Murder on the QE2 (16 page)

The girl disappeared. It had happened so fast that it was doubtful anyone could describe what she looked like.

Johnson, the actor, clutched his chest and stumbled forward to the stage apron. Red theatrical blood oozed from behind his hands as they clutched at his wound. He fell to his knees. His eyes opened wide. So did his mouth, but no words came.

He tumbled over onto his back.

Detective Billy Bravo had been off-stage when the second murder took place. He reappeared, gazed at the body on the floor, looked out into the audience, and said with theatrical flourish, “Very interesting. Now, two people are dead. And I think there are some suspects sitting here who need to answer some tough questions.”

He called on four audience members by name, causing them to giggle. When each stood, he asked them a series of questions about a relationship they might have had with the floor director, John Craig. It all went smoothly, and there was much laughter. When Bravo walked with purpose from the stage, a determined look on his face, the audience jumped to its feet and applauded long and loud. This was better than I’d ever hoped it would be when I sat in my house in Cabot Cove, the snow swirling around outside my window, and wrote the scene.

A number of people stopped by to congratulate me. Judge Dan Solon, whose gruff style had been off-putting ever since we’d first met, offered a surprisingly warm comment, which I graciously accepted. The QE2’s cruise director told me how much wonderful feedback the play was generating. And I was pleased to see Mary Ward approach from a far corner.

“That was wonderful,” she said.

“Thank you, Mary. Are you all set for your special gourmet dinner with Mr. Di Giovanni?”

“I think so. I just hope what he prepares isn’t too heavy.”

“I’m sure he’ll whip up something to your liking. Going to the tea dance?”

She waited for others to leave before answering my question.
“
I certainly intend to,” she said. “I’m interested in seeing that man again you say was in one of Ms. Tralaine’s early films.
”

“I’m interested in seeing him again, too,” I said. “I’m considering being direct with him, telling him that I know of his previous career as an actor.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to play it by ear. You have your dinner with Di Giovanni right after the tea dance, don’t you?”

“Would you mind if I skipped going with you to the dance?” she asked. “I think I’ll rest a little before my big culinary event.”

I laughed. “That sounds like a good idea. Whatever I decide to do with our favorite gentleman host, I’ll let you know later.”

“By the way, Jessica, did you receive the material from your friend back in New York?”

“Not yet, and I’m glad you reminded me. I’d better alert the communications office that I’m expecting faxes from the States. Enjoy your rest.”

I decided to spend some time in my cabin, too, before the tea dance. As I headed there, Peter Kunz, Marla Tralaine’s manager, joined me.

“Have a minute, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

“That depends,” I said. “I was hoping for a quiet hour before the tea dance.”

“It won’t take long,” he said. “There’s someone who would like to spend a few minutes with you.”

I stopped. So did he. I looked at him and asked, “And who might that be?”

“Sam Teller, chairman of the Teller Cable Network.”

“Why would he want to see me?”

“I don’t know. He asked me to find you and bring you up to his penthouse. That is, if you’re not too busy.”

The real question I had was why Sam Teller would dispatch Marla Tralaine’s manager to bring me to his penthouse. I asked.

Kunz smiled. He was a handsome young man, dressed this afternoon in a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, white shirt, blue-and-red tie with a nautical motif, and white slacks with a knife-edge crease. “Marla and Sam Teller were in negotiations for her to do two movies for his network,” he said as we resumed walking. “As her manager, I was intimately involved with the talks. Now that she’s dead, I’m developing other projects with Mr. Teller. We’ve been huddling during the crossing. Will you come meet him? I’m sure it won’t take more than ten minutes.”

“All right.”

I followed Kunz up the stairs from the Queens Lounge to the penthouse level where the personal butler to its passengers, Mr. Montrose, stood proudly in his small kitchen, preparing a tray of snacks and drinks. Kunz ignored him and headed down the hall in the direction of Teller’s penthouse. But I greeted the butler, and he returned my greeting. He had an expression on his face that almost said to me that there was something important he wanted to say, but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it because Kunz had already reached the door and knocked. The door opened and Samuel Teller, head of one of the country’s most powerful media conglomerates, stood in the doorway. Although I had seen many pictures of him over the years, I didn’t realize how big he was, almost filling the space created by the open door. A thick head of battleship gray hair was perfectly shaped to his strong, square, tanned face. He wore a short Chinese red silk smoking jacket secured around his waist with a sash. His eyes were green, the color of Granny Smith apples.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m Sam Teller.” He extended a large, strong hand, which I took.

“Please, come in,” he said, stepping back to allow me to enter. As I did, he said, “It was good of you to come up here on such short notice.”

Kunz started to enter, too, but Teller told him, “Come back in a half hour.”

Teller closed the door, and we were alone, unless his wife, the young actress Lila Sims, was somewhere in the suite.

He crossed the large room to the sliding doors leading to one of his two balconies, turned, and said, “Drink?”

“No, thank you. This is a lovely penthouse.”

“We like it. Coffee? Cup of tea? Soft drink?”

I smiled. “None of the above. I told Mr. Kunz that I was anxious to get to my cabin for a little private time before the tea dance. He said you were anxious to speak with me. About what?”

Teller answered by pointing to a couch. “Please, sit there,” he said.

He continued to stand by the sliding doors. “I read that insert you wrote this morning about Marla Tralaine’s unfortunate death.”

“I’m not sure I should have written it, but I did.”

“Very well written, but that doesn’t come as any surprise considering your preeminence in the publishing business.”

“That’s very kind, but writing a summary of a real murder doesn’t fall into my area of expertise.”

“Still, impressive. Marla was going to make a couple of movies for me. Were you aware of that?”

“I recently became aware of it.”

