PART 1
In Which Persimmon Worthing Accepts an Unexpected Invitation
Everyone knows that grand adventures can be mostly grand, or mostly adventure. My grand adventure a month ago was one of the latter, quickly becoming a mystery to test the best grey cells of the best brains of the investigative world.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the tragic events that occurred on board the Queen Mary 2 as she sailed from New York to Southampton. Something untoward always occurs at gatherings in my hometown of Blossom City, so I ought to have expected the unfortunate tradition to continue during my voyage across the Atlantic. Between you and me, I’m beginning to wonder if it is I, Persimmon Branch Worthing, who attracts mysterious goings-on, rather than Blossom City. But I shall keep that worry to myself as I’d rather not have our local police looking at me with suspicion.
I digress.
It all began when I received an invitation to the fortieth reunion of Lady Highsmith’s Finishing School for Young Women, class of 1985. After what transpired during my attendance at the school, I was astonished to see that invitation. Perhaps, I thought, forty years was sufficient to dull the memory of headmistress Imogene Capp. A quick search online, however, revealed that DeathCapp (as we students dubbed our strict head of school) had met and married a Welsh chicken farmer and was now ruling an entirely different roost.
The opportunity to reconnect with my former school chums was reason enough to accept the invitation and book a flight to London. But before I could contact my travel agent, I received an email from Gregory Passel, who I have known since he traded his school uniform for that of a luxury ship’s captain.
“Persimmon,” he wrote, “the company has given me a new ship to command! Do you remember the days we watched sailors leave Dartmouth Harbour and pledged to sail together aboard a majestic liner? Of course you do! Well, Persie, the time has come. Because I, Gregory Passel, am now Captain of the Queen Mary 2 and you must sail with me to England.”
And in a fortunate stroke of serendipity, I discovered that I could book a sailing on the liner from New York in early December and arrive in Southampton in ample time to attend the Finishing School Reunion. As a bonus, I could spend Christmas in Devon.
Who could resist? I mean, there are signs, and then there are signs. I booked a first-class cabin on the ship and fired off an email to Gregory telling him I would join him on the Queen Mary 2 in December.
The first clue that the trip might involve more than canapés and cocktails arrived just as I was about to board my flight to New York, in the form of another text from Gregory. Apparently. the ship’s social director needed urgent, but minor, surgery. “Would you,” he said, “fill the role? I remember you often organized social activities for your classmates.”
“You’ll also remember,” I said in my return text. “Those activities caused Imogene “Death” Capp to telephone my parents more than once and threaten to expel me.”
In the end, Gregory’s comment that the guests may enjoy dressing up as a T-rex for dinner convinced me to help him out.
My seatmate on the flight to New York was Pinkie D’Angelo, an elegant woman of a certain age with the effervescent personality that pairs so well with red hair. I surreptitiously studied her hair as the attendant handed us glasses of complimentary champagne, but if she’d had a dye job, she’d paid a premium for it.
Pinkie raised her glass to me. “Life’s too short to travel economy or drink cheap wine.”
Exactly. I drained my glass.
Over dinner on the flight, I discovered that Pinkie was also sailing on the Queen Mary 2. I had the comforting thought that being the temporary social director on the cruise would be a breeze with Pinkie on board.
As I sipped my digestif, I confessed two things to Pinkie. First, that the ship’s captain had coerced me into acting as social director for our transatlantic cruise. Second—and I still don’t know why I mentioned this although Pinkie had a knack of encouraging one to share (she’d do well as a psychologist)—that I often assisted my local police force in solving murders. Well, between you and me, usually it was I who solved the murders and pointed the police in the correct direction. But one does not like to brag.
“Oh, fabulous!” Pinkie said. “I had imagined seven days of nothing but shuffleboard and bridge. But with you organizing activities, Persimmon, I know our cruise will be full of adventure! And I hope you’re planning a murder mystery dinner? Your experience investigating crimes will make it so authentic.”
If I hadn’t been planning one, I was now. “Exactly.”
My first stop on the ship, after unpacking and testing the firmness of the king bed in my sumptuous cabin, was one of the many bars. There, I sipped a French 75 and jotted notes about mixers and activities I could introduce to the passengers. Hide and Seek. Spin the Bottle (replacing kissing with ice-breaking chitchat). Two Truths and a Lie, always guaranteed to reveal astonishing—even juicy—things about others.
Just as I wrote “Murder Mystery Cocktail Hour” on the page, a woman slid onto the bar stool next to me.
“Vodka martini with a twist,” she said to the bartender. Her voice was sultry, and I turned, expecting to see a modern-day version of Elizabeth Taylor. Instead, the woman who smiled warmly at me would have made a superb undercover operator. She could blend into any crowd. Nondescript. Dumpy, if one were inclined to make a catty comment.
“I’m Patsy Strippingly,” she said.
I introduced myself and when she glanced at my list of activities, I explained I was the temporary social director for the cruise.
“How lovely!” She tasted her martini and nodded. “Excellent.” After a moment she said, “I heard the ship has a burlesque show. Perhaps you could encourage passengers to take part? Frankly, I’ve always wanted to be a member of a burlesque troupe.”
I was initially flabbergasted that Patsy wanted to do burlesque. But when I really looked at her—shapely legs that her mid-calf skirt couldn’t camouflage, large brown eyes that with the right makeup would be extraordinary, elegant hands, and an undeniable grace in the way she held her body—I could easily see her capturing the audience’s attention on stage.
I added “Vaudeville at Sea” to my list.
We had not been underway more than five hours before the captain announced the ship was briefly diverting to Halifax. “Nothing to worry about, folks,” he said. “A guest needs to disembark. No more than a three-hour delay.”
“Nothing to worry about” is one of those expressions that invariably mean the reverse. “You can’t miss it” means you undoubtedly will. “The cheque’s in the mail” means it isn’t. “I’ll still respect you in the morning” means I’ll say anything to get you in the sack. At least it did when I was in finishing school.
I recognized this diversion as the second clue that my grand adventure may be fraught with challenges. The first niggling suspicion that I might be late for the Lady Highsmith’s Finishing School for Young Women reunion settled in my brain.
As you would expect, I was on the deck when we anchored outside the Halifax port. I watched the tender approach the liner, and several uniformed men board the ship. Perhaps a passenger was ill? Thirty minutes later the men reappeared. In their midst was a tall, slim blonde. She clasped her hands in front of her. Two of the men held her elbows, as if to steady her. As they escorted her onto the tender, the moonlight glinted off her bracelets. She stumbled and thrust her hands out in front. Strange, I thought, that her hands didn’t separate when she flung them forward. I made a mental note to grill Gregory.
The next day, when we had lost all sight of land, I hosted the first ice breaker. I instructed the passengers grouped around me, “Tell us two truths about yourself and one lie. We’ll attempt to guess the lie.”
