“I’d also hoped I could mollify customer dissatisfaction with extra benefits. But those perks are costing the corporation untold amounts of money, and at this point, I see no end to them. So what I called to ask you is …”
Mr. Lapham paused again.
“London, I hired you because of a wide range of abilities, including an excellent aptitude in business. And now I’m hoping you’ll help me make a difficult business decision. Do you think I should cancel the rest of the Nachtmusik’s voyage and give all the passengers a full refund, then start Epoch World Cruise Lines all over again, completely from scratch?”
Why is he asking me this? London wondered.
“Uh, sir, I hardly feel qualified …” she began.
“Oh, my dear, you underestimate yourself,” Mr. Lapham said. “You’ve proven yourself a versatile and talented employee. I have been deeply impressed by your work and your dedication to the company.”
As much as London appreciated the compliment, she felt hopelessly overwhelmed by Mr. Lapham’s question.
“Have you … asked Captain Hays for his opinion, sir?” she said.
“I have,” Mr. Lapham said. “He didn’t give me an answer. Actually, I’m afraid he got rather agitated about it. He … well, he sputtered and babbled without really saying anything at all.”
Small wonder, London thought.
Mr. Lapham added, “I trust your judgment, London. I really do.”
London’s mind boggled at what her boss was asking of her. Whatever she said to him right now would affect the future of Epoch World Cruise Lines—and probably the careers of everyone who worked for it as well. Would he really shut down the cruise if she said to? Would she be responsible for putting everyone in the crew out of a job? On the other hand, what if she insisted that he keep the tour going and the company lost more money and had to shut down completely anyhow? And where was that astrologer he was always talking about consulting?
London decided she needed to put her foot down about the matter.
“Mr. Lapham, I’m sorry, but I just can’t help you with this,” London said. “It’s simply not my place to answer a question like that.”
Mr. Lapham fell silent for a moment.
“Yes, of course you are right,” he finally said. “We mustn’t ignore the fact that higher forces are at work here. I really must Alex to update his reading, give me more astrological data to make an informed decision.”
London couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved that her boss was shifting the responsibility off her own shoulders. Even so, she felt a little queasy at the thought of an astrologer deciding the future of Epoch World Cruise Lines—and her own future as well.
But what do I know? she reminded herself.
Maybe Mr. Lapham was right to investigate the role of “higher forces.” After all, the Nachtmusik was experiencing a remarkable run of bad luck these days.
Mr. Lapham said, “My dear, you may go get back to work now. I hope it goes without saying that I don’t want you to leave the ship until this unfortunate mystery is resolved.”
“Sir?” London asked with surprise.
“What I mean to say is, I absolutely do not want you to playing ‘Nancy Drew,’ like you did back in Hungary. You almost got yourself killed, remember? And it was my fault, because you were following my instructions. Well, I learn from my mistakes. I hired Bob Turner specifically to keep you out of trouble. Make sure he gets out of bed and blows his nose and gets back to work. You will do that, won’t you?”
“I will, sir,” London said.
“And can I trust you to stay out of trouble?”
London balked for a moment at answering the question. She’d already been delayed in her quest for answers much too long. She needed to go ashore as soon as she possibly could. But she couldn’t bring herself to say so to Mr. Lapham. For all his peculiarities, she’d learned that he had a protective streak, especially toward her. She’d come to like him for that.
The truth was that Mr. Lapham had no idea how much danger she’d gotten herself into on those murder cases in Salzburg and Regensburg.
“I’ll stay out of trouble, sir,” she said.
“I am very glad to hear you say that,” Mr. Lapham said with an audible sigh of relief. “Now I will let you get back to your duties.”
He ended the call, and London sat at the table staring at the phone, wondering what had just happened? It was as though a bombshell had been dropped and she didn’t yet know if it had been a dud or whether a huge explosion was in progress.
Was she going to be out of a job?
Was everyone?
Could she have said something more helpful?
She’d just told him she would stay out of trouble, and she knew that probably wasn’t true. In fact, she could leave the ship right this minute and start investigating again.
But London realized she still had one errand to run. She’d told Mr. Lapham that she’d have a talk with Bob Turner, and she needed to keep that promise, at least.
As she got up from her chair, she heard a familiar yap.
Sir Reggie!
It seemed like the perfect moment for her canine companion to appear. As soon as she finished talking with Bob, she and Sir Reggie could leave the ship together.
But when she turned toward the bark, she saw that things weren’t going to be that simple.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The yap had indeed come from Sir Reggie.
London’s Yorkie was perched in a chair at one of the tables. Across from the little dog sat Stanley Tedrow, talking earnestly to Sir Reggie with animated gestures. London was glad to see that the aspiring writer had made it back to the boat safely after wandering ashore yesterday. She wasn’t eager to chat with him right now, but she had to pass by that table on her way out of the lounge. And besides, she hoped her little dog would join her.
As she drew near, Mr. Tedrow was saying, “So you can see my problem, can’t you, pal? I just don’t know what to do.”
Sir Reggie tilted his head, looking as though he understood exactly what was being said.
“Hi, Mr. Tedrow,” London said.
