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

removed from ours. After drink orders had been given to the waiter, Harry Flynn addressed me: “Dance, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Thank you, but no, Mr. Flynn,” I said through a smile. “Perhaps another time.”
    “I look forward to it. And please, it’s Harry.” He looked at Betty, who turned her face away, then directed his gaze across the dance floor to where several women were seated together. “Excuse me,” he said. He crossed the floor, chatted with them for no more than a minute, then extended his arm and led one to the dance floor.
    “I like his style,” Haggerty said to me.
    “I think we, too, will take advantage of the music,” Kim said, rising and inviting his lovely companion to join him. Betty, whose long black hair swayed across the back of her tight-fitting red dress, attracted all eyes, male and female, as she and Mr. Kim joined the dancers.
    “They make an attractive couple,” I said to Michael.
    “He’s too old for her. And too short. But she’s an eyeful. I’ll give you that.”
    “She was a top fashion model in Paris.”
    “I don’t doubt it.”
    “Mr. Flynn dances beautifully, very smooth.”
    “Perhaps he plans to apply for a job as a gentleman host.”
    “He’d make a good one,” I replied.
    Many ships hire “gentlemen hosts,” whose function is to provide dance partners and social companionship for single women traveling alone. They are generally middle-aged men, although some are older. Before they’re hired, these immaculately groomed and dressed gentlemen must prove to the management that they are good dancers and conversationalists. They are required to seek out as many unaccompanied women as they can, and work under a stringent set of rules that limit their interaction to dancing and talk—nothing more—although I remember one gentleman host from a previous crossing who’d wooed a wealthy Palm Beach widow. By the time we’d reached our destination, they’d announced wedding plans.
    “You said you had a favor to ask me,” I said to Michael. “I hope it’s not the same one you proposed before.”
    “What do you think of Mr. Kim?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know him sufficiently well to form an opinion. He’s nice enough, I suppose.”
    “He was the partner of the murder victim, Yang, who owned the Heart of India diamond.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “He seems to have taken a liking to you.”
    “Don’t be silly, Michael.”
    “No, I mean it. This favor I’m asking of you—well, it would be a help to me if you’d get to know him better, flirt a bit, flatter him, apply that keen insight into people for which you’re known.”
    “Michael, I already told you—”
    “You’re a writer, Jessica. Writers are supposed to have a special understanding of what makes people tick.”
    “Even writers are allowed a holiday,” I said. “Aside from my lectures, I’m on vacation. If you think that—”
    Michael ignored me. “Well, well, well,” he said, eyes on the dance floor. The orchestra had changed tempos, from the fox-trot it had been playing to a rumba. “See that?” he asked, pointing to where Flynn now danced with a different woman, a statuesque blonde, whom I’d noticed earlier sitting next to a thickset woman all in black, her closely cropped hair the same color as her outfit.
    “As I said, he’s quite a dancer.”
    “And she’s quite a beauty.”
    “She certainly is.” And is well aware of it , I thought as the blonde tossed her head back in a laugh, eyes flashing, hips swinging to the Latin tempo.
    “I’d like to get to know her better,” Haggerty said through a devious grin.
    His interest in her didn’t surprise me. Michael Haggerty, aka Wendell Jones, had always had an eye for dazzling, self-possessed women.
    He smiled, stood, pulled on his lapels, and bounced up and down a few times on his toes. He leaned over and said, “You’ll excuse me, of course, Jessica. I think I must cut in on Mr. Flynn.”

Chapter Seven
    M ichael tapped Harry