Murder Most Posh: A Mrs. Xavier Stayton Mystery (9 page)

   She gave a little shrug. “I’m sure Francisco is concerned about me.” She looked to the phone on the bed stand and said, “I would call him after his performance, but the cabins for the entertainers do not have phones.”

   No, only the ship’s first-class rooms had phones. I stood up from the bed as if stung by a bee. “I just had a thought!”

   Without explanation, I dashed off and quickly made my way to the purser’s office. As the hour was late, it wasn’t Mr. Pace I was after. A smart-looking young man sat in the outer office, reading a whodunit I recognized. I felt a pang of jealousy as I watched him steal one more glance at the page he was reading before he forced the book down and asked, “Help you, ma’am?”

   “The telephone operator, where is this person located? I have a most important question to ask,” I blurted out with little grace.

   The young fellow smiled and said, “Why, I know you, saw your face in the papers; you’re that Mrs. X woman.”

   Redeemed, I smiled proudly and said, “Indeed, I am.”

  The eager young man jumped up and said, “Right this way!”

   I was led through several short hallways, toward a small room that was not meant to be seen by passengers. The insistence of the captain that I mind my own business still smarted, and it struck me he’d be furious with the young man who had assisted me. Quickly introduced to the telephone operator, I asked my questions rapidly.

   “Were you on duty last night?”

   “Yes.”

   “Late in the evening, was a call placed to Mathew Farquhar’s cabin?” I asked.

   The operator’s eyes rolled upward for a moment, and then he replied, “Why, yes, there was.”

   “Did you let the call ring through, or did you speak to someone in the cabin before putting it through?” came my next question.

   “It was awfully late, and I wasn’t sure they’d take the call, so I didn’t ring it through. Mr. Farquhar answered and said he’d take the call.”

   I pointed at the phone. “Call the room again.”

   The operator pulled a cord from his board and inserted it into a little slot. A second passed, and the man gave a little frown as he pushed his earphone against his ear. With his lips close to the speaker, he said, “Mr. Farquhar, is that you?”

   I wrung my palms together and asked, “Well, is it the same voice?”

   The operator put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hard to tell, but—well, no. I don’t think so.” He moved his hand from the mouthpiece and said, “Hold on a second, sir.”

   I tapped my index finger to my chin and then said, “Tell him that Mrs. Stayton has a question. Did his wife have a will?”

   The young man repeated my question, and then to me, he replied, “No.”

   “Ask if he has a will,” I said, grasping at a shadowy hunch.

   The question was repeated, and then I was told, “No, he doesn’t.”

   I felt very close to being on to something. “Tell him to search his wife’s purse; he will know what he’s looking for when he finds it.”

   Several minutes passed, while my heart raced ever so fast, and then the curious operator pushed the earpiece closer to his ear. “Yes, sir; yes, I’ll tell her. He found a calling card for one Mr. Earl Preston, solicitor.”

   I gently patted the operator on the shoulder. “Tell Mr. Farquhar that is all we need to know for now.”

   After the helpful man disconnected the call, I asked, “From what cabin was the call to Mr. Farquhar placed?”

   His eyes closed, he slumped forward, and a moment later, he lifted his hands, mimicking the action of reaching from one cable to another. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the slot. “Cabin C-53!” he told me.

    As I suspected, the moment Mathew left Ms. Wainwright, she had placed a call to her accomplice to warn him that the murdered woman’s husband was returning to the cabin.

   “Thank you!” I said, with great sincerity to the telephone operator. Turning back to the helpful fellow who had aided me thus far, I told him, “I must send a telegraph to London.”

Chapter Eight

Early the following morning, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t believe enough time had passed that my telegraph might have been answered, but I was hopeful all the same.

   A friendly young porter handed me a small folded piece of paper, and gave me a little bow after I placed a coin in his hand.

   This was not a telegraph; it was a handwritten note from Mr. Pace.

   Mrs. Stayton, your telegraph has been sent. Please keep me abreast of your investigation, and don’t let the captain find out that you are still on the case.

   Ever the loyal conspirator, I found a cigarette lighter on the desk and burned the note.

   An hour later, Yara, Lucy, and I went to the little morning café. From the windows, we could see nothing but grey skies. We consumed our breakfast rather quietly.

   I feared that Yara was still suffering from the attack, but she assured me that she was well. I smiled at the polite girl and felt sorry for her.

   Lucy nibbled endlessly on the same piece of buttered toast as she read from her notebook. I’d given her a full account of what I had learned after we had woken from a night of restless sleep.

   She glanced up at me and said, “This proves that Ms. Wainwright had a hand in the murder, and that she’s still alive.”

  I shook my chin. “No, Lucy, it doesn’t.”

   Her eyes grew wide, and she looked very concerned.

   “For one, Mr. Farquhar never gave us a fixed time that he was with Ms. Wainwright, and the telephone operator only knew that the call came in late; he keeps no record of the calls or the times they are made.

