Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
DEATHBOAT DELUXE
I was enjoying my walk on deck with Mary Ward, the lady from North Carolina who had won a trip on the QE2 for winning a contest in mystery solving. We were both reveling in the brisk breeze and the sea-scented air.
“You know, Mary,” I said, “this is bracing.”
She’d moved from my side and didn’t answer. She was leaning forward over a lifeboat, as though to better see something.
“What is it?” I asked, joining her.
I didn’t need an answer because I saw what she had seen—a woman’s bare foot poking up through a small gap in the orange tarp. As shocking as it was, my focus for the first few seconds was on the perfectly applied nail polish on her toes, which was only to be expected from one of the passengers on this supership where everything was done in style. Even murder ...
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For
Renee—observer, prod, foil, confidant, and, incidentally, loving wife;
Susan Shevlin, friend and travel agent, and Jim Shevlin, Cabot Cove’s “mayor”;
Joe, Priscilla, Tony, and Candy, who made the splendor of the QE2 even more splendid;
Ron Pacie and Joni Emanuele Pacie, whose Murder Mystery, Inc. sets the standard for murder mystery plays the world over;
And Joan, Kathleen and Elizabeth McAndrews, Mary McDonough, and Bob and Janet Nakushian, staunch sailing companions across the North Atlantic.
Chapter One
The older I get, the harder it is to surprise me.
But when Matt Miller, my literary agent, called late last winter from New York with a new and unusual project for me, I was surprised to the point of near-shock.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Why me?”
“The fact that you’re the world’s most successful and best-known mystery writer is reason enough, Jess.” He laughed. “I’ve delivered lots of good news to you, but I’ve never heard you so excited before. As I said, it doesn’t pay that much, and it means having to drop the book you’re working on for a month, but—”
“Matt,” I said, “one day soon I’ll explain why I’m so enthusiastic. In the meantime, I’m running late for lunch with Seth Hazlitt. You remember him.”
“Sure. Cabot Cove’s answer to Marcus Welby. Say hello for me.”
“I certainly will. Can I call you later for more details?”
“I’ll be here all day.”
I hung up and let out a loud yelp of joy.
But that euphoria lasted only a few minutes, replaced by a wave of sadness.
It was twenty years ago that I made my first, and only transatlantic crossing on the fabled Queen Elizabeth Two—QE2—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 twenty-eighth of that year and reveled in the ship’s majesty, and the pampering we received from its large international staff. It was the most pleasurable five days of my life. But it involved far more than the wonderful, seemingly unlimited gourmet food, tea dances at four each afternoon, movies and lively shows and the pool and spa, the dance classes and endless Champagne parties, or being wrapped in a blanket on the top deck at eleven in the morning and served hot bouillon by a courteous young steward.
What was especially memorable was to stand on the deck in fog and heaving seas, and to sense the adventure of being where Columbus and other fearless explorers had gone before without the advantage of advanced navigation technology, or knowing there was a port just a few days away.
My recollection of that trip was as clear as though I’d taken it yesterday.
Frank and I stood on the QE2’s Helicopter Deck, its highest, 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 May we’re alive and can enjoy it together.”
I hugged him tighter. “For a conservative New Eng
lander, Frank, you do have your extravagant moments.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “But only when it concerns you.”
We kissed, and spent the next week in London extending the moment.
We never sailed across the North Atlantic again. Frank became very ill shortly after we returned home, and died later that year. Of course, I often thought about making another crossing on the QE2, especially when May twenty-eighth rolled around. But I could never bring myself to 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 to 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, Jessica. Especially good, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, Seth. It’s especially good.”
I called Matt Miller the moment I returned home. He’d been one of advertising’s top commercial directors, and I’d met him when he directed me in a twenty-second public service announcement. After a stint as president of the Association of Independent Commercial Producers, he decided to follow his natural love of books and became a literary agent, my literary agent and one of the best in the business.
“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.”
Chapter Two
“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 toge
ther.”
“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.”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 1