“Interesting,” I said, not knowing why.
Rip Nestor, dressed in white slacks and shirt, bounded out to the stage apron and announced, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to an hour of murder and mayhem, mischief and manslaughter.”
“She didn’t like pineapple?” I said absently.
“No, she didn’t.” Mary put her index finger to her lips. “Sssssh,” she said, smiling. “I want to hear every word.”
Chapter Eleven
The first act of the play went well, judging from the audience’s active and willing participation. They applauded wildly, booed the character Millard Wainscott, and shouted their approval when he was gunned down at the end of the act.
My fellow lecturers also appeared to have enjoyed playing their small parts at the beginning of the scene. All of them, that is, except the plant lady, Elaine Ananthous. She was a nervous wreck on stage, wringing her hands and allowing an active tic in her left eye to run amuck. I suppose I couldn’t blame her. But I was afraid she’d fall apart up there and start screaming that Marla Tralaine had been murdered. Thank goodness she didn’t.
Nestor announced to the audience that the second act would be performed tomorrow—same time, same place. He added, “But don’t go away. The famous mystery writer, and our playwright, Jessica Fletcher, will be giving her first of two talks right here in just a few minutes.”
Mary Ward and I went backstage to congratulate the cast. My antenna was fully extended to pick up on any mention of Marla Tralaine. But only Elaine Ananthous demonstrated unusual behavior. She kept her eyes glued to me, her pinched face set in an expression asking: What do we do now?
I managed to catch a few minutes alone with her.
“I thought I’d fall apart out there,” she said in her small voice. “I’ll never be able to get through my lecture tomorrow.”
“Elaine,” I said, “I assure you, there is nothing for you, or any of us, to be concerned about. I know how hard it is to carry the knowledge that Ms. Tralaine has been killed, and to have to keep it quiet. But I’m certain that by tonight the word will have gotten out anyway, lifting that burden from us.”
“Who could have done such a thing?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
Although I hadn’t been forthcoming with her when she asked earlier how I’d learned of the actress’s death, I didn’t let that deter me from asking her the same question.
“I wouldn’t want to get the person in any trouble,” she replied.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I said, meaning it.
“It was... it was her hairdresser.”
“Ms. Tralaine’s hairdresser—Ms. Malone, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she tell you?”
“I don’t think she meant to. I saw her standing alone down by the spa. I’m always looking to do something with this thin hair of mine, and I thought she wouldn’t be offended if I asked her advice. When I approached, I saw she’d been crying. I asked what was wrong, if I could help. And then she just blurted out that Ms. Tralaine was dead—murdered, found naked in a lifeboat.”
“What time was this?” I asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe eight. A little after that.”
I did a fast calculation. Mary Ward and I had discovered the body at approximately eight o’clock. If Tralaine’s hairdresser, Candy Malone, knew about it at eight, that raised serious questions about how she’d learned of it so fast. If it was, as Elaine Ananthous thought it might have been, sometime after eight that she approached the hairdresser, that would have given her time to hear about it.
But from whom?
Granted, shipboard scuttlebutt could be an incredibly efficient and rapid conveyer of information. But not that fast. From what I’d observed, the attempts to put a lid on the murder had been successful, at least at that early hour.
I changed the subject.
“Tell me what you’ll be lecturing about,” I said.
“Poison,” she replied.
“Poison?”
“I know it sounds silly, but since so much of what’s going on during the crossing has to do with murder—your lectures and the play, I thought I’d discuss poisonous plants and how they’ve been used in murder mysteries to ... kill people.”
She was about to break into tears.
‘ “That sounds like a wonderful lecture,” I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice.
“Maybe I shouldn’t do it,” she said. “I could say I’m sick.”
“But then you’d miss the fun of the crossing. No, you give your lecture on poisonous plants. I’m sure it will be fascinating.”
I hadn’t noticed that Mary Ward had joined us. When I did, I told her the subject of Elaine Ananthous’s lecture.
“I always enjoy mysteries where poison is the instrument of death,” she said. “I don’t like blood and gore, guns and knives. Give me a good old-fashioned poisoning any day.”
I smiled and said, “I tend to agree with you.”
“‘How oft hereafter rising shall she look; through this same garden after me—in vain.’ ”
She answered our quizzical expressions with, “It’s from the Rubaiyat. A favorite of mine. I love poetry.”
“We’d better break this up,” Rip Nestor cut in suddenly. “You’ve got a full house waiting for you, Jessica.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I almost forgot I’m supposed to speak.”
Priscilla Warren, whom I hadn’t seen since the dismaying events of earlier that day, suddenly appeared. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’ll introduce you.”
Working from a biography supplied by my publisher, she breathlessly rolled through a list of my publishing credits. The audience applauded as I stepped from the wings and approached the microphone. But Priscilla intercepted me halfway there and whispered, “The word is getting around about Ms. Tralaine. If anyone asks about it, please say you know nothing.”
I spoke for almost forty-five minutes, tracing the history of the murder mystery, mentioning the basic types, and talking about how I’d been influenced by great mystery writers, past and present. I then asked if there were any questions.
