Murder on the QE2 (10 page)

“I—”

“We’ve run this by our public relations people,” said the staff captain. “They applaud the idea. In fact, they’re so appreciative that they’ve authorized me to award you another crossing in the future, for you and up to three friends, at absolutely no cost to you or to them.”

“That’s very generous, but—”

“Please say yes, Jessica,” Priscilla Warren said. “It would mean so much to the other passengers to hear your calming voice.”

“Go over again what it is you want me to do,” I said. When Prall had, I said, “All right. But on one condition.”

“Anything, Mrs. Fletcher,” the social director said.

“That I be kept fully informed of everything having to do with Ms. Tralaine’s murder.”

“We were hoping not to use that term,” Prall said.

“But she was
murdered,”
I said. “If I’m to be the spokeswoman, I insist upon being entirely truthful. I believe that represents good public relations.”

“Of course,” the staff captain said.

The woman responsible for the program said, “Could we start right now?”

“Write the piece for the program? Yes.”

“We’ll send dinner to wherever you’re working,” the social director said.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m sure it won’t take very long to write—the truth.”

The editor of the shipboard newsletter/program, Rose Jenkins, led me to her office. I suppose the term “office” could be applied to it, although “closet” came more to mind. The closets in my cabin were significantly larger than her working space.

“It’s cramped, I know,” she said.

“A proverbial understatement. Tell you what, Ms. Jenkins. If you’ll tell me how many words you want this to be, I’ll just go back to my cabin and write it there.”

“Do you have a laptop computer with you?” she asked.

“No. The last thing I intended to do on this crossing was to write.”

“I can arrange for the Computer Learning Center to send one up to you.”

“I’m not terribly computer literate,” I said. “It would have to be a simple word processing program.”

“They have them all, Mrs. Fletcher.”

After a few minutes of discussion about the piece I was to write, I returned to my cabin to await delivery of a computer. Fifteen minutes later, a young man arrived, carrying a small, portable model. How so much technology could be crammed into such a tiny machine boggled my mind.

“It has three or four of the most popular word processing programs loaded.” He named them. One was Microsoft Word, the same program I used back home. Convenient, I thought. I wouldn’t have to stumble through something new and unfamiliar.

“You can just deliver this disk when you’re through to Rose Jenkins,” he told me. “She’ll print right from it.”

I sat down at the marvelous little machine the moment he was gone. I’d made a few notes of my conversation with Rose Jenkins and quickly perused them. The announcement of Marla Tralaine’s death was to be short and to the point. It had been decided during the meeting with Security Chief Prall that rather than meddle with the program’s basic format, what I wrote would be included as an insert, no more than five hundred words.

Up until that moment, I had the announcement already written in my mind. It would be a straightforward, classic journalistic approach. Simply tell the reader the who, what, why, where, and when of the incident. I hadn’t written anything journalistic for years, but I did remember from my undergraduate days how to construct a story’s lead, using what’s called the “inverted pyramid.”

But the moment I was alone with my thoughts, and the glare of the blank screen, I, too, went blank. It wasn’t writer’s block as I sometimes experienced when writing my novels. I was unable to focus in this instance because I couldn’t shake the face of the gentleman host who’d danced with Mary Ward, then with me.

I got up from my chair, looked through the sealed porthole to the sea, then closed my eyes. When I opened them, the porthole had become, for a fleeting instant, a television screen.

I sat on the bed, went through the shipboard phone directory, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for the library and bookstore. “This is Jessica Fletcher in Cabin ten thirty-seven.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Since the actress Marla Tralaine is aboard as a lecturer , I was wondering whether you’d brought along videos of some of her movies for this crossing.”

“As a matter of fact, we have. Three of them, I think.”

“There was a film she did that took place in London, if memory serves me.”

“Hold on.”

She came back on and said, “I’m reading the backs of the boxes the videos come in. Here it is. It’s called
Dangerous Woman.
Her picture is on the box. Very sensuous.”

