Misfortune (and Gouda)

by Pierce, Blake

  Captain Hays stood up and walked around toward London.

  “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything more we can do about the situation tonight,” he said. “You must feel exhausted after this dreadful ordeal. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is liable to be a long and difficult day.”

  “I agree, sir,” London said, standing up with Sir Reggie in her arms.

  Captain Hays scratched Sir Reggie on the head.

  “I hadn’t meant to ignore you, my fine fellow,” he said. “In circumstances such as these, it’s always reassuring to know we’ve got such a dedicated and valiant animal on board. You get a good night’s sleep tonight as well. You may have your work cut out for you as a crime fighter tomorrow.”

  Sir Reggie nodded as if in agreement. London and Sir Reggie left the captain’s quarters and headed back to their stateroom.

  So much had happened today, she really needed a chance to think things over—to try to make some kind of sense out of this awful situation.

  *

  A short time later, London lay in bed with Sir Reggie snuggled at her side, her head buzzing with worry and confusion. It truly was a bizarre coincidence that she and her group had had an altercation with the murder victim at the Rijksmuseum …

  Or is it?

  Were that quarrel and the murder connected somehow? As she replayed the ugly scene in her mind, she remembered how it had begun. Pier Dekker had boasted about how the restoration team had discovered a feather on a helmet that Rembrandt had painted over. Cyrus Bannister had taken offense about that.

  “I don’t think it’s any of my business to look at a feather that Rembrandt himself chose for me not to see,” Cyrus had told him, “let alone any other details that he deliberately hid away.”

  It had struck London as a petty complaint at the time. But had it been more than a mere complaint? Had Cyrus been angry enough with Dekker to … ?

  To do what?

  Murder him?

  Although she found that hard to imagine, she remembered how Cyrus had been behaving oddly even before that moment. When the group had been looking at the museum’s Van Gogh collection, Cyrus had stared with keen interest at a painting of tulips, with his nose almost up against the canvas.

  When London had asked him about his behavior, he’d denied that he’d noticed anything interesting about the painting …

  “Except, of course, that it’s a masterpiece.”

  She’d suspected at the time that Cyrus wasn’t telling her the whole truth. And now she couldn’t help but wonder—were all of today’s unfortunate events somehow connected She tried to think of some link between the Van Gogh painting and Rembrandt’s The Night Watch and the argument between Cyrus and Dekker and …

  Soon London’s brain overloaded completely, and she felt a deep and welcome wave of exhaustion. As she lay drifting off to sleep, her head was full of images of those Van Gogh tulips. Then the tulips parted, and she saw Pier Dekker’s tight, mean face peering out from among the blossoms, staring straight and London.

  You’d better find my killer, he seemed to be saying silently.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Staring into her bathroom mirror the next morning, London remembered dreaming about the murdered man’s face peering at her. She couldn’t recall any more of the nightmare, so she forced herself to focus on the immediate problem—her own hair.

  As she tugged a brush through the auburn tangles, she thought she heard a sound and stopped to listen.

  It came again, louder this time.

  Someone was knocking on her stateroom door.

  London felt chills run over her body.

  Is it the police?

  She hadn’t expected to hear from Hoofdinspecteur Braam or anybody on his team so early in this morning. Since there were no immediate demands on her time this morning, she’d hoped to be able to get out and check out a few things on her own before she had to talk to the police.

  She hastily gave her hair one more pat with the brush and left the bathroom.

  “Well, at least I’m dressed,” she said to Sir Reggie. The little dog was busily eating his breakfast, apparently unconcerned about whoever was knocking. London figured the visitor must not be a total stranger.

  There was yet another knock, and London called out.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Room service,” came the reply.

  Room service? London thought with surprise.

  She certainly wasn’t expecting room service. In fact, she was just getting ready to head up to the Habsburg Restaurant for breakfast.

  She opened the door to see Bryce Yeaton standing there, handsomely clad in his white chef’s jacket and floppy white hat. He held a silver tray raised up on one hand.

  “Oh, my!” London said, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the sight. “I wasn’t expecting this!”

  “I’m full of surprises,” Bryce replied with a grin.

  London ran her hand through her hair, hoping it wasn’t still too wild looking.

  Delicious smells followed, as he swept on inside and set the tray on the little table near the windows.

  He said, “I thought maybe you could use some special attention today. I’ve heard you had kind of a tough evening.”

  “Word gets around fast, I guess,” London said.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid the rumor mill has been hard at work, as usual.”

  I’ll bet it has, she thought.

  Bryce lifted the cover off a plate to reveal exactly the meal London would have expected—her favorite breakfast of Eggs Benedict with coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a fruit plate.

  Bryce sat across the table and poured himself a cup of coffee as London started eating.

  “I’m sorry about my hair,” London said.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Bryce said. “You look great to me.”

  London decided not to debate the matter with him, even if he was just being polite. She hadn’t slept well last night, and she was sure she didn’t look her best.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” Bryce asked with concern.

