“It is?”
A mischievous laugh from Brady. “Come on, Jessica, you know it’s true.”
Mary and I stood.
“And a rather good chum of yours is in charge,” Monroe added. “Sutherland?”
“No comment,” I said.
We started to walk away, but Mary stopped, turned, and said firmly, “And there’ll be no comment from me, either.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“Where are we going?” Mary asked.
“We’re not going anywhere. We’re leaving.”
“Because they’re members of the press.”
“Exactly.”
Sandy, the junior officer assigned to me, had waited outside the Queens Grill during dinner. He fell in behind us at a respectful distance.
We strolled with no particular destination in mind, passed the movie theater, and ended up at the Grand Lounge, where stagehands prepared for the evening’s entertainment. The ship’s movement had become more pronounced; I noticed that even Mary, who’d been so surefooted, was having trouble navigating the undulating floor.
“Aren’t you supposed to meet your director, Mr. Nestor?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s right.” I checked my watch. “I’d forgotten. It’s nine.”
“You’d better go.”
“Care to join me?”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said, “not if you intend to ask him directly whether he’s Ms. Tralaine’s son.”
“I’m not sure I will, Mary. After all, I’m basing my suspicion purely on something she said a few years ago during a newspaper interview.”
“Sometimes little things like that tell great tales.”
I looked at her and smiled. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll ask him. But I don’t think having you there would be inhibiting.”
“I’d just as soon not,” she said. “I haven’t done any shopping yet, and promised to bring things back for my children and grandchildren. You know, small souvenirs of the trip.”
“All right. I’ll meet up with you later. Say an hour?”
“Right here?”
“Right here.”
I went down one level to the Quarter Deck, with Sandy at my heels.
“Where are you off to next?” he asked.
“I have to meet the director of my play—in the Chart Room. I’d appreciate it if you could ... well, Sandy, make yourself inconspicuous while I’m with him.”
“No problem. I see a friend. I’ll be outside at one of the window tables.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
When I entered the elegant Chart Room, Rip Nestor was already seated at a table for two.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“It’s okay.”
I took the remaining vacant chair.
“Crowded tonight,” I said.
“Like a big party all over the ship.”
“Spirits are high, despite the weather.”
“Supposed to get worse overnight,” he said.
“The handrails will get a workout.”
A pretty young waitress took my order of a white wine spritzer. Nestor had a dark ale in front of him. When my drink was served, I raised my glass. “Here’s to a successful production.”
He touched the rim of my glass with his heavy mug. “So, what’s on your mind?” he asked, sipping.
“Well, Rip, I’ve been busy since Maria Tralaine’s body was discovered.”
“Yeah?”
“I was asked to get involved by the ship’s security director, Mr. Prall.”
“That’s pretty obvious, Jessica. The announcement in the daily program and all.”
“No. Beyond that. I’ve taken it upon myself to try and find out who killed—”
His smile was crooked. “Find out who killed Marla?”
“Yes. Was she... were you close to her?”
It was a forced guffaw. “Close to her? What do you mean?”
I sighed, then closed my eyes, opened them, looked directly at him, and asked, “Are you Maria Tralaine’s son?”
I didn’t know what his reaction would be. He might have angrily denied it, refused to acknowledge it, stormed from the room, or ... or, perhaps, admit it was true. I waited and watched.
He sat back in his chair and took another drink of his ale. I couldn’t read what he was thinking, contemplating, intending to say or do.
“Why do you think I might be?” he asked into the glass mug, eyes focused on its contents.
“I read an interview with her done a few years ago. The interviewer asked about her children. She mentioned a daughter, Jasmine, living in Europe. When she was asked about a son, she said ‘Rip,’ and went on to another subject. The only Rip I know is you ... Rip.”
“And that’s why you think I’m Marla’s son?”
“That, and ... when we had lunch in New York, I mentioned her. You called her a ‘bitch.”’
“So?”
“I took from that that you knew her.”
“No, it doesn’t necessarily mean that. She has that reputation.”
I said nothing.
“Doesn’t she? Have that reputation?”
“I suppose so. But since we’ve been sitting here, you’ve referred to her twice as ‘Marla.’ ”
“I—”
“That says to me you knew her better than just having met her on this ship.”
He finished his ale and motioned for the waitress to bring another.
“I think I’m right,” I said.
He glared at me, looked away, chewed on the knuckle of his right index finger, and ignored the fresh mug of ale set before him. That he’d ordered a second drink was promising. If he intended to leave, he wouldn’t have bothered.
“I don’t know why you would deny it, Rip. Being the son of a famous movie actress isn’t something to be ashamed of.”
He quickly reestablished eye contact with me. “I’m not ashamed.”
I slowly exhaled. He’d admitted it.
“Why does it matter to you whether I’m Marla’s son?”
“It doesn’t. And it does.”
