Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Just on special occasions,” she said.

  “I’m anxious for your reaction to my play.”

  “I’m sure it will be just wonderful,” she said, “considering all the experience you have writing mysteries.”

  “But not plays,” I said. “I’m meeting with the director and cast after dinner for a run-through. Would you like to join me?”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she said.

  “It wouldn’t be an intrusion,” I said. “I’m hoping all the lecturers will join me, too. I’ve written them into the play.”

  “What fun,” she said.

  “All except—” I nodded in the direction of Marla Tralaine’s table.

  “She’s still beautiful,” was Mary Ward’s kind reply.

  During dinner—which was wonderful, we were told we could order all the caviar and smoked salmon we wanted, which we took advantage of—I announced that I’d included them in the play as minor characters. I wasn’t sure how they’d respond, and was pleasantly surprised that they all enthusiastically agreed.

  “Do any of us get killed?” Carlo Di Giovanni asked with a hearty laugh.

  No one else laughed. They all looked at me with serious expressions.

  “No,” I said. “None of you gets killed.”

  Chapter Six

  When we arrived at the stage of the Grand Lounge, Rip Nestor and his cast had already assembled, and were in the midst of a read-through of my script. Nestor called a halt and introduced me to the young actors and actresses. I, in turn, introduced them to Priscilla Warren and Mary Ward.

  We stood on the stage and looked out over the vast array of chairs and tables. A few were occupied with curious passengers, but most were empty. Priscilla explained that this was the only night the lounge wouldn’t be active. Nightly shows featuring musical entertainment would take the stage from now on. My play would be performed each afternoon from two until three.

  Ringing the Grand Lounge, one flight above, was the Grand Promenade, off which the ship’s many fancy shops were located. Strollers up there could lean on the railing and look down upon the stage.

  Eventually, the other lecturers arrived—including, to my surprise, Marla Tralaine, who appeared at the rear of the vast room, accompanied by her three-person team of followers.

  “Ms. Tralaine,” I said, going to her and extending my hand. “I’m so pleased you’re here.”

  “I found your idea intriguing,” she said. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t do such a thing. But because it’s on this lovely ship—and because my manager thinks I would enjoy it—and because it’s you, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve decided to take part. May I see my script?”

  “Of course.” As I went to where a pile of scripts lay on a stool, I couldn’t help but smile. I was pleased that Marla Tralaine, as pretentious as she was, had decided to cooperate, no matter what her reasons.

  I handed her a script, saying, “It’s only a few lines, Ms. Tralaine. Just a walk-on.”

  Her raised eyebrows said she didn’t like being relegated to such a minor role.

  I added, “But there’s plenty of room for improvisation.”

  I left her and went to where the other lecturers talked with Rip Nestor. Each held a script and seemed to enjoy what they read, judging from the laughter and banter among them. That made me feel good.

  In writing the script, I’d created a play within a play, so to speak. The setting was a television studio from which Judge Dan Solon conducted his talk show. His guests on this particular day were the other lecturers. This created the rationale for them to be together. The rest of the cast, the professional actors and actresses hired by Rip Nestor, played the parts of characters working at the studio, or on Judge Solon’s staff. Unsure of whether Marla Tralaine would cooperate, I wrote her in as a special guest, making it easy to delete her appearance if necessary. But judging from her having shown up this evening, it looked as though I wouldn’t have to do that.

  “Shall we run through this?” Nestor asked.

  Everyone agreed.

  “Places,” he said.

  The cast disappeared behind curtains shielding them from onlookers in the audience. Mary Ward, Priscilla Warren, and I took seats at a front table and waited for the first act to begin.

  The play would open with Rip Nestor addressing the audience, welcoming them, and creating a sense of the fun that was to come. He would explain that the audience viewing the play was also the audience for the taping of Solon’s talk show—an audience within an audience.

  The set, consisting only of a desk and a few chairs, was supposed to be the cable TV studio where Solon’s talk show was taped. The judge sat behind the desk. Seated to his right were Troy Radcliff, Carlo Di Giovanni, and Elaine Ananthous. The professional actors and actresses took their positions as cameraman, floor director, the show’s director, its producer, and other studio staff.

  Solon read from the script on the desk. “Good evening, and welcome to the Dan Solon Show.”

  “Cut!” the director said, as written in my script. “I don’t like the camera angle. Change it!”

  During the dialogue between the actors and actresses, the director, Millard Wainscott, played by a swarthy, leering young man with a lip that curled on demand, established himself as someone intensely disliked by the others.

  Solon introduced his guests for the show—Radcliff, Di Giovanni, and Ananthous, followed by, “We have a special guest this evening. Marla Tralaine, the famed movie actress will be joining us later. She’ll be starring in a movie to be produced next month for this cable network.”

  I’d deliberately limited the lecturers’ appearance to the first few minutes of the show, using them to set the scene. Once that was accomplished, they wouldn’t appear again until the end of the play, when the murder within it was solved. That’s when Marla Tralaine would make her entrance.