To get things rolling I went first. “I own Branch Bulbs, the biggest source of tulips in British Columbia. I have solved at least six murders in my hometown. I have George Clooney’s private number on speed dial.”
Patsy Strippingly went next. “I once sang karaoke with a minor Royal who couldn’t carry a tune if it came with handles. I once turned down champagne because it wasn’t chilled to the correct temperature. I had a corgi nip at my hem during a garden party at Buckingham Palace.”
Then a silver-haired gentleman, who said his name was Georgio Ferrari, spoke up. “I was born and raised in Florence, a city of love.” He raised his eyebrows at several women as he said that. “I import an exquisite body butter for upmarket spas, butter that makes your skin youthful and so sensuous your many lovers will not be able to leave your side.” Again, with the eyebrows. “And I am constantly studying ways to uplift and energize women.”
I might have heard Pinkie snort behind me. Or perhaps she was merely clearing her throat. She said, “I have lived in four countries and speak three languages.” She glanced at Georgio. “Four, if you include the language of love. Second, I once killed a man with a pair of gardening shears. And finally, in case you’re wondering, Giorgio, the carpet matches the drapes. I am a rare redheaded Sicilian.”
Well, that answered my question about dye jobs.
Later, I watched a clutch of women gather around Georgio Ferrari and attempt to guess which of his statements was the lie. Between you and me, I suspected all three were fabrications.
Perhaps I would take Spin the Bottle off the list of social activities. I feared no good would come of this pseudo-Italian (I didn’t believe that accent for a minute) being on board.
PART 2
In Which Patsy’s Jig (and Gig) May Be Up
The small ballroom glittered like Liberace’s Christmas tree after a power surge—crystal chandeliers, a slightly nervous five-piece band, and a wreath above the buffet that looked suspiciously like it had been pinched from the captain’s private lounge. A lounge I know rather well, if you catch my meaning.
Anyway, I’d met most everyone here during Persimmon Worthing’s Two Truths and a Lie, the warm-up to this evening’s event: her much-loved Murder Mystery Evening. Persimmon—Persie, by her request—was doing a bang-up job as Acting Social Director. She had that knack for making strangers feel like old lovers. Persie had encouraged us to mingle, find our characters, and above all, don’t leave before the “very special treat” Chef Thibault promised at the end. I like Persie. She thinks about the world in terms of a play. And play it she did.
I sidled up to a young man wielding a champagne tray for a glass of liquid courage and, as I took my first sip, overheard an obviously unnatural blonde hiss, sotto voce, that my gown looked as if Christmas had wrapped itself while drunk. Not wanting to be catty, I resisted pointing out that her lips rivalled the Hindenburg. Instead, I just smiled. You learn quickly on an ocean liner that secrets don’t stay secret for long. They mingle and drift like cheap perfume, even if the ship is the size of a small country.
Sadly, most of the guests at this soirée weren’t in costume, making the evening feel both less committed and more dangerous. I’d trusted Persie when she said the older gentleman, Clarence, sporting a handlebar moustache so lacquered he could have skewered olives on its twisted tips, was our pretend victim. Well cast, Persie, old girl. From a distance, he looked precisely like the sort of man who would work hard to garner a standing ovation. He looked vaguely familiar, but the Clarence I knew was clean-shaven and much slimmer in build.
So, you can imagine my delight when Clarence approached the buffet table. I thought I’d flatter the good man by asking if he might sign my program—after all, I’d say, he looked like he was an actor in real life. I put on my best smile and was about to ask if he’d do me the honour when he leaned in, squinted at me like he was solving a crossword, and said, loud enough for no one and everyone, “Good heavens! Patricia Strippingly? Used to dance at the Blue Orchid, right?”
The world did that funny little tilt in response to someone knowing my backstory. I squinted in turn. My throat tightened when I realized Persie’s Clarence was my Clarence, and a definite threat. If Clarence said any more, I’d lose more than my composure. This highly lucrative annual shipboard gig, for example.
When I didn’t respond, he pressed on. “Taking some time off from your day job, are we?”
My smile thinned into a blade I couldn’t hide behind. I squared my shoulders and pulled myself up to every inch of my five-foot-five-inch self and looked him straight in the eye. I considered being honest—a laugh, a deflection, a little cruelty—but decided to play it like theatre. “Darling Clarence,” I said, sweet as sugar and twice as sticky, “how shall we explain our acquaintance to your wife?” I nodded at the mature battle-axe standing nearby. “Or should we all just have a nice chat right now? Clear the air.”
His face went the colour of an undercooked scone. He stabbed a piece of smoked salmon with deadly force and turned into the crowd. I followed him, because if he was about to expose my past, I’d much rather supervise my undoing. Seemingly desperate to outrun our affiliation, he flitted about the room like a man with a destination but no map. Several of our group stopped him to ask about his moustache, and he gamboled forward with all the false modesty of a cause célèbre. Then I was intercepted by a fluttery woman asking where Giorgio—or was it Sergio ?—taught his tantric yoga classes. And in that exact, awful moment, Clarence vanished.
I was about to hunt him down when Persie climbed onto the stage, all Bohemian drama and fuchsia feather boa. She clinked a butter knife against a wine glass until we sat up like obedient schoolchildren. “Find your clues at that table!” she trilled, pointing one elegant index to her right. “Stay for Chef Thibault’s special treat—don’t you dare leave early!”
The band took up a hesitant “Winter Wonderland.” I choked back a canapé and tried to look bored. It’s the polite thing to do when in the throes of a full-blown crisis. I could have disappeared then—I had reasons to run, not least the memory of Clarence’s beady eyes—but when you’ve lived a life of performance, you know how to play to your audience. I just needed to stage a little misdirection.
As if on cue, I tripped over something and fell hard to the floor. I lay there inelegantly spreadeagled, wondering what I’d fallen over, when the room released a single, synchronized shriek—half Greek chorus, half air raid siren—that sent one poor woman swooning into the cranberry punch bowl. Hoping I hadn’t severed my spine, I cautiously raised my head just a tad. Staring me in the face was a pair of expensive Italian leather shoes. I chanced stretching my neck a little farther. The shoes were on the feet of none other than our man Clarence.
Obviously unaware of the calamity, the band fumbled into “Jingle Bells” for a third time. As fate and the guests’ peculiar appetite for drama would have it, the party contracted into a knot of concerned faces. Clarence’s wife clutched her pearls as she discovered her beloved husband crumpled against the oyster table. In his hand was a perfectly balanced cocktail; it didn’t look like he’d spilled a single drop. Those eyes that only moments ago had put the fear of discovery in me, had gone very still. Dr. Penrose, a retired doctor who’d joined our Murder Mystery cocktail party, pushed his way through. He checked for a pulse by pressing his digits into Clarence’s fleshy neck, then shook his head in that way doctors do when delivering bad news. “He’s dead,” he said, and the room emitted a collective gasp.