   “The operator may have been mistaken as well about whether or not the voice was Mr. Farquhar’s. This isn’t enough to exonerate the man—far from it,” I explained like a seasoned detective.

   A frown appeared on my dear friend’s face, and she asked, “Then what was the point of it all?”

   “Once we find our facts, these seemingly random pieces of information will hold them together,” I said with firm conviction.

  Lucy’s frown was replaced with an amused smile as she jotted down my statement into her notebook.

   We finished our breakfast and left the café. Lucy noticed the weather posting in the hall leading back to our room and read it aloud, concluding, “Seems that we are heading into another storm this evening.”

   Of that, I had no doubt.

   After breakfast, I bade Lucy and Yara to enter our room without me. I wanted a moment to ask a few questions of Maxie Beaumont.

   I gave a friendly smile to the man posted at Mathew’s door, full well knowing his orders now included not only keeping the suspicious occupant inside the cabin but also keeping me out.

   Maxie came to the door herself and was slow to force her crocodile smile as she greeted me.

   “Mrs. Stayton, good morning.”

   “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I have a few questions about the countess, and it dawned on me, Maxie Beaumont was the person to ask.”

   I had learned young in life that people liked two things: compliments and hearing their own name. A genuine smile—well, as genuine as she could produce—now appeared on the woman’s large, round face.

   “Why, come in, dear.”

   With a heavy heart, I stepped into the parlor of Cabin A-1. Not even a full four years had passed since Xavier and I had so enjoyed the suite.

   Decorated like a French palace, it had been the perfect place for our honeymoon. I, after all, felt like a princess who had found my prince.

   Taking the offered seat, I gently placed my hands on the same armrests that Xavier had reclined his upon.

   “Well, now, ask away, Mrs. Stayton,” said Maxie, eager to be the center of attention.

   “When we met in the hair salon, you told us that the countess has a sister in New York. Can you tell me more about her?”

   The woman’s dark eyes appeared rather lifeless as she chose her words. “I’m a tad embarrassed to admit it, but what I know about her is all from eavesdropping.”

  I gave a friendly smile and shrugged. “Better than a gossip column.”

   The woman’s large head bobbed up and down. “So true. Well, before I went to the salon, we saw Mr. Farquhar having breakfast alone. He was talking to the steward; his conversation was really quite overly familiar, and he made mention of his wife’s sister being a twin. He had the gall to even admit that he couldn’t imagine two of them.

  “Well, once he left, I waved the steward over and asked him about the countess’s sister. She’d contacted Dominika, wanting to see her after all these years. Alisa, yes, that is her name; she’s kept her identity a secret in America. I don’t know why; if I was a countess, it would be no secret.”

   “I agree.” Of course, I hoped she mistook the meaning on what part of her statement I agreed with. Maxie Beaumont would be hard pressed to keep anything secret. 

   Her dark eyes glinted with satisfaction. She asked in a pitchy tone, “Was my information helpful?”

  “Extremely.” As I stood, I surveyed the lovely room once more. “Thank you, Mrs. Beaumont.”

  Once standing outside of Cabin A-1, I took from my purse the little snuff box I carried and extracted a clove. I savored the taste for a moment before proceeding inside our cabin.

   I had only just closed the door when there was a rap upon it. I spun around, hoping this to be the delivery of the telegraph.

   Opening the door as quickly as I could, I was disappointed to see a simple letter rather than a telegraph. It was addressed to Yara.

   After she read it, she shared the information. “Mr. Michael begs of me to speak with the captain and let Rory continue on to this farm after the ship reaches the dock. He promises me that his brother will be safe there, and well-tended to.”

   Lucy retorted, “That is if the countess’s murder doesn’t get pinned on him.”

   With confidence, I remarked, “Oh, no, it will not.”

   Lucy looked expectantly at Yara and said, “Well?”

   Living up to the character I had hoped, she responded, “He is not well, and he did not mean to scare me. I will speak to the captain.”

   Smiling, I said, “But not yet.”

   Yara rested in her room, and Lucy reread from her notebook while I paced the parlor’s floor. It was very near time for luncheon when the telegraph finally arrived.

   My eyes flew over the message, and Lucy demanded, “Well, what does it say?”

   “Mr. Jack persuaded the countess’s lawyer to answer my questions. The countess has a will on file with him, newly drawn up at that, and the countess’s sister, Alisa Sidorvo is the sole beneficiary.” I took a deep breath and concluded, “He also understands that she has a life insurance policy, a sizable one... he wagers that Alisa Sidorvo is also the beneficiary.”

   Shocked, Lucy asked, “Do you believe her sister arranged all of this?”

   I pressed my lips together for a moment and then responded, “I do believe that Alisa Sidorvo arranged the framework of this mystery.”

   After picking up the phone, I asked the operator, “Yes, please connect me to Cabin A-2.”

   The telephone only rang once. “Yes?”

   “Mr. Farquhar, it is Mrs. Xavier.”

   “I’m so glad you called. After we spoke, I went on looking through my wife’s belongings, and I found that her jewelry is missing—every piece.”

