Murder on the QE2 (2 page)

“So, Matt, tell me more about this intriguing assignment.”

“Okay,” he said. “I talked to the director of shipboard entertainment and made some notes. Let’s see. You’ll be one of a half dozen speakers. Not much of a commitment. Two one-hour talks in the afternoon, on the second and fourth days at sea. And, of course, you have to write an original murder mystery for the actors to perform.”

“How long a play?” I asked.

“Two hours. They’ll perform it over four days, so it has to be four short acts. I have the name and number of the director. Name’s Nestor. He’s in Los Angeles, although I understand he’ll use actors from New York. You should give him a call.” He rattled off the information, which I wrote down.

“I know I’ll have free passage because of the lectures. But writing an original play is another thing.”

Miller laughed. “It’s about time you started thinking about money, Jess. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re more than adequately compensated.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I said. “Any idea who the other lecturers will be?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Let’s see. There’s Marla Tralaine. She’ll be speaking.”

“Marla Tralaine? The actress?”

“One and the same.”

“I know this sounds callous, Matt, but I wasn’t even sure she was still alive. I haven’t read or heard anything about her in ages.”

“I know. After that sordid episode with her fourth husband—or was it her fifth?—and she had those back-to-back box office bombs, her career dropped dead. Just the career. Not the woman. She’s alive and well, I understand. Is even shopping a book proposal around town, and is negotiating to do a made-for-TV movie as her comeback vehicle. At any rate, she’ll be one of your fellow lecturers.”

“I’d forgotten about that business with her husband. They tried to pin his murder on her, as I recall.”

“That’s right. But they couldn’t prove it.”

“Well, I look forward to meeting her. Who else?”

“Ever watch Carlo Di Giovanni’s cooking show?”

“Sometimes.”

“Ever try one of his recipes?”

“No. But I enjoy him. He’s funny. Very volatile. Very ... Italian.”

“He’ll do some cooking as part of his lecture. You’ll come away a five-star pasta chef.”

“Wonderful.”

“Troy Radcliff will be on board.”

“Who’s he?”

“A mountain climber. Set the world’s record. He’s pretty old now. Must be in his eighties.”

“I don’t follow mountain climbing.”

“Which pleases me. Hate to lose my favorite client to a rock slide.”

“No fear of that, ”! I said.

“Radcliff hosts
Go For It,
the TV adventure show.”

“Haven’t seen that.”

“Just as well. Finally, there’s Elaine Ananthous, and—”

“She writes all those gardening books,” I said.

“And, she is my client. You’ll like Elaine. A little quirky, but nice. And Dan Solon has signed on for the cruise. ”

“Crossing,” I said. “They never call it a cruise.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Who is Dan Solon?”

“The judge who presided over the K.C. James murder trial.”

“Oh.
That
Dan Solon.”

“He’s writing a book, too, about the trial. Just started his own TV talk show. That’s about it, Jess. An august group, wouldn’t you say?”

“An eclectic one, Matt. Sounds like fun.”

“Good. I suggest you get hold of the director as soon as possible.”

“I’ll call him when I ring off with you. Writing a play. I haven’t done that in years. Should be a challenge.”

“One I’m sure you’ll face head-on, and successfully.”

“By the way, when is the crossing?”

“You have lots of time. Three months.”

“Oh?”

“You sail from New York on May twenty-eighth.”

“Mr. Nestor, please,” I said to the woman who answered the phone at Nestor Productions in Los Angeles.

“Hey, Rip,” I heard her yell. “It’s for you.”

A moment later, Mr. Nestor came on the tine. “Rip Nestor here. This is Jessica Fletcher?”

“Yes, it is. My agent, Matt Miller, suggested I call you regarding the play on the
QE2.”

“Right. Yeah. Looking forward to a script from the famous Jessica Fletcher. When can I have it?”

“The script?” I laughed. “I’m afraid I need some input from you before I even consider doing it.”

“What do you need to know from me?”

