What to wear, what to wear?
I gathered a few of my female friends from Cabot Cove to help me decide on a wardrobe. It turned into a wonderful party, with lots of laughter and good-natured kidding of me and my clothing dilemma. After modeling myriad choices for them, a consensus was reached, and the clothes I would pack were decided.
On May twenty-seventh, the night before I was to leave, these same female friends, augmented by my male buddies, including Seth Hazlitt, Sheriff Mort Metzger, Susan Shevlin’s husband, Jim, the mayor of Cabot Cove, and others, threw me a bon voyage party at Cabot Cove’s newest restaurant, Simone’s, owned by a large Italian family who also operated a popular pizza parlor. The mood was festive, the food classic peasant Italian fare: pasta to start, veal spiced and cooked to perfection, and a rolling dessert cart that should have come with a gift certificate to a spa.
We said our good-byes outside the restaurant. I was tired; I had to be up early for my flight to New York with Jed Richardson. The QE2 would set sail between three and four in the afternoon. I was advised to be at the dock by two.
“Well, Jessica,” said Seth Hazlitt, “all I can say is that I wish you a safe and smooth passage.”
“Thank you, Seth.” I kissed him on the cheek.
“Stay away from that midnight buffet,” Jim Shevlin said. “If you don’t, you won’t fit in Jed’s small plane for the trip home.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I intend to exercise discipline for the five days.”
“Sure,” Charlene Sassi chimed in. “Until you get a taste of all that scrumptious food, morning, noon, and night.”
“Pack that seasick medicine I gave you?” Seth asked.
“I certainly did, along with the wristbands and patches. But I don’t intend to get sick. I never do.”
“Always a first time,” Seth said grimly. “If none of those things work, you get right down to see the ship’s doctor, get a shot.”
Eventually, my friends ran out of advice, and I made it home, where I put the finishing touches on my packing. I was about to get into bed at midnight when the phone rang.
“Jessica?”
“Yes?”
“Matt Miller.”
“Oh, hi, Matt.”
“Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to say two things.”
“Happy to hear them.”
“First of all, I read the novel. It’s wonderful. One of your best efforts. I couldn’t put it down.”
“That’s great to hear.”
“And two, I wanted to wish you an absolutely wonderful cruise.”
“Actually, it’s a crossing. Not a cruise.”
“Then I wish you an absolutely wonderful crossing.”
“Thank you. I intend to revel in every moment of it. Between the latest novel and the script, I’ve had quite enough of murder to last a good long time. I need five days of utter peace and calm.”
“Then that’s what you shall have, Jess. Enjoy!”
“I’ll call you when I’m back.”
I didn’t sleep a wink.
Chapter Five
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
I’d just gotten out of a taxi that had brought me from La Guardia Airport to the pier at Manhattan’s Twelfth Avenue, where the QE2 sat majestically awaiting its passengers. The ship is an awesome sight, its red-and-black funnel rising proudly into the sky, its sparkling navy hull, almost a thousand feet long and more than a hundred feet wide, dazzling the eye.
I turned to the voice that had called my name. It belonged to a pretty, smiling young blond woman wearing a blue blazer over her white blouse, the Cunard name and symbol emblazoned on its breast pocket.
“Yes?” I said as my driver unloaded my luggage from the cab’s trunk.
“Hi. I’m Priscilla Warren. I’ll be your Cunard escort on the crossing.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Warren.”
“Please call me Priscilla. Or Pris, if you prefer. I figured I’d stand out here instead of waiting at the check-in desk. I’ve read most of your books, and have seen your picture dozens of times. Recognized you right away.”
“I’m glad.” I looked around. “My goodness,” I said, “quite a mob scene.”
Ms. Warren laughed, which she did easily and often. “We’re sold out, Mrs. Fletcher. A full house.”
“That’s good for your company,” I said.
She waved over a man with a hand truck, who loaded my bags onto it. I’d tagged them with precoded luggage tags contained in the material I’d been sent. An efficient system.
I followed Priscilla into the cavernous terminal, where hundreds of people milled about waiting to board. “Good flight from home?” she asked as we walked.
“Oh, yes.” I explained that I’d been flown to La Guardia from Maine by my pilot friend, Jed Richardson.
“That’s the way to travel,” she said.
“I wish he could pick me up when I come back from London,” I said. “But he’s committed elsewhere. I’ll be taking the Delta Shuttle to Boston.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Priscilla said, “just let me know. That’s what I’m here for.”
We stopped at a desk, behind which stood three Cunard employees. “Hey, guys, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Ms. Warren said brightly.
They greeted me with enthusiasm and asked for my passport, which I handed over. That bit of business out of the way, Priscilla led me to another desk, where I gave my credit card to a young man, who issued me a special gold Cunard card to use for all onboard purchases. He returned my credit card, and Priscilla and I stepped around the desk and up a short gangway to the ship, where a receiving line of sharply dressed young men and women awaited us.
“This is Jessica Fletcher,” Priscilla said to one of them, a sandy-haired fellow with sharp features, and a British accent. “The famous Jessica Fletcher. She’s our star lecturer this trip.”
