“I’d like to go into his cabin,” she said.
“Troy’s? Why?”
“Just to be there... in case he calls.”
“I don’t think he’d call his own cabin, Elaine.”
She pushed away from the wall and walked quickly down the hall. She seemed so fragile, so upset, that I felt it was incumbent upon me to stay with her. I checked my watch. It was four-thirty. The tea dance was half over.
Mr. Prall had left the door open to Radcliff’s cabin. Elaine entered, and I followed. The events of the past few hours had diverted my attention from the QE2’s motion. It hadn’t seemed to have become more pronounced. I looked across the cabin to the porthole, through which a setting sun tossed a stream of yellow light across the carpet.
Elaine stood in the middle of the room and looked around. My eyes went to the desk. Prall hadn’t taken Radcliff’s wallet with him, nor had he bothered to put it back in the drawer. I took a step in that direction, but Elaine was quicker. She scooped up the wallet, raised it close to her face, and opened it. I waited for her reaction to seeing Maria Tralaine’s picture nestled in there with her own. When she did, she gasped, and dropped the wallet to the floor. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did nothing until she slowly went to the bed, flung herself on it, and began to sob.
I picked up the wallet and put it in the desk drawer. “Elaine,” I said softly.
She continued to cry.
“Elaine,” I repeated, perching on the edge of the bed and placing my hand on her arm. “Please. Tell me about it.”
She sat up, leaned forward, and placed her hands on her knees, her posture that of total defeat. I took a tissue from a box on the nightstand and handed it to her. She removed her glasses, dabbed at her eyes, and dropped the limp tissue to her lap. She turned and looked into my eyes.
“Elaine?” I said.
“I might as well,” she said.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time I walked Elaine Ananthous to her cabin, the tea dance I wanted so much to attend was over. But I decided to head to the Queens Room anyway to see whether I could catch up with the gentleman host, Sydney Worrell, the aging British actor who’d appeared in Dangerous Woman with Marla Tralaine.
Although the Dorsey Band had finished playing, the room was still filled with happy, toe-tapping passengers. I stood at the edge of the dance floor and took in faces at the tables. Mr. Worrell sat with four unattached women. They were having a spirited, upbeat conversation, and I decided not to intrude. The eight gentlemen hosts on the QE2 were expected to continue their conversational and dancing services right into the evening hours to women traveling alone, including being on tap as dancing partners to the beat of the ship’s orchestra in the Grand Lounge. I’d seek him out there later. If I felt the situation was right, I’d bring up to him what I’d learned about his past association with Marla Tralaine.
As I stood there, it occurred to me that my shipboard friend, Mary Alice Ward, was at that moment being served a gourmet Italian meal prepared by the famous television chef, Carlo Di Giovanni. That struck me as something I’d enjoy watching, and went to the Grand Lounge where my murder mystery play—I considered it “mine” because I’d written it, although it certainly belonged to Rip Nestor and his Malibu Mysteries—was performed each afternoon.
The crowd gathered to watch the cooking demonstration was large, almost as many people as had attended the play that afternoon. Di Giovanni was up on the stage. The ship had provided an elaborate cooking set for him, including ample counter space, a stove and oven, and myriad pots, pans, and utensils. A wireless microphone was attached to the front of his white chef’s jacket. He wore a classic high, puffy chef’s hat.
The demonstration had already started when I arrived. I didn’t bother looking for a seat, content to lean against a pillar from which I had a clear view of the stage.
To Di Giovanni’s immediate right was an immaculately set table at which Mary Ward sat. The table was covered with a white linen tablecloth; crystal and silver sparkled in the glow of the stage lights. Mary had dressed for the occasion, looking lovely in a stylish powder blue suit and white blouse with a fluffy collar. She sat prim and proper in her chair, hands folded on the table, her usual inquisitive, slightly bemused expression on her face as she watched Di Giovanni prepare the meal, his nonstop commentary explaining every step as he sliced and stirred and cooked. I gathered that the menu consisted, at least in part, of an endive salad spiced with special ingredients he claimed only he uses, an appetizer of braised mushrooms with a garlic-tarragon sauce, a version of veal piccata from a recipe he announced had been in his family for four generations, and a rice dish.
He was very entertaining, each move done with great flourish, and his running dialogue—I had the feeling he embellished his Italian accent for such demonstrations and when appearing on TV—was witty and charming. No pun intended, he had the audience eating out of his hand.
He’d just made an elaborate presentation of the salad to Mary when a voice behind me said, “Mrs. Fletcher.”
I turned. It was my onboard hostess, Priscilla Warren.
“Yes, Priscilla?” I asked.
“These just arrived for you.”
She handed me a sheaf of faxes.
“Splendid,” I said.
“Enjoying the cooking demonstration?” she asked.
“What? Oh, yes, very much, although I think I’d better read these right away.”
I could have put off going through the faxes in order to see the rest of the cooking demonstration, but the one on top of the pile was too compelling. It was a photocopy of the front page of the tabloid newspaper Mary Ward had remembered, and told me about following her run of good luck in the casino. She’d said she believed that the aging actor in the play, Ron Ryan, was the man depicted on that front page as Marla Tralaine’s lover at the time of the murder of the actress’s husband.