The evidence of guilt in a room full of witnesses is a slippery thing. The crime scene glittered with absurdity: a lipstick kiss on a cocktail napkin, brighter than Rudolph’s nose; a sequined thread twinkling like Tinkerbell on meth; and a program scrawled with a doodled name—cheeky, damning, and impossible to ignore. As someone helped me up, the other passengers gawked, while I tried to get close enough to read the name written on the program.
Persie swept forward, boa flapping like a manic flamingo, scattering canapé crumbs in her wake. She flourished a vial of smelling salts and shrieked, “Encore, Clarence! The Olivier is yours! Bravo, bravissimo!”
Good old Persie, she was just the distraction I needed. I now held Clarence’s program in my hand. Final curtain. Well done, Clarence. Except—my eyes snagged on the doodle in the margin. A name as clear as the ship’s prow in moonlight. My breath caught, and I nearly let the thing flutter right back onto his chest. Instead, I tucked it against my side, my smile fixed like stage makeup. At that exact moment, Persie flung her boa so wide it knocked over a champagne flute, and the band blared the opening of “Deck the Halls” with the subtlety of a brass avalanche. It was a perfect cover.
Whatever else happened tonight, no one could know whose name I’d just read.
Not yet.
PART 3
In Which Pinkie D’Angelo Becomes Highly Suspicious
Day Four Aboard
The QM2 is not just a fabulous off-grid getaway for me, it’s a much-needed reprieve—and a safe place to lie low—while the kerfuffle between Vancouver’s well-heeled thieves and thugs cools off. And I’m taking full advantage, cocooned in bed, sipping mimosas, watching steely blue waves lap against the moody, woolen horizon.
I came on this transatlantic crossing to distance myself from the mess at home, and to make friends with normal people, instead of the rough group of wealthy mobsters I was usually surrounded by. I’d dreamed of tinkling pianos, sparkling crystal, white linen, and eucalyptus-scented rooms—elegant comfort and conviviality. I thought we were all going to spend the week having too much champagne, delicious meals, and a bit of silly fun. And we are! But with one guest dragged off the ship in cuffs at midnight, and another dead at the Murder Mystery cocktail party, the QM2 is turning out to be a lot less tame than I’d expected.
I tore off a flaky chunk of croissant and slathered it with jam. It wasn’t the only thing I was chewing on this morning. I couldn’t get that ridiculous charade of Clarence’s death out of my mind. It looked completely staged to me. While it was believable that a man of his age and excesses might drop on the spot with a widow-maker heart attack, something seemed off about . . . well, all of it. As a restaurateur (among other ventures) in Vancouver, I’ve witnessed enough shady business to know a hit when I see one. I began sifting through that evening’s events, looking for a loose thread to pull. Something that would unravel the cloak of deception all these people seemed to be wearing.
***
Two nights ago, when I entered the small ballroom for the Murder Mystery event, I was disappointed that barely half the guests came in costume, as requested. Determined to support my new friend and Acting Social Director, Persimmon Worthing, I’d cobbled together a version of a Nutcracker—red tartan cigarette pants and forest green satin jacket—complete with a jaunty little top hat thanks to my Filipino steward, Fernando. Even Patsy was in costume. As a candy cane. Those red and white stripes were not the least bit flattering, but at least she put in the effort!
Persie’s party was just getting warmed up when Clarence Carmichael and Dr. Peter Penrose caught my eye, and not in a good way. They were having a red-faced, tight-lipped discussion at the other end of the room. You didn’t have to hear their words to know Dr. Penrose was thoroughly peeved and Clarence was losing his cool.
Clarence cut the argument short by walking away, before zooming in on Patsy—my goodness, she could use some bronzer—as his furious wife, Harriet, looked on. I was loading up my plate with tiny Coronation Chicken sandwiches at the other end of the buffet table when I overheard Patsy deliver some sharp words to Clarence. His handlebar moustache quivering with rage, he stomped off in search of easier prey.
Dr. Penrose had chosen the role of the crazy doctor, injecting his cure for Seasonal Blues into everyone’s cocktails with what looked like a turkey baster, while his much younger wife—Poppy, playing the sexy nurse—tottered along beside him on impossibly high heels. It didn’t really come off as Christmasy, but they were comical, at least. I’d assumed the good doctor’s “cure” was plain old vodka, but with Clarence dead, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
And then there was Giorgio, swanning about with his fake accent and too-tight knit pants. I’m no prude, but that was too much information, even for me! I was mortified at the unlikely Lothario’s sequined Nutcracker outfit, but more so that anyone might think we were a couple based on our costumes. He’d also swooped down on Plain Jane Patsy—what was that woman’s draw?—gripping her elbow hard enough to make her wince, then whispering something that brought a deep pink flush to her face. I knew his type, and was trying to keep an eye on him, but he seemed to be everywhere, until poof! He was gone.
Giorgio and his over-the-top costume made him impossible to ignore, which I propose was his sole intention. But why? What was he distracting us from? How did he know Patsy? And why did Patsy grab that program sticking out of Clarence’s pocket? Were they both in on Clarence’s dramatic demise?
What about Persie, the firecracker of a woman I’d met on the flight to New York? Bold, brash, and platinum blond, Persie and I were instant friends. Which didn’t make her an innocent bystander. Especially since she seemed to be up in everyone’s business, including Clarence Carmichael and Dr. Penrose.
***
I hate puzzles and riddles and stories that don’t close the loop, and this real-life mystery was tormenting me. Not because I can’t figure it out, all I need is a bit of time. I had the bones of a plan, but I needed the right audience and a willing accomplice. If I was correct about my suspicions, the pieces of the puzzle would fall into place soon after I dropped my little bomb.
I rolled out of bed and stretched. I rang the spa, but they were already booked, so I donned a Joseph Ribkoff lounge set, grabbed my novel, and set off for the Pavilion Pool, just steps from my suite on Deck 12. I stopped at the bar for a Crantini, then found a deck lounger where I could read in peace. The glass roof overhead made the area bright, warm, and perfect for reading. I donned my sunglasses and dove into my book.
And wouldn’t you know it? Here comes Dr. Penrose and his Instagram-ready wife, Poppy, sporting her bright red signature lips. What on earth could they have in common other than his big money and her big bouncing boobs?
Ugh. Trophy wives.
They didn’t seem to recognize me, thankfully, but proceeded to park themselves right behind me. I bent closer into my book, hoping the Penroses wouldn’t launch into some boring bickering or, worse yet, start cooing like teenagers in heat.
At first, their whispers didn’t phase me, but when their voices elevated, I perked up. Trouble in paradise?
“Poppy, you know damn well he swindled us,” Dr. Penrose hissed. “So no, I don’t care that he’s dead. Why should I?”