“I’m afraid that’s—”
“Right this way, Mrs. Fletcher,” the young man said. “My name is Sandy.”
“Of course it is.”
Ms. Warren said, “I’ll ring you later, Jessica. In the meantime, you’re in good hands with Sandy.”
Sandy’s laugh was easy and warm. “A pleasure to have you aboard, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I understand I’m not the only passenger.”
“That’s for certain. You’re one of eighteen hundred on this crossing.”
“That many?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not a cabin to be had. A thousand crew, too.”
My cabin, Number 1037, was on the One Deck; the QE2 has thirteen decks. Sandy opened the door and stepped back to allow me to enter. It was a spacious suite with a secured oblong porthole through which to watch the sea. There was a queen-sized bed, a cocktail table and two pale purple club chairs beneath the porthole, and serviceable purple carpeting. Two huge walk-in closets would accommodate Elizabeth Taylor’s wardrobe. A television set offered nineteen channels.
The all-marble tan bathroom featured a large dark brown marble sink, tub with a handheld shower head, a bidet, and a basket overflowing with shampoos, soaps, and body lotions. Definitely more luxurious than my bath at home.
A young man of Asian origin came in and introduced himself as my steward. His name was Walter. “Call me for anything, Mrs. Fletcher, day or night.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll fetch you some ice.”
“When will my luggage be brought to the cabin?” I asked Sandy.
“That could take a while, Mrs. Fletcher. A few hours.”
“I’m glad I packed necessities in this shoulder bag,” I said.
“Always the smart way to travel,” he said.
He showed me where my life preserver was stored on a high shelf in one of the closets. “There’ll be a drill in a few minutes,” he said. “They’ll announce it. You’ll put the preserver on and gather in the Mauretania Dining Room. That’s one deck up, on the Quarter Deck.”
“Oh,
yes,” I said. “I remember that from my last crossing.”
“Not your first time?”
“That was twenty years ago, I’m afraid. I was ... I was with my husband then.”
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ll leave you to freshen up. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you. By the way, have you met any of the other lecturers?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“The acting troupe? Are they on board?”
“I believe they are. I can check for you.”
“No need. I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other soon enough.”
The announcement of the life jacket drill came fifteen minutes later. I read the instructions for putting on my jacket, managed to do it with minimum fuss, and stepped into the long, narrow hallway where other passengers headed for our assigned gathering spot. We went up the wide staircase to the Quarter Deck and into the Mauretania Dining Room, one of five, not including a spot for hamburgers and hot dogs, plus the nightclubs scattered about the ship.
I sat at a table with other passengers and listened to the instructions on what to do in the unlikely event we had to prepare for an emergency evacuation. As I did, I glanced about the large room. The other passengers were mostly older, although there were some younger couples, even a few young families with small children. The day-care center would be busy.
My eyes stopped at a table two removed from me. No question about it. Marla Tralaine, the motion picture icon of decades ago, sat regally. Posed, is more accurate. She was heavily made up; her famous cascading blond hair was immaculately arranged. Others had recognized her, too, and stared.
I looked in the opposite direction, where television’s most famous chef, Carlo Di Giovanni, talked with considerable and characteristic animation to others at his table. His flamboyant TV style while whipping up mouthwatering recipes delighted millions of viewers each day.
After we’d received our instructions, the amplified male voice said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your attention. You may now return to your cabins.”
I stood, thought for a moment, then decided to approach Ms. Tralaine, who continued to sit with her life jacket on.
“Ms. Tralaine?” I asked.
She looked up and cocked her head.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher—the mystery writer.”
She wrinkled her aquiline nose; had an unpleasant odor wafted into the room?
I extended my hand.
She took my fingertips in hers, then quickly let go.
“I understand you’ll be giving a lecture, Ms. Tralaine.”
“Yes.” Her voice was low and sensuous.
“Well, I’ll be lecturing, too. And I’ve written a murder mystery play that an acting troupe will perform.”
“I see.”
“I’ve written a small part in it for you. For all the lecturers. I hope you’ll—”
One of two young men at the table stood and said, “I’m Peter Kunz, Mrs. Fletcher. Ms. Tralaine’s manager.” We shook hands.
He turned to the others at the table. “This is Tony Silvestrie, Ms. Tralaine’s personal trainer.” Silvestrie, a tall, deeply tanned man whose sculptured body perfectly filled out his T-shirt, nodded, but didn’t rise.
“And this is Candy Malone, Ms. Tralaine’s hairdresser.” Ms. Malone got to her feet, smiled, and said, “Really a pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I love murder mysteries and have read just about every one of your books.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” I said.
Marla Tralaine looked supremely bored. She stood and removed her life jacket. “You’ll excuse me, of course, Mrs. Fletcher. How nice to have met you.”
Her theatrical delivery of the farewell trailed behind as she and her staff sauntered from the room, heads high, as though crossing a stage.
Well, I thought, I might as well rewrite the play to exclude her from the cast. Not a terribly pleasant woman.
Back in my cabin, I replaced the life jacket on the shelf and resumed unpacking things from my shoulder bag. The phone rang.
“Jessica?”
“Yes.”
“Rip Nestor here.”
