Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I understand,” I said. “But—”

  The doors slid open and we stepped inside.

  “But she did act strange,” Kathy said, finishing my sentence. “I acknowledge that. But it doesn’t mean she’s crazy.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. The problem, Kathy, is that we’re going to be speaking with a lot of people on the ship who might have that view of her. I’m afraid you’d better get used to it. What’s important is that we find out what happened to her.”

  We had a little time left before our seating for dinner. Kathy retired to her cabin to do some reading, and I took a second tour around the Glacial Queen, taking in areas we’d not seen the first time. I ended up in the library, where a number of passengers had already settled in for some serious board games. My past experience suggested that they would be found there for the duration of the cruise, hunched over the boards, brows creased as they enjoyed their obsession. People on ships often gravitate to specific places, choosing one lounge over the others as their favorite or one pool they prefer, finding companions for their interests and returning each day to enjoy the experience.

  I scanned books on a shelf and stopped at a slender, well-worn volume on the history of the Alaskan gold rush of the late 1800s. I pulled it down, sat in one of a pair of brown leather chairs separated by a small table, and started paging through it. I was reading about a fascinating woman known as Klondike Kate, a popular entertainer during the gold rush, when a short, slender woman in her seventies approached me, carrying a book. She had white hair, a deep tan, and blue eyes that sparkled radiantly.

  “Would I be disturbing you if I sit here?” she asked, indicating the matching leather chair.

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Please do.”

  She took the chair, adjusted herself in it, and opened her book.

  I went back to reading about Klondike Kate. After a few minutes, I glanced over at her. To my surprise, she was reading my latest novel. She sensed my interest, turned, and smiled sweetly. “I love your books, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, a little startled that she recognized me. Of course, my photograph on the back cover could explain that.

  “I was told that you would be on board,” she said demurely.

  “You were?”

  “Yes. My cabin steward always informs me of any famous people on the ship.”

  “You sound as though you take this cruise often,” I said.

  Her laugh was small and tinkling. “I would say so, Mrs. Fletcher. I live on the Glacial Queen.”

  At first, I thought she meant that she took a lot of cruises. On other ships, I’ve met people who pride themselves on how many cruises they’ve taken and how many ports they’ve visited. But then I realized that she meant what she’d said literally.

  “How interesting. You live on board?” I said.

  “Yes. I’ve been a resident for almost a year now. I lived on the QE2 for almost two years. I loved that ship—so genteel and refined. But I decided it was time for a change—change is always good, don’t you agree?—so I did a little investigating and decided on this ship.”

  I closed my book, shifted in my chair so that I faced her, and said, “I didn’t realize that anyone lived on this ship.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’m the only one here, but I was one of three on the QE2—myself, another woman, and a lovely gentleman. I’m pleased to report that they are now married.”

  “Your two permanent shipmates?”

  “Yes. I was her maid of honor.”

  My curiosity antennae were now fully extended. “Isn’t it terribly expensive to live on a cruise ship?” I asked.

  “I suppose it is, but not much more, if anything, than being in one of those homes for old people. And it’s so much more pleasant than an institution. The meals are wonderful and so nicely presented. I have entertainmentevery night, and I get to see so many interesting places—Alaska, the Caribbean, Asia, Europe. Besides, there are always new and interesting people to meet. Like you.”

  “I see your point,” I said.

  “When Maynard told me you were on the passenger list, I asked him to run right out in Seattle and buy me your latest book. Maynard is my cabin steward, a dear, sweet young man.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “I always make sure to give him a large bonus at the end of each trip. The young people on the ship work so hard, you know, and send their money back home. They’re all from other countries.”

  “You must know everything that goes on aboard the ship,” I said.

  “I imagine I do,” she said. “By the way, my name is Gladys, Gladys Montgomery.” She extended a bony hand with long fingers tipped by an expertly executed manicure.

  “I’m Jessica,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Gladys? I assume you heard about the woman who disappeared from this ship a few weeks ago.”

  “Wilimena.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why do you ask? Are you going to write a book about her disappearance?”

  “No. My interest is that—”

  “Her sister is on this cruise, too.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? How did you find out?”

  “She and I are good friends where we live, Cabot Cove, Maine. I’m traveling with her. We’re hoping that by retracing Wilimena’s tracks, we might be able to find out what happened to her.”