He looked confused.
“From a personal perspective, Rip, I have no interest in whether Ms. Tralaine was your mother, and what your relationship was with her. But she’s been murdered. On this lovely ship. It’s my instinct that being her son could—and I stress could—have something to do with why she was killed, and who killed her.”
He sat up straighter. “You aren’t suggesting that I might have killed her, are you?”
“No. But I’ve been putting together a number of disparate pieces since her death. Maybe you can help me make better sense of them.”
He drank. So did I.
I waited what I considered to be an appropriate amount of time before pressing further. “Rip, is your father on board?”
“Him? What do you care about him?”
I decided I might as well share as much of what I knew as necessary to keep him talking.
“Was your father the man who was murdered while married to your mother?”
His chin sank to his breastbone, and he slowly shook his head.
“Your mother had a lover when that husband was killed. He’s on this crossing. His name is Ron Ryan, although that wasn’t his name when he was involved with her. Then he called himself Don Bryan.”
“Jesus.”
“You know that, don’t you?”
“How did you find that out?”
I thought of Mary Ward. She’d been the one who’d remembered Ryan-Bryan’s picture in the tabloid newspaper. “With a little help from a friend,” I said. “Did you know who he was when you booked him to play Morris McClusky in the play?”
I didn’t need an answer because I was certain that had been the case.
He confirmed it.
“You said he pleaded with you for the part.”
“Yeah. He was down and out. He’s gambled away every cent he’s ever made.”
“
I have the impression you don’t pay your actors very much. I’m not being critical of you, Rip. The point I’m making is that in pleading for the part, Mr. Ryan wasn’t about to improve his financial picture, especially with a casino on board.”
“Meaning?”
“I just wonder whether he wanted to be on this ship, on this particular crossing, because he knew she’d be on it, too.”
“To kill her?”
I shrugged.
“Ron’s not capable of killing anybody.”
I reserved judgment and decided to keep going, as long as he was willing to be open with me.
“Do you know one of the ship’s gentleman hosts, a Sydney Worrell?”
“No.”
“He’s British. He was in a film with your mother. Dangerous Woman.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Okay. I’ve been told that the mountain climber, Troy Radcliff, had an affair with your mother.”
He downed the rest of his ale and waved for another. “Big deal,” he said to me. “She had affairs with the world.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“But true. She was married four times. Lovers? I can’t count that high.”
“Anyone I know?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, anyone on this ship?”
The waitress brought his third mug of ale. He pushed it away, pulled out his gold Cunard credit card, and handed it to her.
“I have the feeling our little meeting is over,” I said.
“I have to be someplace.”
“You don’t have to buy.”
“My turn. You picked up lunch in New York.”
“All right. Rip, can I say one final thing?”
“Why not? You seem to have a lot to say.”
“I want to get to the bottom of who killed your mother. If you know anything else that might help, I’d appreciate hearing it.”
‘“Sure.”
The waitress brought the receipt. He signed it, then stood.
“Jerry Lackman,” I said ntatter-of-factly.
“Huh?”
“Jerry Lackman—playing Billy Bravo.”
“What about him?”
“You told me you knew only of your actors’ and actresses’ acting credentials.”
“Right.”
“But you knew about Ron Ryan’s personal background.”
“So?”
“I just thought you might know about Jerry Lackman’s personal life, too—his life before he became an actor.
“Good night, Jessica. This has been a lot of fun. Do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“Forget about Maria being my mother. I don’t need the rest of the ship, let alone the world, knowing it.”
I felt sorry for him as he walked from the Chart Room and joined the flow of passengers in the broad hallway. The children of famous celebrities so often were scarred by their parents’ public lifestyle and private indiscretions. I was pleased, of course, that I’d confirmed my suspicions that he was the son of Maria Tralaine. But that was only a self-serving satisfaction with little value beyond me.
What I needed to do was to put it into context, one that would help solve Maria Tralaine’s murder. What had started as an innocent involvement on my part had now taken on a sense of urgency. It had become an obsession of sorts, one that had overtaken me, and would drive me for the duration of the crossing.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mary Ward and I arrived at the Grand Lounge at the same time, coming from different directions. She carried two large shopping bags.
“Successful shopping spree,” I said as we found an empty table. Sandy, my security guard, stood with another junior officer a few feet away.
The dance floor was filled with happy passengers moving to the orchestra’s infectious beat. A musical revue would come later, featuring a group of young singers and dancers who, according to other passengers, were immensely talented. I hoped to see them perform before reaching Southampton.
“I bought out the store,” Mary said.
“So I see.”
“I have four children to buy for. And there are all the grandchildren.”
“Keeps you busy.”
“And young, I think. How did your meeting with the director go, Jessica?”
I told her what had transpired.
“You were right,” she said.
