34 - The Queen's Jewels by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain

address the white tablecloth, avoiding eye contact.
    “Richard is very successful,” Marcia said, smiling proudly and touching his arm.
    “I believe this gathering of kindred souls calls for champagne,” said Flynn. He waved over the wine steward and ordered a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. “Not the most expensive,” Flynn said, “but a particular favorite of mine. I first tasted it in Hong Kong years ago. I ended up there as a guest of the government for a week, something to do with my papers not passing muster.”
    “What business were you in?” I asked.
    “I’d hardly call it a business,” he replied pleasantly. “I was captain on an oil tanker.”
    “How marvelous! Were you always a ship’s captain?” I asked.
    “As a matter of fact, I was. I started out with Harland and Wolff in Belfast—”
    We were interrupted by the arrival of the last of our tablemates, Michael Haggerty, dressed in a nicely tailored tuxedo complemented by a muted orange, white, and green striped bow tie and matching cummerbund.
    “Good evening, ladies and gents,” he said as he took the fifth chair. “A pleasure dining with you. My name’s Wendell Jones. And you are?”
    Richard and Marcia introduced themselves, Richard without enthusiasm. Harry Flynn eagerly shook Michael’s hand and said, “That’s a handsome tie you’re wearing. Same colors as the Irish flag.”
    “An astute observation,” Haggerty said, his brogue thickening. “That’s exactly what it is, orange for the Irish Protestants, green for Irish Catholics, and white in between as a symbol of hope for peace between them. I had the tie and cummerbund specially made in London.” He turned to me. “And I know this lovely lady. Jessica Fletcher, my favorite writer of crime novels. We’ve met on several occasions.”
    “So we have.” I took Michael’s hand and said, “And how is the antiques business in Dublin, Mr. Jones?”
    Michael flashed his best winning smile. “We’ll have none of this ‘Mr. Jones’ formality, Jessica. But to answer your question, business is splendid. There seems to be an insatiable demand for historic theatrical and motion picture memorabilia.” He turned to Mr. Flynn. “Did I hear you worked for Harland and Wolff? Some mighty fine ships were built by them.”
    Harry beamed. “And I’ve served on a good number of them.”
    “Obviously not the Titanic ,” Haggerty said pleasantly.
    “My good fortune to have missed that one,” Flynn responded with a laugh.
    Our champagne was delivered and opened with a flourish by the wine steward. We clinked our flutes. “Here’s to a long life and a merry one,” Harry said, “a quick death and an easy one. A pretty girl and an honest one, a cold pint—and another one!”
    Haggerty and I joined Flynn’s hearty laugh. Richard Kensington grimaced. His wife’s smile was guarded. Haggerty proclaimed, “Down the hatch!” before he drained his glass.
    “Yes, indeed,” said Flynn. “‘Down the hatch.’ Does anyone know the origin of that phrase?”
    No one responded.
    “Well,” he said, warming to his tale, “cargo ships have large hatches through which the crew can access cargo below. In rough weather, if those hatches aren’t securely closed, great amounts of water can pour into the hold, sometimes enough to sink a ship. Crew members began toasting each other with ‘Down the hatch,’ meaning opening up one’s gullet for large amounts of alcohol.”
    His story was well received by everyone at the table except for Richard, who stifled a yawn and checked his watch.
    I noticed that another table in our section of the grill was set but unoccupied. It wasn’t until we were halfway through our main courses that its occupants arrived: Mr. Kim Chin-Hwa; his companion, Betty; and two strapping young Asian men who I assumed were his “business associates.” They were seated, but Mr. Kim got up almost immediately and came to our table.
    “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “it is my