  “My goodness, I really must scold Maynard. He missed that bit of information. He didn’t tell me that you and Wilimena’s sister were together.”

  I had to laugh. Along with the other benefits she mentioned of living aboard a luxury cruise ship, there was being in on the daily gossip.

  “Did you get to know Wilimena?” I asked, confident that she had.

  “Of course. I get to know almost everyone before a cruise ends.”

  “What was your impression of her?”

  She sat back, laced her fingers together, and sighed. “That is a very difficult question to answer. I liked her, of course. Wilimena was—she called herself Willie, you know—Willie was charming in her own way. I admired her verve and spirit. She was so full of life and eager for adventure.” She leaned closer. “She was about to become very wealthy, you know.”

  “From the gold.”

  “Yes. Poor thing. I don’t consider myself a fortune-teller, mind you, but I have this feeling that it was the gold that brought about her demise.”

  “Her demise? You think she’s dead?”

  “I assume she is. Otherwise she wouldn’t have disappeared like this. The way I see it, she was intercepted on her way to claim the gold by someone who knew about it and wanted it for himself. I suggested to her that she not talk about it so freely while on the ship, but she was giddy with anticipation. I suppose I can’t blame her. I’ve never had to worry about money, thanks to my dear, departed husband, Joseph. He was quite successful on Wall Street.”

  “I’m glad he left you without worry,” I said. “I understand Willie complained to the ship’s security officer about men making unwanted advances toward her.”

  “Officer Kale. Yes, Willie was bothered by some of the more crass men on board, but to be perfectly honest, Jessica, I’m afraid she invited such attention. She dressed in what can only be described as provocative clothing.” She wrinkled her nose and placed her fingers on my arm. “She was a little old for some of the outfits she chose.”

  I smiled. “She refused to acknowledge her age?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you happen to get to know any of the men who were attracted to her? The ones who made nuisances of themselves?”

  “Well, let me see,” she said, an index finger to her lips. “There was Maurice.”

  “Maurice?”

  “A Frenchman, but you knew that from the name. A shallow fellow, far too charming, in a Continental way, for my taste. He’s been on the ship before, a few times, actually. He has some connection with the cruise line. I never bothere
d to find out more. What’s the term I’m looking for? Smarmy. Yes, that’s it. He was smarmy. Let me see. There was John Sims, too. A lovely man. Wilimena flirted quite openly with him, which is why I was surprised when I heard that she’d complained about his making unappreciated advances.”

  I wondered if John Sims was the “flabbergasted” gentleman to whom Officer Kale had referred.

  “Do you know where Mr. Sims and Maurice came from? Where they live?”

  She made a sour face. “Maurice? Heavens, no. I had no interest in learning anything about him. But John gave me his card at the end of the cruise. I have it here in my purse.” She retrieved it and handed it to me. “John was a true gentleman, and I can assure you that he had nothing to do with Ms. Copeland’s disappearance. My goodness, he’s old enough to be her father— eighty if he’s a day. I think he found it amusing that Ms. Copeland showed such interest in him. Flattered, I suppose, until she complained that he was making advances at her. He stayed clear of her for the duration of the cruise, avoided her as though she might have some communicable disease.”

  “I agree,” I said, “that he’s unlikely to know anything about where Wilimena has gone. Thank you, Gladys, for the information and for your insight.”

  “My pleasure, Jessica. By the way, we’ll be dining together. I arranged for that once I learned that you would be sailing with us.”

  “How did you manage that?” I asked.

  “They’re so nice on the ship, so accommodating. Whenever someone interesting is booked, they allow me to join them for dinner. We have a table for six. I hope that’s acceptable to you. I wouldn’t want to intrude, but—”

  “I’ll consider it a privilege,” I said. “Speaking of dinner, I’d better go to my cabin and get ready.”

  “Before you go, would you be so kind as to sign my book?”

  I signed it, of course, thinking as I did of the crazed man at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop.

  “How sweet,” she said after reading what I’d written. “I’ll treasure it.”

  I checked in on Kathy before going into my cabin, and told her of my encounter with Mrs. Montgomery and of the two men who’d spent time with Willie.

  “She has the one man’s address?”

  “Yes. He gave her his card when the cruise was over.”

  “But we don’t know any more about this Maurice character.”

