I’ve never minded being a plain girl. Whenever I wore the exquisite jewelry my Xavier gave to me, I always felt I was being decorated with ornaments, much like a Christmas tree. Lucy, however, looked quite natural with the lovely necklace about her.
Knowing that the first-class passengers of the parlor suites would all be seated at one exclusive table for dinner, I decided to wear no jewel other than my ruby ring. Anticipating that Mrs. Beaumont would undoubtedly broach the topic of jewelry, I wanted Lucy to be the center of attention.
Dressed in a fashionable black gown and little white gloves, I patted at my recently styled auburn hair and said, “Let’s be on our way.”
Our cabin, located on B Deck, was just forward of the first-class formal dining room. Lucy was momentarily confused as to why I led her farther toward the bow to the magnificent grand staircase and began to trot upward.
She then realized this would make for a grand entrance as we traveled across the deck above to the second elegant stairway just before the entrance to the dining room, and then descended the steps with perfect grace.
On our honeymoon, I had sent Xavier on to the restaurant, pretending as if I had forgotten something in our cabin, and done just this same silly trick. A tear comes to my eye even now when I recall how his face lit up as he saw me on the top step. With more poise than I had ever known, I glided down the steps and felt as if I were the most beautiful girl in the whole of God’s creation.
Lucy squeezed my hand as we went down the steps, and a few heads turned. Several men smiled at us, and their wives did their best to ignore us, two silly girls playing sophisticated world travelers.
We crossed the lobby, and the steward recognized me and said, “Ah, Mrs. Xavier, such a delight to see you this evening.”
I had always been very impressed with the crew’s service; of course, when I later found out just what passage aboard the Olivia costs, I certainly understood why they were so gracious.
We were escorted to a nearby table, located centrally in the room. This gave us the opportunity to see everyone in the sumptuously decorated chamber, as well as allowing them to observe us.
(Now, here, I need some professional advice. Would a description of the dining room be appropriate or would it slow down the action? The domed ceiling really is something to be seen. The stained glass is lit from behind and oh so beautiful. The room is decked out in burgundy and white, quite ritzy, to be sure.)
Mrs. Beaumont and her husband were seated at the table, just as I suspected. Mr. Beaumont mumbled some greeting in French and made as if to stand, but his wife tugged at his fancy black jacket and ordered him to sit on account of his bad knees.
“Jerome, these are the girls I was telling you about,” said Mrs. Beaumont, as she elbowed the poor man.
Jerome Beaumont, as I’ve already said, was a tiny man, perhaps five feet tall and as slender as a weed. The man’s hair was sandy blond, and just beginning to show signs of grey. His attire was impeccable; dressed in black tie, he looked quite the dandy. Had a speck of lint appeared upon him, he seemed the sort who might have a bit of breakdown.
Mrs. Beaumont was reading aloud from the menu card that listed the dinner selections when the steward approached once more. The man was just pulling out the chair beside me when the angry voice of Countess Orlov caused me to wince.
Her Russian accent and broken English didn’t hinder her ability to express what she was thinking. “I sit not with these people—how dare you!” Lifting a gloved hand, she pointed to a table for two in the corner. “There, you take us to private table.”
The steward mumbled an apology while the countess’s husband grumbled under his breath, “You needn’t be so hostile.”
The countess retorted something in her native tongue and strode away.
Maxie Beaumont rolled her eyes and said, “Why, I never…”
Mr. Beaumont seemed to have missed the complete episode, and he commented in French, which Lucy translated in a whisper, “Why haven’t they brought out the soup?”
The table set for eight seemed too large for the four of us. It became apparent once the soup was served that the Emerson brothers would not be joining us either.
Attempting to make conversation, Lucy asked Mrs. Beaumont, “Did you make it on time to your bridge game.”
The woman’s dark eyes squinted oddly and then she fixed a toothy grin on her face, “Oh, yes, but just barely.”
Mr. Beaumont mumbled something to which his wife replied, “In fact I did lose, but we were only playing for matchsticks.”
