Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2

by Jessica Fletcher

  Having someone with whom to share the second lap made it go faster, and I found us beginning our third turn around the Boat Deck. A few other hearty passengers had joined us by now, including Marla Tralaine’s young manager, Peter Kunz, wearing a shiny yellow jogging suit. Despite the cool, wet weather, he appeared to be perspiring, as though he’d already run a number of laps.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning,” he replied.

  “Will Ms. Tralaine be joining you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not her thing. She’s ... she’s a late sleeper. Lucky to see her by noon.”

  I wasn’t surprised at the answer.

  “Care to walk with us?” I asked.

  “No. I think I’ll go in the other direction.” His laugh seemed forced to me. “I’m left-handed,” he said. “I just naturally move left to right.” He walked away.

  Mary and I continued on our third lap, at a faster pace this time. The weather had created what movie directors spend thousands of dollars to achieve, an eerie, ethereal atmosphere in which people and inanimate objects on the deck came and went in wisps of fog—there one moment, distorted and vague, then gone the next, only to reappear.

  The outer perimeter of the Boat Deck—of most decks on the QE2—is lined with massive white lifeboats covered with orange tarps to keep them from filling with sea- and rainwater. There were twenty of them, I was told, with a capacity of more than two thousand persons. They’re lowered by winches in the event the ship has to be evacuated.

  We stopped in front of the last one on the starboard side of the ship—the nautical dictionary Cunard had sent me held me in good stead—and caught our breath.

  “You know, Mary,” I said, “this is bracing.”

  She’d moved from my side and didn’t answer.

  I looked at her. She’d gotten closer to the lifeboat and leaned forward, as though to better see something.

  “What is it?” I asked, joining her.

  I didn’t need an answer because I saw what she had seen—a woman’s bare foot poking up through a small gap in the orange tarp. As shocking as it was, my focus for the first few seconds was on the perfectly applied nail polish on her toes—so incongruous, five small spots of vivid crimson in the monochromatic gray gauze world of the QE2’s Boat Deck.

  Mary Ward looked at me.

  I looked down the length of the deck, but saw no one.

  The ship suddenly lurched as it slid down into a deep trough and rode up again on the other side of the aquatic depression, causing us to fall against the lifeboat.

  “We’d better inform someone,” Mary Ward said in a voice so calm she might have been suggesting we get a cup of coffee.

  “Yes,” I said. “We had better do that.”

  Chapter Eight

  We went through a doorway and to a phone on an unmanned desk. I picked up the receiver and said to the woman who came on the line, “This is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a lecturer on this cruise ... crossing. I need to speak to ... Priscilla Warren.”

  “Priscilla Warren?”

  “Yes. She’s my ... I suppose you can call her my guide.”

  “Please hold on.”

  When she came back, she said, “I’ll page Ms. Warren.”

  It seemed an eternity before Priscilla said, “Hello?”

  “Priscilla. It’s Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m afraid there is.”

  I explained the reason for my call.

  “You stay right at the phone, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “I need to contact some other people. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”.

  Mary Ward and I waited impatiently. It seemed an eternity before Priscilla arrived, accompanied by the QE2’s security officer, a pink-faced, round gentleman wearing a uniform, who was introduced as Wally Prall. With him was the ship’s chief medical officer, Dr. Russell Walker, wearing the obligatory white lab coat, a stethoscope about his neck.

  “Where is this body?” Prall asked.

  “We’ll show you,” I said, leading them out onto the Boat Deck and down the starboard side until reaching the lifeboat. I pointed to the foot.

  Security Chief Prall stepped up onto a metal box secured to the deck and stretched to enable him to loosen some of the fasteners holding the tarp over the lifeboat. He stripped it back, peered over the gunwale, looked down at Dr. Walker, and said, “Deceased female.” His words were carried out to sea by the ever-increasing wind.

  They stepped down. Prall asked me, “Have you told anyone about this?”

  “No,” I replied. “I called Ms. Warren the minute we discovered the body.”

  “Good,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The minute we were inside, Prall picked up the same phone I’d used and issued orders: “I want the starboard side of the Boat Deck closed off. Get a maintenance crew up here. Make it look like something’s being fixed.”

  Dr. Walker made a call: “We have a deceased passenger on the Boat Deck. Starboard side. Send up a stretcher and two techs. Keep it low-key and quiet.”

  When Walker hung up, Officer Prall said to him, “Back doors all the way. No passenger contact.” He said to me and to Mary, “Please come with me.”

  “Mr. Prall,” I said, “I don’t mind coming with you. But perhaps Mrs. Ward would prefer to go to her cabin.”

  “Oh, no,” she quickly said. “I’m happy to come with you, sir.”

  What she hadn’t said was, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  We followed the doctor and security chief down the interior port hallway until reaching the G Stairway, one of many stairs linking the thirteen decks. We eventually reached the Two Deck, four decks down from the Boat Deck. Dr. Walker led us into his private consulting room and closed the door. Security Chief Prall excused himself, saying he wanted to get back to coordinate the removal of the body.