“Hello, Rip. You and your actors are on board?”
“Sure are. I was wondering whether we could get together tonight after dinner. Everybody. Do a run-through.”
“That will be fine. I met Ms. Tralaine. I’m sure she won’t agree to appear.”
“Really? No loss.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I’ll just take out her few lines. Where shall we meet?”
“The Grand Lounge. On the ... lemme see ... yeah, right here on the map. The Grand Lounge on the Upper Deck.”
“I know it.”
“Nine?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll have the cast there, and the set pretty much put together. That’s where we perform.”
“See you then.”
One of the nice things about dining aboard the QE2 in its Queens Grill is that there aren’t seatings. You can stroll in anytime during the designated hours. I considered taking a nap before dinner, but Priscilla Warren called just as I was about to stretch out on the bed.
“Not disturbing you, am I?” she asked.
“Not at all. But I was contemplating a nap.”
“Can’t do that,” she said, laughing. “You don’t want to miss leaving the pier and going out to sea, watching the Manhattan skyline slide by.”
“You’re right,” I said, having forgotten how inspiring that was from my crossing with Frank twenty years ago.
“Meet you up on the Sun Deck in a half hour?”
“Count on it.”
I was glad she’d called. It was awe-inspiring as the gigantic ocean liner was guided from the pier by a tug-boat and set on her way, the Statue of Liberty standing tall and proud in the distance.
While on the Sun Deck, the uppermost deck of the ship, also called the Helicopter Deck because of the landing pad marked with a large red cross, Priscilla introduced me to Troy Radcliff, the famed mountain climber. He was an imposing man with a white crew cut, deep tan, and trim body beneath the sweatshirt and chino pants he wore. In his eighties? I only hoped I looked half as good when—and if—I reached that age.
“You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other at dinner,” Priscilla said. “All the lecturers will be sitting together. Except for Ms. Tralaine. She has her own table.”
I was not surprised.
“Seven?” Ms. Warren asked.
Radcliff and I agreed.
You enter the Queens Grill through what’s called the Queens Grill Lounge, a comfortable area of stuffed chairs and tables where cocktails are served, as well as afternoon tea. Large windows afford a delightful view of the Atlantic.
The lecturers had gathered there by the time I arrived. All except Marla Tralaine, of course. Priscilla Warren had created a large seating area, with a chair reserved for me. “This is Jessica Fletcher,” she announced. The others stood and offered their hands. I recognized each of them from their appearances on TV, or from photos in the paper. But there was another person in the group whose face was not familiar to me, a slightly plump older woman with twinkling pale blue eyes.
“This is Mary Alice Ward,” said Priscilla.
“Hello,” I said, shaking her hand.
“Mrs. Ward won a contest in her hometown of Lumberton, North Carolina.”
“What sort of contest?” I asked.
“I solved a murder mystery,” she replied in a soft southern accent.
I laughed. “That’s wonderful,” I said. “Was it a real murder?”
Her laugh was as charming as her accent. “Goodness, no, Mrs. Fletcher. My local bookstore held the contest with Cunard. There was a mystery novel without an ending, and readers were asked to solve it. It wasn’t very difficult. I knew who did it by the second chapter.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Maybe you’ll solve the play I’ve written.”
Mrs. Ward chuckled. “I certainly intend t
o try.”
I wasn’t in the mood for a cocktail, so we headed in for dinner. The Queens Grill is a handsome room. Fine crystal, silver, and china sparkled in the flattering lighting as waiters in white jackets moved quickly, delivering drinks and food. We were seated at a large round table. One of two waiters introduced himself in what I judged to be a French accent, and handed us menus. We all laughed at how extensive it was.
“Where is the Italian food?” Carlo Di Giovanni asked with a flourish of hands.
The waiter, standing at attention, quickly said in response, “We can make something Italian for you, sir.”
Ms. Warren chimed in with, “You’ll be given the dinner menu each day at lunch. If there’s nothing on it that appeals, you can order something else.”
The room’s sommelier, a huge key hanging from a leather thong around his neck, delivered the list of wines.
“Who’s the expert?” Dan Solon, the judge, asked in a gruff, gravelly voice.
We all looked to Di Giovanni.
But Elaine Ananthous, the gardening expert, said in a tiny, singsong voice, “I’ll choose one for us.” She was a birdlike woman, probably fifty, with thin, colorless, untamed hair and thick glasses. “Mostly California, I see,” she said. After a quick perusal, she chose a Hess Collection fumé blanc and a Grigich Hills cabernet.
“No Italian wine,” Di Giovanni said.
“California wine is the best,” said Judge Solon.
“Whatever happened to the French?” Troy Radcliff asked. He was handsomely dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer, white shirt open at the collar, and a red-and-blue ascot. His wide smile, which he flashed often, was rendered whiter in contrast to his tanned, creased face.
A lively debate erupted over the relative merits of various types of wine. I didn’t take part because although I enjoy a glass of good wine, red or white, California, Italian, or French, it isn’t a topic of particular interest to me. I turned to Mary Ward, who had a bemused expression on her pretty face.
“Do you enjoy wine?” I asked.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 3
