bundle of hair was neither a wig nor a toy. The tiny, elderly woman was carrying a very small dog in her handbag.
Is this going to be a problem? London wondered.
In the whirlwind of events that had brought her here overnight, nobody had told her anything about the policy for pets for this tour. She’d seen passengers with service animals while working on ocean-going lines, but it had never been her job to determine whether to allow them aboard.
London managed to smile in her best professional manner.
“Welcome to Epoch World Cruise Lines’ very first tour of the beautiful Danube,” she said. “May I have your name?”
The woman glared at her grimly. Her face was extremely thin and extremely pale, but the irises of her spectacled eyes appeared to be solid black—much darker than the dog’s eyes.
“Surely you know that already,” she snapped, pointing to the folder in London’s hand. “You’ve got a passenger list right there.”
London was bewildered by the woman’s rather nonsensical logic.
“I still need you to tell me—” she began.
“And I’m telling you, you’ve got it right in front of you. I’ve got a reservation right here in the Menuetto deck in one of your finest staterooms—the Beethoven Grand Suite.”
I just looked at that suite, London realized.
She almost giggled at the memory of Beethoven’s portrait hanging over the bed. The great composer and this angry woman had much the same scowl. London thought the two might hit it off just fine.
Maybe they’ll spend the whole trip happily scowling at each other.
Anyway, this bit of information made it easier to find the woman’s name, which was Lillis Klimowski.
“We’re glad to have you joining us on the Nachtmusik, Ms.—”
“That’s Mrs. I’m tragically widowed, if you must know.”
“Mrs. Klimowski,” London said with a nod.
Before she could decide how to broach the question of the woman’s pet, an angry voice brought that subject up.
“You can’t bring a dog on board,” a man right behind Mrs. Klimowski complained loudly.
The middle-aged man was much bigger than Mrs. Klimowski. He was wearing plaid pants and was standing next to a buxom, gum-chewing woman with heavily dyed red hair.
“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Klimowski replied sharply.
“You heard what I said,” the man said.
Mrs. Klimowski turned her nose up at him.
“I’ll have you know that Champion Sir Reginald Taft is no ordinary animal. He was a show champion in his youth—or so I was told when I purchased him. He’s officially my emotional support dog. We’re quite inseparable. Sometimes I think, if it weren’t for Sir Reginald, I’d go quite mad—especially when dealing with uncouth boors such as yourself, Mr. … what is your name, presumptuous fellow?”
The man linked his arms with the gum-chewing woman.
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Gus Jarrett, and we’re on our honeymoon.”
London glanced at her list and saw that Gus and Honey Jarrett were booked into Trapp Family Singers room on the Romanze deck, one level down. They looked to London as though this was far from the first honeymoon either of them had been on. She guessed that they both might have gone through a fair number of spouses by now.
Then another couple stepped out of line to have a look at the dog. They were a kindly-looking pair of pudgy elderly people. The woman was allowing the dog to sniff her hand.
“Oh, but look at this adorable creature, Walter!” she said.
“He’s very cute indeed, Agnes,” her husband said.
London glanced down the list and found the names of Walter and Agnes Shick, who were booked into the Johann Strauss II suite on the Menuetto deck.
The couple’s admiration seemed to improve the dog’s mood a little. Still held tightly in the leather handbag, Sir Reginald Taft actually allowed Agnes Shick to scratch him under the chin without snapping her finger off.
But Gus Jarrett was seething now.
“I’ll have you know that my lovely bride is allergic to dogs!” he said.
His gum-chewing wife gave him an odd look, as if this was news to her. London felt sure that Gus was inventing Honey’s allergy just to make trouble. Anyway, they were quartered a deck below Mrs. Klimowski’s suite, so surely allergies didn’t have to be an issue. All they had to do was maintain a reasonable distance from the dog.
Still scratching Sir Reginald, Agnes Shick looked at Gus and Honey with a smile.
“You needn’t worry about allergies,” she said.
“Indeed you don’t,” Walter Shick added. “This is a Yorkshire Terrier. The breed is hypoallergenic.”
“Hypo-what?” demanded Gus Jarrett.
“Hypoallergenic,” Agnes repeated. “This lovely mane of his is more like