  After a few lines between Solon and his famous guests, the lights dimmed on cue. When they came up again, the taping of the TV show was over, and the lecturers left the stage. This is when the “real” play began.

  The story I’d conceived was straightforward. Conflicts between the actors and actresses began to develop as the first act unfolded. There was jealousy between certain cast members, professional and personal. One thing was dear to the audience as the opening act neared its conclusion. The director, Millard Wainscott, was not popular with his colleagues.

  A young actress played his estranged girlfriend, Sheila, who was the script girl for the television production.

  There was an older character—I hadn’t envisioned him as being that old when I wrote him into the script—played by an aging actor who, according to Rip Nestor, had literally pleaded for the job. His role was that of Morris McClusky, Judge Solon’s producer. Wainscott treated him with scorn and disdain during Act One, and the older man’s anger bubbled to the surface each time he spoke.

  And then there was the TV show’s floor director, whom I named John Craig. He was played by a handsome young black actor, introduced to me as John Johnson. He, too—the character, that is—harbored an intense dislike for the TV show director, Wainscott, because, it developed as the act progressed, Wainscott had stolen Craig’s fiancée from him less than a year ago.

  Because I knew how Act One was to end, I leaned forward to see the first of four murders played out by those on stage. The script called for Wainscott to be shot to death just as the scene ended. He was to stand alone on the dark stage, illuminated by a single spotlight, and give what amounted to a soliloquy about his ruthless plans to take over the Dan Solon show and Teller Broadcasting, no matter how many bodies he had to walk over.

  “Here it comes,” I said to Mary Ward and Priscilla Warren. “Murder number one.”

  The sound of the gunshot was loud, causing the few people in the audience to gasp. Wainscott, the character played by the handsome, brooding actor, let out a moan; his hands clutched at his chest. He squeezed open theatrical blood contained in a capsule beneath his w
hite shirt, staining the shirt a vivid crimson. He fell to his knees, let out an even louder protest against pain and imminent death, then pitched forward.

  Someone up on the shopping promenade applauded.

  The lone spotlight dimmed to blackness.

  The first act was over.

  Lights on the stage came up again. The actor playing Wainscott got to his feet and wiped himself off. Rip Nestor appeared from backstage and asked everyone to gather around him for comments and suggestions. I stepped up onto the stage and said, “That was great. I loved it.”

  I looked back to where Priscilla and Mrs. Ward sat, then to where Marla Tralaine and her entourage had taken a table in a darkened corner. They were gone. I wasn’t surprised. The script didn’t call for her to make an appearance until the final act.

  The other lecturers had stayed around, offering their positive comments to the cast.

  “Okay,” Rip Nestor said, “let’s run through Act Two.”

  It was after eleven when the entire play had been rehearsed. I’d hoped Ms. Tralaine would reappear to say her few lines, but she didn’t. No matter. Even if she never showed for the actual performance, it wouldn’t hurt things. In a way, I almost hoped she wouldn’t take part. Her mere presence was disconcerting.

  “A word with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  The question was asked by an actor who did not appear in the first act. In essence, he would become the star of the play because he played Billy Bravo, the detective called to the TV studio to investigate Wainscott’s murder. From Act Two until the end, he took center stage, interrogating the suspects, as well as interacting with the audience.

  “Of course.”

  I’d rejoined Mary Ward and Priscilla Warren at the table. “Please, sit down,” I said.

  “You were wonderful,” Priscilla said to the actor, whose name was Jerry Lackman. “How do you remember all those lines?”

  “Mostly improvised,” he replied. “Once there’s a real audience tomorrow afternoon, most of my work will be to draw them into the play and show them a good time. Your script is great, Mrs. Fletcher. Hope you don’t mind how much I deviate from it.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said. “I watched videos of other mystery plays directed by Mr. Nestor. It was obvious that the key was to make it easy for you to improvise.”

  “You’ve obviously played many detective roles before,” said Mary Ward, who was dressed in a simple, pretty blue dress with pale yellow flowers on it. Her hair was brown, with just a touch of gray. “You certainly are believable.”

  “Thanks,” Lackman said. “I have a lot of cop friends back in New York. I learn from them.”

  “Are you from New York?” Mary asked.

  “Yeah. Born and bred. Sounds like you’re from the South.”

  Mary laughed softly. “Ah certainly am. Brought up on a farm in Burgaw, North Carolina. It means mud-hole’ in Indian.”

  We joined her laughter.

  “Doesn’t sound too appealing,” Lackman said.

  “A beautiful place,” Mary said wistfully.

  “So, Mrs. Fletcher, I see you’ve become friendly with Marla Tralaine,” Lackman said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “I just met her.”

  “I saw you talking with her,” he said. “I figured you might be close.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, ‘cause you’re both big names. You know, famous.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Lackman, but our fame is quite different.”

  “For which you should be very grateful,” Mary Ward said, her voice indicating she wasn’t sure whether she was out of place making the comment.