“It probably wouldn’t have worked, even if she’d lived,” he said matter-of-factly. “Most difficult woman I’ve ever encountered.”

I said nothing.

Still standing in his pose by the doors, he said, “I understand that not only do you write good murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving a few. Real ones, that is.”

“That’s true, Mr. Teller. Unfortunately, I ended up in a position to do that. It was certainly never my intention.”

“Are you looking to solve Marla’s murder?”

“What I’m looking to do is to enjoy this crossing on the
QE2.”

“But I hear you’re doing some snooping around.”

“I don’t wish to debate semantics, Mr. Teller, but I don’t consider myself to be someone who snoops.”

He ignored my comment, continuing, “Have you received your faxes yet from New York?”

I was surprised that he knew about that, and I suppose my face reflected it. It brought forth from him a small, almost cruel smile.

I replied, “No, I haven’t. But I expect them later this afternoon.” I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of asking how he knew.

“I understand you’re pretty tight with the Scotland Yard inspector who’ll be investigating her death.”

I couldn’t let that pass: “To whom are you referring?”

“What’s his name?—Sutherland?”

I said nothing. It was obvious he was either receiving tips from someone in the ship’s communications room, or had gathered information from the network of correspondents working in his far-flung news division.

“I have to admit, Mrs. Fletcher, that I sometimes stand in awe of women like you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only women?” I asked.

“Especially women. I’ve been a fan of your books for a long time.”

I doubted whether he’d personally read any of my novels. Somehow, he didn’t strike me as someone who read much, aside from financial statements.

“Which one of them did you like most?” I asked.

“I liked them all.”

I was right. He hadn’t read any of them.

“You’ve been the subject of some recent meetings in my organization.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I’ve been thinking of launching a series of two-hour made-for-television movies, the way the British do with their mystery series. Original dramas introduced each week by a host—or hostess. I’d like to create a series of such movies out of your novels.”

“I—”

“And, of course, with Jessica Fletcher acting as the on-camera host.”

“That’s very flattering, Mr. Teller, but I’m afraid I’m not a television personality. I write alone. I’m not a performer.”

“I understand your lecture yesterday was great.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m talking a significant deal here, Mrs. Fletcher. A lot of money. Having your books translated into TV movies would do wonders for sales.”

“For sales? You mean for your advertising sales?”

Now he came to a chair across a small table from where I sat and took it. He narrowed his eyes as though that would help make what point he wanted to get across. “No,” he said. “I’m talking about book sales. Nothing like steady television exposure to sell books.”

“I wouldn’t debate that with you,” I said. “I’ve done my share of public appearances, including television, in order to sell a new book when it comes out. But frankly, Mr. Teller, my books sell extremely well. Each one is a bestseller.”

“That may be so, Mrs. Fletcher—you don’t mind if I call you Jessica”—It wasn’t a question, simply a statement of what he intended to do—“I’m talking tripling, quadrupling your sales. Make you some real money.”

I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. But I said calmly, “I’m quite comfortable with my life and professional career. Some of my books have been made into movies. I’m sure you’re aware of them.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t very impressed. We’ll put enough money into them to make sure the production values are the best. Top casts. When I take on a project, I insist that it be the best. There’s never any second best for me.”

I’d had enough of his arrogance. I stood and said, “Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with my agent once you’re back in the States. His name is Matt Miller. He’s in New York and—”

“I don’t deal with agents. I like to deal directly with the talent.”

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you,” I said, taking a few steps in the direction of the door. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again before Southampton.”

“That won’t happen,” he said. “Let me give you a word of advice.”

I was tempted to say that I didn’t need advice from him, but allowed him to continue.

“Forget about this Marla Tralaine incident. She was nothing but trouble. You don’t strike me as somebody who wants or needs trouble.”

“Am I to take that as a threat, Mr. Teller?”

“What I’m saying is that the smart way to get through life is to go for the things that make you rich, and avoid the things that don’t. I’m offering you a sweet deal, Jessica. Focus on that and forget about Tralaine.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Teller.”

It took me ten minutes to calm down. By the time I had, it was almost time to go to the tea dance. Why did he want me to forget about Marla Tralaine and her murder? Had
he
murdered her, or had someone else do it at his behest?

I called the QE2’s communication center and inquired whether any faxes had come through for me. None had; I asked them to be on the lookout for any that might arrive and to let me know.

I tried again to reach George Sutherland in London. No luck. I placed a call to Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove, feeling a little guilty I hadn’t tried earlier to return his call. No success there, either.

I looked at my watch. It was time to freshen up, change my clothes, and get to the Queens Room.

I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I picked it up quickly, thinking it might be the communications center informing me that my faxes from Ruth Lazzara had arrived. Instead, it was the TV plant lady, Elaine Ananthous.

“I was just leaving, Elaine,” I said. “Going to the tea dance. Will you be going?”

She started crying.

“Elaine, what’s wrong?”

“He’s missing.”

“Who’s missing?”

“Troy.”

“Troy Radcliff?”

“Yes. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him. He’s gone.”

“Calm down, Elaine,” I said. “This is a huge ship. He’s probably found a quiet comer in which to read a book.”

“No, Jessica, I know something terrible has happened to him. I had the steward check his cabin. He didn’t sleep there last night. No one has seen him anywhere on the ship today.”

“Well, Elaine, if you’re that convinced something has happened to him, I suggest you go to shipboard security.”

“I was going to, but I’m so upset. Would you go with me?”

If anyone had been in my cabin with me, they would have seen the frustration written all over my face. All I wanted to do was go to the tea dance and bask in the wonderful music of the Tommy Dorsey orchestra. I’d gotten on the QE2 to relax. It had been a long, hard winter. I’d written a play, read two others by friends, and had finished my latest book. I was tired, but ready for some fun.