Mr. Tedrow looked up at her with surprise.
“Oh, hi there, Miss, uh …”
London almost chuckled aloud. She wondered how many times she’d introduced herself to him, only to be forgotten every time.
“London Rose,” she said. “You can call me London.”
“Oh, yeah, London. Now I remember.”
“How are you doing today?” London asked.
“OK, I guess.”
London felt tempted to end the conversation and be on her way. The sooner she checked in with Bob, the sooner she could go back ashore and resume investigating. And yet she sensed that Mr. Tedrow was not exactly “OK,” and it was her responsibility to find out why not.
“How is the book going?” she asked him.
London expected him to give her his usual answer—that he didn’t want to risk spoiling it for her.
Instead, he said, “Well, that’s just what Sir Reggie and I were discussing right now. I hate to admit it, but I’m blocked. Completely stymied. Even getting out and around yesterday didn’t stir up the old creative juices.”
“Could I help?” London asked.
“Naw, I don’t think so,” Mr. Tedrow said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, miss, but I need someone with more expertise. You know, some real hands-on experience in homicide and criminal investigation and such.”
London chose not to mention her own recent experience in such matters.
“What about Bob Turner?” she asked.
Mr. Tedrow shrugged and squirmed in his chair. Then he looked at Sir Reggie as if he were talking only to the dog.
“Well, Bob isn’t available right now,” he said. “He’s holed up in his room, under the weather, as you may have heard.”
London felt oddly invisible—as if she were a ventriloquist “throwing her voice” to Sir Reggie, who certainly appeared to
be fully engaged in the conversation.
Then Mr. Tedrow asked, “Tell me the truth, now. Do you think Bob is really sick?”
London had been half-wondering the same thing herself. Bob’s refusal to even see the ship’s medic had struck her as odd.
Mr. Tedrow drummed his fingers on the table.
“You know,” he said to Sir Reggie, “Bob has been going around bragging that he’s solved two murder cases—no, three—since we set sail. But folks around here are saying he never did anything like that at all. They say some woman has been doing the real detective work. She works aboard the ship doing something—a maître d’, or major domo, or superintendent, something like that.”
Again, London decided not to set him straight by telling him she was the woman he’d been hearing about.
But then Mr. Tedrow added, “Some folks are saying it was this woman who really did kill someone, right here in Venice or whatever waterlogged city this is.”
London felt a bit stung. If she’d had any doubt that some people aboard the Nachtmusik thought she might be a murderer, this confirmed it.
Mr. Tedrow looked Sir Reggie in the eye.
“What I’m wondering is—maybe Bob doesn’t have a cold at all. Maybe he’s just embarrassed. Now that everybody thinks he’s no great shakes as a security guy, maybe he’s ashamed to show his face around here.”
London felt a flash of agreement.
Mr. Tedrow kept talking directly to Sir Reggie.
“The thing is—I don’t really care if the guy’s a blowhard. He’s fun. He tells great stories. And he does come up with good story ideas. I miss him. And I’m worried about him. What if he spends the rest of his life locked up all alone in that room of his?”
London had to stop herself from laughing aloud. Mr. Tedrow himself had spent days alone in his own room, working on his mystery novel and completely ignoring the first several stops on the tour. But, of course, he was right. That wouldn’t be comfortable for the gregarious security man. If Bob Turner wasn’t coming out of his room, something must be wrong.
Well, the CEO had ordered her to pay Bob a visit, so she had been on her way there anyhow.
She said to the aspiring author, “You know, I was just going to check up on Bob. Do you want to come along?”
Mr. Tedrow nodded to Sir Reggie and said, “Hey, that’s a great idea. Let’s go.”
London felt her mood improve as the man and the dog got up from the table and followed her. Glancing toward the library as they left the Amadeus Lounge, she saw that the door was still closed. There was no sign of what might be going on in there, but she hoped that Amy and Emil were settling things without causing each other any harm.
As they crossed the reception area, she gave a wistful glance at the gangway outside the glass doors. But leaving the ship and solving the murder would have to wait a little longer.
They walked along the passageway toward Bob’s stateroom, and she knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” she heard Bob’s usual growly, monotonous voice call out from inside.
“It’s me, London Rose. I need to talk with you a minute.”
“I’m sick,” Bob replied. “I don’t want to give you whatever I’ve got.”
“Mr. Tedrow is here too,” London said through the door. “And Sir Reggie.”
A silence fell.
“OK, let yourselves in,” Bob said. “But keep a safe distance. I’m stuffed to the gills with germs of some kind. I’m like some living breathing petri dish.”
London used her key to unlock and open the door. Stanley hurried on inside ahead of her. As London stepped inside with the little dog following her, she was startled by what she saw.
The comfortable sitting area and the big bedroom were still impressively spacious. But the décor—hints of early 19th-century Vienna—had had vanished under dirty clothes, snack wrappings, and dirty dishes. Bob clearly hadn’t let the ship’s maids do their usual cleaning and tidying up.
I guess he likes it this way, she thought.
And she couldn’t blame him for wanting to make himself feel more at home. It hadn’t been his idea to stay in this luxury suite in the first place. He’d wound up here because no other rooms had been available.