“Peter, don’t be that way. We really should see about Harriet. She has to be beside herself,” Poppy said.
“Believe me, Harri’s just fine. She’s probably already booked her appointment with the lawyers.” Dr. Penrose snorted. “She’ll be on the first plane to Toronto the minute we dock so she can grab all the cash before the kids get to it. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt if she poisoned the old coot herself.”
“Oh, Peter. Do you have to be so cynical about everyone?”
“If I’d been a bit more cynical, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. I’m just glad this trip was all paid for well in advance because we sure as hell won’t be doing anything like this again for a very long time, thanks to Clarence and his sleazy investment schemes. I worked hard for that money. And now, it’s gone.” Dr. Penrose let out a sorrowful sigh.
“But we have each other, right Pookie?”
Pookie and Poppy? Good grief.
“Yes, Poppy. We have each other. Right up until you find out what it’s like to live on rice and beans.”
“Ugh. You’re such a downer. No one actually eats rice and beans, do they?” Mrs. Penrose asked, her Bored Millennial Voice skittering against my ears like sandpaper. “Anyway, I’m ready for some day-drinking to liven things up a bit. We might as well enjoy ourselves since you make the future sound like a peasant’s nightmare.”
“Of course. Why not? Drowning our sorrows on over-priced booze sounds like the only logical plan,” Peter said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I heard the loungers creak as they got up. Watching them walk away, I had the niggling feeling Dr. Penrose might not have had a healing influence on Clarence. Pouty Poppy better watch her back!
I was barely halfway through my chapter when I heard a little shriek and a burst of laughter. I looked up to see Persie gripping the bicep of a distinguished, fit gentleman dressed in navy slacks and white turtleneck. She’d mentioned being school chums with our ship’s captain and this had to be him. His well-groomed salt and pepper beard and crisp regulation haircut gave him away. Persie looked across the pool and saw me. She waved, leaned against the man, then pointed at me. I waved back as they made their way over.
“There you are! I’ve been looking high and low! Pinkie D’Angelo, this is my dear old friend, Gregory Passel, who also happens to be our captain.” Persie beamed at Gregory before turning back to me. “I hope you’ll join us this evening? I’ve managed to wrangle a private dinner with Gregory for some of our Murder Mystery folks. A little gesture of solidarity after all we’ve been through, what with Clarence dying and all.”
Gregory nodded. “Yes, please join us. We’ll be in my private dining room at seven for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, followed by dinner with a special entrée prepared by Chef Thibault.”
It was too good to be true! I wanted to ask who else would be there, but didn’t want to appear rude. “That sounds delightful. Thank you for thinking of me, Persie. And Captain Passel, I appreciate being included in what sounds like a rare treat.”
“Perfect! And don’t forget about the amateur burlesque show right after. It’ll be a hoot, I promise! We’ll see you later, then,” Persie called out as she steered the captain toward the photo studio behind the Pavilion.
I finished my Crantini and ordered another while I fell into my book. As the light faded, I realized it was time to dress for dinner with the captain. I gathered my things and headed toward my suite, passing the guest laundry room on the way. It was disguised behind a heavy velvet drape currently pulled back to reveal a small, utilitarian room that smelled of fabric softener. I glanced in as I passed and saw Patsy shaking out a skimpy spangled camisole.
“Patsy?” I said. “I’m so glad I ran into you!” She looked up, her eyes haggard and red-rimmed like she’d been crying. “Everything okay?”
She gave me a wan smile. “Oh, yes. Everything’s peachy. I’m just freshening up my outfit for tonight’s amateur burlesque show right after din—” She paused, and I realized she didn’t want to give it away in case I wasn’t invited. “Are you—?”
“With the captain?”
She nodded.
“Yes, I ran into Persie and Captain Passel at the pool.” I nodded at the flimsy scrap of glittery cloth in her hands. “So that’s your costume for tonight?” Honestly, I couldn’t picture this beige woman in that sparkly little number.
Patsy folded her costume, somewhat defensively, I thought. “Yeah, it was my dumb idea and now I regret it. But the show must go on, eh?”
“I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” Although by the look on her face, she’d rather have a root canal. “Who else is in on the fun? Is Persie part of the troupe?”
“Yes, Persie is joining us, along with Poppy Penrose, that young couple from Montreal, and,” her eyes slid away, “a few others.”
“What about Giorgio?” I asked, suspecting she’d left him off the list intentionally. Did it have anything to do with him making her blush so furiously at the Murder Mystery event?
“Oh, yes, of course,” she smiled. “How could I forget the handsy Nutcracker?”
I knew I couldn’t, not with that green sequined waistcoat and red lamé jacket. Definitely not my type, but maybe his attentions would cheer Patsy up. “He seems like he’s up for a good time,” I said. “And he certainly has the holiday spirit!”
Patsy’s expression turned grim. “He’s not nearly as much fun as he seems.”
I filed that away and ploughed ahead. This might be my only opportunity. “Patsy, the other night at the Murder Mystery event, I overheard you and Clarence. It piqued my curiosity, so I Googled you.”
Her eyes widened and filled with tears. “And now you know.”
“Yes, I know who Patricia Strippingly of Blue Orchid fame is,” I said, quietly. “You’re . . . well, you’re a bit of an enigma, aren’t you?”
She shook her head and swiped a knuckle at her drippy eyes. “I’m . . . it’s not what you think.”
I reached out and touched her arm. “Me? I don’t think twice about a woman making her way, however she can. And I have no intention of breathing a word because it’s none of my damn business. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
She grabbed my hand and gave a relieved laugh. “Thank you, Pinkie. I owe you one.”
“I’ve got your back, Patsy. But I do have a favour of my own to ask in exchange.”
I told her of my suspicions and outlined my plan to flush out the killer. She promised to sit across from me at dinner to help execute the scheme.
As I continued onward to my suite, I knew I would never spill the beans about Patsy’s secret life as a burlesque star. But if the police got involved and I was asked about her connection to Clarence? I would never lie under oath.
Or would I?
PART 4
Persimmon: In Which the Plot Thickens Like Julia Child’s Ragout
If you only knew the thoughts that swirled through my brain as I stood behind the red velvet curtain on the theatre’s small stage!
It wasn’t our soon-to-begin QM2 Vaudeville production that filled my head—if any of the guests pouring into the theatre and scrambling for prime seats expected perfection, or even talent, they had not read the program’s subtitle: “Bold and Bumbling! Where Every Performance is an Adventure.”
No. As I peeked through the curtain, my mind focused on the incredible tidbits revealed during Captain Passel’s dinner. First, Pinkie D’Angelo whispered to me that Clarence Carmichael had swindled Dr. Penrose out of the family fortune! Of course, as you know, Clarence wasn’t present to defend himself since he currently rested in the chilly comfort of the ship’s morgue. As did the cocktail he’d been drinking moments before his demise, which I for one suspected might have been spiked.
