re sporting the new one?”
“Because I don’t intend to have anyone sneak into our stateroom and steal it,” Alvirah replied. “And I’ll bet most of the people on this ship are doing the same thing. And if they don’t want to wear it, they’ll be carrying it in their handbags. Oh Willy, to think how this cruise was perfection for the first few days. And then poor Roger Pearson fell overboard and now Lady Em was murdered. Who would have believed it?”
Willy did not answer. He was looking at the dark clouds that were forming overhead and feeling the increased side-to-side rolling motion of the ship. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re going into heavy weather, he thought. If we do, I hope it won’t start to feel like the Titanic: luxury upon luxury, only to end in disaster.
What a crazy thought. He chided himself as he reached for Alvirah’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
61
The Man with One Thousand Faces had listened grimly as the Captain announced Lady Em’s death over the ship’s public address system.
I’m sorry I had
to kill her, he thought. It was for nothing. The necklace was gone. It wasn’t in the safe. I searched through all the drawers in the bedroom. I didn’t have time to look in the living room. But I’m certain she would not have left it there.
Where is it? Who has it? Anyone on this ship could have followed her and seen her enter her suite. Who else would have had a key to her suite?
As he paced around the promenade deck, he began to calm down and plan. The kind of people on this trip certainly aren’t the type who would steal a necklace, he decided.
She obviously didn’t feel well at dinner. Anyone who was watching her as closely as I was could see that. Would her assistant, Brenda, have gone up to the suite after dinner? It was possible, even probable.
It appeared that there was some strain between her and Lady Em. Was Brenda the one who had the necklace now?
Ahead of him on the deck he caught sight of the Meehans. Instinct told him to be careful of Alvirah. He had looked her up. She better not try to solve this crime, he thought.
He slowed his pace so as not to catch up with them. He needed time to think, to plan. There were only three days left until they would reach Southampton, and there was no way he was leaving this ship without the Cleopatra necklace.
And Brenda was the only one whom he was sure had a key to Lady Em’s suite. He knew what his next move would have to be.
62
Celia ran for an hour, then showered, dressed and sent for coffee and a muffin. The words “what shall I do?” were swirling through her mind. Suppose I go to the Captain and give him the necklace, she asked herself, will he believe me? And if he doesn’t, will he lock me in the brig? Can I wipe my fingerprints off it and leave it someplace where it would be found? That’s one possibility. But suppose someone sees me or it is caught on camera? What then? Would they be allowed to search the cabins for it? No, if they had done that, they would have already found the necklace in my safe.
Panicked at that thought, Celia looked around the room frantically. She went to the safe, opened it and took out the Cleopatra necklace. She had dressed for her lecture and was wearing a jacket and slacks. The jacket was the flowing style with one wide button at the neck. The slacks had deep pockets. Could she possibly keep the necklace on her person? Her hands trembled as she shoved the bulky piece into the left-hand pocket and ran to the mirror.
There was no bulge showing.
It’s the best I can do, she thought despairingly.
63
Kim Volpone liked nothing better than taking a walk before breakfast. She was sailing on Paradise, a ship that was headed for her first stop, Southampton. A hard overnight rain had subsided and the sun had just popped through. The deck was almost void of passengers.
As she walked, she inhaled deeply. She loved the smell of the fresh ocean breeze. Forty years old and freshly divorced, she was cruising with her closest friend, Laura Bruno, and experiencing a sense of great relief that the nasty business of dividing assets was over. Her husband Walter had turned out to be a Walter Mitty type, pipe dreams instead of reality.
Midway through the walk, she stopped and looked out over the horizon. She squinted her eyes and blinked. What was that she was seeing? Was it some of the floating garbage that unfortunately found its way into these waters? Maybe, but something appeared to be moving back and forth.
About twenty feet from her was an older man standing with his arm around a woman near his age. Around his neck was a strap holding a pair of binoculars.
“Excuse me, sir, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Kim Volpone.”
“I’m Ralph Mittl, and this is my wife Mildred.”
“Would it be possible, Ralph, to borrow your binoculars?”
Reluctantly, he agreed. “Please be careful,” he admonished her. “They’re very expensive.”
“I will be,” Kim promised absently, as she took them from his hands. She put the strap around her neck and adjusted the lenses. When she focused on the moving object, she caught her breath. It appeared to be an arm flailing back and forth. She gasped, pulled the strap from around her neck, and handed the binoculars back to their owner.
“Look over there,” she said as she pointed. “What do you see?”
Surprised at the urgency in her voice, he took the binoculars, readjusted them to his vision and directed them toward the horizon. “There’s someone out there,” he exclaimed and turned back to her.
