“No, I didn’t.”
Mr. Montrose, the gentlemen’s gentleman, was busy in a small galley near the top of the stairs. I poked my head in and asked, “Did Ms. Tralaine order room service last night or this morning?”
“No, ma’am. She had dinner in the Queens Grill, as I understand. There was no room service.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I saw her at dinner.”
He turned to continue the chore I’d interrupted. As he did, I noticed a roster of passengers occupying the penthouses. Mr. and Mrs. S. Teller were listed in the Queen Elizabeth Suite, next to Marla Tralaine’s quarters. Written in red next to their names was SPECIAL MENU.
Mary and I went down the stairs, grasping the banister to keep from falling.
“Still want to go shopping?” I asked.
“I think I will get some rest,” she said. “If you don’t mind shopping alone.”
“Of course I don’t. But can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you interested in a garlic smell in Marla Tralaine’s penthouse?”
She shrugged and said, “I’m very sensitive to odors, Jessica. We don’t use much garlic in southern cooking. I fry most everything. My grits and molded gelatin salads are quite popular in Lumberton.” She laughed. “Except my children aren’t always crazy about my cooking. But I like Italian food with plenty of garlic when I visit Italy. When I was introduced to that Italian fellow who has the cooking show on television, I smelled a lot of garlic on his uniform.”
“Uniform? Oh, his white chef’s outfit. Come to think of it, I noticed that, too.”
“Just an observation,” she said. “Means nothing. Thank you for letting me tag along.”
I watched her walk away and couldn’t help but shake my head and smile. I felt a little like Sherlock Holmes, Mary Ward my Dr. Watson.
Garlic in the air in Marla Tralaine’s penthouse.
Rip Nestor’s copy of the script there, too.
This was shaping up to be a memorable crossing.
I detoured on my way to the shops through the Queens Grill where breakfast was being cleared and preparations were under way for lunch. I spotted one of the waiters serving my table, the one with the French accent. The tag on his uniform said his name was Jacques.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said.
“Good morning.”
“You missed breakfast.”
“Yes. I had it in my room. I wonder if you would do me a small favor.”
“Oui. Whatever you ask.”
“I’ve been told that Mr. and Mrs. Teller, in the Queen Elizabeth Suite, have a special menu they enjoy each evening.”
He laughed. “Oui. They certainly do.”
“I’d love to know what it is. I hear it’s a very healthy diet. I could use a healthy diet.”
“Pasta,” he said without hesitating.
“Pasta?”
“Oui. For lunch and dinner. Extra-virgin olive oil for Mrs. Teller—Ms. Sims—and red sauce for Mr. Teller. With plenty of garlic. We laugh about it in the kitchen. With all the wonderful dishes available, they eat only pasta and salad. And fruit for dessert.”
“It does sound healthy,” I said.
“And boring,” he said, chuckling.
“That, too,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Will I see you at lunch?”
“I think so.”
“Pasta for you?”
“We’ll see. Thanks again.”
Chapter Ten
I bought a few inexpensive gifts to bring back to my friends in Cabot Cove, but mostly just browsed the lovely shops along the promenade. At a few minutes before eleven, I met up with an escort who took me up to the bridge high above the ship, where the captain and his officers guided us across the Atlantic.
Captain Marwick was as charming as he was handsome, and the young men and women working under his command that morning looked as though they’d stepped out from a military recruiting poster.
The QE2’s bridge, rising almost a hundred feet into the air, is spacious, with windows affording the crew a hundred-and-eighty-degree vista. I assumed the view from there on a clear day was spectacular. The problem was that the weather obscured even the bow of the ship. It was like sailing into oblivion; would we fall off the edge of the Earth any minute? I mentioned this to Captain Marwick.
He laughed and said, “Not a problem, Mrs. Fletcher. Last I heard, the Earth was round. Then again, I might have had a second-rate public education.”
I laughed along with him. “But what if there’s another ship out there?” I asked. “Just beyond where we can see?”
That’s when I received a lesson in the ship’s state-of the-art navigational equipment—the radar scanning twelve miles in all directions, the technology so advanced that trained radar observers can differentiate a ship from a large wave, an iceberg from a whale. Everything is fed into computers, which plot the QE2’s course. Aside from needing a human hand when leaving a port and entering another, the passage across the Atlantic is controlled by the autopilot The crew never touches the controls once the course, speed, and other factors are entered into the system.
“How fast are we going?” I asked.
“Thirty-one knots,” he replied. “Quite fast. We’re riding the North Atlantic Drift, as it’s called. The Gulf Stream, actually.”
Before leaving the bridge, I learned that the officers received reports on the ice flow every six hours from spotter aircraft operating from land to our north; that it takes three-quarters of a mile to stop the QE2; that the ship has nine large engines, with one always being maintained aboard while the other eight do the work (each consuming two tons of fuel an hour); and that only the captain can order a change in direction or speed, which means he’s on-call twenty-four hours a day. He has an onboard apartment, which he shares with his wife, who accompanies him on many crossings.
