“No. Was surprised to see him. At the craps table, of course.”
“Well, Mr. Worrell, thank you for the opinions, and for the dance.”
We stood; he bowed slightly from the waist.
“Oh, one thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Did you know that Maria Tralaine was booked on this trip when you applied for the job of gentleman host?”
“No, I... it wouldn’t have mattered to me, I...”
I sensed he was lying. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” I said, walking away.
I decided to look for Jerry Lackman, the actor playing Detective Billy Bravo in my play. Of all the questions floating about in my overactive brain, he posed the most provocative one.
From what I’d seen in the faxes sent me by Ruth Lazzara, he’d been a young Los Angeles detective, part of the team investigating the murder of Maria Tralaine’s husband. Now he was an actor. Nothing especially puzzling about that; other cops have turned to acting after their careers in law enforcement end.
But Lackman was appearing in a play aboard the QE2 on the same crossing as Maria Tralaine. He claimed he was a native New Yorker, but his accent—and his career as a member of the LAPD—rendered that claim a lie.
Why would he lie about something like that? The only reasonable explanation I could come up with was that he wanted to hide the fact that he’d investigated Maria Tralaine’s husband’s murder.
That raised an even bigger why?
Was he still investigating that murder? If so, it wouldn’t be in an official capacity. He was an ex-cop.
It then occurred to me that if sticking with that case was his reason for being aboard, it could be in the role of a private investigator, a PI. Pure speculation on my part, but a possibility. If so, who’d hired him? Private investigators don’t work for nothing.
I knew where I’d find Ron Ryan and Judge Solon—at the craps table.
Where would Lackman choose to spend his evening on the ship? Working out in the spa? Becoming computer literate in the Computer Learning Center? Learning to square dance?
None of the above.
I didn’t have to wonder for long. He came from the direction of the casino, walking with Maria Tralaine’s personal trainer, Tony Silvestrie, and her manager, Peter Kunz.
I stepped back into a shadow so they wouldn’t see me. They passed.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” Sandy said, having broken away from his friend and joining me once again.
“Yes?”
“On our way again?”
“Yes. I feel like a walk.”
“I have to walk with you.”
“I know.”
“Anywhere special?”
“No.”
I fell in behind Lackman and the others, staying far enough behind in the event one of them turned. They climbed the midships stairs to the next level, the Boat Deck, and headed for the Queens Grill Lounge. Sandy didn’t seem to be aware that I was following them.
They went past the door to the lounge. Once it had closed behind them, I moved closer so that I could look through the glass. They went immediately to the door leading up to the penthouses, opened it, and disappeared behind it.
There were only two people up there they might be visiting.
One was Maria Tralaine.
But she was dead.
The other was cable TV mogul Sam Teller.
I bet on the latter.
As the saying goes, it was a no-brainer.
I turned to Sandy. “I think I’ll make it an early night,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe have a cup of tea with my friend Mary Ward.”
I said good night to Sandy outside my cabin, went inside, shut the door behind me, and looked out the porthole. The North Atlantic was angry that night, and becoming more so.
I stepped to the desk, where the computer provided by the Computer Learning Center for me to write the announcement of Maria Tralaine’s murder still sat. They hadn’t bothered to remove it.
I picked up the phone. Mary Ward answered on the first ring.
“Feel like a cup of tea?” I asked.
“That would be nice.”
“I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Good. I have a few I’d like to discuss with you, too.”
“Well, come on over, Mary. I think we have an interesting night ahead of us.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Walter, our steward, delivered tea and cookies to my cabin.
“Mrs. Ward and I will be working late tonight,” I told him. “We may need more room service later.”
“Just call,” he said. “Any time.”
We sat in matching club chairs beneath the porthole.
“Where do we start?” she asked.
“You agree with what I want to do?” I said.
“Oh, yes. But do you think they’ll go along with it?”
“We’ll see. The first thing is for me to make that call to Ms. Jenkins.”
Rose Jenkins, who put out the daily activity program, answered my call in her tiny office. “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I have an important, last-minute announcement to go in the program,” I said.
“I’m just about to print tomorrow’s edition,” she said.
“I understand. But you could include an insert, the way you did with the announcement of Ms. Tralaine’s death.”
“What’s the announcement?”
“A special one-act play to be performed tomorrow, right after Act Three of the murder mystery.”
“A special play? What’s it about?”
“It’s about ... it’s hard to explain. You’ll better understand when you read the announcement.”
“I’ll have to clear it with the social director.”
“That’s fine, but give me a half hour before you do that.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll deliver the disk to you within the hour.”
