08 - The Highland Fling Murders (25 page)

“Matt,” I said, “one day soon I’ll explain why I’m so enthusiastic. In the meantime, I’m running late for a lunch date with Seth Hazlitt. You remember him?”

“Sure. Cabot Cove’s resident doc. Say hello for me.”

“I certainly will. Can I call you later for more details?”

“I’ll be here all day.”

I hung up, giggled, and then let out a loud squeal of joy. But the euphoria lasted only a few minutes—until a wave of sadness displaced it.

It was twenty years ago that I made my first, and only transatlantic crossing on the fabled
Queen Elizabeth 2,
the
grande dame
of all ocean liners. My husband, Frank, was alive then, and had given me—us—the crossing as a joint Christmas present. We set sail on May 28th of that year and reveled in the ship’s majesty, and the pampering we received from its large international staff.

I remembered that trip as clearly as though I’d taken it yesterday.

 

 

Frank and I stood on the
QE2’s
highest deck, arms about each other, peering into the distance at Southampton, England, after five glorious days at sea.

“Know what I think, Jess?” he said.

“No. What?”

“I think we should make this a yearly event. Save toward it all year. Treat ourselves to this grand experience every year we’re alive and can enjoy it together.”

I hugged him tighter. “For a conservative New Englander, Frank, you do have your extravagant moments.”

He laughed. “Yes, I do,” he said. “When it concerns you.”

We kissed, and spent the next week in London, extending the moment.

We never sailed on the
QE2
again. Frank became very ill shortly after we returned home, and died later that year. Of course, I often thought about crossing on the
QE2
again, especially each year when May 28th rolls around. But I could never bring myself to simply call Susan Shevlin, my travel agent in Cabot Cove, and book myself a stateroom. I just didn’t want to do it without Frank.

But this was different. This was business.

 

 

“Say again, Jessica,” Dr. Seth Hazlitt said at lunch. We’d been best of friends for more years than I care to admit.

“They want me to lecture about writing murder mysteries on the
QE2
between New York and Southampton. I’ll be one of a group of people lecturing on different subjects. And I’m to write a murder mystery play that will be acted by a Los Angeles theatrical troupe.”

“Sounds like a fairly good thing,” he said in his usual understated way. “How do you feel about travelin’ alone?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, Seth. I travel alone all the time.”

“But, not on a big ship crossin’ the Atlantic Ocean.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Makes a considerable difference, it seems to me. I could go along with you.”

“That would be lovely, Seth, but—”

“We’ll talk more about it. In the meantime, finish your lobster roll. Especially good, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Seth. It’s especially good.”

 

 

It was during our first full day at sea that the tragedy struck.

The actors and actresses who were to perform my script had gathered in the Grand Lounge on what’s called the Upper Deck, below the Boat Deck and Sun Deck. The director, a delightful young woman named Jill Farkas, started by rehearsing the first murder scene, which was to take place approximately ten minutes into the play. In it, one of the actors, portraying an unsavory loan shark, is confronted by his former wife, who demands money she claims he stole from her when they were still together.

I sat in a comfortable chair at one of the many cocktail tables in the opulent lounge and watched with intense interest and pleasure the scene unveiling before me. The actor and actress were talented performers; they did my words proud.

The actor playing the ex-husband verbally abused his wife onstage. He mocked her, said she was stupid and didn’t stand a chance of getting money from him.

Her face flared into anger. She berated him for the lowlife that he was, and said she’d never let him get away with the money stolen from her.

“Why don’t you just shut up?” he snarled, his face twisted into a nasty smile.

“No,” she said, “I’ll shut
you
up, Billy.”

She pulled the revolver from her shoulder bag and leveled it at his chest.

“What are you, nuts?” he shouted.

“You’ve abused me for the last time,” she said, fighting back tears.

“Gimme the gun, Helen,” he said, taking a step closer to her and extending his hand. “Don’t be dumb. You’re not gonna shoot me. You’re not gonna shoot anybody. Look at yourself. You’re shaking like a leaf. Hell, you’ll end up shooting off your own foot.”

His hand moved closer to her.

Even though I’d written the scene, I was caught up in the tension of the moment. I leaned forward and pressed a finger to my lips. That was the end of dialogue between them. The script called for her to pull the trigger—now!

The report from the blank discharged from the revolver resounded throughout the Grand Lounge. It caused me to sit up straight I watched as the actor went through his death throes—a little too dramatic and strung out for my taste—and fell to the stage. The actress screamed, dropped the weapon and ran into the wings.

I applauded and joined the troupe on the stage. The other actors and actresses, and Jill Farkas, had come from backstage and we all stood over the slain actor. A red stain slowly expanded on his shirtfront.

“Let’s not waste the fake blood on rehearsals,” Jill said.

We all waited for him to get up.

“Come on, Joe, the scene’s over,” an actress said.

But Joe didn’t get up. Slowly, but surely, it became apparent that he never would. There were now gasps, moans, a few cries of anguish. Some fell to their knees and tried to shake him into life.

“What’s going on?” Graham Flemming, the QE2’s social director, asked, joining us onstage.

“He’s dead,” Jill Farkas said.

“He’s
dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said, placing my fingertips to his neck in search of a pulse. “Someone obviously replaced the blanks in that gun with live ammunition.”

Flemming didn’t miss a beat. He turned and looked out over the Grand Lounge. A few people, no more than a dozen, had stopped in to watch the rehearsal, but none of them seemed to be aware of what was really going on.

“Get him out of sight,” Flemming said. “Quick!”

The actor was dragged into the wings and out of view of anyone except those of us involved with the play.

“Nobody move,” Flemming said. “Just stay put.”

He picked up a phone, dialed a shipboard number, and said to whoever answered, “We have a death in the Grand Lounge. Backstage. Get down here with a body cart and something to cover it with.”

He hung up and said to us, “Please, say nothing to anyone about this until I’ve had a chance to discuss it with the captain and security.”

“Where will you take him?” I asked.

“The morgue.”

“You have a morgue on the
QE2?”

“Yes, ma’am. Holds four. I ask all of you again, keep this quiet, p-l-e-a-s-e! There’s nothing to be gained by creating a panic with the other passengers.”

“I think he’s right,” I said to the actors and actresses. To him: “But you will get back to us right away.”

“As soon as I can get the appropriate people together. Thanks for your cooperation.”

The dead actor was wheeled away, covered by a sheet that made it look as though it might have been a food cart. We stood together backstage for a few minutes, mostly in silence. Finally, I said, “I think I’ll go to my cabin.”

“Yeah, me, too,” an actor said.

We dispersed, and I headed for my stateroom on the Quarter Deck, one deck below. But as I poised to open my door, I changed my mind and climbed the stairs to the ship’s Sun Deck, the top deck where I’d been wrapped in a blanket earlier that morning and served a delicious cup of bouillon.

The weather was foul. The
QE2
was shrouded in fog, and a mist engulfed me. The sea was rough, causing the ship to rise and fall in a steady pattern.

I went to where Frank and I had stood twenty years earlier, wrapped my arms about myself, and felt tears well up.

Was it the death I’d just witnessed that caused me to cry?

Or was it remembering standing here with my beloved husband during our voyage together, one that was as smooth as silk, and certainly hadn’t been marred by a shooting death?

Maybe a little of both, I decided.

I knew one thing: My memories of this transatlantic crossing would be markedly different from the previous one.