Two waiters arrived and carefully laid out our entries. With dinner served, Mrs. Beaumont told us, once more, about the sinking of the Tatiana. Her husband completely ignored her as he enjoyed his meal. The man ate slowly, almost methodically. He smelled each morsel of food before he placed it on his tongue and chewed with great care.
Mrs. Beaumont crammed her mouth full and swallowed mighty gulps, and even occasionally picked at her teeth while explaining how the Tatiana wasn’t equipped with enough lifeboats.
Lucy and I listened while we ate less quickly than Maxie and without the dedication of Jerome.
I was relieved when dessert was served; this was quickly devoured during a blessed moment of silence.
Eager to part company with the Beaumonts, I placed my napkin on the table and suggested to Lucy, “Perhaps we should make our way to the ballroom and listen to the orchestra.”
Before my friend could respond, Mrs. Beaumont jabbed her husband’s elbow and said, “Oh, yes, that sounds like a grand idea, doesn’t it, Jerome?”
A pained expression crossed the man’s delicate face. His coffee was only half drunk and more than three bites of his lemon cake remained on his plate. However, Maxie Beaumont had spoken, and he had no choice in the matter.
We made our way forward to a splendid ballroom. Maxie remained at my side down the wide hall as she informed me that a new orchestra had recently been hired.
Paying more attention to her than our path, I tripped on a little flight of three steps leading into the ballroom. With surprising agility, Maxie reached out and grasped my wrist before I tottered down.
As I thanked her, Jerome cried out proudly, “Maxie Grip!”
We all gave a little laugh, mine out of embarrassment.
The ballroom was even more spectacular than the dining room. Wood-paneled walls were topped with stained glass windows, which were illuminated. Neat little tables lined the open dance floor, and behind these were larger tables for parties.
The orchestra was playing a selection of popular jazz songs. A number of young people were dancing, dressed in black suits and formal gowns; it was a delight to witness.
Xavier and I enjoyed dancing, though neither of us was really good at it. I lacked grace, and my poor Xavier was frightfully clumsy. We could clear a dance floor in the fashion of a bowling ball striking the pins. It hadn’t been safe for anyone to be too close to us.
I slipped my hand into my purse and took a clove from my silver snuff box. The scent and the taste quickly eased my melancholy, and I felt as if my Xavier were near me.
Good manners forced Lucy and me to follow the Beaumonts to an open table some distance from the lively orchestra. Mr. Beaumont said something in French, and his wife remarked, “I know; they don’t have to play so loud.”
Mr. Beaumont took his pocket watch from his vest, checked the time, and uttered something else that I couldn’t understand.
“It doesn’t matter how late we are out, Jerome, we’ll still need our sleeping tonic,” Maxie told her husband, and then, to me, she said, “With this ship swaying this way and that way, we can’t sleep through the night without a little assistance.”
We were just settled when a familiar pair approached us.
“May we join you? My husband told me that I was dreadfully ill-mannered and must apologize,” said the countess with little grace.
“Think nothing of it,” I said before Maxie could make some ill-humored
remark. “Travel is so taxing, and it creates such stress.”
The countess bobbed her head and replied, “Like husband.”
Maxie gave a great forced laugh, and she squeezed her husband’s little elbow until he winced.
The pair sat down at the table, and Mathew Farquhar introduced himself and his wife. He was indeed a fine-looking man. With his black hair and strong features, he might have been an actor on the silver screen.
After introducing Lucy and myself, I noticed that the countess’s eyes fell on my ruby engagement ring. When she realized that she had been staring at it for too long, she remarked, “Very beautiful ruby; it reminds me of the Romanov Star.”
The comparison made me blush. “To me, it is just as valuable as any famous jewel.”
“It has been in family long time?” asked the countess, placing an economy on the amount of words she used to convey her thoughts in English.
“My husband’s family, yes.”
Mathew asked, “Are you meeting your husband in the States?”