I hung up, stood, and said to Mary, “I have a few people to see. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No. You stay here and keep jotting down your thoughts.”
Sandy sat in a straight-back chair just down the hall. He jumped to his feet when he saw me appear.
“I need to see the cruise and social directors right away,” I said. “Help me find them?”
“Sure.” He picked up a wall phone and dialed a number, then asked that the two directors be paged. A few minutes later, I stood with them in front of the historic display in the Midships Lobby.
I explained to them what I intended to do. When I was finished, they looked at each other for reaction.
“Well?” I said.
“Fine with us, Mrs. Fletcher,” the cruise director said. “But this involves Security.”
“I’ll talk with Mr. Prall,” I said.
“Fair enough.”
Mary sat at my desk, making notes, when I returned to the cabin.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine.”
I called Prall’s office. He wasn’t there, but was due back shortly. He called five minutes later.
“How are things progressing with the videotape?” I asked.
“Good. We’ve identified the section that covers the time period when Mr. Radcliff was on Two Deck Aft.”
“When can I see it?”
He conferred with someone in his office. “A half hour?”
“That’s good,” I said. “Your office?”
“Yes.”
“There’s something else I need to discuss with you, Mr. Prall.”
“Go ahead.”
I told him of having met with the cruise and social directors, and outlined what I intended to do. He listened patiently. When I was through, he said, “That could be risky, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Not as risky as having someone else killed before we reach Southampton,” I said.
There was a long pause on
the other end of the line. Finally, he said, “All right. We’ll go over it when you get here.”
“Will you call the others and tell them you approve?”
“I’ll do it right now.”
I pulled up a chair next to Mary at the desk.
“Sounds as though you’re making progress,” she said.
“Things are working out. Now, I’d better get this announcement written and down to Ms. Jenkins so she can print it and insert it in the program.”
It took me only fifteen minutes to write it. Satisfied with the words on the screen, I stored the document on a fresh disk and went to the hallway.
“A favor?” I said to Sandy.
“Of course.”
“Would you run this computer disk down to Rose Jenkins for me? She’s expecting it.”
“I’m not supposed to leave.”
“You aren’t intending to spend the entire night out here, are you?”
“No. Security is supposed to send someone to relieve me in an hour.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll deliver it myself.”
“No,” Sandy said. “I’ll do it. You go in your cabin and-lock the door. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”
I flopped in one of the club chairs and directed a stream of air at an errant lock of hair that had fallen over my forehead.
“I feel as though I’m not doing anything to help,” Mary said.
“But you’re about to begin,” I said. “Ready to collaborate on a play with me?”
“I’m not a writer,” she said.
“That may be true, Mary, but you are a thinker. Between us, I think we’ll do just fine.”
I came to the desk and inserted a fresh disk into the computer.
“But do you think Mr. Nestor will let you do it?” she asked.
“I think he wouldn’t dare refuse. Now, let’s go over the scenario you’ve come up with.”
We discussed the plot for the one-act play for the next twenty minutes.
“I have to get down to the security director’s office,” I said.
“To see the tape.”
“Yes. We’ll start writing as soon as I get back.”
The section of relevant tape ran only three minutes. I watched it four times.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Prall said after he’d stopped the VCR and turned up the lights.
“Yes.”
“Sure you want to use it tomorrow?”
“Absolutely sure,” I said.
“I’ve cleared it with our top people in London. They’ve agreed only because Scotland Yard is due to fly in at about the same time you’ll be presenting it. Otherwise—”
“I understand,” I said. “Now, I’d better get back. By the way, Mr. Prall, I was skeptical of your decision to provide security for the lecturers and those involved with Ms. Tralaine. I’m sorry I was. I think if anything, you’d better beef it up.”
“I already have, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well?” Mary asked when I came back to my cabin.
“You were right, Mary,” I said. “Absolutely right. Now, let’s get it down on paper.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Early in my writing career, I occasionally wrote far into the night when faced with a crushing deadline. Even back then, it went against my metabolic dock. I am, and have always been, an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person.
But this night, with the QE2 surging through the swells and waves of the North Atlantic on the way to Southampton, England, I’d never felt more awake and energetic.
Mary Ward and I worked side by side until three that morning. When we were finished, I removed the disk from the computer, held it up to her, and said, “I think that does it.”
“I hope so,” she said, covering a yawn with her hand.
“Sorry to keep you up so late.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Why don’t you get to bed? We had a date to walk on the Boat Deck. I think we’d better skip it this morning.”
“I still might do it,” she said.
“But the weather.”