  “Please have a seat,” Dr. Walker said, indicating two chairs.

  Once we were seated, he leaned back in his swivel chair, formed a bridge with his fingers, and rested his chin on it. His expression as he scrutinized us was that of someone trying to decided whether we could be trusted. I knew that the death of this woman, whoever she was, posed a problem for not only the doctor, but for everyone else charged with the well-being of eighteen hundred passengers sailing to England on what was, let’s face it, an expensive holiday. Death on board is hardly destined to buoy spirits.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” the doctor said, coming forward in his chair and smiling, “I am truly sorry that you and your friend here had the unfortunate experience of discovering the body of a fellow passenger. It must have been traumatic for you.”

  “We managed,” Mary Ward said, returning his smile. This was a formidable southern lady.

  “I’m sure you understand our need to keep this under wraps,” Dr. Walker said.

  “Yes, I can understand that,” I said. “But can you? Keep it ‘under wraps,’ as you put it.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Because we tend to have an older passenger population—not exclusively, but generally tending to be older and more affluent—having someone die during a crossing is not without precedent.”

  I glanced at Mary Ward before saying, “That doesn’t surprise me, Dr. Walker. But this obviously wasn’t a ... how shall I say it? ... this wasn’t a routine death of an older person. That foot does not belong to a senior citizen. Besides, unless there was an older passenger who had the foresight to climb into a lifeboat in anticipation of dying, we have—you have a murder on your hands.”

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said in a tone I found patronizing. “We’ve had passengers exhibit some rather bizarre behavior in the past.”

  “Like climbing into a lifeboat with a member of the opposite sex?” Mary Ward asked.

  Dr. Walker’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve heard?” he asked.

  “I read a great deal,” she said, demurely lowering her eyes.

  H
e cleared his throat and said, “The point is that we musn’t rush to judgment as to the cause of this passenger’s death. That will be determined by an autopsy.”

  “Performed here on the ship?” I asked.

  “No, of course not. We have a morgue on board. We don’t advertise that. But we’ll be able to hold the body until we reach Southampton. The family will be notified, and they’ll make arrangements for an autopsy and eventual disposition of the body.”

  “What about family on board?” I asked.

  “We still have to identify the victim,” he replied. “We’ll do all we can to ease their grief and to keep this unfortunate incident from spoiling the rest of the crossing for other passengers.”

  “May we leave?” I asked.

  “Will you cooperate?” he asked.

  “In not telling others? Yes. But I assure you, Doctor, this will get around. But not through me.”

  “Not through me, either,” Mary added.

  “Well, all I can say is that if we all do our best to keep it quiet, we’ll achieve some modicum of success. Thank you both.”

  “Of course.”

  As we stood to leave, Security Chief Prall returned to the consulting room. He looked harassed; he was out of breath. He ignored us as he leaned on the desk and said to the doctor, “It’s the actress.”

  “Mr. Teller’s wife?” Walker asked. “Lila Sims?”

  “No,” Prall replied.

  “Marla Tralaine?” I asked.

  Prall turned to me. “That’s right. Marla Tralaine.”

  “Cause of death?” Dr. Walker asked Prall.

  He hesitated, took us all in, then said, “It wasn’t natural.”

  “Oh, my,” Mary Ward said.

  To which I had nothing to add.

  Chapter Nine

  Priscilla Warren was waiting for me when Mary Ward and I returned from Dr. Walker’s office.

  “Will you excuse me?” Mary asked. “This has been a stressful start to the day.”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll catch up later.”

  Priscilla followed me into my cabin and shut the door. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you, Jessica.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m just shocked and sad that a famous movie actress had to die under mysterious circumstances on the QE2.”

  “Famous actress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, her eyes open wide, her hand coming to her mouth. “Lila Sims? Sam Teller’s wife?”

  It was my turn to express surprise. “No,” I said. “Not Lila Sims. It was Marla Tralaine. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I reported the body, but no one told me who it was. Ms. Tralaine? How did she die?”

  “I have no idea. That will be determined by your security and medical people, and the authorities in Southampton. My question is what this does to your schedule of lecturers and the play. I assume there will be a cancellation.”

  “Oh, no,” she said with sudden urgency. “There’s no need for other passengers to know what happened. Whenever there’s a death on board—it happens now and then—we do everything possible to not let the other passengers learn about it and spoil their holiday.”

  “But surely, with someone as well known as Marla Tralaine, and with the number of people traveling with her, the word is bound to get out.”

  “Not if we can help it.”

  “You thought it might have been Lila Sims, Mr. Teller’s wife. I didn’t even know they were on the ship.”

  “They asked that we not broadcast it. They’re staying up in one of the penthouses. Next to ... next to Ms. Tralaine’s penthouse. They take all their meals there.”

  “I see. Well, Priscilla, I suppose all I can do is keep my promise not to talk about this with anyone else.”

  “What about her?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Mary Ward’s adjacent cabin.