There were, many of them. But no one mentioned Marla Tralaine.
The other lecturers, who’d stayed after the play to hear me, were congratulatory, as were Priscilla Warren and Mary Ward.
. I looked at my watch. “I did go on, didn’t I?” I said, shaking my head. “It’s four. The tea dance is starting.”
“A word, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Jerry Lackman, the actor who would make his appearance as Detective-Sergeant Billy Bravo in tomorrow’s second act as the officer called to the TV studio to investigate Millard Wainscott’s murder, beckoned me to join him apart from the group.
“Yes?” I said after we’d moved a few feet away. “Oh. You wanted me to arrange an introduction for you with Marla Tralaine. I’m afraid it’s too—”
“Yeah, too late,” he said. “She’s dead.”
“You know.”
“I know.”
“The captain has asked us to not publicly discuss it,” I said.
“I know that, too. What did they tell you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Very little.”
“You discovered her body.”
“Yes, I—actually, Mrs. Ward over there made the discovery. I was with her. How did you learn about it?”
“The word’s getting around.”
“That I discovered the body?”
He nodded.
“No one in the audience seems to know.”
“They’re keeping it in official channels.”
“Why would that include you, Mr. Lackman?”
“Call me Jerry. I didn’t mean I was official or anything. I guess I get too wrapped up playing a detective. Live the part.”
Somehow, I didn’t believe him.
“Jessica,” Troy Radcliff said. “You promised me the first dance.”
“I did?”
I watched Lackman go to where other cast members congregated, and replayed our brief conversation over in my mind. Official channels? I’d make it a point of asking him about that the next time we spoke.
The daily four o’clock tea dance featuring the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra was held in the Queens Room on the Quarter Deck, one level below. As we walked there, the music acted as a magnet, drawing us down a wide, carpeted hallway with large windows looking out over the sea, and to the sprawling nightclub’s dance floor, surrounded by comfortable chairs and tables. Waiters and waitresses in white jackets sliced through the dancers already on the floor, carrying tea services, finger sandwiches, and sweets on large trays. It was filling up fast; we were fortunate to take the last empty cluster of chairs, six in all, just to the right of the band.
The beat was infectious. Despite the motion of the ship as it plowed through the rising swells of the North Atlantic, the dancers seemed to be doing just fine. The band, led by the veteran trombonist Buddy Morrow, whose Night Train was a huge success decades ago, consisted of fifteen young musicians playing the familiar arrangements of the original Dorsey band. I noticed that everyone at our table—everyone in the large room—was tapping their feet along with the music. A male singer stepped to the microphone and joined the band in one of its biggest hits, “I’ll Never Smile Again,” a favorite of mine. Although the vocal group that appeared on the recording, the Pied Pipers, wasn’t there, I could hear them harmonizing with the singer.
“Jessica?”
Troy Radcliff had stood and offered me his hand.
“I haven’t danced in so long,” I said.
“You never forget,” he countered.
He led me to the floor, and we settled into a pleasant, moderate dance step.
“See?” he said. “You haven’t forgotten.”
My thoughts were on my late husband, Frank. He was never comfortable on a dance floor, but was a trouper whenever I was in the mood. I always missed him. But it was at times like this that the ache was more acute.
The band picked up the tempo with another all-time favorite, “Marie.”
“A little too fast for me,” I said.
As we returned to our table, Mary Ward was heading for the dance floor on the arm of one of the QE2’s eight “gentlemen hosts,” older men whose duty during a crossing is to provide dancing partners, as well as conversationalists, for the single women.
Mary’s partner was a handsome chap, tall and slender, with a ruddy complexion and looking very nautical in his white slacks and shoes, and blue open-neck shirt. His hair was yellow-white, which he slicked straight back. I broke out in a smile as Mary followed his expert lead, a grin on her face.
My focus was, of course, on her. But as I watched them navigate the dance floor, I found myself looking more intently at her partner. I had the nagging feeling I’d seen him before. Could he have been aboard twenty years ago when Frank and I made the crossing? I doubted it. He would have been too young then to be hired for such a job.
It had to have been in another setting. Maybe during my travels to promote my books. He looked British to me, although that was a stereotypical guess on my part.
He delivered Mary to the table, thanked her for the dance—in a British accent—and asked if I would like to join him on the floor. The band was playing “Song of India,” its tempo still a little fast for me. But my curiosity got the better of me.
“It’s a pleasure dancing with the famous Jessica Fletcher,” he said as we fell into step.
“You may not say that when you’re finished dancing with me,” I said.
“Oh, no,” he said, guiding me into a turn. “You’re very smooth. Very smooth, indeed.”
“I was watching you before,” I said. “You look familiar.”
“Can’t imagine why,” he said. “Enjoying the crossing?”
Had I been totally honest, I would have admitted that finding the body of a famous movie actress had tempered any enjoyment I might be feeling. But I said, “I’m having a marvelous time. Are you with the ship everywhere it goes?”