“I’ll see how it is four hours from now. Good night, Jessica.”
“Good night, Mary. Thanks.”
“It was my pleasure. But you do understand that the plot comes only from my imagination.”
“I’d say it comes from more than that. Your ideas on why Maria Tralaine was murdered, and who might have done it, make a lot of sense to me.”
“But what if I’m wrong?”
“We’ll have stayed up late for nothing. No one will have been hurt. We’re not using real names. On the other hand—”
“Yes. On the other hand.”
After she was gone, I opened my door and peeked into the hallway, where a uniformed security officer sat in the chair.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I need to take this disk to the Computer Learning Center to have something printed from it.”
“They’re closed now.”
“Yes, of course they are. Thank you.”
I retreated inside and had Priscilla Warren paged. She answered her phone in a thick, sleepy voice.
“I know it’s an ungodly hour to call, Priscilla, but I really need to have a computer printout from a disk before breakfast.”
“Sounds important. What is it?”
“A play.”
“A play?”
“You’ll read about it in this morning’s activity schedule. Can you arrange it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, and I’ll need a dozen photocopies.”
“Not a problem. I’ll send someone to your cabin to pick up the disk, and have everything delivered to you by, say, eight?”
“Great. Thanks so much.”
Fatigue now overwhelmed me. I dressed for bed, turned out the light, and closed my eyes. I assume I fell asleep right away because the next thing I knew, the daily activity program was slipped beneath the door. I got up, but fell back on the bed. The ship was really reacting to its stormy environment.
Using the wall to steady myself, I picked up the program and made it to one of the club chairs. There it was, my brief announcement inserted into the main program.
ART IMITATING UFE
Everyone on this magnificent ship was stunned to learn that one of its celebrity passengers, the actress Marla Tralaine, was found slain in a lifeboat on the Boat Deck.
Speculation has naturally been rampant since that grim discovery.
The events surrounding her murder have prompted me to write a one-act play, using what little we know of the murder as a basis for its story.
The play is a work of fiction. Whether you, the audience, finds a rational parallel to the real murder will be for you to decide.
This original play in one act will be performed today in the Grand Lounge, immediately following Act Three of the ongoing murder mystery play. Roles will be acted by the actors and actresses from that same play.
Jessica Fletcher
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Jessica? It’s Rip.”
“Good morning, Rip.”
“What’s this I’m reading in the program?”
“About the play?”
“Yes, about the play. What play?”
“One I just wrote. I was up half the night.”
“Using my actors?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind. It would just be a reading, not a production. I don’t expect them to learn lines.”
“I sure as hell do mind, Jessica. Hey, does this have to do with what we talked about last night?”
“There’s a ... there’s an element of that, although it’s more an aside.”
“Well, forget it.”
“You might want to reconsider, Rip.”
“Why?”
“Because there are things about you and your relationship with your mother—and father—you might not want broadcast.”
“That s
ounds like blackmail.”
“It may sound that way, Rip, but I don’t mean it to. How about getting together for breakfast? I can better explain in person.”
“I still don’t understand. From what I read, it sounds like you’re going to solve Marla’s murder on-stage.”
“If only it were that easy. Breakfast? Seven?”
“Yeah. Okay. But I don’t like this.”
“You’ll feel better about it after we get together. The Pavilion? Meet you at the door?”
“Yeah.”
Although I’d had only an hour or two of sleep, I was bustling with energy. Showering wasn’t easy because of the ship’s motion, but I managed. I was in the cabin, drying my hair when the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sam Teller.”
“Good morning, Mr. Teller.”
“I read about this one-act play you’ve written.”
“I hope you’ll be there to enjoy it.”
“Why did you write it?”
“I’m not sure I’m obligated to answer that. But I will. This crossing has been a wonderful experience. I wanted to give something back to Cunard. You know, an extra added attraction.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“I wasn’t joking. Why are you calling me?”
“I’d like to see the script.”
“Of the play? Don’t be absurd.”
“Maybe it’d make a good TV movie.”
“Come watch and decide if it would.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I’d be honored. I have to run. Thanks for calling.”
I hung up and felt a surge of excitement. I’d hoped the announcement of the play would generate some interest on the part of those associated with Marla Tralaine. That was my intention. But I hadn’t thought that Sam Teller himself would call.
Or that I’d receive three other calls before heading for my seven o’clock breakfast date with Nestor.
“This is Peter Kunz, Mrs. Fletcher—Marla Tralaine’s manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Kunz. Up early, I see.”
“I read about the play you’re putting on this afternoon.”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 18