Second, Giorgio Ferrari, he of the lamé jacket and velvet tongue, stationed himself beside Poppy Penrose. He placed his left hand on her very-toned right buttock, pointed toward the dinner table with his right, and said, “Marvelous buns on offer tonight, Poppy.” She obviously didn’t see her hubby watching, or perhaps she didn’t care, because she chuckled and leaned into Giorgio in the way one does when one is more than a casual acquaintance. Really, why did the ship need me to play social director when the guests evidently knew how to cozy up to others?
And last (and this is so delicious!) I spoke privately with Gregory, our captain and my old friend, over dessert. I mentioned the incident on the first day of our voyage, when a passenger was removed from the ship in handcuffs. “Strictly between us, my dear Persimmon,” he said. “A stowaway named Fiona. She claimed to be Clarence Carmichael’s ‘special friend’ and invited guest. Carmichael denied it, but since his wife Harriet was present at the time, I hardly expected him to pay her fare.”
Between you and me, Gregory’s revelation explained why Harriet seemed to smile more now than she had before Clarence died. In fact, I spotted her just now, dressed in a cobalt blue Oscar de la Renta number. Her radiant smile lit up her face as Giorgio escorted her to a front-row seat. Hmm.
Immediately after she relaxed in her seat, Harriet extracted a bottle of eye drops from her clutch purse. I watched her expertly put the drops into her eyes. And I remembered seeing another bottle of eye drops recently. Where?
One of the performers hissed at me. “Persimmon! It’s showtime.” I thought I recognized the voice, but when I turned my head, I realized I was mistaken. “Do I know you?” I asked.
She smiled. “I’m Patricia. I sing a little. In fact, Elvis and I are the first act.”
Right. Gregory had told me about a crew member who moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator. “He’s got the hip action down pat,” he said. Every variety show could use a bit of sexy swivel, so I immediately asked pseudo-Elvis to join the production.
“On with the show!” I said, signalled the prop master to open the curtains, and stepped forward to greet the crowd. “Welcome to QM2 Vaudeville! Where every performance will be an adventure you won’t forget.”
Poppy and I stood backstage, watching Elvis and Patricia, the first act. When Elvis sang “Blue Christmas,” every woman in the audience swooned. Then Elvis handed the microphone to Patricia, stunning in a curve-hugging 50s-style cocktail dress. She inhaled deeply, and her impressive chest swelled. I was reminded of an opera diva.
She sang: “Crazy.” I could have sworn Patsy Cline was in the theatre. Applause thundered, and the crowd rose to their feet.
Poppy clenched her fists and sighed loudly. I knew she’d wanted to be Elvis’s co-star in this act. “What does this Patricia have that I don’t?”
I could have said, “A voice?” Instead, I assured her the audience would adore her in her role of magician’s assistant and reminded her that she and Penrose were up next.
Patricia came off stage in a rush. “Time to get my dancing shoes on,” she said. Once more I noticed how familiar her voice sounded.
I introduced the next act. “Prepare to be amazed by their sorcery and tricks! Welcome The Magical Penroses!”
Penrose and Poppy performed several magic tricks with scarves, top hats and stuffed bunnies, before Penrose announced, “And now ladies and gentlemen, I shall thrill you with my knife skills.”
Poppy stood against a circular background, arms out. Penrose took his position eight feet away, opened a leather case, and removed a suction-cupped dart. Turning to the audience, he said, “I planned to use actual knives. However, Madam Prissy Persimmon insisted on these sucker darts. One death on board was plenty, apparently.”
You know, some people are so easy to dislike. Penrose wasn’t even trying, and he had me gritting my teeth.
He tossed the first two darts and planted them on the background, near Poppy’s arms. Poppy camped it up like a silent film star, eyes wide, faking fear. The crowd cheered. Penrose selected the third dart, wound up and threw it with gusto. The dart affixed itself to the centre of Poppy’s forehead. The audience erupted in gales of delighted laughter.
Poppy stomped off, followed by Penrose, who loudly begged her to return to the stage. “Of course, I didn’t practice that throw, Poppy dear. You know my eyesight is failing.” Oh sure, failing eyesight. He’d managed to spot Giorgio’s hand on Poppy’s butt an hour ago.
Several more performances followed, without incident or talent. Then I announced the final act: “Our very own Gypsy—Patricia!”
Patricia walked onto the stage. She wore a shimmering floor-length black skirt with a thigh-high slit along one side. The skirt was paired with a red and black sequined top that barely contained her bosom. She carried two ostrich-feather fans that she held high as she said, “Let me entertain you” in a deep and sultry voice. And instantly she had the audience mesmerized.
When the music began, she struck a pose that told me this wasn’t the first time our mysterious Patricia had channeled the famous Gypsy Rose Lee.
Patricia launched into the song, strutting across the stage, her gown’s skirt parting now and then to reveal her shapely legs. She flicked her feathered fans with skill, and smiled seductively at every man in the front row. I caught sight of Giorgio and Poppy offstage, near the edge of the set, eyes glued to Patricia’s suggestive moves.
Patricia flung her black skirt into the audience and belted out the finale, “We’ll have a real good time.”
At that exact moment, the set partition behind her crashed to the floor. Patricia jumped out of the way, caught her stiletto heel on the edge of the stage, and tumbled into Captain Passel’s lap.
As Patricia fell, her wig flew off, landing atop Harriet Carmichael’s head.
This evening had already been one of jaw-dropping revelations. I thought nothing else could surprise me, but this did: Patricia, of the Patsy Cline/Gypsy Rose Lee voice, was none other than plain Patsy Strippingly. Why would dear, quiet Patsy hide her beauty and charms beneath what one could only call a frumpy wardrobe?
Captain Passel collected the wig and escorted Patsy back on stage, where he bowed and presented her with the tumble of red curls. She curtsied, plopped the wig back on her head, and once more sang, “We’ll have a real good time.”
A star was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gregory invited Patsy to join the ship’s entertainment corps.
One would think our entertaining evening would end on a high note after the Gypsy number. However, nothing on this cruise went according to plan.
Backstage, I was congratulating Elvis when Patsy accosted Poppy. “You pushed that partition over,” she said. “It could have killed me.”
Poppy sneered. “Really, you should thank me. I wanted to save you from embarrassment. It’s ludicrous—a woman of your age, shaking your boobs and strutting like a stripper!”
Patsy laughed and shimmied her chest. “At least these are homegrown! And I have talent. All you have is bleached blond hair and fake boobs.”
Poppy glared. “You’re misjudging me if you see nothing more than a blond bimbo, lady. I have brains. And a master’s in chemistry that I could put to use if I wanted to kill you without a trace. Be warned.”
