“Sorry, but I can’t do better at the moment. Will you send all this to me?”
“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning and shoot the fax to you by the end of the day.”
“Great. I knew I could count on you.”
“Hey,” she said. “You mentioned the movie Marla Tralaine was going to make for the Teller Network. Is she—?”
“You’re a doll,” I said. “I’ll be looking for the faxes tomorrow. ‘Bye.”
That call made, I debated what to do next. My cabin was especially inviting at the moment. Two lamps cast a warm glow over the room, and the gentle rocking of the ship almost made it feel as though I were in a cradle. The thought of climbing into bed and reading a good book until falling asleep was compelling.
On the other hand, I was brimming with energy. I love retiring early, then getting up with the sun. But there are nights when the adrenaline flows, and you just know it would be impossible to fall asleep.
I freshened up, left the cabin, and went to the main staircase, pausing at the Midships Lobby where the history of Samuel Cunard and his remarkable achievements in building this steamship company were depicted. A sprawling four-panel mural by the British artist Peter Sutton traced the history of the line. There were also ship models, artifacts, maritime paintings, and photographs of celebrities from the world of entertainment and politics aboard the ship, all artfully displayed. As I become older, the meaning of history looms more important to me as a measure of who we are, and why we are the way we are.
As I perused the display, other passengers passed on their way to the ship’s myriad nighttime activities. I envied them. All they had to think about during the five-day crossing was how to enjoy themselves.
I decided on the spot that I was in for a little enjoyment, too. That morning’s program indicated that the editor-in-chief of Town and Country magazine, Pamela Fiori, and one of her associates, Michael Cannon, whom I’d heard was a wonderful pianist and singer, were presenting a musical tribute that night to a hundred and fifty years of the magazine. I certainly knew of Ms. Fiori’s esteemed reputation in the magazine field, but had no idea she was also musically talented.
The show was being held in the Queens Room, where the tea dance had taken place that afternoon. It sounded like a pleasant diversion from murder, so I headed there, arriving just as the lights dimmed and the show was about to begin. I slipped into an empty chair at a table to the rear of the room. Others at the table didn’t pay any attention to me, for which I was grateful.
I was glad I’d decided to catch the show. It was wonderful. Michael Cannon was an immensely talented pianist and singer, and Pam Fiori used a beautifully written narration to link the songs by great American composers to milestones in the magazine’s history. The crowd loved it. When the lights came up, the performing duo received a standing ovation, my own applause included in it.
Although many people left the Queens Room after the show, a number stayed for the next round of entertainment, dancing to the QE2’s orchestra. I lingered at the table for a few minutes. As I started to leave, James Brady intercepted me. “Hear anything new?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You?”
“No. I tried to confirm how Marla died, but can’t get anybody in Security or Medical to open up.”
“Have you filed your story yet?” I asked.
“Yes. And I’ll be doing a satellite TV feed in the morning. Care to be on with me?”
“Heavens, no, Jim, but thanks for asking.” I knew he’d made the North Atlantic crossing on the QE2 many times before, so I asked, “Have you ever had anything like this happen on your previous crossings?”
“No. Always lots of celebrities aboard, but none of them murdered. Buy you a drink?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
The Queens Grill Lounge was unoccupied, with the exception of a young couple holding hands next to one of the windows. Honeymooners, I judged. The QE2 always has honeymooning couples aboard. It’s an expensive way to celebrate a marriage, but since everything is provided with the exceptions of alcoholic drinks and tips, it averages out to be a pretty good travel value.
We took a table at the opposite end of the room from the young couple. The tiny bar was manned by a charming young Scotsman who took our orders and returned to the bar to prepare them. Hearing his Scottish brogue reminded me of my dear Scottish friend, George Sutherland, a top-ranking inspector for Scotland Yard.
The year before, I’d led a group of friends from Cabot Cove on a trip to Scotland. We stayed in George’s family castle in Wick, on the northernmost coast of that magnificent country. Unfortunately, the vacation was marred by murder, a situation that seemed to be following me around these days.
When I told George I was taking the crossing, he expressed disappointment; he wouldn’t be in England when I arrived. Something to do with a case in Edinburgh. Seeing him again would, of course, have made the trip that much more enjoyable.
Jim and I toasted each other.
“Having a good time despite tripping over dead bodies?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I suppose because I’m not. You?”
“Turning into a real working trip,” he replied. “But nothing can ruin a trip for me on the QE2. One of my favorite things in the world is to spend five days on this beautiful lady.”
“The weather seems to have improved,” I said.
“Yes, it has.”
“My steward told me we may have a storm bearing down on us.”
“Nothing new on the North Atlantic. Oh, by the way, the piece you wrote for the program is very well done.”
My eyebrows went up. “How did you know? It’s being inserted in tomorrow’s program.”
He gave me a pixieish smile as he pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tuxedo. “I have a friend.”
I shook my head as he handed it to me. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said, “with your connections.”