“Yes, that’s the one I was thinking of.
Dangerous Woman.
I need to... I’d like to see it on my VCR.”

“I’ll have it sent right up, Mrs. Fletcher. And welcome aboard. We have all your books here. The cruise director said you’d be willing to hold an autographing session some afternoon.”

“Of course. I’ll get the video back to you right away.”

I again tried to start the story of Marla Tralaine’s murder, but had only written the first sentence—four times—when Walter, my steward, arrived with the video. He handed it to me, turned to leave, then said, “The captain says it will be getting rougher, Mrs. Fletcher. Sudden storm bearing down on us.”

“That isn’t good news,” I said.

“But not to worry,” he said. “This is a fine ship. The best. Built for rough weather.”

I nodded. I knew that not only were we on a crossing, not a cruise, despite that there was a cruise director aboard, but also we were on an ocean liner, not a cruise ship, built to much more stringent and demanding standards.

“Thanks for the video, Walter.”

“Yes, ma’am. Careful in the shower. Hold on tight.”

“I certainly will.”

I’d been so engrossed in other things that I’d ignored my mild nausea of a few hours ago and the ship’s increased movement. But now that Walter had reminded me, I became well aware of it.

I took the videotape from its box, slid it into the VCR attached to the TV, pushed the right buttons, and began watching
Dangerous Woman.
I’d seen it before, of course, on cable television prior to leaving Cabot Cove. I tried to run the film at fast-forward, but hit the REWIND button instead. Eventually, I figured out which button did what, and ran the film to where the reason for my wanting to watch it appeared. I leaned closer to the TV screen and narrowed my eyes.

The character played by Marla Tralaine had just entered her lavish London flat. It was raining hard; she was soaked as she stepped inside. The lighting was typical of British filmmakers, low-key and atmospheric, lightning punctuating the eerie interior of the house.

Ms. Tralaine, playing the role of the film’s title, discarded her wet outer garments and went to a library where a fire blazed in an oversized fireplace, coats-of-arms and huge oil portraits above it.

A door at the other end of the room opened and a man dressed as a servant entered.

Tralaine snapped at him: “Bring me a brandy, for God’s sake! And hurry up.”

The camera zoomed in tight on his face. It was twisted as he fought to control hatred of his mistress.

I sat back and conjured up the image of the gentleman host who’d danced with Mary Ward, then with me.

He and the actor in the movie were one and the same.

I played the scene over three more times before rewinding the tape and slipping it back in the box.

What did it mean?

This particular gentleman host, as he’s called, mentioned during our dance that he’d recently signed on the
QE2.
Had he done it because he knew Marla Tralaine would be on this specific crossing? If so, what was his motive for doing so?

To rekindle an old flame?

Or to avenge an old hurt?

The phone rang. It was Rose Jenkins, asking how the insert was going.

“Just fine,” I lied. “Almost done.”

“Just call me when it’s finished,” she said. “I’ll come by your cabin and pick up the disk.”

“Give me another hour,” I said, “to polish it.”

Having resolved my nagging feeling that I knew the gentleman host, my mind was free to get to serious work on the announcement of Marla Tralaine’s death. Once I started, my fingers flew over the laptop’s keys. I used the built-in spell-checking software, made a few word changes of my own, then called Ms. Jenkins. She was at the cabin in minutes.

“Great,” she said after reading on the screen what I’d written.

“I think it accomplishes what the ship’s staff wants to accomplish, without unduly scaring anyone.”

“I’ll get this printed right away,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”

“No.” I checked my watch. “I still have time to get to the Queens Grill. Or there’s always a hot dog down by the pool.”

“Well, thanks so much for doing this,” she said. “I think it will go a long way to keeping everyone calm. The word is really getting around now. Other passengers are asking questions.”

“Inevitable.”