PART 5
Patsy: In Which Steamy Secrets Surface
After last night’s theatrics—the partition crash, the tumble into Captain Passel’s lap, my red wig landing squarely on Harriet Carmichael’s immaculately coiffed head—you’d think I’d sleep like a sedated seal. Instead, my nerves jitterbugged until dawn. By breakfast, my name was ricocheting around the decks: That Patsy Cline voice! Those Gypsy Rose legs! Possibly dangerous in heels! Flattering, sure. Exhausting, absolutely. So, I did what any woman does when scandal starts to frizz her hair: I fled to the spa on Deck 7.
The Mareel Wellness & Beauty Spa promised serenity—and bless them, delivered everything but silence. Soft lighting. A harpist playing in the background. Warm towels. Attendants who appeared with cucumber water you hadn’t ordered. I wondered if it was too early to ask for a nip of gin in mine, but thought better of it. With my face slathered in exotic mud, wrapped in a robe the size of a small cloud, I padded along the heated tiles toward the hydrotherapy pool. Ahead, the relaxation lounge opened wide to ocean-view windows and padded chaises. Beyond a wall of frosted glass, the steam room door sighed open and shut like a sleeping dragon.
The scent of eucalyptus swirled in the air. Apparently, so did rumours.
Two women lounged near the door, condensation haloing their hair. Harriet Carmichael—pearls traded for terry cloth but still radiating inherited confidence—and Poppy Penrose, her toenails the exact red of fresh provocation.
“…we can’t risk Gregory finding out,” Harriet murmured, dabbing at her temples with a rolled towel. “If anyone connects the bottle, it’s over.”
Poppy’s laugh cracked the hush like a beaker breaking. “Relax. It’s gone. The vial was switched last night.”
Harriet lowered her voice, which somehow made it carry farther. “Then let’s hope no one realizes Clarence never touched his own drink.”
Poppy made a dismissive sound. “He shouldn’t have picked up the wrong cocktail.”
Having taken refuge behind a pillar, I froze with one foot lifted, like a flamingo. Switched? Vial?
A pulse thudded in my throat. The drink. Our Murder Mystery night’s fatal darling. The one we all blamed for altering the course of our festive voyage.
The wrong cocktail. The phrase hung in the steam like a chandelier about to drop. Thinking of the partition that had nearly killed me last night, I looked up at the massive crystal fixture and said a silent prayer.
At that exact moment, the adjacent steam room door hissed open. Dr. Peter Penrose emerged wrapped in nothing but a towel, convincing me he believed a towel’s primary function was to fall at any moment. Oh, what a dreadful thought! His hair lay damp and obedient. His eyes did not. “Talking chemistry again, ladies?” he said, tone jocular, gaze not. “You know I adore an experiment.”
Harriet smiled up at him, all sweetness and none of the wronged widow. Poppy’s toes—crimson as a warning flare—tapped once against the tile. The harpist tried to mind her own business. The air prickled the way it does right before a squall.
“Darling,” Poppy said, rising, “why don’t you see if the cold plunge is working? I hear it’s positively bracing.”
“You, first,” Penrose chuckled. “Darling.”
Steam rolled between them like stage smoke. When it cleared, all three were gone—Harriet and Poppy one way, Penrose another. Only the scent of eucalyptus and unease remained.
I stood for a moment, listening to my heart trip like an engine trying to turn over. Then I noticed the small thing they’d left behind. On the stone ledge where Harriet’s perfectly manicured hand had rested was a tiny amber bottle with an innocuous label: Cornea’s Comfort. Common enough on an ocean crossing where the air ruffles your corneas for sport. I picked it up. The bottle was still warm, Harriet’s touch clinging like guilt.
This revelation demanded day-drinking. To my mind, the next thing up were G&Ts with Persimmon and Pinkie. And maybe a little Google search into eyedrops. They could just be innocuous little buggers, but as we’d already witnessed, nothing was as it seemed on this damned cruise.
I slipped the bottle into my pocket and faced the mirror above the vanity. The glass was fogged to opal. My reflection surfaced in fragments—mascara in hieroglyphs, poker-straight hair surrendering, mouth drawn tight. Beneath my feet, the ship’s engines hummed their familiar tune, but not enough to calm my panicky heartbeat.
Pieces clicked: Harriet’s sudden sparkle despite her fresh widowhood, Poppy’s jealous fury, Penrose’s smirk when he said, experiment. The dart “accidentally” planted on Poppy’s forehead. Her hissed threat—I could kill you without a trace. A scientist’s boast if ever there was one.
All right, suppose a poison was delivered through something ordinary. A dab, a blink, a sip. Elegant. Undetectable. But Poppy’s words tugged at me: the wrong cocktail.
I replayed what I’d heard—The vial was switched. If anyone connects the bottle…Clarence never touched his own drink. Not innocence—strategy. Maybe Poppy, with her chemistry degree and her husband’s ego for inspiration, had brewed a lethal love potion meant for Peter. Clarence, being Clarence, reached for the nearest libation. And Harriet, pragmatic as ever, helped mop up the disaster before the captain could smell a scandal and send them all packing.
Outside, the Atlantic rolled in pewter folds. The Queen Mary 2 shivered as her propellers bit deeper—a subtle reminder that truth, like tide, doesn’t stay submerged for long.
I rinsed my hands, inhaling sea salt and regret. A staffer drifted past with towels, wearing the serene expression of someone who has seen everything and folded it neatly anyway. Her footsteps faded, leaving only the slow drip of condensation and the occasional sigh from the hydro pool.
“Patsy?” Pinkie’s voice floated down the corridor—half-concern, half-curiosity. I almost called her in, then thought better of it. I needed to line up my thoughts before they became evidence—and evidence, handcuffs.
In the meantime, I debated whether I should return the forgotten bottle of eyedrops to Harriet. If I did, it might arouse suspicions that I’d overheard more than she and Poppy would have wanted me to. Maybe it’s better to leave well enough alone. At least until I could talk to Persimmon and Pinkie.
I pictured the dinner: glittering cocktails, waiters swirling, glasses exchanged without thought. Poppy watching. Penrose smug. Harriet, luminous, unreadable. And Clarence, doomed peacock, reaching for the wrong cocktail. But it was the one he wanted, so he took it.
Then, the doozy of all memories: The program that fell from Clarence’s hand with Ferrari 50K scrawled across it.
The bottle’s weight tugged at my pocket like a secret that wanted to surface. I studied my fogged reflection once more. If Harriet Carmichael had killed her husband with something as ordinary as eye drops, then guilt was wearing pearls at the captain’s table. But as I replayed the venom between Poppy and her husband—the threat, the talk of chemistry, the dart “accident”—a new current pulled at me. Maybe Harriet wasn’t the only one mixing dangerous cocktails. Maybe she wasn’t mixing them at all.