   I nodded my head. “Her passport too.”

    “Yes, but how did you know?” he replied, amazed by my knowledge.

   “Mr. Farquhar, when you and your wife traveled together, did you ever see the inside of her passport?”

   After a long silence, he replied with a grunt and explained, “My wife always seemed to wander away. I can’t remember a single time we made it on board a ship together. When customs came, she was nowhere to be found, and then somehow, she’d turn up angry that I kept her waiting.”

  This was just as I suspected. “Mr. Farquhar, how often has Ms. Wainwright secretly traveled with you while you and your wife took trips?”

   He was slow to respond. “Simone traveled ahead of us to Italy and met me late on a holiday in Spain.” He paused. “We were just in Paris two weeks ago; she followed then as well.” 

   Reaching for Lucy’s notebook and pen, I asked for the dates. After he gave them to me, I cleared my throat and very boldly said, “I think there is still one lie you’ve told, or at least, I do hope you lied.”

   “I have told you the whole truth, Mrs. Stayton.” So he thought he had, but perhaps he’d forgotten a detail that had stuck in my mind.

  “A man who appears quite guilty of killing his wife would be a fool to toss a master passkey off this ship, as he may find himself locked up. Mr. Farquhar, I’m sure if I had that key, I could solve this mystery.” I hung up the phone.

   Lucy followed me to the promenade, and she gave a little gasp of delight as we watched through the glass window of the door separating the two balconies. Mr. Farquhar appeared and then inserted the key into the lock.

   Once through, the man reluctantly handed me the item. “I’m counting on you, Mrs. Stayton.”

   I took the key and smiled. “I have some snooping to do, Mr. Farquhar.”

   Poor Yara was perplexed by the quick departure that Lucy and I made from our room. First, we edged our way around the man guarding Mathew Farquhar’s threshold, and I rapped once more on the Beaumonts’ door. 

   Maxie’s curious expression was a little friendlier than I had anticipated. She ran her little sausage fingers over a brightly colored silk scarf that was tied about her thick neck. “Why, Mrs. Stayton, back for more information so soon?”

   “Actually, a favor, Mrs. Beaumont,” I admitted.

   Her beady dark eyes twinkled. “I’m intrigued.”

   Once ushered inside the lovely parlor, I told her, “I do so need your help. I’ve made a bit of a pest of myself with the purser’s office, and I’m not sure how many more favors I might count on. Might you make a telephone call for me?” She nodded that big round head of hers, and I explained, “I suspect that Alisa Sidorvo is on this ship, and I need to know which cabin she checked herself into.”

   “The countess’s sister!” exclaimed the dramatic woman.

   I nodded my chin and asked, “Will you place a call to the purser’s office and tell them you had plans to meet Alisa Sidorvo but forgot her cabin number?”

  In answer to my question, Maxie’s chubby hands grabbed the telephone. “Yes, this is Mrs. Maxie Beaumont. Oh, yes, those towels were much better than the first batch that girl left. No, this has nothing to do with that. I needed to find out the cabin number of a dear friend of mine; we are to meet, but for the life of me, I just don’t remember what room she’s in.” Her head bobbed while she listened to the eager response. “Yes, her name is Alisa Sidorvo.”

   Maxie’s dark eyes looked into mine for a moment, and then she said, “B-23, yes, that’s it. You’re a doll; thanks.”

    Maxie slammed down the telephone and cackled.

  “Well done, Mrs. Beaumont. I have but one more favor to ask,” I said, quite sure she would assist me.

   After Mrs. Beaumont agreed to my request, Lucy and I made our way down to the deck below and found the passageway that led to Cabin B-23.

   Just as we passed the cabin in question, the door flew open. This indicated that Maxie had placed the call as I had asked. The door slammed shut, and had the floor been wood parquet instead of carpet, I’m sure we would have heard the hurried sound of high-heeled shoes heading away from us.

   I counted to ten and said, “Follow her.”

   Nervously, Lucy glanced at the master key in my hand and asked, “Are you sure you won’t get caught?”

   By this time, we had doubled back to Alisa Sidorvo’s cabin. “I’m sure. Go!” I waved her on as I slipped the key into the lock.

   Poor Lucy kept looking over her shoulder as she took off to follow the mystery woman.

   I said a little prayer, hopeful that the Lord understood my breach in good manners, and then stepped inside the small first-class cabin.

   It was a single berth, but it did have the luxury of having its own lavatory. A factor I suspected to be most important, and it was the first place I inspected.

   Beside the porcelain sink was a good pair of sheers; picking them up, I found a single hair wedged at the point the scissor blades were held by a small rivet. Brittle and familiar, the hair was dyed blond. 

   I slipped the scissors into my purse, with great care. Then, looking about the assortment of items neatly set out on the vanity, I found a bottle of dark hair dye. This I took as well.

   Quickly, I stepped out of the lavatory and inspected the desk. Little was set on the small piece of furniture. My heart raced— I had to find what I was looking for.