  “Mrs. Ward? I’m sure she’ll keep her word, too.”

  Priscilla moved to the door. “I’d better check in with the social director. In the meantime, I suggest you get ready for your lecture and the play.”

  “I’ve been invited for a personal tour of the bridge,” I said. “At eleven.”

  “Then go through with it, by all means. Obviously, Captain Marwick knows about this. The key, Jessica, is for things to go on as they normally would. That’s all we can ask.”

  She left, and I checked my watch. It was nine—two hours before my tour of the bridge. I could stay in my cabin for the next two hours, but my energy level wouldn’t allow that. I needed to get out, resume my walk—not on the Boat Deck, of course—and clear my head.

  I stepped into the hallway, where Walter, my steward, was about to deliver fresh ice and towels. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, smiling broadly. “A nasty turn in the weather.”

  “So I noticed. Unexpected?”

  “Yes. But on the North Atlantic you can never—”

  Mary Ward’s door opened.

  “I assumed you’d be resting,” I said.

  “Rest? How could I? I thought I’d move about a bit, see more of the ship.”

  “Exactly what I’m off to do.”

  We were about to head for the shops, located on our deck, when Security Chief Prall approached. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I was hoping to find you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you would—” He stopped in midsentence and looked at Mary Ward.

  “Remember, Mr. Prall, Mrs. Ward and I discovered the body together. In fact, she was the one who spotted it first. So, please speak freely in front of her.”

  “Oh, yes. I wondered if you’d come with me to Ms. Tralaine’s penthouse.”

  “Of course I will if you want me to. But why?”

  “We found something there that should interest you.”

  “Then let’s go,” I said. Before he could protest, I added, “Come on, Mary.”

  The QE2’s thirty-two penthouse suites are accessed via the Queens Grill Lounge. Prall led us through a doorway and up a carpeted staircase with a light wood banister to where a distinguished-looking gentleman in uniform stood at attention.

  “This is Mr. Montrose,” Prall said, “gentleman’s gentleman to our penthouse guests.”

  The tall, proper Montrose nodded and stepped aside for us to pass.

  Prall led us down a hall to the Queen Mary Suite. The door was closed. He knocked. Marla Tralaine’s personal trainer, Tony Silvestrie, opened it. He wore gray gym shorts, a white T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique to good advantage, and sandals. He looked at Mary Ward and me as though we’d dropped in from a foreign planet.

  “Excuse us,” Prall said, sounding official.

  Silvestrie frowned, then did as he’d been instructed.

  The Queen Mary Suite defined opulence. It was a duplex, one of two “First Suites” out of the thirty-two, the other being the Queen Elizabeth Suite next door. While all penthouses contained a balcony, the First Suites had two of them, one enclosed in glass to allow the occupants to enjoy the outdoors even in inclement weather.

  We stepped into the large living room where Silvestrie stood alongside Candy Malone, Marla Tralaine’s hairdresser, and two uniformed members of the ship’s security staff.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher,” Prall said. They muttered greetings. “Would you come with me, please? Mrs. Ward can wait here.”

  I followed Prall into the larger of two bedrooms. He went to a nightstand, picked up a sheaf of paper, and handed it to me. It was a copy of the script I’d written. I glanced at it, looked up at him, then said, “Yes?”

  “It’s your script, isn’t it?”

  “I wrote it.”

  “No,” he said. “What I mean is that it seems to be your personal copy, with notes written all over it.”

  I examined it more closely; there were copious notes on every page. I said, “You’re right. There are many notes. But I didn’t write them.”

  “Who did?”
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  “I believe this is the copy used by the play’s director, Mr. Nestor.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Yes. I saw him use it during the rehearsal last night. These are his stage directions—ideas about how characters should move and speak, motivation and such.”

  “Any idea why Ms. Tralaine would have his copy in her cabin?”

  “No idea at all, Mr. Prall. Maybe he gave it to her to study.”

  Prall shook his head. “I doubt that,” he said. “I talked to her manager, Mr. Kunz. He told me she wanted no part of being in the play, didn’t take part in the rehearsal. True?”

  “True that she didn’t take part. But she told me she would participate.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “When she came to the rehearsal.”

  “But she didn’t rehearse.”

  “No. She left before we finished. But that isn’t strange, Mr. Prall. She had what amounted to a walk-on at the very end of the play.”

  “Any idea where she went after leaving the rehearsal?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks for coming.”

  “Call on me any time,” I said. “By the way, how was she killed?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

  “I understand. I assume I can leave now.”

  “Of course. And we’re still keeping this quiet, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “With all those people out there knowing?”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  “And I’ll cooperate.”

  Mary and I left the penthouse and stood in the hall. She had a strange expression on her face, a puzzled one.

  “Did you notice?” she asked.

  “Notice what?”

  “The odor in Ms. Tralaine’s suite.”

  “What odor?”

  “Garlic. Very pronounced.”

  “Oh? Probably from something she ordered from room service.”

  “I didn’t see any trays. Did you?”