I needed another set of eyes—preferably ones that hadn’t just been poisoned. Luckily, Pinkie D’Angelo had both a nose for scandal and an afternoon free. And with any luck, a good-sized bottle of gin in her cabin.
PART 6
In Which Pinkie Forms a Posse
Halfway through a bracing G&T, Patsy finally revealed the real reason she’d knocked on my stateroom door this afternoon. She spilled the whole sordid story: an overheard conversation at the spa, a damning bottle of Cornea’s Comfort, a cryptic note on the program she’d snatched from Carmichael’s cooling corpse, and a creeping suspicion that Clarence didn’t die of natural causes.
I was intrigued, of course. But why was Patsy bringing all this to me?
“Given all this evidence, don’t you think we should talk to Captain Passel?” Patsy took another long sip of her cocktail.
“The only evidence we have are the eye drops. Everything else is gossip and hearsay. At least for now.” I decided to press her on her suspicions. “Clearly, you think Clarence Carmichael was killed. Out of the four—Harriet, Poppy, Dr. Penrose, Giorgio Ferrari—who do you think could have, or would have done it?”
“I wouldn’t even hazard a guess!” Patsy’s eyes slid away as she got up to freshen her drink. “I was hoping you could help me sort it all out.”
I could tell she was holding something back. “I’m always up for a mystery, but—.” I recalled Patsy’s statement about the sexy Italian. He’s not nearly as much fun as he seems. “I have a hunch you know something more about Giorgio. Am I right?” I didn’t break eye contact.
Patsy’s cheeks reddened as she plopped back down on the sofa. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me it is. Are the two of you . . . involved?” I’d toss that Florentine poser overboard myself if he’d done Patsy wrong.
She chuckled, swallowed half her cocktail, and shrugged. “You might as well know the truth. Giorgio is my partner—”
“What?!” I couldn’t fathom such a coupling.
“Not that kind of partner! God, no. He’s my business partner.”
I wondered just what kind of business they were in. “But … I thought you were rather famously Patricia the Stripper?”
She grinned. “Yes, in my carefree youth, and even then, it was pretty tame stuff. Burlesque always is. But that was ages ago. Now I’m an investment advisor. Giorgio and I own a wealth management firm. My burlesque routine is only for charity fundraisers these days.”
Impressive. “So why are you so circumspect about your business?”
Patsy tipped her head. “I don’t like to bring it up in social situations because, the next thing you know, someone pulls up their portfolio and wants advice about the market. It’s like being a doctor at a cocktail party. Everyone has an ailment they can’t wait to talk about.”
“Ah yes, cornered over cocktails is the worst! It’s hard to have fun when people won’t stop talking business. But that doesn’t explain why you and Giorgio are acting like you don’t even know each other.”
“You’ve seen him in action.” Patsy rolled her eyes. “I’m here for a much-needed week of relaxation, far away from the stock market mania. I set the boundary at three business dinners. Period. Giorgio, on the other hand, doesn’t know when to quit. He’s always hustling new clients, chatting up wealthy men who can’t wait to get in on the next hot investment trend. And that’s when he’s not off somewhere snogging a well-heeled woman. I like to keep my personal life as far away from Giorgio’s racy riptide as possible.”
I couldn’t stifle my giggle. She shot me a look. “I’m laughing with you, Patsy. Now it all makes perfect sense.”
“But I’m worried he may have gone too far. The program Clarence was clutching in his final moments.” Patsy pulled the evidence from her bag and handed it to me. “It’s not Giorgio’s handwriting. Clarence must have written that note, and I can’t make sense of it. I hate to think how Giorgio might react to being extorted.”
I studied the scribble, then realized I was reading it upside down.
Ferrari $50k.
“Why would you make the leap to extortion?”
“Because Clarence was a crooked competitor looking for an advantage. I don’t think he recognized me as Patricia the Stripper at all. I think he’d been digging for dirt. And he found some, from a lifetime ago when I danced at the Blue Orchid. He threatened to out me.”
“That jerk! What a nerve!” I was already angry on Patsy’s behalf. Clarence was lucky he was already dead.
“And Clarence was jealous of Giorgio dipping his beak in a dozen women’s nectar. He knew he couldn’t hold a candle to Signore Ferrari in the looks department.” Patsy shook her head. “I doubt anyone would even care about my ancient history, but the ink on Giorgio’s divorce decree isn’t even dry yet.”
“And Giorgio’s flirtations might be considered unseemly?”
Patsy nodded. “You know how it is. People expect their wealth managers to be level-headed, sensible, and dare I say it? Upstanding. Rumours of Giorgio’s midlife escapades could sow doubt about his judgment and ruin our firm’s reputation.”
I could feel the tides of a conspiracy pulling at me, but didn’t want to get out of my depth. We needed a friend in high places. “Did you know Persimmon Worthing is something of a sleuth back in her hometown? If we’re going to play Miss Marple, we should bring her in. Besides, she’s the captain’s dear friend, and that might prove handy if we need his assistance. Shall I invite her to join us?”
Patsy clapped her hands. “Absolutely! Among the three of us, I’m sure we’ll work it all out.”
I texted Persimmon and, after a brief interlude, she arrived in a cloud of French perfume and enthusiasm, clutching a fist full of poker chips.
“What in the world are you two doing holed up here when you could be at the casino?” Persie splashed a healthy glug of gin in a glass. “What’s cooking?”
“Patsy’s come across some intrigue around Clarence’s dramatic demise. Based on what you told me on our flight to New York, I thought you could help decipher the clues.”
Persie held out her glass. “Here’s to women’s work! Sorting the laundry pile of evidence, simmering the stew of motives, and serving up the solution to the crime.”
We clinked glasses.
“Patsy, fill Persie in on what you know.”
While Patsy repeated her eavesdropping escapade, I mentally compiled a checklist of actions to further our mission.
Persie jumped in as soon as Patsy wrapped up. “That’s quite the story! Lots to ponder. But what about the mysterious Fiona?”
We both looked at her in confusion. “Who the heck is Fiona?” Patsy asked.
I could see Persimmon relished sharing something we didn’t know. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Fiona Fisher is the blonde Gregory sent ashore in Halifax. A stowaway, if you can believe it. Harriet caught Clarence and Fiona in flagrante delicto shortly after we got underway.”
Patsy burst out laughing. I gasped at the mental image. Nothing was as it seemed on this R-rated ocean crossing.
“That certainly gives the widow motive!” I was harbouring mounting suspicions about the cozy friendship between Harriet and Poppy.
Persie tucked a lock of silver hair behind her ear. “One more bomb to drop. The ship’s doctor reported to Gregory that Clarence had a relatively new pacemaker. He did not die of a heart attack.”
