Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I hope you’ll be in the audience.”

  “You bet I will. I’d like to see the script.”

  “Why? It’s meant to be performed, not read.”

  “Are you free for breakfast, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to talk to you before you put on this play.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No. In person, face-to-face. It might be worth your while to hear what I have to say.”

  “Would it have to do with Mr. Teller?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it would. He asked me to call you on his behalf.”

  “I’ve already spoken with him this morning.”

  “I know. When can we meet?”

  “Nine? The Queens Grill Lounge?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I’d no sooner hung up when the phone rang again.

  “This is Jerry Lackman, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “The famous detective, Billy Bravo. Good morning.”

  “I read about the play. Nobody told me there was going to be an added performance.”

  “You don’t mind, do you? It’ll be a reading. I’ve already talked to Rip about it. We’re meeting for breakfast to discuss it.”

  “What’s the play about?”

  “I thought the insert in today’s activity program spelled it out.”

  “It sure does. You wrote it based on Marla Tralaine’s murder.”

  “Loosely based upon it.”

  “What part do I play?”

  “One with which you’re obviously comfortable—a detective called in to solve her murder, just as Billy Bravo does in the other play.”

  There was a long silence on his end; I could hear his mental gears turning.

  “Maybe you and I should have a little talk. Before the play.”

  “Maybe we should. Ten?”

  “Someplace we can be alone. How about the Crystal Bar? Nobody drinking there at that hour. It’s on the Upper Deck Forward.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I hung up. The phone rang once more. It was journalist James Brady.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’ve solved Maria Tralaine’s murder.”

  “Far from it, Jim. But I do have a few ideas.”

  “And you’re about to reveal those ideas in this play you’ve written.”

  “I just thought the other passengers would enjoy ... would appreciate having a little light shed on a murder of a famous person that took place during their five days on the QE2.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will. Care to give me a sneak preview of the play? I’m doing my satellite feed at noon.”

  “I’m sure you know as much as I do, Jim. The play is based upon supposition, nothing more.”

  “Come on, Jess. I know you better than that. It’s okay if you want to play it close to the vest. But maybe I can give you a few lines to add.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marla was strangled.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “A reliable source. Here’s another new line for you. Your director, Rip Nestor, has an interesting family background.”

  I held my breath. Had he learned that Rip was Marla Tralaine’s son?

  That’s exactly what he then told me.

  “I’d heard rumors,” I said.

  “What about his father?” Brady asked.

  “You tell me. You seem to be tapped in to the right sources.”

  “Haven’t pinned that down yet. You’ll let me know if you do, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  The fact was I did have an idea of who Rip Nestor’s father was, based upon input from Mary Ward. She didn’t know for sure, of course. But her reasoning, coupled with an uncanny ability to see physical similarities in people, was compelling.

  The question was, should I share it with my old friend James Brady? He’d been forthcoming with me. But I couldn’t have him broadcast to the world what would be revealed in the play three hours later.

  “Jim,” I said, “if I tell you who I think Rip Nestor’s father is—and I stress the word ‘think’—will you promise not to broadcast it until after the play this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  Had it been another journalist, I would not have taken such a chance. But Brady had never gone back on his word with me before.

  I told him.

  His response was to whistle into the phone.

  “I’m dealing with a hunch,” I said. “Strictly a hunch.”

  “I understand. Mind if I call my producer in New York and suggest I do a second feed later today? After your play?”

  “I don’t have any problem with that.”

  “Great. Thanks, Jess. I’ll be in the audience.”

  My announcement that a new one-act play, based upon Marla Tralaine’s murder, would be performed that afternoon generated interest beyond those who called me that morning. It seemed everyone on the QE2 was talking about it. I was approached by other passengers everywhere I went, including one passenger who chastised me for “cashing in” on tragedy. I didn’t bother to explain that I wasn’t seeking money or notoriety. I simply smiled and said I was sorry he felt that way. What else could I say?