Bob himself was in pajamas, sitting up in bed propped up by pillows. He was watching a crime show on the big screen TV with the sound muted. Reflections of the action flickered in the mirrored sunglasses he always wore.
London noticed an empty space on the wall where a portrait had previously hung.
“What happened to Beethoven?” she asked.
“I shut him up in the closet,” Bob growled. “Mr. B and I didn’t get along. He looked so grouchy all the time, such a bummer to be around.”
Then with a chuckle Bob added, “He was also hard to carry on a conversation with. He’s kind of hard of hearing, you know. Hey, I hear there’s a lot of great art here in Amsterdam. Do you think somebody could find me a nice big painting of Elvis to hang there?”
Before London could say that was pretty unlikely, Mr. Tedrow pulled up a chair next to the bed.
Bob protested, “Hey, Stan, didn’t I just tell you to keep your distance?”
“I don’t need to,” Mr. Tedrow said. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’m immune to every contagious disease known to man. You couldn’t make me sick if you tried.”
The two men both looked a bit alarmed as Sir Reggie jumped onto the bed to join them. London remembered Mr. Tedrow telling her about Bob’s mystery illness.
“I’d sure hate to have Sir Reggie come down with it.”
She said, “Guys, don’t worry about Sir Reggie. I’m pretty sure dogs don’t catch most human diseases.”
London obediently kept her distance from the bed, even though she found herself doubting that Bob was really the least bit sick.
“So, what’s up, fellas?” Bob asked Reggie and Mr. Tedrow.
London felt a flicker of worry as Mr. Tedrow cleared his throat, apparently trying to decide what to say. Was he going to confront Bob with his suspicion that the security man was hiding out of embarrassment over his own incompetence?
But Mr. Tedrow’s expression softened.
“I’m having trouble with my book,” he said. “I thought maybe you could help me.”
“You came to the right place, as usual,” Bob said. “What’s your problem, Stan?”
“Well, it has to do with moving a body. A dead body. After a murder.”
“And?” Bob asked.
“Well, I don’t know how to do it.”
“How to do what?”
“Move the body.”
Bob looked puzzled, and London felt the same way.
Bob said, “Well, strictly speaking, Stan, you don’t have to move anybody’s body. I mean, you’re just the writer. You’re not actually a character in the story.”
“Yeah?” Mr. Tedrow said, as if surprised by this insight.
“Yeah. Now I’ve done lots of research on the subject of moving bodies around, read lots of forensic reports, including FBI stuff that would make your hair stand on end. But if you want my help figuring out how it’s done, you’re going to have to give me more info to work with. You know, facts, data, details, specifics, particulars.”
“Such as?” Mr. Tedrow said.
“Well, for example, do you want the body dumped out in the open, or deliberately concealed? Is the victim dressed, or partly dressed, or stark naked? Has the victim just been plopped there, or was he or she put into some kind of peculiar pose or position? What do your autopsy reports and crime scene photos tell you about who moved the body and how?”
“Um, well,” Mr. Tedrow said cautiously, “strictly speaking, nobody is supposed to move the body.”
“Huh?” Bob said.
“It just … well, moves.”
Bob scratched his head. London felt as if she shared his increasing perplexity.
“Uh, Stan, this might be kind of a problem,” Bob said. “Corpses do
n’t tend to have a lot of ambulatory function. They’re called ‘stiffs’ for a reason. They stay put if they’re left alone.”
“They don’t move even by accident?”
Bob stared at him for a moment. Then a light seemed to come on in his eyes.
“Maybe it could happen,” he said. “Like, maybe because of some natural disaster.”
“Like a mudslide?” Stan asked.
“Yeah, or maybe an avalanche.”
Mr. Tedrow snapped his fingers excitedly.
“Hey, maybe I could set my book in a ski resort!” he said.
“Now we’re talking! It’s the perfect locale for a murder! Now let’s get down to business …”
Bob’s voice faded as he looked at London. Mr. Tedrow looked at her as well.
Bob said, “Hey, London, no offense, but … I’m not sure you should be in on this conversation.”
“Bob’s right,” Mr. Tedrow said. “We don’t want to spoil the story for you.”
London smiled broadly.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll let you guys get right to work.”
London was pleased that Sir Reggie jumped off the bed and followed her out of the room. She really did want his company—and perhaps even his help—for the tasks ahead.
She pulled the door shut behind her and stooped down to pet her little dog.
“Well, pal, that went better than we could have hoped for, huh?” she said. “Mr. Tedrow is getting help with his book, and Bob isn’t even acting sick anymore.”
She thought for a moment, then added, “Of course, I didn’t do exactly what Mr. Lapham told me to do. I didn’t tell Bob to get to work on the real-life murder case. But …”
Rising to her feet, she said, “I can’t help thinking that things are better this way.”
But as she started to walk away, London’s eye was caught by the name on the door directly across the hall—the Arnold Schoenberg Suite. It was the other grand suite on the ship, and of course London knew who lived there.
She was well aware that the occupant of that suite wouldn’t want to talk with her.
But she was eager to get back to solving this murder, and that person could tell her some things she needed to know.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 19