“Then our suspicions are well-founded,” I said. “What do you think about this? I can manage Giorgio. I’ll get to the bottom of the cryptic message on the program. Persie, you have the captain’s ear. And his heart, if those looks he gives you are any indication. If you give him the bottle of drops Patsy picked up at the spa, can you persuade him to have Clarence’s final cocktail tested for a dose of Cornea’s Comfort?”
Persie winked and smiled. “I have my ways.”
I turned to Patsy. “Since you know the investment biz, you’re the perfect one to corner Dr. Penrose and get him chatting about Clarence and the magically disappearing money. From what I overheard at the pool, he’s furious. Get him wound up and Penrose will rant for hours. When I’m done with Giorgio, I’ll get friendly with Harriet and Poppy. I’m sure I can learn something interesting.”
Persie stood up. “Girls, with only a couple of days left on the high seas, we have our work cut out for us if we’re going to solve this crime before Southampton.” She drained her glass, pocketed the eye drops, and made for the door. “I’m off to schmooze with Gregory!”
***
“Shall we retire to my suite for a little happy hour?” Giorgio wiggled his manscaped eyebrows at me.
I leaned in, making sure he got an eyeful of cleavage. “You devil! Why not?”
I had him.
He led the way to his stateroom and, after pouring champagne from an ice bucket he’d obviously ordered ahead—cheeky bastard was all prepped for a romantic rendezvous—Giorgio moved in for the kill. He pressed against me on the little sofa, raised his glass, and gave me a smoldering smile.
“Here’s to chance encounters.”
Ha! If he only knew the solitary chance involved was the one he would never get.
When he zoomed in for a kiss, I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing. This Romeo was a bit out of practice and not nearly as suave as he thought he was. I turned my head at the last minute and his lips grazed my cheek. He nipped my earlobe.
“Business before pleasure, il mio stallone! I was hoping to get some financial advice from Clarence, but then … well, death came knocking. I’ve come into some cash and need help figuring out where to invest it.”
He leaned back, his ardor cooling somewhat. “Of course, my beauty. I’m very well qualified to navigate the treacherous waters of the stock market. Perhaps when I’ve proven my worth, you’ll allow me to bury my treasure?”
Oy vey.
“Weren’t you and Carmichael working on something?” I pulled the program from my bag and tossed it on the table. “When I saw Clarence with this at the Murder Mystery event, I figured one of you fellas could surely help me decide where to put my rainy day money. And now there is only one of you.”
He grabbed the glossy brochure. “How the hell did you get this?” His charm fell away, revealing a sharp edge.
***
Harriet and Poppy seemed to be constant companions since Clarence’s death, so when I went down for dinner, I scanned the intimate Queen’s Grill dining room for the duo. Sure enough, I spotted them at the back of the sparkling room, deep in conversation. There were two empty seats at their table.
Where’s the good doctor?
I paused to ask the sommelier to deliver a bottle of my favourite Sicilian wine, Nero d’Avola. My treat for crashing the party.
Not waiting for an invitation, I approached and planted myself in a chair. “May I join you ladies? I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to express my condolences, Harriet. I hope you’re holding up despite all you’ve been through.”
I settled in as Poppy shot me a look, but Harriet just smiled serenely and nodded. “Of course. Pinkie, isn’t it? Such a fun name. And you’ve met Poppy, of course.”
The sommelier delivered, I raised my freshly poured glass of wine, and smiled at the carefully curated Poppy. “Cheers!”
Harriet smoothed the bell sleeve of her stunning designer dress. “And thank you for the condolences on the loss of my Clarence. I’m persevering despite his devastating death. Poppy’s making sure I’m well taken care of until we reach Southampton.”
“Peter and I are here to help. However we can,” Poppy said, glowing in her signature red, tonight’s a form fitting sleeveless number.
“And where is Dr. Penrose this evening?”
“Peter went to bed with a headache,” Poppy said. “That’s what he gets for sitting in the steam room then quenching his thirst with beer and bourbon. I warned him, but he’s not always a reasonable man.”
Harriet cleared her throat and jumped in. “Tell us about yourself Pinkie. We haven’t had a chance to get to know one another.”
I gave a sanitized CV, but was happy she’d asked. It gave me an opening to query Poppy. “And what about you, Poppy? What is your raison d’etre?”
“I’m currently working on my Ph.D. in chemistry. Pharmaceutical research.”
“Soon there will be two Doctor Penroses? How exciting! How did you choose that field? What are you researching?”
Come on, Poppy. Spill the beans!
She perked up. “I’d been working for a drug testing company when, a couple of years ago, the Carmichaels held a reception for angel investors and emerging pharmaceutical companies. That’s when I met the ground-breaking ophthalmologist, Dr. —”
“It must have been love at first sight.” Harriet’s tone implied a hefty dose of disapproval.
Poppy’s cheeks flushed. “—Peter Penrose. He had an idea for a new product and he’d received generous funding, thanks to Harriet’s brilliant party. I joined his lab,” Poppy paused for a sip of wine. “And since then, I’ve come up with a new formula for eye drops. We’re calling it Cornea’s Comfort. It not only soothes, but also repairs the cornea over time.” Her triumphant smile belied the fidgeting fingers twisting her napkin. “The trial results are amazing, and I think I’m on my way to a Nobel.”
“Fascinating!” I leaned toward her. “We could all use that kind of eye drop! What’s in it?”
Poppy smiled. “Now Pinkie, you know I can’t reveal my trade secrets! If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you!” She tittered at her own stale joke. “But I can tell you it’s a new combination of existing medications. Like tetrahydrozoline, for example.”
“I don’t understand all those complicated science terms, but it sounds promising. Are there any precautions?”
“Well, not if used properly.” Poppy and Harriet exchanged a glance. “External use only.”
At that moment, our waiter arrived to take our dinner order and the conversation veered toward veal.
***
After dinner, I joined Persie and Patsy in the almost deserted Commodore Club to debrief. Too early for some, too late for others, but perfect for our private conversation.
As we laid out all we’d learned, our cozy corner table pulsed with tension. Each of us defended our theories and evidence.
The table was littered with notes. It was becoming overwhelming.
“I confess, I can’t make heads or tails of it all,” Patsy said. “There’s evidence for any one of them being guilty.”
“For once, a mystery with too many clues,” Persie acknowledged. “We need to strip away the fluff and get to the meat of the murder.”
My gift of organization took hold. I laid out Patsy’s notes beside mine and Persie’s. Suddenly, I saw the path, shuffled the notes, tearing a bit from this and a list from that, and rearranged them on the table.
As we contemplated the scraps, Persimmon’s eyes glittered with excitement. She enjoyed the hunt, but loved bagging the game. Patsy gasped with delight, eager to deliver our fait accompli to the captain. And I ordered a bottle of the Club’s best champagne to celebrate our accomplishment.
We’d caught a killer on the Queen Mary.