I retouched my makeup, left the cabin, and headed for the Queens Grill. The weather hadn’t seemed to dampen anyone’s spirits, judging from the laughter as people navigated the stairs, leaning left and right against the ship’s movements, or pausing to allow it to rise out of a trough. I remembered from my previous crossing with Frank that those prone to seasickness often ended up in the ship’s infirmary, receiving a shot to help them get through the rest of the trip. But these passengers I saw evidently had sound sea legs. Mine were supporting me pretty nicely, too. My minor bout of nausea had passed without the use of wristbands or patches. Despite Walter’s warning that a serious storm was bearing down on us, I really didn’t anticipate the crossing becoming any rougher.

As I entered the restaurant and was greeted by the handsome, suave maitre d’, I wondered whether I’d be dining alone, considering the late hour. I was mistaken. Troy Radcliff, Carlo Di Giovanni, and Mary Ward had just been served their entrees.

“Glad to see you,” Radcliff said as Jacques held out my chair. “We were worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I had something to do.”

“Concerning Ms. Tralaine’s murder?” Di Giovanni asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What kind of cruise is this?” he said with a flourish.

“It’s a crossing,” I said.

“Crossing, cruise, whatever. The ship bounces us around like a cork in the water, and somebody goes around killing people.” He let out a string of words in Italian, unflattering ones I was sure.

“They say it was you who discovered the body,” said Radcliff.

“No,” I said. “Mrs. Ward saw it first. But we were together, taking a walk on the Boat Deck.”

“What were you doing just now that involves her murder?” Radcliff asked.

“Writing an announcement about her death. It will be in tomorrow’s program as an insert.”

“You write about it?” Di Giovanni said loudly. More Italian came from him.

“It’s better to have all the passengers learn about it from one source,” I said, giving out the official party line. “It heads off unsettling speculation.”

I sensed others in the dining room looking in our direction. I smiled at a few of them, then redirected my attention to my tablemates. “I’d better order,” I said.

“How was she killed?” Radcliff asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Poison,” Di Giovanni muttered.

We all looked at him.

“Poisoned?” Mary Ward said, eyes wide.

“That’s what I hear,” the TV chef replied.

“Where did you hear it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “The judge.”

“Judge Solon?”

“Right.” He started to eat his entree, a veal dish he’d specially ordered at lunch.

The ship made a sudden, energetic motion that caused us to lean to the side and grab hold of the arms on our chairs.

Once we were righted again, I took a fast look at the menu and ordered a filet mignon with black pepper and raisin sauce.

Radcliff and Di Giovanni excused themselves once they’d finished their meals, leaving Mary Ward and me at the table.

“Do you think it really was poison that killed Ms. Tralaine?” she asked as Jacques delivered my steak. I don’t eat a lot of red meat. But when I do, I like a quality steak. This one certainly was, as good as I’ve ever tasted in my favorite steakhouse restaurants.

“Sounds like idle speculation to me,” I said.

“The sort of speculation you hope to avoid with what you’ve written about it.”

“That’s right.”

Recognizing the actor from
Dangerous Woman,
now one of eight gentleman hosts on the QE2, posed a dilemma for me.

On the one hand, I felt an obligation to share that knowledge with the ship’s security staff. On the other hand, his having been in a film with the actress many years ago did not, in itself, indicate he was guilty of any wrongdoing.

There was also the internal debate over whether to tell Mary Ward of my discovery. Because we’d been together when Marla Tralaine’s body was found, I considered her a partner of sorts. Besides, she was obviously someone with a keen interest in such things, who’d want to be kept abreast of developments.

I decided to put that decision on hold for a while. There was simply too much happening, at too rapid a pace, to add it to the mix.

“Jessica,” Mary Ward said as Jacques cleared my plate and took my order for coffee.

“Yes?”

“If it was poison that killed Ms. Tralaine, why would she have been taken to the lifeboat without any clothes on?”

“A good question,” I said.