Ms. Jenkins had done a nice job of laying out the five hundred word insert. She hadn’t changed a word I’d written. I handed it back to Brady, asking, “Do you think this will allay passenger fears?”
“Not in the least.”
We chatted for another half hour about a number of things, few of them having to do with Marla Tralaine. Finally, he said, “I have to meet up for a drink with one of the British journalists. Walk you back to your cabin?”
“No, but thanks for offering. I think I’ll just sit here a while. I’m not quite ready for bed.”
He gave the bartender his gold Cunard card, signed the receipt, said good-bye, and left.
I declined the bartender’s offer of another drink; I’d only sipped the first one, and most of it was left in the glass. I closed my eyes and focused upon the movement of the ship. It just keeps going, I thought, thirty knots, relentlessly pressing forward no matter what events take place onboard, eighteen hundred men, women, and children enjoying themselves on what was undoubtedly for many the trip of a lifetime, as it had been for Frank and me twenty years ago.
Thinking of my late husband made me sad; it was time to go to my cabin and call it a night.
As I got up from the table and started to leave, the door leading up to the penthouse area opened and a man stepped past it. I didn’t recognize him for a moment, then saw it was Jerry Lackman, the actor playing Billy Bravo, the detective in my play. He looked at me. I waved. He immediately turned and left the lounge, leaving no doubt in my mind that seeing me had caused him to bolt.
I opened the door leading up to the penthouse suites and ascended the stairs. I paused in the carpeted hallway. Directly in front of me was the small kitchen area in which Mr. Montrose, the gentleman’s gentleman, prepared drinks and snacks for passengers staying on that level. He stepped from behind a partition and said, “May I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said.
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am,
I am aware of that.”
“I ... I was supposed to meet Mr. Lackman here. He’s one of the actors in my play.”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed him, Mrs. Fletcher. He just left Mr. Teller’s penthouse.”
“He left Mr. Teller’s penthouse?”
“Yes, ma’am. Only a minute or so ago.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, I suppose I’ll catch up with him elsewhere on the ship.”
As I was about to go down the stairs, another person stepped from behind the partition. I recognized him instantly from photographs I’d seen in newspapers, and from news programs on television. It was Samuel Teller, founder and chairman of the Teller Cable Network. He directed his glare first at me, then at Mr. Montrose.
“Thank you,” I said. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Teller’s hard stare stayed with me all the way back to my cabin. Once there, I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag, sat in one of the club chairs beneath the porthole, and started to write.
Marla Tralaine murdered. Cause of death unknown. Naked body found in lifeboat on Boat Deck.
Tralaine connected with many people on the ship. Old British actor from early movie signs on this particular crossing to work as gentleman host.
Former lover during period her husband murdered years ago begs for a role in theatrical production on this particular crossing.
Bad blood between Teller Network founder Sam Teller and Tralaine, presumably over movie she was to make for him.
Mary Ward smells garlic in Tralaine’s penthouse. TV chef Carlo Di Giovanni reeks of garlic from cooking.
One rumored cause of death, according to James Brady, is a pick of some sort, perhaps used by mountain climbers. Lecturer Troy Radcliff, world-famous mountain climber, is aboard.
Another rumored cause of death is poison. Plant expert Elaine Ananthous is to give lecture on poison plants, and how they’ve been used in murder mysteries.
Tralaine’s hairdresser, Candy Malone, knew of the murder almost immediately that morning. How did she hear about it so fast?
Tralaine’s manager, Peter Kunz, was on Boat Deck the morning Mary Ward and I discovered body.
Mary Ward points out it would take a strong person to hoist Tralaine’s dead body up into lifeboat. Tralaine’s personal trainer, Tony Silvestrie, would certainly qualify in that regard.
I stopped, pondered other possible connections, and resumed writing.
During lunch with director Rip Nestor he referred to Marla Tralaine as a “bitch.” Why? Was he responding only to her public reputation? Or had he known her personally?
Troy Radcliff and Marla Tralaine shared a dislike for pineapple. Hardly worthy of noting, but might as well.
Rip Nestor’s director’s copy of my script, with all his notes written on it, was found in Marla Tralaine’s penthouse. Why?
Now, the most recent possible connection came to mind.
Actor Jerry Lackman, playing my detective hero, Billy Bravo, is seen coming from penthouse area. Mr. Montrose, butler to penthouse passengers, tells me Lackman had come from the penthouse occupied by cable TV mogul Sam Teller and his young actress wife, Lila Sims. Why would this actor be meeting with Sam Teller? Mary Ward thinks Lackman is from Los Angeles based upon his accent, although he claims to be a New Yorker. Lackman urged me to introduce him to Marla Tralaine. When Lackman told me he knew about the murder, he said he got it through “official channels.” Why would this actor be in the official loop?
Whenever I find myself personally involved in murder, I always find it useful to make a list such as the one I’d just written. It helps keep my thoughts focused, and puts people and things into perspective.
I couldn’t think of anything else to write, so I put the pad and pen on the cocktail table, went to the closet, took out a nightgown, carefully hung up the evening wear I’d had on, slipped into the nightgown, added a robe and slippers, and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’d just taken the cap off the toothpaste when my phone rang. Who would be calling me at this hour?