I went to a vacant dub chair in the wide hallway and spread the faxes on the table in front of me. I took a moment to glance out the large window. The day’s welcome burst of sunshine had given way to a hazy gray. Was the storm that had supposedly changed course, and that was now bearing down on us, about to become a reality? No sense worrying about it, I knew. Among many things over which I had no control, the weather topped the list, especially on the notoriously fickle North Atlantic.
I started reading.
Although the tabloid front page had been reduced in size, and was at least two generations removed from the original, there was no doubt in my mind that Mary was right. The man pictured was a younger Ron Ryan. The caption beneath his photograph identified him as Don Bryan, allegedly one of Marla Tralaine’s lovers. Don Bryan? I thought. He certainly hadn’t been very original in choosing a new name.
I put that fax aside and started going through the others. Ruth Lazzara had done a splendid job, as she always does. A good researcher knows precisely where to go in search of information. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the best in the business.
She’d included a long article from the Los Angeles Times that provided a detailed recap of the murder of Marla Tralaine’s husband and subsequent investigation of it. The prosecutor was quoted at length. As far as he was concerned, sufficient evidence had been gathered to go to a grand jury for an indictment against the slain man’s wife, the famed actress Marla Tralaine.
Her attorney was also quoted. He dismissed the prosecutor’s claim as “pure political rubbish,” adding that when the investigation of the murder was completed, it would be obvious to all that instead of being a murderess, Marla Tralaine was a grieving widow. He further stated that in his opinion, the murder had to do with Marla’s husband’s reputed links to Las Vegas gamblers and mobsters.
The article was accompanied by three photographs.
One was of Tralaine, dressed in black and holding a handkerchief to her face. The caption read: “A tearful Marla Tralaine attending the coroner’s inquest into her husband’s murder.”
&n
bsp; The second photograph was of her dead husband. It had been taken a few years earlier in Las Vegas, and showed him with a group of men. They all held cigars and had their glasses raised in a toast to something celebratory. Behind them was an unnamed Las Vegas casino.
The third picture was of the crime scene. In it a young man I assumed was a police forensic expert, wearing a white lab coat, was on his hands and knees, his fingers touching the carpet where Tralaine’s husband’s body had been found. Even though it was a black-and-white photo, the bloodstain on the carpet was obvious.
There were two other people in the photograph, identified only as LAPD detectives.
I put that fax aside and went on to the next. But then I went back to the LA Times story and examined it more closely, straining to see faces better in that third photo. After studying it for a minute, I sat back and again looked out the window.
Could it be?
I looked at it again.
“Yes,” I said to myself softly. One of the detectives in the picture looked very much like the actor playing the role of my detective in the play, Billy Bravo.
Jerry Lackman.
Mary Ward said she thought his accent pegged him as a Californian, not a New Yorker, and I’d agreed with her that afternoon while watching him perform. Also, he said he had heard about Tralaine’s murder through “official channels.”
Was he an actor playing a police officer?
Or was he a real police officer?
I went on to the next fax. Ruth Lazzara had done a remarkable job of digging up material on everyone I asked about. The one I now read was from the New York Times business section. It detailed the growth of the Teller Cable Network, presenting a not terribly flattering picture of Sam Teller. The writer did point out, however, that Teller’s business acumen was highly respected in the broadcasting industry.
Most of the piece was a dry analysis of how he’d built his empire from a single station in Charlotte, North Carolina, into a giant rivaling the other large networks. I wasn’t quite sure why Ruth had included this article until I reached the end of it. Teller, according to the Times writer, was poised to enter the motion picture business in a big way, using his network as a showcase for films to be produced under the Teller banner. His plan of action, the article said, was to avoid high-priced current motion picture stars, featuring instead actors and actresses of yesteryear who’d fallen out of the public limelight, but whose names were still well known to millions of Americans, particularly older ones. Teller’s philosophy ran counter to the prevailing television marketing theory that all shows and movies must be shaped to appeal to a younger audience.
In an interview he’d granted for the article, Teller pointed out that America was, indeed, “graying,” and that these were the people in our society who had the discretionary income to spend on advertiser products. In that sense, I was squarely in Samuel Teller’s comer.
His first two films would star Marla Tralaine, although it was pointed out that negotiations between Tralaine’s manager and the Teller Network had been difficult, bordering on combative.
Ruth had also faxed me profiles of current popular personalities on the Teller Network, including its on-air chef, Carlo Di Giovanni, adventurer Troy Radcliff, Judge Dan Solon, and the plant lady, Elaine Ananthous. They didn’t provide me with anything of particular interest.
The next piece of paper was one of those having-lunch-with-a-celebrity pieces that appear from time to time in newspapers. This was a sit-down with Maria Tralaine. The picture of her was a fairly recent one; the writer who interviewed her pointed out that the setting had been carefully chosen by Marla and her people. They lunched at a secluded corner table where the restaurant’s lighting was augmented by special lights brought in by Tralaine’s manager to create a more youthful glow.