“I was lucky, seeing that interview with Maria Tralaine. Without the fax, I wouldn’t have known anything about Rip Nestor possibly being her son.”
“How does it fit into the bigger picture?” she asked.
“I thought you and I could talk about that.”
“You know I’d enjoy that.”
“There’s more,” I said.
“Oh?”
I told her about Troy Radcliff’s shoe being found on Two Deck Aft, that a search for him was under way, and that a recently installed security camera might have captured on tape what happened to Radcliff, assuming he went overboard from Two Deck Aft. After some internal debate I also told Mary that Elaine Ananthous had admitted she’d tainted the mushrooms that made her ill. To that, she said, “She must be a desperate, sad woman to have done something like that.”
I had a few other descriptive terms to apply to Elaine, but decided they were too harsh to be expressed.
“Well, Jessica, you said you wanted to talk this out with me. Do we start now?”
I looked around the Grand Lounge. “No, not here. Too public. Besides, there are other people I’d like to speak with before we try and put it together.”
“Later, then?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go back to my cabin and do some thinking alone. I love doing crossword puzzles, Jessica, and this is like a puzzle, only it involves real people.”
“And murder,” I added.
“And murder.”
“Give me a few hours,” I said. “I’ll come by your cabin.”
I stayed at the table after she left and watched the dancers, soaking up the moment of relative, albeit brief peace. I thought of how wonderful a North Atlantic crossing on the QE2 was, the vacation trip of a lifetime, memories to last forever.
Provided, of course, you weren’t diverted by murder.
I was about to leave when a deep, cultured voice from behind said, “Care to dance, Mrs. Fletcher?” I turned and looked up at Sydney Worrell, the gentleman host who’d appeared in Dangerous Woman with Maria Tralaine.
“Why, yes,” I said. “I’d enjoy that.”
The band played “Moonlight in Vermont” as Mr. Worrell led me to the floor. We said nothing to each other for the first few bars of the song. Then he said, “I understand you’ve been asking about my relationship with Maria Tralaine.”
“Mr. Prall told you?”
“No. Someone else. Maria and I were in a movie together.”
“Dangerous Woman. I’ve seen it.”
“Enjoy it?” he asked, expertly turning me in another direction.
“Yes. You played the butler.”
“Just another version of a gentleman host.”
“I understand you tried to communicate with her after she boarded.”
“Yes, quite. Sent up a note to her penthouse. Never heard from her. No surprise.”
“Why did you want to see her?” I asked.
The band segued into “Moonglow,” at the same tempo.
“Just to say hello for old time’s sake. Wasn’t even sure she’d remember me. Maybe she didn’t.”
“So you never got to see her before she died?”
“Afraid not. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, the butler isn’t always guilty, although in your popular fiction you might see it another way.”
I laughed. “I’ve never had a butler do it in any of my books.”
“That’s good news. Good news, indeed. I hear The Yard will be flying in soon, unless this bloody storm that’s approaching dashes that plan.”
“You’ve heard abou
t that plan?”
“Oh, yes. I also hear—we have an active grapevine on the ship—mat you’re actively involved in trying to determine who killed Marla.”
“I’m interested,” I said, allowing him to dip me.
“Any suspects?”
“No.”
“Not what I hear.”
“Oh. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
The song ended, and the band launched into something with a rock ’n’ roll beat.
“Not my style,” I said.
He escorted me back to the table. “May I?” he asked, indicating an empty chair.
“Of course, although I’ll be staying only a few minutes.”
Sitting across from him gave me the opportunity to observe him more closely. He was one of those men who aged gracefully, like Troy Radcliff, although Worrell was not the physical specimen Radcliff was. He had a face that I was certain maintained its ruddy glow at all times. Because he was fair, small blemishes on his face and liver spots on the backs of his head were more pronounced than on people with darker skin.
“You dance nicely,” he said.
“You lead nicely.”
“I won’t keep you,” he said. “But might I be so bold as to offer an opinion?”
“You already have—about my dancing.”
“I was thinking of murder.”
“Then by all means give me an opinion.”
“Do you know that one of the actors in your play was once Marla’s lover?”
“Ron Ryan.”
He placed his hand over his heart and sighed. “You’re obviously way ahead of me.”
“Do you personally know Mr. Ryan?”
“I knew him, back when Marla’s husband was killed.”
“Knew him well?”
“Well enough to know what a bloody scoundrel he was. And is.”
“Are you suggesting he might have killed her?”
“Decidedly not beneath him.”
“I thought you knew Ms. Tralaine only because of the part you had in her movie. What caused you to know Ron Ryan so well?”
“He owed me money. We hung about together in Hollywood, looking for a break, wanting to become stars. Doesn’t happen to most people, certainly not to me or Ryan.”
“Did you know Mr. Ryan wanted very much to be in the acting troupe for this crossing?”
“No.”
“Did you know he’d be on the ship?”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 17