Quickly, with a polite and chipper tone, I responded, “I’m afraid my dear Xavier is in Heaven rather than the States.” Making it obvious that I wished to change the subject back to jewels, I pointed to the glistening diamond worn as a pendant on a gold chain around Maxie’s ever so large neck. “What a lovely stone; it looks quite dazzling.”
Proudly, Maxie ran her chubby fingers about the gem and smiled. Politely, she, in turn, pointed to the countess’s emerald bracelet and said, “Forget about the china, look at those crystals.”
The countess gestured at Maxie’s pendant and retorted, “That is crystals!” Indignantly, she jangled her bracelet and said, “These is perfect emeralds; my husband paid fortune for them.”
Lucy, ever sweet-hearted, looked to the countess and said, “Mrs. Beaumont didn’t mean to insult your bracelet. What she said was a compliment. Mrs. Stayton and I had just discussed the confusion caused by slang the other day. We can all tell that they are high-quality stones.”
“Yes, dear, no one is putting down your jewelry,” Mathew chimed in, fearful of his wife’s temper.
The countess eased back in her chair and nodded. Although her nostrils were still flared, she tried to smile.
Mathew decided to change the topic of conversation. He asked me that dreaded question I so hoped to avoid. “Mrs. Stayton, do pardon me for asking, but what happened to your husband?”
It was obvious that the orchestra was just about to conclude the rather boisterous tune they were playing, so I hesitated until there was a moment of near silence before replying, “Spontaneous combustion!”
The faces around me all contorted—save for Lucy’s, of course, who was used to my various explanations for my dear husband’s demise—and for good reason. Many people were fearful of spontaneous combustion; it was such a bizarre and seemingly mysterious occurrence. A colleague of my father’s, a fellow doctor at the Forest Park Men’s Hospital, had once, at a picnic, explained the happening to me in explicit detail.
It seemed the horrible way of dying was misnamed. While in many cases, the cause cannot be verified, a nearby candle or lit cigarette is most likely the source. The typical case also involves an individual with a known habit of drinking alcohol. It was postulated that the poor inebriated person either brushed against a candle or fell asleep with a lit cigarette, and stymied by liquor, is unable to escape the flames. This same doctor pointed out that he’d heard of fewer cases since the start of prohibition. He had more to say on the topic, but my complexion had turned rather pale, and he fell silent on the matter.
After our little party recovered from the shock of my reply, I smiled sadly and batted my eyes. The orchestra was once again in full swing with another jazz tune.
Mathew mumbled the words, “I’m so sorry.”
I responded by saying, “Tell me, Mr. Farquhar, where did you purchase your wife’s emerald bracelet? It is just lovely.” I was confident he wouldn’t attempt to redirect the conversation toward me again.
Mathew’s reply took us to the bracelet’s country of origin, and then Maxie Beaumont shared a dull story of her own trip to this place.
Politely bored with our company, my eyes fell on a lovely young lady who stood at the back of the ballroom. The woman had dark glossy black hair and skin that suggested a South American origin. She leaned against a pillar and watched the band with great intent. It appeared to me her eyes were focused on the handsome fellow playing the piano.
It struck me that she seemed very much in love with the musician, and I was happy for her. Love is the richest feeling, to be cherished above all else.
My attention was captured when Mrs. Beaumont asked the countess, “Are you vacationing in America?” This seemed a queer question as she had pointed out to Lucy and me the fact that the woman had just learned of a relative in the States.
The countess and her husband exchanged quick glances before she said, “I have discovered that my sister survived the purge. Like I, she was hidden from the revolutionists. She’s in New York.”
Mrs. Beaumont’s beady eyes were fixed on the countess as she replied with little enthusiasm, “How nice for you.”
The countess nodded. “Yes, it is good; so few of us there are.”
Mathew Farquhar’s face darkened, and it struck me that perhaps he thought otherwise. I knew the difficulties I had faced after marrying into a wealthy family, whose ways are so different from my own. Xavier had been such a joy and so very supportive. I wondered what life was like for Mathew: new to money, new to a lifestyle, and married to a creature who seemed demanding and cold. I did not envy the pair.