“Well, I ... I’d like to know the sort of mystery plays you put on. Are they ... are they broad and farcical? Slapstick? Cozy mysteries? Intellectual? Is there audience participation? I saw a dinner theater production years ago at a local Holiday Inn. I don’t remember much of it, but as I recall, it was played very expansively. Lots of humor, and the audience got involved.”

“You’ve got it. That’s it. Entertain the audience. Keep ‘em laughing. Get ’em to take part, become suspects, be questioned by the police. That sort of thing.”

“I see. Mr. Nestor, could you tell me if—?”

“Call me Rip.”

“Rip. Yes. Well, Rip, could you tell me how long a play you want?”

“The QE2 show? Four half-hour acts. Big climax at the end of each. You know. Somebody killed.”

“That’s a lot of murders,” I said.

“The more the better.” His laugh was a cackle.

“All right,” I said. “Will I have a chance to meet you in the near future?”

“I’ll be in New York next week.”

“Next week? I have to be there, too, for a few days, to meet with my publisher. Maybe we can find some time together.”

“That’d be cool. I’ll be staying at the Waldorf.”

We exchanged information—I’d be staying at a Manhattan hotel that’s a particular favorite of mine, the Sheraton-Park Avenue at Park and Thirty-seventh, a small, European-style jewel of a place that makes me feel at home. We made a tentative lunch date; he would call me at the hotel the day I arrived.

After we concluded our telephone conversation, I tried to get back to work on my latest novel, but found it hard to concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to memories of the
QE2,
of Frank, and of the reality I’d be back on that splendid ship in a few months.

Which meant shifting mental gears in order to put together not only two lectures, but a two-hour play as well. Should I base the play on one of my earlier murder mysteries? That was a possibility. But I wasn’t sure I had the legal right to adapt one of my books for the stage without my publisher becoming legally involved. No. Better to come up with an original creation, written specifically to be performed.

The phone rang. It was my friend and Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger.

“Afternoon, Mrs. F.,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Mort. How are you this fine day?”

“Tip-top. Had to chase a crazy tourist speedin’ through town a few hours ago. Finally pulled him over and he whips out his wallet and tries to bribe me.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Ayuh.
He tells me he knows how cops in little towns don’t get paid much, so he figures I could use an extra twenty.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I envisioned the scene.

“I told him he was right, that I don’t get paid what I’m worth, and that an extra twenty would come in right handy.”

“And?”

“He grinned. A dumb, big grin, which didn’t last once I told him he was under arrest for speedin‘, reckless endangerment, and attempting to bribe an officer of the law. Slapped the cuffs on him and took him down to the jail, where he is as we speak.”

“Bravo!” I said.

“Thought you’d get a chuckle out ’a that, Mrs. F. Now, what’s this I hear about you takin’ a cruise on the
Queen Elizabeth
2?”

“It’s not a cruise, Mort. It’s a crossing. The North Atlantic, unless bad weather causes the captain to choose a more southerly route.” I remembered that from when Frank and I made the crossing.

“Sure you want to do it?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well, Seth told me about it, and he thinks—”

Of course. Mort’s concern was really Seth Hazlitt talking.

“Mort,” I said, “I am thrilled at the chance to sail on the QE2 again. I can’t wait. Did Seth tell you I’ll be writing an original murder mystery play, to be performed onboard?”

“Ayuh,
that he did.”

“Isn’t that wonderful, Mort?”

“Frankly, Mrs. F., that’s really the point of why I called.”

“What is the point, Mort?”

“Well, you know how I invented that murder mystery board game, and almost sold it to Parker Brothers?”

“Yes.”

“About a year ago I decided to write a play based on that same board game.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. I did. And I was wondering whether you might want to use it on your cruise.”

“Crossing.”

“Crossing. Seth said you’re writing a play for some director out in Hollywood.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I figured you might show my play to him, suggest he buy it. With your fame and influence, Mrs. F., he should listen up to you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Mrs. F.?”