  My instinct after meeting with Jerry Lackman was to retreat to my cabin until it was time for the plays to be performed, and have lunch sent in. But I decided I might as well maintain a public posture. Bringing everything into the open was the reason for writing the one-act play in the first place. No sense playing the shrinking violet at this juncture.

  The Queens Grill was abuzz with talk about my announcement in the program. My tablemates during lunch were now reduced to three—Judge Dan Solon, chef Carlo Di Giovanni, and Mary Ward. Elaine Ananthous would remain in her cabin for the rest of the crossing, we were told, under heavy sedation ordered by the ship’s medical director. She’d been told by Mr. Prall that all indications were that Troy Radcliff had, indeed, taken his life by leaping into the sea, although he did not tell her about the videotape that confirmed Radcliff was dead.

  With Elaine no longer taking meals in the dining room, Di Giovanni felt comfortable enough to abandon his self-imposed exile and to join us once again. I hadn’t told him that Mary’s illness was the result of Elaine having tampered with the mushrooms. There was enough bad blood between them to add more. I simply said that a chemical had evidently gotten onto the mushrooms. “Not your fault,” I said. “Nothing to do with you.”

  We left the restaurant a few minutes before two and walked to the Grand Lounge, where Act Three of the murder mystery was about to begin. It was standing room only. The crowd spilled out into the broad hallways on either side. Passengers lined up three deep on the Grand Promenade, the front row hanging over the railing.

  “My goodness,” I said to Priscilla Warren, who’d joined us. “There’s not enough room for everyone.”

  “Most of them are here because of what’s to follow,” she said.

  “Thanks for getting the printing and photocopying done,” I said. “Sorry to have woken you up out of a deep sleep.”

  “Happens on a regular basis,” she said.

  Rip Nestor stepped to the microphone, welcomed everyone, and recapped what had taken place in Acts One and Two. He introduced Detective Billy Bravo, played by Jerry Lackman, and the third act was under way.

  The audience continued to grow, and seemed to enjoy this act as much as they had the first two. Lackman was impressive in the way he engaged audience members, cracking jokes about what he knew of their personal lives and identifying some of them as suspects.

  The act ended a little before three. On the previous two days passengers quickly dispersed when the performance was over. Not today. No one made a move to leave.

  “Looks like I’m on,” I said, getting up from the table and heading for the stage, accompanied by Priscilla, who carried the dozen copies of the new script.

  The actors and actresses had gathered behind screens, out of sight of the audien
ce. Rip Nestor was with them.

  “Everyone ready for the reading?” I asked.

  “They’re ready,” Nestor said.

  “Splendid. Priscilla, would you please pass out the scripts?” I’d marked each one with the character’s name, and with the name of the actor or actress who’d play that person.

  “I love readings,” the young actress assigned to play Sam Teller’s wife, Lila Sims, said. Her character’s name was “Suzie Starlet.”

  I’d assigned names to the characters that would help the audience identify their roles.

  Sam Teller was “Stan Mogul.”

  Peter Kunz was “Bob Manager.”

  Marla Tralaine’s personal trainer was “Sal Biceps.”

  Troy Radcliff was named “Roy Climber.”

  Ms. Tralaine’s hairdresser, Candy Malone, was “Cindy Curl.”

  Sydney Worrell, the gentleman host and actor with Marla Tralaine in Dangerous Woman, was “Dan Dancer.”

  Marla’s lover when her husband was killed, Ron Ryan, was “Joe Gigolo.”

  The only character remaining the same from the other murder mystery play was Detective “Billy Bravo,” played by Jerry Lackman.

  “Ready, Rip?” I asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  The cast sat in a semicircle on the stage. Nestor went to the microphone, surveyed the overflow crowd, cleared his voice, and read from the script: “You’re about to be treated to a special one-act play written by the mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher. It’s a work of fiction. But it is based on certain events that have taken place during this crossing on the QE2.”