The interviewer was good. She started with a series of softball questions that allowed her subject to give easy, flattering answers about herself. But as the interview progressed, the questions became harder, more personal and probing, eventually trespassing into Marla Tralaine’s private life.
When asked about her multiple marriages, she replied that each man she’d married had been good in the beginning, but quickly showed his true colors. The interviewer asked what specifically she meant by that. Marla replied, “Simply that they quickly proved they did not match up to my expectations of a husband.”
The interviewer retreated to a few gentler questions before returning to the subject of the actress’s personal life.
“You have children,” the interviewer said.
“Yes.”
“Are you close to them?”
Here the writer indicated that Tralaine paused for a very long time before answering. When she did, she said, “As close as I wish to be.”
“And how close is that?”
“I see them now and then. Jasmine—she’s my daughter—lives in Europe. We touch base whenever I’m there.”
“You have a son, don’t you?” the interviewer asked.
“Yes. I’d like more tea.”
“Is he in show business, too?”
“He’s ... Rip is ... ah, the waiter. More tea, please.”
I dropped the fax to the table. “Rip?” The only Rip I knew was Rip Nestor, director of the murder mystery play I’d written.
I picked up the page and continued reading. Tralaine finished her response to that question with, “He’s doing quite well.”
“He’s in show business?”
“I’d like another cup of tea,” was her response.
As I continued reading the material sent me from New York, laughter from the Grand Lounge reached my ears. Evidently, Di Giovanni’s presentation was going over well, and I imagined Mary Ward enjoying her specially prepared meal at the hands of this master chef.
One of many reasons I looked forward to this five-day crossing on the QE2 was that I viewed it as five days of simplifying my life. Nothing to do but have a good night’s sleep, choose food from the lavish menu three times a day, listen to some music, take walks on the deck, and read a good book cover to cover.
It had ended up anything but that. In concentrating on the faxes, I’d forgotten about the events of an hour ago, the disappearance, and possible suicide, of famed mountain climber and TV adventurer, Troy Radcliff.
The sounds from the Grand Lounge made me want to return there to enjoy the demonstration—toss the faxes overboard. I’d missed that day’s tea dance. People I’d met were not who they seemed to be.
I tried to renew my focus on the papers before me, but the sounds coming from the lounge were too magnetic. I arranged the faxes in a neat pile, tucked them under my arm, and returned to my previous position from where I could watch the conclusion of the presentation.
Di Giovanni had served Mary the appetizer of mushrooms in his special sauce and returned to the mock kitchen to apply the finishing touches to his veal.
I watched Mary Ward at the table, a broad smile on her face, and seeming not the least bit uncomfortable being in front of a large crowd.
Di Giovanni turned to her from where he stood at the stove and asked, “The truth now. Aren’t they the best mushrooms you have ever tasted?”
A microphone had been set up next to her. She leaned closer to it and said, “Oh, yes, they certainly are. But I don’t eat mushrooms, so I don’t have any way of comparing your dish to—”
Stopping in midsentence caught my attention; I tensed to better see and hear what was happening.
Mary pulled back from the microphone, her smile replaced by a frown. Her hands went to her stomach. Her eyes opened wide—a pained groan was picked up by the mike and broadcast throughout the Grand Lounge.
Di Giovanni was so immersed in his cooking he was oblivious to what was happening. The rest of the audience hadn’t caught it either, at least not initially. But when Mary slumped down in her chair, her fingers still pressed tightly against her stomach, and more anguished sounds came from her, it became evident to all that som
ething was terribly wrong.
“Oh, my God,” I said, circumventing the tables and heading for the stage. Di Giovanni was now aware, too, although the realization had frozen him into inaction.
Priscilla Warren, who’d been backstage, quickly came to Mary’s side and said into the microphone, “Is there a doctor in the house?” Then, she shouted, “Get someone from Medical up here right away.”
“She looks like she’s been poisoned!” a woman yelled from the audience.
“Mushrooms!” someone else shouted. “It must have been the mushrooms.”
Di Giovanni started talking into his microphone, his hands waving wildly. “No, it’s not the mushrooms,” he said, his voice booming through the speakers.
People from the audience crowded in front of the stage.
I jumped up onto it and knelt next to Mary, who was obviously in pain. “Help is coming,” I said, hoping to comfort her.
“I don’t want to die,” she said, her voice weak.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, stroking her arm. “You’ll be fine.”
A number of QE2 staff milled about on the stage, waiting for medical help to arrive. I looked up at them from my position low to the floor. As I did, I saw her, only a fleeting glance as she quickly left the backstage area and disappeared from view.
What was Elaine Ananthous doing there?
When I’d left her in her cabin, she’d seemed completely drained, incapable of doing anything but resting on the bed.
But here she was, backstage at a cooking presentation by a man she despised.
She’d given a lecture on using poison to kill people.
Simplify my life during five days on the QE2?
What a quaint, misguided concept.
Chapter Nineteen
I waited until Mary Ward was carried away on a stretcher by two uniformed ship hospital workers before stepping down from the stage.
“Where are you going?” Priscilla Warren asked.
“Back to my cabin. I have calls to make, and some thinking to do.”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 14
