Murder on the QE2 (12 page)

We left the casino and passed the Chart Room, one of three new lounges created during Cunard’s $45-million refit, the most extensive refurbishing of the ship in its history. A young man in a tuxedo played popular show tunes on an antique piano.

We stopped, and Mary looked into the bar. “That’s the same piano that was on the
Queen Mary,”
she said brightly. “I read about it.”

“So did I,” I said. “It’s a lovely lounge, isn’t it?”

“Would you like to join me for a nightcap before I go to bed?” she asked.

“That would be nice,” I said.

“Nothing alcoholic,” she said. “But I’m just not ready to go to my cabin.”

“Then let’s take that vacant table there.”

She ordered a cup of tea; I had club soda with lime.

The music was soothing, although it was disconcerting to see the piano moving in lockstep with the ship’s movement. I wondered how difficult it was for the pianist to keep hitting the right notes. I assumed he was used to it.

“Well, Mary,” I said, “you’ve had quite an evening. Ever gambled before?”

“Never at a gambling table like that.”

“Maybe you have natural luck,” I said. “Mr. Ryan was certainly pleased to have you at his side.”

“I suppose he was,” she said, sipping her tea. “Funny, but while I was there, I kept thinking back to something I read many years ago.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Poor Ms. Tralaine. To be without clothes and dead in a lifeboat. It makes me shudder just to think of it.”

“I know what you mean. It’s a grim contemplation. What did being at the craps table remind you of?”

“Do you remember when Ms. Tralaine’s husband was murdered in Hollywood?”

“Yes, but not with any clarity. It was in all the headlines, as I recall. I read a few articles about it before coming aboard.”

“Yes, it certainly was in the news. I followed the story with some interest. I suppose I have a natural curiosity about such things, like most people. It must have been very difficult for her not only to lose her husband that way, but to be accused of killing him.”

“Was she actually accused, or was that just rumor?”

“Oh, no. The authorities at the time were convinced she was behind it. But I suppose they couldn’t come up with enough proof, so they dropped that line of inquiry.”

“You have a remarkable memory,” I said.

“Only about certain things. Other things go right through my brain like a sieve. No, what I remembered while I was standing at that table was a headline that was in one of those dreadful newspapers you see at all the supermarket checkout counters.”

“The tabloids,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“And what was the headline that you recall?”

“Evidently, Ms. Tralaine’s husband—I think it was her fourth or fifth—was a very heavy gambler. Some journalists said he had connections to the Mafia in Las Vegas.”

“I don’t recall any of that,” I said. “But I’m listening.”

“He was a very big gambler. The headline I remember said, ‘Cops Crap Out In Tralaine Case.’ ”

I laughed. “A colorful headline.”

“It certainly was. I can see that front page as clearly today as I did back then.”

Where was this leading? I wondered. I waited for her to continue.

“Yes, I can see that front page as though it were on this table in front of me. It had that ’colorful headline’ as you say, a picture of Ms. Tralaine’s husband being wheeled out of the house on a stretcher and covered with a sheet, a picture of her, and a picture of a man with whom they claimed she was romantically involved.”

“And?”

“I think we were standing with that man at the gambling table tonight.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ryan.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“No. I could never be sure of something like that.” She turned, looked at me, and narrowed her pale blue eyes. “But I think I’m right.”

I sat back and exhaled, allowing my mind to focus on a few bars of the song being played. It was from one of the popular musicals—
Phantom of the Opera?
I had trouble keeping themes from contemporary musicals straight, although I never have trouble with songs from older shows.

After a few seconds, I returned my attention to what Mary Ward had just told me.

Was she right? Was one of Maria Tralaine’s former lovers on board?

If so, that would make two gentlemen from her past present on this crossing when she was murdered—me old actor now functioning as a gentleman escort, and the actor in my play who, I reminded myself, had begged Rip Nestor for the part.

I sat forward again and said, “I think I have some telephone calls to make. I’m going to call someone in New York and see if she’ll fax me clippings from when Tralaine’s husband was murdered. I assume she can do that using the ship’s satellite communication system. I’ll ask her to locate the front page of the tabloid you mentioned.”

“You’ll do that?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble based upon what might be my faulty memory.”

“No, Mary, I think it’s very important that I do this. Now, let me tell you about someone else on this crossing who goes back a long way with Marla Tralaine.”

We walked to our cabins.

“Have a good sleep,” I said.

“You too, Jessica. I’m happy you shared with me what you discovered about that gentleman I danced with.”

“It may mean nothing,” I said, “but I feel we’re ... how shall I put it? ... I feel as though we’re in this together. Sort of like partners.”

“And I’m very flattered to be considered in that light by someone like you. Will you be at breakfast?”

“Probably, although don’t hold me to it. I may eat in my cabin.”

“I might do that, too,” she said.

“We’ll catch up. Good night.”

I locked my cabin door behind me and went to the porthole. I don’t know whether it was my imagination or not, but the seas seemed to have calmed.

I took the small telephone book I always carry with me from my purse, found the number I was looking for, and called the ship’s operator.

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Two things,” I said. “First, I need to know how someone back in New York can send me a fax while we’re at sea.”

“No problem,” the operator said, reciting for me the numbers to use.

“Second,” I said, “I wish to place a call to New York.”

After asking me for the necessary information, the familiar voice of Ruth Lazzara came on the line with remarkable clarity.

“Ruth?”

“Yes
^?
”

“Jessica Fletcher.”

“Oh, hi, Jess. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m calling from the
QE2.”

She laughed. “Why?”

“Why am I calling from the QE2?”

“No. Why are you on the QE2?”

“That’s a long story that I will be happy to relate to you at another time. I need a favor, Ruth.”