  Yes, I do, London thought, feeling grateful for Bryce’s unexpected company, and especially his show of concern. It occurred to her that this was the first moment the two of them had really been alone since their kiss a few nights ago up on the Rondo deck.

  But this hardly seemed an opportunity for another romantic moment, even though the memory made her feel warm all over.

  Then she realized that the lack of romance was just fine.

  What I really need right now is a friend.

  And she definitely had a friend in Bryce.

  She took a sip of the delicious, fresh-brewed coffee.

  “I guess you heard that there’s been another murder,” she said. “And that I happened to discover the body.”

  “Yes, I did hear that. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “What else did you hear?” London asked.

  “Well, that you found the body in a boat in …”

  Bryce’s voice faded and he shrugged awkwardly.

  “Oh, dear,” London said. “You heard I found the victim in the red-light district, didn’t you?”

  “Tongues will wag,” he replied.

  “Bryce, I can explain what I was doing there. In fact, it’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for some time. And now … well it’s a long story, and there’s so much going on, and I …”

  “I understand,” Bryce said with a smile. “You can tell me all about it in your own good time. Believe me, I assumed you had your own good reasons for being there.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” London said, feeling grateful that he was such a wonderfully patient and understanding man. Then, as she was savoring a bite of fresh pineapple from the fruit plate, she reflected on his earlier words.

  Tongues will wag?

  Obviously she was a topic of shipboard gossip.

  London asked hesitantly, “But how could
anybody aboard the ship have known … ?”

  Then her voice trailed off as she remembered something the captain had said to her last night.

  “Amy Blassingame came right here to my quarters demanding to know more about what had happened.”

  “It was Amy, wasn’t it?” London said to Bryce. “She’s been going around saying I was in the red-light district when I discovered the body, hasn’t she?”

  “She told me so directly just a little while ago,” Bryce said with a nod. “And she’s been telling anybody else who will listen. A lot of people have heard about that by now. One of the reasons I came here was to warn you—passengers are liable to be treating you a little oddly.”

  “I imagine so,” London thought.

  “I hope this news doesn’t put you off your Eggs Benedict,” Bryce said.

  “Oh, anything but,” London said, relishing a rich, buttery mouthful. “In fact, it’s just what I need right now—perfect breakfast comfort food. But I need to tell you one thing you probably don’t know. The victim was the restorer in the museum.”

  Bryce’s eyes widened.

  “You mean the bad-tempered fellow?”

  “Yes, Pier Dekker.”

  “That’s very strange. But a coincidence, surely.”

  “Well, the police aren’t so sure,” London said. “And the fact that Dekker said some angry words to me means that I’m at least a person of interest myself, and potentially an actual suspect. I’m afraid it’s up to me to clear my own name—as usual.”

  “How can I help?”

  London thought for a moment.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m planning to go ashore and look for clues. But I’m sure you’re very busy this morning, and you’re taking too much time away from your job as it is. Maybe I’ll need your help later.”

  Bryce finished his coffee and got up from the table.

  “Well, you know how to reach me,” he said. “I’ll do anything I can.”

  “I appreciate that,” London said.

  Bryce leaned toward London, and they shared a quick but welcome kiss. As he turned to head out the door, Sir Reggie stepped in front of him and sat up on his haunches, growling in obvious discontent.

  Bryce laughed as he reached into his pocket and produced a bag of treats.

  “I hadn’t forgotten you, boy. Far from it. Here are some of my latest doggie treats, fresh baked from my kitchen. It’s even a new recipe. I hope you like liver.”

  Sir Reggie yapped with approval and caught the treat as Bryce tossed it to him. Bryce handed London the bag and gave her another quick kiss on his way out of the stateroom.

  As London finished the last bites of her breakfast, she could feel it energizing her for what was bound to be a demanding day.

  Sir Reggie climbed up onto the chair Bryce had just vacated and waited expectantly.

  “It’s about time we got going,” she finally said to the dog. “I assume you want to come along.”

  Sir Reggie let out a yap of enthusiasm.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” London said, getting up from the table and scratching his head. “I love the companionship, and I’m liable to need your help before the day is through.”

  London went back to the bathroom and finished brushing her hair, then put Sir Reggie on his leash. They left the stateroom and waited for the elevator to take them up to the Menuetto deck where the gangway was attached.

  When the elevator door opened, London met with an angry face glaring at her. For a moment she flashed back to the peering face in her nightmare, but this was a different man, taller, darker, and much more enigmatic.

  “Just the person I came down here to see,” Cyrus Bannister declared as he stepped out of the elevator. “I’d like a few words with you, London Rose.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  London stifled a discouraged sigh as Audrey Bolton stepped out of the elevator behind Cyrus Bannister. They both looked furious, and she didn’t relish dealing with this alliance right now.

  But there they stood, blocking her way.

  Audrey pointed her finger at London and snapped, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Why?” London asked Audrey. “Ashamed of what?”

  “Of telling the police that Cyrus was a murderer.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything of the kind,” London replied, shocked by the accusation.