  “Maybe we can find out through the ship’s executive offices. They must have information about him. Give me fifteen minutes to spruce up.”

  The dining room’s maître d’ showed us to our assigned table. It was in a prime location, next to large windows at the ship’s stern, affording us splendid views of the sea. The sun was setting, turning the ship’s sizable wake into a panorama of golden ripples. Mrs. Montgomery, dressed in a stunning sequined lavender evening gown and sporting a dazzling array of jewelry that testified to just how well-off her husband had left her, was already seated. I introduced Kathy, and we took chairs on either side of her. Moments later, a middle-aged couple, Kimberly and David Johansen, were escorted to the table by the maître d’. After they’d been seated, the maître d’ announced that a sixth person would be joining us. “He was somewhat unhappy with his assigned table and asked if it could be changed. Since you have an empty place, I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

  Gladys’s expression said she wasn’t particularly happy with the arrangement, but she said nothing. A minute later, the maître d’ arrived with a handsome man whom I judged to be in his mid-fifties. He wore a blue blazer, gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a pale yellow tie.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” he said immediately after taking the vacant chair across from Kathy. “My name’s Bill.”

  After we’d introduced ourselves, he said, “I didn’t think I’d end up at such a celebrity table. I know that you’re Jessica Fletcher, the writer. And Mrs. Montgomery is known to all, or so I understand.”

  “You’re traveling alone?” Gladys asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. You might say this is a therapeutic cruise for me. My wife and I always planned on taking an Alaskan cruise, but unfortunately she died before we got around to it. I thought this would be a proper way to pay tribute to her.”

  “That’s so nice,” said Kathy.

  “Where do you live, Mr.—? I didn’t catch your last name,” David Johansen said.

  “Henderson. Bill Henderson. Seattle. Can you believe it? We lived right next door to where all the ships to Alaska leave from, but never booked a cruise.” An expression of sadness crossed his square, tanned face, and he looked down at the table.

  The Johansens didn’t have much to say at first, but were eventually drawn into the conversation. They were celebrating their anniversary. He was a history professor at Wheaton College in Illinois; she was the editor of a weekly newspaper in their hometown. Talk at the table touched upon myriad topics, as is usually the case when strangers meet for the first time. David Johansen became animated when the subject turned to politics and world events, and he offered several strongly worded opinions on the day’s most provocative news events. His wife, Kimberly, was particularly interested in education and what she perceived as the federal government’s failure to promote it. There was, of course, interest in my books, particularly my working habits and how I came up with plots for my mysteries. Bill Henderson fit easily into the flow of things, demonstrating a keen interest in what everyone was saying and asking many questions. After I had explained how I try to develop three-dimensional characters in my books, he asked Kathy, “And what about you, Ms. Copeland? What occupies your time?”

  Kathy smiled and shrugged. “I’m afraid my life isn’t nearly as exciting as everyone else’s,” she said. “I’m pretty much a homebody.”

  “So am I,” Henderson said. “And being a homebody can be just as exciting as you want it to be.” His laugh was easy. “For me, there’s nothing more exciting than when my lobster bisque turns out the way I want it to be.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “No, I’m serious,” he said.

  “Kathy makes a wonderful lobster bisque,” I said. “And she’s quite a baker, too—usually takes one of the top prizes in our town’s bake-off competitions.”

  He asked a series of questions about Cabot Cove, and Kathy enthusiastically answered them. I was pleased to see her in such good spirits. She’d fallen into moments of depression since we’d left on the trip, and I knew it was important for her to remain upbeat and optimistic. She undoubtedly did not hold out much hope that Wilimena would be found alive, and to be honest, neither did I. But maybe we were wrong. Until a definitive reason behind her disappearance was determined, we had to forge ahead and hope for the best.

  Gladys Montgomery wasn’t especially talkative. She sat ramrod straight at the table, a regal matriarch presiding over a family dinner. But she did offer an occasional comment. When David Johansen expressed a political opinion that revealed his conservative leanings, she said, “When one gets older, Mr. Johansen, one is expected to become more conservative, based upon the assumption that one has more to conserve. For me, the older I get, the more liberal I become, perhaps not so much politically but in accepting the human condition. We can only judge a society based upon the way it treats its less fortunate.”

  Johansen started to debate that with her, but she said it with such finality that he thought better of it and allowed the talk to change to less weighty topics.