“This was fascinating,” I said. “Thank you for the opportunity to learn about it.”
“My pleasure,” the captain said. “Let me show you something else.”
Off each side of the bridge was an outdoor deck area. Captain Marwick led me out onto one of them.
“Must be lovely in fair weather,” I said, pulling my sweater closer.
“Yes, it is. Mrs. Fletcher, I personally wanted to express my regret over the unfortunate incident this morning.”
“Ms. Tralaine? Thank you. A tragedy.”
“Especially that you had to be the one who discovered her body.”
“I appreciate that, Captain Marwick. But anyone could have been the one to spot her in the lifeboat. I just happened to be there, along with a friend.”
“You know that we try to keep such incidents quiet for the sake of our other passengers.”
“I’ve been informed of that—many times, by many people.”
“I’m sure of that,” he said. “But my message to you is that while we would appreciate discretion in this matter, I don’t want you to feel burdened. After all, you are one of those passengers we’re committed to serving. You are to have a pleasant and pleasurable crossing, too.”
“And I’m sure I will. But thank you for reminding me of it.”
My escort held open the door for me, and I followed him down a cramped staircase, wide enough for only one person at a time to pass. When we reached the bottom, another uniformed escort waited to come up. Next to her was a familiar face, the journalist and commentator, James Brady.
“Jim,” I said, “I didn’t know you were on board.”
He smiled, and we shook hands. “But I knew you were, Jess,” he said.
“Of course you did. That’s your business, knowing who’s where.” James Brady is probably the country’s leading chronicler of the comings and goings of the world’s rich and famous, appearing on television, and with a column in Parade that reaches millions of readers each Sunday.
“How’s your play?” he asked.
“Fine, I think. We rehearsed last nigh
t.”
“I had breakfast this morning with Judge Solon and Troy Radcliff. They said they’re enjoying being in it.”
“They seem to be having a good time.”
“Solon told me that Marla Tralaine isn’t having such a good time.”
“I...”
“I’ve been trying to grab an interview with her. Have you seen her today?”
“I ... yes. I saw her.”
“Her manager, Pete Kunz, won’t let anyone near her. I saw her at dinner last night, but I was busy with Pam Fiori and Mike Cannon from Town and Country, Peggy Cass, and a couple of British writers.”
“Good company. Going up to the bridge, Jim?” I asked with exaggerated animation. “It’s a wonderful experience.”
“I’ve been up there before, but—”
“Great seeing you again. We’ll catch up later.”
He looked at me quizzically as I quickly walked away.
James Brady aboard?
Other journalists?
Keep Marla Tralaine’s murder a secret for the next four days?
Try keeping a British royal scandal quiet.
I freshened up in my cabin in preparation for going to lunch in the Queens Grill. The rough weather we’d encountered really hadn’t bothered me much until now. But as I again made my way up the main staircase, holding on tight to the banister and practicing going with the up-and-down flow, I experienced the first twinge of stomach upset. Nothing major, just a general queasiness that came and went.
I considered returning to my cabin to put on the wristbands I’d brought with me, or to apply a seasickness patch. But I decided my upset wasn’t serious enough to make the extra trip.
I entered the lounge and was heading for the dining room when Elaine Ananthous looked up from where she sat next to a window. “Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, “I was hoping I’d see you before this afternoon.”
The chair across the coffee table was unoccupied, and I took it. “Yes?” I said.
She looked left and right, leaned over the table, and said, “I have shocking news.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Another glance to ensure she wasn’t being overheard. “Marla Tralaine?”
“Yes?”
It was now a barely audible whisper. “She’s dead.”
I nodded.
“And not by natural causes, Jessica. She’s ... been murdered!”
“I, ah ... I heard something about it.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and the captain wants us to—”
“Where did you hear it?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you know how she died?”
“No.”
“They found her in a lifeboat.”
“Oh?”
“Naked in there.”
That was something I didn’t know.
“I’m so worried, Jessica.”
“Worried about what?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Of being killed like her.”
“Why would you think her death would mean that?” I asked.
“There’s a murderer loose on this ship,” she said. “Marla Tralaine was on this crossing for the same reason you and I are, to lecture. Maybe someone wants to kill all the lecturers before we reach Southampton.”
“I seriously doubt that, Elaine. We’re not the great chefs of Europe.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Having lunch? I’m starved.”
“How can you eat at a time like this?”
“To stop being hungry. Come on. We can discuss this later.”
“I couldn’t,” she said.
“All right,” I said, standing. “I’ll see you at the play.”
Mountain climber Troy Radcliff, Judge Dan Solon, and TV chef Carlo Di Giovanni were already at the table when I arrived. Grim expressions were fixed on the chef’s and judge’s faces. Did they know about Marla Tralaine, too?
“Hi,” I said, allowing Jacques, the waiter, to hold out my chair for me.
“Hello,” Radcliff said.
“Looks like I’ve intruded on a wake,” I said.
Di Giovanni said, “This weather. I tried to prepare some of my recipes this morning for my lecture. Everything slides off the table. How can I create with that going on?”