I think, perhaps, for the first time throughout the evening, Mr. Beaumont took notice of me. After a startled jolt, he leaned into his wife and spoke to her in French. She shot me an inquisitive glare and remarked, “Well, I’ll be, you are Mrs. X.”
The countess gave me a questionable glance as her husband said, “Ah, yes. You were in all of the papers. You solved that murder at Pearce Manor.”
“Murder?” exclaimed the countess.
Rather excited, Mathew said, “Yes, the culprit was hanged—he was the family butler, wasn’t he?”
Mrs. Beaumont gave a mighty chuckle. “The butler did it! What a cliché!”
Lucy chimed in, “He was so polite, too, very pleasant—I never would have imagined he was a coldblooded murder.”
The countess’s eyes swung toward her husband, and she remarked, “No one can ever understand mind of killer.”
Mathew gave her a nervous smile, seemingly perplexed by the comment.
Maxie Beaumont grew tired of being ignored and remarked, “I too have been in the papers.” She raised her thick hands into the air and clenched them. “They called me Maxie ʻGrip’ Beaumont!”
Mathew and his wife looked at the hefty woman with curious expressions. Taking the greatest of joy, she retold her story of the Tatiana’s sinking. At the conclusion, she suggested to the countess, “Heed my warning, and keep your jewels with you; if the ship goes down, you don’t want them locked in the purser’s safe.”
The countess took a moment to survey the many bobbles on Mrs. Beaumont and remarked, with a sneer, “Such shame.”
Chapter Four
After Lucy bade me goodnight, I slipped out to our private promenade. It had been a long evening, and rather taxing. It would be a lie to say I enjoyed the company of our neighbors, and we still had so many days at sea with them.
The little promenade was closed in; still, the sound of the sea penetrated the sealed glass windows. It was a beautiful, tranquil sound. My thoughts quieted as I looked to the distant horizon. Starlight glistened and reflected from the moving ocean before turning into the blackness of night. In that visible and still unseen void was Heaven. Xavier was there, just out of my sight, just beyond my reach, but he was there. As far away as this place was, my heart was very near his; his presence surrounded me, just like the night sky.
Attuned to the sea, to t
he night, I felt the discomfort of the evening fall away. At peace, growing tired, I was about to leave the serenity of the promenade when I heard the neighboring cabin door open. The sound was to my left, and a column of light appeared in the window of the door that separated our private decks. A man’s figure passed through. It was not Michael Emerson, but his brother, Rory.
Though a full-grown man, he smiled at me in a rather childlike fashion. I smiled back as he peered through the window and looked me first up and then down; his eyes seemed to linger at the decking beneath me.
His brother’s voice called out, “Rory, don’t be peeking into the ladies’ balcony. They might see you. Do you want to get in trouble again?”
Rory turned back and rushed inside the cabin. In an instant, he was gone, as swiftly as the peace and serenity I had just experienced.
The following morning, I woke early. Sitting up in bed, I reached for my little notebook and jotted down a few random thoughts.
Maxie Beaumont presented me with the perfect character for my next whodunit. In fiction, she would need to be sympathetic, to win the heart of the reader. This would take some work. In my story, her constant mention of the loss of her jewelry on board a doomed ship would gain the attention of a cat burglar. As this heroine would warn others about keeping valuables in the ship’s safe, it would become known that her own jewels were an easy target, kept in her stateroom.
I would need to devise a clever thief: someone acting out a part, perhaps portraying herself as a wealthy countess who would be above suspicion, or a young man who appeared not all there in the head, but was, in fact, a diabolical criminal. I thought of Michael’s words to his brother the night before, “They might see you; you don’t want to get in trouble—again.”
Putting my notebook down, I glanced across the bedroom and spotted my pearl necklace and earrings on the dressing table beside my open jewelry box. Emeralds, rubies, and sapphires reflected in the morning’s light. I decided at once to ignore Maxie Beaumont’s advice.
Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery Page 4