  Cyrus scoffed, “Then I’d like to know why the captain told me I can’t leave the boat today until the police come aboard and question me about a certain dead body.”

  “A dead body that you happened to find,” Audrey said to London, crossing her arms.

  “I didn’t tell the police anything but the truth, Cyrus” London replied. “You had an argument with the murder victim at the Rijksmuseum. It was hardly any secret. And I’m pretty sure withholding information from the police is illegal here in Holland, just like it is pretty much everywhere else in the world.”

  “By telling them that, you’ve as much as made me a suspect,” Cyrus grumbled.

  Join the club, London thought.

  “Excuse me,” she said, stepping around the pair. As she and Sir Reggie got into the elevator, she added, “I have work to do.”

  As the doors closed behind them, Cyrus called after her with a final wag of his finger “This isn’t over.”

  I guess those two really are an item, London thought, relieved that they hadn’t followed her onto the elevator. She had actually gotten to like Audrey, despite the woman’s initial prickliness. The tall, awkward woman had a lot of spunk and had actually helped catch a killer at their last stop. But Cyrus was a more disconcerting character.

  She’d been puzzled by his behavior at the museum yesterday. How sure could she be that he wasn’t the killer?

  When she and Sir Reggie got out of the elevator on the Menuetto deck, London noticed that everyone in the crowded reception area was staring in the same direction—directly at her.

  Oh, no, she thought.

  The rumors Amy had started had apparently been effective. Now it seemed that even some of the Nachtmusik’s passengers suspected her of murder.

  “Come on, boy,” she said to Sir Reggie as they continued out onto the gangway. “It looks like we’ve really got our work cut out for us this time.”

  London shivered as she and Reggie walked across the gangway and away from the Nachtmusik.

  There wasn’t a chill in the air.

  Actually, it promised to be a warm, sunny morning. Even so, London felt a cold dread deep inside. She knew it was because she and Sir Reggie were following the same route they had walked along last night when they had discovered the dead body.

  And judging from how Sir Reggie was hugging close to her ankles and making little whining sounds, he was anxious too.

  “Don’t worry, Sir Reggie,” she told the little dog. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Then she muttered to herself, “Of course there isn’t.”

  There was no feeling of any threat. The winding streets, bridges, and canals of Amsterdam were quaint and cheerful by day. Shop owners were opening their doors and cranking open their awnings, and streets were starting to bustle with morning pedestrians, bicycles, and little cars. Everybody London saw looked happy and cheerful.

  Amsterdam seemed like the last place on earth where any kind of violence could happen.

  But something violent did happen here last night, she reminded herself.

  They didn’t have to walk very far before they passed into the De Wallen district. Last night London had been taken aback by the sudden change of surroundings as they entered the red-light district. But in the daylight, those red and neon lights didn’t glare in the same way.

  Even so, business was already getting underway here, just as it was elsewhere in Amsterdam. Although some windows were vacant, many of them were occupied by preening, posing, dancing young women wearing as few clothes as possible. Some appeared to be just setting up for the workday, sitting in the wind
ows wearing bathrobes and putting on makeup or even eating breakfast.

  Prospective clients were also up and around, starting to cluster and browse around the windows. But today London realized something she hadn’t quite noticed last night. At least half of the gawkers didn’t appear to be clients at all, but merely tourists not unlike Agnes and Walter Shick, whose interest in the red-light district was purely that of curiosity. London could hear a fair number of them speaking English.

  She could again smell the aroma of marijuana in the air, and she noticed small groups of people standing around having a morning chat while enjoying a smoke together.

  As she and Reggie followed the familiar route toward the crime scene, they came to the large square surrounding the stately and dignified Oude Kerk—the church that was the oldest building in Amsterdam, and that happened to be planted square in the middle of the red-light district.

  And there was the statue that London had noticed before, the buxom sex worker who stood in a doorframe like some kind of guardian saint.

  She paused in front of Belle and took a closer look. The bronze figure had a mysteriously knowing expression, as if few things ever happened here in the Rosse Buurt that she wasn’t fully aware of.

  London wished that was true, and that Belle could explain this murder to her.

  In wry voice, London said in Dutch, “Good morning, Mevrouw. I wonder if you could help me with something.”

  She and Sir Reggie both jumped to hear a woman’s voice reply in Dutch.

  “I’d be glad to. What can I do to help?”

  The sloshing of water drew London’s attention to a short, stout woman wearing a gray maintenance uniform. She had just poured out a bucket of soapy water onto the brick pavement on the far side of the statue. Now she glanced up with a grin, then focused on scrubbing those wet bricks with her mop.

  London stepped around the statue of Belle to get a better look at the woman who had answered her question. After viewing rows of shapely and available young women, the perfectly ordinary cleaning woman struck London as a jarring sight. But she quickly sensed that the woman didn’t feel the least bit out of place here in the Rosse Buurt, mopping around a statue dedicated to Amsterdam’s sex workers.