I turned to Dan Solon. “And what has you down in the dumps, Judge?”
“A rejection on my book. I got this fax this morning from my agent in New York.” He handed it to me.
“Just one rejection?” I said, handing back the short fax. “I’m sure your agent has submitted it to dozens of good publishers.”
“My agent is a jerk. How’s your agent?”
“My agent is wonderful.”
“What’s her name?”
“His name is Matt Miller.”
“I just sent a fax to my agent. I fired her.”
“Isn’t that a little premature?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in hanging on to losers. I’ll give you my manuscript. You can send it to this Miller guy.”
I ignored his brusque demand, preferring to focus upon the assumption that none of them had heard about Marla Tralaine’s demise.
Troy Radcliff flashed a smile at me and said, “Unlike our distinguished colleagues, Mrs. Fletcher, I have never been in better spirits.”
“How can you be in this weather?” Di Giovanni asked, disgustedly.
“Nothing compared to the weather when scaling Everest,” said Radcliff, launching into a lengthy tale of having climbed that famed mountain.
Looking as spry as usual, Mary Ward arrived just as appetizers of caviar, smoked salmon, and shrimp cocktails were delivered. She ordered a simple salad for lunch. Smart lady, I thought. I decided to be prudent for at least one meal and ordered the same.
“Troy was telling us about the time he climbed Mount Everest,” I said.
“Times I climbed it,” he corrected. “Three times, each one more challenging than the previous attempt.”
Conversation pretty much followed the pattern established early in the lunch—complaints from Carlo Di Giovanni and Judge Solon about the weather and literary agents, and tales of mountain climbing from Troy Radcliff. I kept waiting for Elaine Ananthous to change her mind and join us. I was relieved that she didn’t, although I couldn’t come up with any rational reason for worrying about the news of Marla Tralaine’s murder becoming public. It certainly wasn’t my responsibility, beyond not personally spreading it.
I glanced often at Mary Ward, who slowly ate her salad and listened to what the others said. What was going through her mind about having found the famous actress’s body? If it had upset her, she didn’t show it.
“No dessert, thank you,” I told Jacques. To the others I said, “Well, everyone ready to take the stage?”
“Is it that time already?” Radcliff asked.
“One-thirty,” I said. “The curtain goes up at two.”
“There is no curtain,” Solon muttered.
“Just a figure of speech,” I said. “And I won’t ask any of you to break a leg.”
“I’ll have the raspberries,” Di Giovanni told the waiter. “And cappuccino.”
“Chocolate mousse cake for me,” Solon said.
“The assorted sorbets,” said Radcliff. “But no pineapple.”
“Why no pineapple?” Judge Solon asked as though Radcliff’s request was worthy of a life sentence.
“Because I don’t like pineapple,” Radcliff said. Solon grunted and took a cookie from a tray Jacques had set on the table.
“I’m leaving,” I said. “See you in the Grand Lounge.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Mary Ward.
After we’d passed through the Queens Lounge, she said, “Would you have time for a brief detour, Jessica?”
“I think so. Where?”
“The Boat Deck.”
“Do you really think—?”
“I stopped up there before coming to lunch. Every
thing is quite normal.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go to the scene of the crime.”
“Exactly,” she said, setting a brisk pace.
The weather was still foul, although the wind seemed to have abated. A few hearty souls walked off their lunch, oblivious to what had occurred earlier that day.
We went to the lifeboat where Mary had first spotted Marla Tralaine’s bare foot sticking out. The tarpaulin had been refastened securely to the lifeboat’s gunwale.
“How high do you think it is from the deck to the boat?” Mrs. Ward asked.
“I’m bad at judging distances,” I said. “Six feet? Eight?”
“About,” she said, her eyes narrowed as she came up with her own estimate. “It would take a strong person to lift a body up there, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would,” I replied. “But of course, that’s assuming she was killed elsewhere and brought here. It seems more likely to me she was killed right up there in the boat.”
“A distinct possibility,” she said. “But if she wasn’t killed in the boat, it would mean someone with considerable strength brought her here. A man.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “If she was murdered elsewhere, Mary, it could have been a woman who killed her, but who had a male accomplice to help dispose of the body.”
“I thought of that, too, Jessica. Well, I just wanted to come up here and run my thoughts by you. I suppose it’s time to get to the Grand Lounge.”
It was after we’d taken seats at a front table in the crowded lounge, and Rip Nestor was about to come out to welcome the audience, that Mary Ward leaned close to my ear and said, “Mr. Radcliff doesn’t like pineapple.”
I turned to her. “That’s what he said.”
“Marla Tralaine didn’t like pineapple, either.”
“She didn’t?”
“No. I read an interview with her years ago. The interviewer asked about her preferences in food, what she liked to cook, things like that.” She laughed. “I remember Ms. Tralaine saying that she never cooks. I suppose when you’re a big star, other people cook for you. I would never want to be in that situation. I love to cook. Do you?”
“Yes. Sometimes. Marla Tralaine said during the interview that she didn’t like pineapple?”
“That’s right.”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 6