“Sure. Just ask.”

Ruth Lazzara was a researcher who worked for a variety of authors, primarily in academic fields, but who also lent her considerable talents to fiction writers like me needing solid factual information for a novel.

“A number of years ago, Ruth, there was a sensational murder case out in Hollywood. Remember the actress, Marla Tralaine?”

“Of course. I read recently that she’s negotiating to make a comeback. A made-for-television movie, I think, for the Teller Network.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “She was ... she’s on the ship.”

“That must be interesting. Is she nice?”

“She’s... she’s noncommunicative at the moment.”

“Another Marlene?”

“Something like that. One of her former husbands was murdered in Hollywood a while back. It was pretty sensational stuff, was in all the papers.”

“I remember that, too, Jess. A huge scandal. Didn’t they try to pin the murder on her?”

“I believe they did, although they weren’t successful. Ruth, what I need—and I need it yesterday—are some of the clippings about that case. There’s one in particular, a supermarket tabloid. I don’t know which one. But the entire front page was devoted to the case. It had a picture of her dead husband being wheeled out of their house, a photograph of Marla Tralaine, and another photo of a man purported to be her lover.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Ruth?”

“I’m making notes. Sorry. Okay, you want that tabloid story. Others?”

“Send me whatever you can come up with on such short notice.”

“But how do I get these to you out in the middle of the ocean?”

“Easy. What a marvelous technological age this is. You can fax them to me.” I gave her the information I’d received from the operator about how to fax things to a passenger on the
QE2.
“Keep a record of any expenses. I’ll reimburse you the minute I get back.”

“The last thing on my mind. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually, there is. There’s a interesting assortment of people on this trip. I wonder if you could dig up some background on a British actor.” I grabbed the video of
Dangerous Woman
I’d watched and scanned the list of credits on the box. “The actor is named Sydney Worrell, Ruth. Never made it big, I presume, but was in a film with Marla Tralaine called
Dangerous Woman.”

“Got it. What else?”

“You mentioned the Teller Network. A number of people who appear on that network are also on this cruise ... I mean crossing. If you can come up quickly with scuttlebutt having to do with that network, I’d appreciate it. You know, gossip column pieces about Sam Teller and his young wife, Lila Sims. I understand a serious conflict exists between Sam Teller and Marla Tralaine over the film she was to make.” I named the other lecturers. “Anything on them, too, that’s juicy.”

Another laugh from Ruth Lazzara, this time louder and with more meaning. “I didn’t know you were a fan of juicy journalism, Jess. I seemed to remember you telling me once that tabloid journalism was boring.”

“It is, unless it’s wrapped up in real murder.”

Her tone turned serious. “Real murder? Has there been a
real
murder on the ship?”

“As a matter of fact, Ruth, there has been. I have a feeling you’ll hear all about it tomorrow. Tune in James Brady’s television show.”

“I hate it when you do this to me, Jess, dangle something in front of me and then leave me guessing.”

“Sorry, but I can’t do better at the moment. Will you send all this to me?”

“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning and shoot the fax to you by the end of the day.”

“Great. I knew I could count on you.”

“Hey,” she said. “You mentioned the movie Marla Tralaine was
going
to make for the Teller Network. Is she—?”

“You’re a doll,” I said. “I’ll be looking for the faxes tomorrow. ‘Bye.”

That call made, I debated what to do next. My cabin was especially inviting at the moment. Two lamps cast a warm glow over the room, and the gentle rocking of the ship almost made it feel as though I were in a cradle. The thought of climbing into bed and reading a good book until falling asleep was compelling.

On the other hand, I was brimming with energy. I love retiring early, then getting up with the sun. But there are nights when the adrenaline flows, and you just know it would be impossible to fall asleep.

I freshened up, left the cabin, and went to the main staircase, pausing at the Midships Lobby where the history of Samuel Cunard and his remarkable achievements in building this steamship company were depicted. A sprawling four-panel mural by the British artist Peter Sutton traced the history of the line. There were also ship models, artifacts, maritime paintings, and photographs of celebrities from the world of entertainment and politics aboard the ship, all artfully displayed. As I become older, the meaning of history looms more important to me as a measure of who we are, and why we are the way we are.

As I perused the display, other passengers passed on their way to the ship’s myriad nighttime activities. I envied them. All they had to think about during the five-day crossing was how to enjoy themselves.

I decided on the spot that I was in for a little enjoyment, too. That morning’s program indicated that the editor-in-chief of
Town and Country
magazine, Pamela Fiori, and one of her associates, Michael Cannon, whom I’d heard was a wonderful pianist and singer, were presenting a musical tribute that night to a hundred and fifty years of the magazine. I certainly knew of Ms. Fiori’s esteemed reputation in the magazine field, but had no idea she was also musically talented.

The show was being held in the Queens Room, where the tea dance had taken place that afternoon. It sounded like a pleasant diversion from murder, so I headed there, arriving just as the lights dimmed and the show was about to begin. I slipped into an empty chair at a table to the rear of the room. Others at the table didn’t pay any attention to me, for which I was grateful.

I was glad I’d decided to catch the show. It was wonderful. Michael Cannon was an immensely talented pianist and singer, and Pam Fiori used a beautifully written narration to link the songs by great American composers to milestones in the magazine’s history. The crowd loved it. When the lights came up, the performing duo received a standing ovation, my own applause included in it.

Although many people left the Queens Room after the show, a number stayed for the next round of entertainment, dancing to the QE2’s orchestra. I lingered at the table for a few minutes. As I started to leave, James Brady intercepted me. “Hear anything new?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You?”

“No. I tried to confirm how Marla died, but can’t get anybody in Security or Medical to open up.”

“Have you filed your story yet?” I asked.