“I’ll keep watching,” he said. “Go tell a crew member to call the Captain. There’s someone in the water. He’s trying to signal our ship.”
Ten minutes later, a boat with four crewmen aboard had been lowered and was speeding toward whoever was in the water.
64
Captain Fairfax and John Saunders had answered Morrison’s shouted commands to come to his suite at once. “How did that story leak out?” an apoplectic Morrison demanded. “Who told them what happened?”
“I can only assume that the Man with One Thousand Faces was the source,” Saunders answered.
“How about Dr. Blake? How about the butler?”
Captain Fairfax stiffened but tried not to let his anger show.
“If my life depended on it, I would say that Dr. Blake would never reveal that information. As for Raymond Broad, as I told you, I am not even sure he was aware of the fact that Lady Haywood was the victim of foul play. If I were to make a guess, I would agree with what Mr. Saunders just said. This is likely another example of the Man with One Thousand Faces bragging to the media.”
“Wait a minute. What about that guy, the detective from Interpol? What’s his name?” Morrison said, the creases in his forehead deepening.
“It’s Devon Michaelson, sir,” Captain Fairfax replied.
“Tell him I want him to get up here now. And I mean right now,” Morrison thundered.
Without answering, Fairfax reached for the phone. “Ring me Devon Michaelson’s suite,” he said. Three rings later he picked up. “Mr. Michaelson, this is Captain Fairfax. I’m in Mr. Morrison’s suite. He wants you to come up immediately and meet with him.”
“Of course. I know where it is. I’ll be right there.”
For a long three minutes there was an uncomfortable silence. It was broken when Devon Michaelson tapped on the door and opened it.
Morrison wasted no time on pleasantries. “I hear you’re with Interpol,” he said abruptly. “We’ve had a murder and a piece of priceless jewelry stolen. Weren’t you supposed to prevent that?”
Michaelson did not attempt to hide the anger in his face. “Mr. Morrison,” he said, his tone icy, “I assume you will provide me with the security tapes from the dining area and the hallways leading to where Lady Haywood’s suite is located.”
Captain Fairfax answered, “Mr. Michaelson, you are probably not aware of the situation on most cruise liners. Because we value the privacy of our guests, we do not place cameras in the hallways.”
“Well, that means you are also protecting the privacy of a thief and a murderer. Did it occur to you that with the valuables your guests have in their very expensive suites, it might have been appropriate to have a security guard present at all times?”
“Don’t you tell me how to run my ship,” Morrison snapped. “Guards everywhere! I’m running a luxury liner, not a prison. Now, I’m sure that you are a very fine detective and by now you have solved this case. Why don’t you tell us all what happened?”
Michaelson’s tone was equally icy. “I can tell you that I am taking a very close look at several people.”
“I want to know who they are,” Morrison demanded.
“Experience has taught me to first focus on the individual who found the body. Very often that person is not saying as much as he knows. I am probing further into the background of your butler, Raymond Broad.”
“I assure you that every employee on this ship was thoroughly investigated before being hired,” Saunders insisted.
“I’m sure they were,” Michaelson said. “But I assure you that Int
erpol’s investigative resources vastly surpass those available to you.”
“Who else?” Morrison asked.
“There are several other passengers whose backgrounds are of interest to me. For now I will share the name of only one. Mr. Edward Cavanaugh.”
“The ambassador’s son?” Fairfax asked with dismay.
“Ted, as he calls himself, Cavanaugh, travels extensively in Europe and the Middle East. I have reviewed his flight records, passport stamps and hotel records. By coincidence or otherwise, he has been in close proximity to the scenes of the Man with One Thousand Faces thefts over the past seven years. And he has openly indicated his interest in the so-called Cleopatra necklace.
“And now having answered your questions, I will take my leave.”
As the door closed behind Michaelson, Captain Fairfax said, “Mr. Morrison, another matter. I have been inundated with calls and emails from the press seeking comment on how Lady Em died and if the Cleopatra necklace has been stolen. How do you want me to reply?”
“We stick to our story that Lady Em died of natural causes, period,” Morrison shot back.
Fairfax asked, “We do know that the Cleopatra necklace is missing. Should we not warn the passengers to be careful with their valuables?”
“Not one word about missing or stolen jewelry,” Morrison snapped. “That’s all.”
The two men took that as a dismissal and left the suite.
Even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, Gregory Morrison went to the suite bar and poured himself a generous glass of vodka. He was not given to praying, but he was thinking, Dear God, don’t let it be an employee who killed her.