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.
Halifax Harbour, with the QM2 Tender ferrying the mysterious blond passenger. Photo by PJ Donison, December 2022.
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.
What happens next?
1. During a game of hide and seek, a massive storm occurs and a passenger goes missing, perhaps overboard.
OR
2. During the murder mystery cocktail party, passengers discover that the “victim” really is dead.
Watch your inbox, because on Sunday, Oct. 5, Patsy Strippingly steps into the spotlight.