“I’ve just recently signed on, Mrs. Fletcher, but I will be staying with it for the year. We do a round-the-world cruise later on. I’m looking forward to that.”
His voice mirrored his cultured appearance—deep and resonant. A trained voice, I thought.
After returning me to my group, he went on to dance with other unattached women. The more I looked at him, the stronger became the feeling that his face was familiar.
The dance ended at five. I’ve always felt that afternoon tea, a British tradition, was one of the world’s more civilized pleasures, and this afternoon hadn’t changed my opinion. Of course, most teas aren’t accompanied by such splendid swing era music. By the time it was over, I’d actually forgotten about Marla Tralaine, at least for the moment.
I’d just walked into my cabin when the phone rang. It was the ship’s director of security, Wally Prall.
“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, I was hoping I’d catch you.”
“You barely did,” I said. “Is there something new about Ms. Tralaine?”
“I’m afraid there is. That’s the reason for my call. I was wondering whether you’d be good enough to come to a meeting in my office.”
“Of course. When?”
“Now?”
“Now? I was going to nap before dinner. How long do you think the meeting will last?”
“No more than a half hour.”
“I’m leaving right away.”
Present in Mr. Prall’s office were Priscilla Warren, the QE2’s staff captain, the cruise director, the social director, and a young woman responsible for putting out the daily program that’s slipped beneath each cabin door in the early hours. After I was introduced to them, Mr. Prall got to the point.
“Mrs. Fletcher, sad to say that word of Ms. Tralaine’s tragic death is beginning to make the rounds.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
The cruise director said, “I’ve been in telephone contact with our public relations people in New York and London. It’s their feeling that we should come out with one statement, with a single spokesperson, to put to rest any wild speculation.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not a public relations expert, but that makes sense to me. If everyone finds out through gossip and word of mouth, they’ll naturally begin conjuring all sorts of theories and become unnecessarily frightened.”
“Exactly,” said the social director.
“Precisely,” said the staff captain.
I felt all eyes on me.
“Is that what you wanted me here for?” I asked. “To agree with your approach?”
“No,” said Prall. “We were hoping you would agree to be the spokeswoman for us. Write a story about it for tomorrow’s program. And be available each day at a specified time to answer passenger questions and give a daily update.”
“Me? Why me?”
The social director said, “You have considerable stature, Mrs. Fletcher, to say nothing of credibility with millions of readers, many of whom are on this crossing. Naturally, Captain Marwick would be the logical choice. But it’s felt he’d best stay aloof from it and tend to those duties passengers expect him to be performing, namely guiding us safely across the North Atlantic. He quite agrees with that.”
I started to say something, but the cruise director said, “We realize it would cut into your free time, but we’re asking only for perhaps an hour a day. And for your considerable writing talents to be utilized tonight for tomorrow’s program.”
“I—”
“We’ve run this by our public relations people,” said the staff captain. “They applaud the idea. In fact, they’re so appreciative that they’ve authorized me to award you another crossing in the future, for you and up to three friends, at absolutely no cost to you or to them.”
“That’s very generous, but—”
“Please say yes, Jessica,” Priscilla Warren said. “It would mean so much t
o the other passengers to hear your calming voice.”
“Go over again what it is you want me to do,” I said. When Prall had, I said, “All right. But on one condition.”
“Anything, Mrs. Fletcher,” the social director said.
“That I be kept fully informed of everything having to do with Ms. Tralaine’s murder.”
“We were hoping not to use that term,” Prall said.
“But she was murdered,” I said. “If I’m to be the spokeswoman, I insist upon being entirely truthful. I believe that represents good public relations.”
“Of course,” the staff captain said.
The woman responsible for the program said, “Could we start right now?”
“Write the piece for the program? Yes.”
“We’ll send dinner to wherever you’re working,” the social director said.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m sure it won’t take very long to write—the truth.”
Chapter Twelve
The editor of the shipboard newsletter/program, Rose Jenkins, led me to her office. I suppose the term “office” could be applied to it, although “closet” came more to mind. The closets in my cabin were significantly larger than her working space.
“It’s cramped, I know,” she said.
“A proverbial understatement. Tell you what, Ms. Jenkins. If you’ll tell me how many words you want this to be, I’ll just go back to my cabin and write it there.”
“Do you have a laptop computer with you?” she asked.
“No. The last thing I intended to do on this crossing was to write.”
“I can arrange for the Computer Learning Center to send one up to you.”
“I’m not terribly computer literate,” I said. “It would have to be a simple word processing program.”
“They have them all, Mrs. Fletcher.”
After a few minutes of discussion about the piece I was to write, I returned to my cabin to await delivery of a computer. Fifteen minutes later, a young man arrived, carrying a small, portable model. How so much technology could be crammed into such a tiny machine boggled my mind.
“It has three or four of the most popular word processing programs loaded.” He named them. One was Microsoft Word, the same program I used back home. Convenient, I thought. I wouldn’t have to stumble through something new and unfamiliar.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 7