I returned to the bedroom and picked up the receiver.
“Jessica?”
I recognized his voice immediately. It was my dear friend George Sutherland.
“George? Why are you calling me?”
“I’m offended,” he said, his brogue coming through. “Do I have to have a reason?”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s been a hectic day and night and—”
“Aside from always enjoying talking to you, Jessica, there is another reason for my call.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“London.”
“I thought you were in Edinburgh.”
“I was, but I was called back. It seems you’ve had a nasty incident aboard the QE2.”
“That’s putting it mildly. You’ve heard?”
“Oh, yes. The ship contacted The Yard, and they brought me back to London to coordinate the investigation from this end.”
“You’ll be investigating Marla Tralaine’s murder?”
“Afraid so. The plan is for us to dispatch a helicopter from Southampton as soon as the ship comes within range of the aircraft. I’ll be on board along with forensic experts.”
“Flying out to the QE2 on a helicopter? Have you ever done that before?”
He laughed. “No, can’t say that I have. But isn’t that what’s enjoyable about being alive? Something new every day.”
“I suppose so, although I wish the reason for it weren’t the murder of a famous actress.”
“Quite so,” he said. “My information is that you discovered the body, poor dear.”
“In reality, a lovely woman I’ve befriended actually spotted the very dead Ms. Tralaine.”
“Anything you can tell me that might help in my planning?”
“You mean suspects, clues, things like that?”
“Exactly. I know you only too well, Jessica Fletcher. When a murder takes place in your general vicinity, you usually end up to your pretty neck in it.”
“A terrible reputation to bear. As a matter of fact, I just finished making notes on what’s occurred so far.”
“Splendid. Read them to me.”
“Hold on.”
After I’d gone through my notes with him, he said, “You’ve been a very busy girl.”
“Too busy, I’m afraid. There really hasn’t been time to enjoy this wonderful experience. But I’m determined I eventually will.” I mentioned that I’d been called upon to write the insert for the morning’s program.
“Read that to me, too, if you will,” he said.
“I can’t. I don’t have it with me,” I replied, wishing I’d kept the copy Jim Brady had shown me.
“I wish you weren’t so directly involved,” George said.
“Too late for that now, George. No telling what tomorrow will bring, so I think I ought to get to bed.”
“And I won’t keep you from that.”
“Do you know what, George?”
“What?”
“There is one good thing to come out of this.”
“Which is?”
“The change in your plans. It means I’ll have a chance to see you.”
“Right you are, Jessica. Murder can have its advantages.”
“I didn’t quite mean that.”
“Nor did I. Go on, get your beauty sleep. But let’s stay in touch until I get there. I’ll call tomorrow.”
I glanced at my watch, which I’d set ahead an hour upon instruction in that day’s program. When crossing the Atlantic, passengers are told to turn their watches ahead an hour each day so that when they reach England, the time change has been accounted for, and there’s less disturbance of circadian rhythms, also known as jet lag.
“It’s already tomorrow.”
“Sleep tight, Jessica. Speak with you again in a few hours.”
Chapter Fifteen
Although I’d gone to bed late, I slept fitfully, and was awake to hear that day
’s program being slipped beneath my door at five A.M. I hurriedly got out of bed, picked up the newsletter, and opened to the inserted announcement of Marla Tralaine’s death.
My reaction to seeing it was not one of pleasure or pride. Becoming the QE2’s temporary spokesperson for this tragedy sounded logical at the time it was presented to me. But I now sensed that Security Chief Prall and the others had played upon my ego, which I like to think is generally intact. I’m not easily flattered.
Yes, I bought the rationale at the time that having someone like me act as the unified voice for the eighteen hundred other passengers would be a positive thing.
But for whom?
In the harsh reality of morning, I realized it wouldn’t be me.
I showered quickly, dressed casually for the day, and dealt with the decision of whether to have breakfast in my cabin or in the Queens Grill. There was the strong temptation to remain in seclusion, perhaps for the duration of the trip to avoid the inevitable questions that would be asked of me by other passengers who’d read the announcement. But I knew I couldn’t do that—wouldn’t do that—because it would cheat me out of enjoying the rest of the crossing.
As I opened my door, my steward, Walter, passed with a breakfast tray for another cabin. He stopped and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Sleep well?”
“To be truthful, no.”
“I read what you wrote about Ms. Tralaine,” he said. “But I knew about it before that.”
“I’m sure you did. Word gets around pretty quickly when somebody’s murdered.”
He hesitated before asking, “Do you know who killed her, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No. And frankly, Walter, I’d just as soon not know.”
“The crew has ideas about it.”
“I’m sure they do. Everyone on the ship is probably speculating. The little thing I wrote was intended to head off such speculation. I’m afraid it won’t.”
“Well, I’d better deliver this breakfast before it gets cold,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with people these days, shooting a beautiful lady like that.” He started to walk away.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 10