  He went on to talk of Marla Tralaine’s murder, where she’d been found, and of the speculation over who might have done such a dastardly deed.

  “But this is fiction,” he said, “and so we will not refer to the decreased actress as Marla Tralaine. For the purposes of this play, our murdered star is ‘Veronica Rivers’.”

  The audience laughed. I wanted them to. I’d written the play as a broad farce, with heroes and villains to be cheered and booed.

  “Fortunately for everyone, one of the world’s great detectives, Billy Bravo, a legend in someone else’s time, is also aboard. He’s been called upon to investigate the brutal murder of Veronica Rivers. Let’s see what he’s come up with. Here he is—the Columbo of the high seas, the Sherlock Holmes of the North Atlantic, Billy Bravo!”

  The crowd went wild, applauding and whistling and stamping their feet as Lackman stood and took a bow. Nestor stepped back, and Lackman took over, utilizing a wireless body mike.

  “So what do we have here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his fingers in front of his mouth, as though holding a cigar. “We have a former famous movie actress, Veronica Rivers, attempting to make a comeback but having it thwarted by m-u-r-d-e-r.”

  “Go get ’em, Billy,” a man yelled.

  Lackman smiled and said, “That is exactly what I intend to do—with your help.”

  “We’re with you, Billy,” shouted a woman.

  Applause.

  “I’ve taken a close look at all the circumstances surrounding this brutal, wanton act, and I have some questions to ask those close to the deceased—v-e-r-y probing questions.”

  He spun around and faced the rest of the cast, seated behind him. “One of you snuffed out the life of Veronica Rivers. And I, Billy Bravo, sleuth without peer, intend to find out who.”

  The cast looked at each other suspiciously, as the script directed them to do.

  Lackman faced the audience again. “Let’s see,” he said. “What do we already know? We know that Veronica Rivers was found dead in a lifeboat on the Boat Deck, her naked, lifeless body discovered by another passenger taking a morning constitutional.”

  He cocked his head, waiting for audience reaction.

  “Naked!” he shouted. “Why would she have been naked at the time of her death?” He lowered his voice. “Because she was taking a shower at the moment someone attacked her?”

  “Nooooo,” came a chorus from the audience.

  “Ah ha,” Lackman said. “I have an intuitive audience. No, my friends, she was not taking a shower. She was engaged in—hanky-panky!”

  “Yesssss,” said the onlookers.

  “Is that what you call it?” a man asked loudly.

  “Keep it clean,” Lackman said. “This is a family show.”

  Much laughter.

  From my vantage point backstage, I could see most of the Grand Lounge. Peter Kunz, Marla Tralaine’s manager, sat at a table near the front with Lila Sims and Tony Silvestrie, Marla’s personal fitness trainer. Ms. Sims attempted to be incognito; she wore oversized sunglasses and a large, floppy straw hat angled low over her eyes.

  Interesting, I thought. While the play had enticed Sam Teller out of seclusion in his penthouse, he was not with his wife. He stood alone at the rear of the Grand Lounge, arms crossed defiantly on his chest, a scowl on his face.

  Also standing, but at the opposite side of the room, was Sydney Worrell, the gentleman host who’d been in Dangerous Woman with Marla Tralaine.

  Lackman now started interrogating the other cast members, weaving in clues I’d written into the script.

  To “Sal Biceps”: “You were Veronica Rivers’s personal trainer.”

  “That’s right,” the actor playing him responded. “So what?”

  “So what?” Lackman mocked. “So what? I’ll tell you so what. You were supposed to be loyal to Ms. Rivers, but you seem to have a greater loyalty to a younger actress aboard the QE2. Yes, indeed. Judging from what I’ve observed, your allegiance is to Ms. Starlet—Miss Suzie Starlet, the aspiring young actress.”

  “You’re crazy,” Biceps said, waving away the suggestion and looking disgusted.

  “But Ms. Starlet is a married woman,” Lackman said.