“I’m here, Mort.”

“How about it? We could share the money. Royalties, they call it. Right?”

“Right. Mort, I’ll be happy to read your play.”

“I’ll head over with it right now. Always keep a copy in the car, just in case.”

“Just in case? Of course. I understand. I’ll be here. But Mort, I can’t promise to submit it to the director. They’re paying
me
to write the play.”

“I know, I know, Mrs. F., but maybe—”

“I look forward to seeing it,” I said.

I’d no sooner hung up, and had gone to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, when the phone rang again.

“Hello?” I said into my kitchen extension.

“Jessica?”

“Charlene?”

“Yes. How are you?”

“Just fine. You?”

“Great.”

Charlene Sassi owns Cabot Cove’s best bakery. She’s a world-class cook and a friend.

“Jess, I just heard about your cruise on the
QE2,
and that you’re writing a play for it.”

Amazing, I thought, how efficient the Cabot Cove grapevine was. It’s more effective than the Internet and World Wide Web combined.

“It’s a crossing, Charlene. They call it a crossing.”

“Of course they do,” she said, laughing loudly. “That’s because it’s a ... crossing ... not a cruise. I knew that.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Do you remember my brother’s oldest boy?”

“No.”

“His name is John. He goes to the U of Maine at Orono.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He wants to be a writer. Plays.”

“Oh?”

“And he’s written an original murder mystery. I bet he was inspired by you.”

“That’s very flattering, Charlene.”

“Well, when I heard there was going to be a professional acting group from Hollywood on the cruise ... the crossing ... I immediately thought you might want to submit John’s play to the director. It’s so hard for a young person to reach big-time directors, as you well know.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. I went on to explain that the director, Rip Nestor—was he a big-time director?—I doubted it—wanted
me
to write the play.

There was a stony silence on the other end.

“But I’d love to read John’s play,” I quickly added.

“You would?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

After hanging up, I realized I’d committed to reading two plays, without even having begun writing my own. Not being able to say no is a curse I share with many writer friends. Reading other people’s work is time-consuming, especially if you take it seriously and want to offer constructive editing and advice.

Oh, well. I’d find the time.

I always do.

It had snowed in New York the day before I flew there from Cabot Cove for two days of meetings. But the sun was shining brightly as Jed Richardson, owner, operator, and only pilot for Jed’s Flying Service, landed smoothly at La Guardia Airport in one of his three aircraft, a single-engine Cessna. Jed decided to stick around New York until it was time for me to fly back, so we shared a taxi into the city and checked into the hotel before going our separate ways.

Rip Nestor insisted we have lunch at a Manhattan sushi restaurant. I am not particularly fond of raw fish, no matter how beautifully it’s presented. Unless, of course, it’s shellfish served as part of a classic New England clambake. But I didn’t protest Every sushi restaurant I’ve been to offers other choices for customers with a pedestrian palate, like me.

Mr. Nestor was, I judged, in his early thirties. He was tall and slender, with reddish hair pulled tight from front to back across the top of his head, and down into a long ponytail. He wore tight jeans, laced-up ankle-high work boots, a green T-shirt with NESTOR PRODUCTIONS emblazoned in white across the chest, and a tan safari jacket. Multiple gold chains of varying lengths, large sunglasses, and an expensive leather shoulder bag completed the Hollywood picture.

“Good trip?” I asked after we’d been seated.

“The red-eye,” he said, yawning to make the point. “How do you get here from Maine?”

“We actually have an airport in Cabot Cove,” I said.

He smiled. “I didn’t mean—”

“A good friend flew me here,” I said. “He runs a small air service out of Cabot Cove. A small, single-engine plane. But convenient. He was a top-rated airline pilot for years.”

“How’s the script coming?” Nestor asked, picking up a menu and lifting his sunglasses in order to read it.

“I told you I wouldn’t start on it until we had this opportunity to talk.”

“Sushi? The combination platter?” he asked, returning menu and sunglasses to their previous positions.