  “Big deal,” Biceps said.

  “Oh, but it is a big deal, Mr. Sal Biceps. It is a big deal because Suzie Starlet’s husband happens to be the head of a large and powerful television network, Mr. Stan Mogul.”

  Sal Biceps looked down at the floor.

  “A dangerous move, Mr. Biceps, considering you’ve been angling for your own aerobics television show on Mogul’s network.”

  The actress playing Lila Sims—“Suzie Starlet”—got up from her chair, as directed to do in the script, and started walking away.

  “Hold on there, Ms. Starlet. Not so fast.”

  She turned and opened her eyes with exaggerated surprise. “Yes?” she asked demurely.

  “You’ve had some pretty stiff competition for your husband’s affections, haven’t you, you pretty young thing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, pouting.

  “I suggest you sit down,” Lackman said, “and I’ll explain it to you.”

  She returned to her chair.

  Lackman now turned his attention to Peter Kunz— “Bob Manager.”

  “You, sir, are an ambitious young man.”

  The actor smiled smugly. “Nothing wrong with ambition, is there?”

  “Not unless it leads to—murder!”

  The actor playing Bob Manager jumped to his feet. “Now, wait a minute,” he snarled. “Are you suggesting that—?”

  “Sit down!” Lackman yelled.

  “You tell ’em, Billy,” an audience member said.

  The crowd started to chant, “Billy, Billy, Billy.”

  Lackman stepped to the stage apron and held up his hands. “Please, please,” he said. “I know I deserve your adoration, but save it for when I solve the case.”

  Applause followed him back to where he resumed questioning “Bob Manager.”

  “You were Ms. Rivers’s manager, negotiating a two-movie contract with Stan Mogul, head of the network.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yet the moment your boss, Ms. Rivers, was killed, you began negotiating on your own behalf.”

  “No crime in that.”

  “But not ver
y sensitive.”

  “This is business. There’s no room for sensitivity in business.”

  “Alas, how true,” Lackman said, bringing his hands to his bosom and delivering the line in Shakespearean fashion. “But that doesn’t mean murder has a place in the boardroom.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Manager said.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Lackman.

  Ron Ryan, the older actor who’d been Marla Tralaine’s lover years ago, played himself under the character name “Joe Gigolo.” He didn’t know it, of course, because he hadn’t seen the script until just moments before the performance. Now, as Billy Bravo addressed him, he realized what was going on, but couldn’t do anything about it short of leaving, which would have been awkward.

  “Joe Gigolo,” Lackman said slowly, as though chewing on the name. “We go back a long way.”

  “We do?”

  “Oh, yes, we certainly do.”

  Although Jerry Lackman also hadn’t seen the script prior to the performance, he knew where it was heading because I’d told him during our meeting that morning.

  At first, he’d denied my accusation that he’d been one of the LAPD detectives who’d investigated the murder of Marla Tralaine’s husband years ago. But he eventually admitted I was right. I asked him during that meeting why he was on this crossing. “It has to be more than just wanting an acting job,” I’d said.

  Not only did he agree with me, he told me the real reason for signing on with Rip Nestor. It wasn’t what Mary Ward and I had speculated; it was even more revealing and meaningful.

  “You and Veronica Rivers were close friends, weren’t you, Mr. Gigolo?” Lackman asked.

  “I ...”

  “Much more than good friends. You were lovers once.”

  “Yes, we were.” Ryan said the line as though being tortured with cattle prods.

  “And you were close to her late husband, too.”

  “I knew him.”

  I had the feeling Ryan might bolt from the stage.

  “He owed you a lot of money, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions,” Ryan said.

  That line wasn’t in the script.

  “But you will.”

  Ryan started to get up, but Lackman quickly placed his hand on the older actor’s shoulder and kept him in his seat. He then spun around to confront the actor playing the gentleman host, Sydney Worrell, whom I’d renamed “Dan Dancer.”