  She wasn’t. I’d meant it exactly the way she’d interpreted it.

  “I’d like to get to know her,” Lackman said.

  “Then I suggest you approach her,” I said. “You’re both actors. I’m sure she’d be delighted to spend time with you.” I knew that was unlikely, but didn’t know what else to offer.

  “Will you introduce us?” Lackman asked.

  “Yes, if the opportunity presents itself. I’d be happy to.”

  “Nice meeting everyone,” he said, standing. “Mud-hole, huh? Funny.”

  When he was gone, Mary Ward said, “It’s far beyond my bedtime, I’m afraid. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’ll catch up tomorrow. What’s your cabin number?”

  She checked her key. “One-oh-three-nine.”

  “Next to me,” I said. “Sleep tight, Mrs. Ward.”

  “I will, if you call me Mary.”

  “Of course. And I’m Jessica or Jess.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” she said once she’d stood and straightened her dress.

  “What’s funny?” Priscilla asked.

  “That he said he’s from New York. Sounds to me like a California accent.”

  “I ... hadn’t noticed,” I said.

  “I might be wrong,” she said. “Good night.”

  Chapter Seven

  I slept soundly, the huge ocean liner’s gentle motion plowing the waters of the Atlantic providing a slow, pleasant rocking sensation in which to wrap myself. Of course, the seas at that stage of the trip were relatively calm. Walter, my steward, had told me the captain expected a smooth crossing. But there are never any weather guarantees on the North Atlantic.

  I awoke refreshed and ready for my first full day at sea. My initial lecture was scheduled for that afternoon, immediately following the performance of Act One of my play. I’d prepared notes to help me with my speech before leaving Cabot Cove, and had gone over them many times. I was confident it would go well. I don’t believe in writing out a speech, and then reading it, or trying to commit it to memory. I prefer—and most professional speakers agree—to use my notes only as memory joggers. If you know what it is you’re speaking about, that’s generally all that’s necessary.

  I considered going to the Queens Grill for breakfast, but decided I was more in the mood for room service. After calling to order a continental breakfast, I wrapped myself in my robe and read the ship’s daily schedule of events that had been slipped beneath my door, a slick publication produced by the QE2’s social staff. This morning’s issue featured a photograph on the first page of our captain, Captain Sir Archibald Marwick, a handsome gentlemen with beard and mustache, right out of central casting. He would be interviewed in front of an audience in early afternoon by the ship’s social directress. There was also a mention on page one of my play.

  I turned to the second page and was faced with—me! A large photo dominated the page, along with the notice of my lecture. Other pages in the program heralded talks and demonstrations by Judge Dan Solon, chef Carlo Di Giovanni, and plant expert Elaine Ananthous.

  Remarkable, I thought, how busy one could be during the five-day crossing. There were first-run movies, dance lessons, a daily tea dance at four featuring the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra under the direction of Buddy Morrow (my kind of music), aerobics classes, computer lessons, shuffleboard, table game tournaments, classical concerts, gambling lessons in the casino, skeet shooting and a golf driving range, and dozens of other things to do. Of course, one was free to simply find a secluded corner and read a fat book on the way across the Atlantic. Aside from my official responsibilities, that was what I intended to do.

  Walter delivered my breakfast with what I would come to learn was a perpetually sunny disposition. On the tray was a note addressed to me, which I opened and read:

  Captain Marwick requests the pleasure of your presence on the bridge at eleven this morning for a personal tour.

  How wonderful, I thought. I’d heard the QE2’s bridge was a marvel of technology and navigational gadgetry.

  Energized even more by the invitation, I showered in the luxurious bathroom. It was while I was in the shower that I realized the ship’s movements had become more pronounced; I had to hold on to the handrails to keep from being pitched out of the tub.

  I left the shower and
peered through the porthole. Everything was gray, a cocoon of fog and mist. Walter’s sunny forecast was fast proving inaccurate.

  I applied my makeup and did my hair, chose a blue-and-green pleated plaid skirt, white blouse, tan cardigan sweater, and sneakers, made sure my point-and-shoot camera was loaded and in my bag, and set out for a morning walk. I remembered from having been on the QE2 twenty years ago that if you took five turns around the Boat Deck, it equaled one mile. That sounded appealing despite the weather. As I climbed the wide, center staircase, I found myself timing the ship’s up-and-down motion, allowing its upward motion to help me ascend, and pausing during the downward dips.

  I stepped through a doorway to the Boat Deck. A stiff wind caused me to squint and to raise my hand to my face. The sky was obscured by heavy fog. The wind whipped up the sea and sent salty spray into my eyes. The word “invigorating” came to mind. I debated for a moment canceling my planned walk and retreating to the warmth and dryness inside. But then I spotted Mary Ward, my eighty-year-old new friend and sailing companion.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” she. said brightly. She was dressed in a teal sweatsuit, white wind-breaker, and white high-top sneakers.

  “Good morning, Mary. I didn’t expect to see you out here in this weather.”

  “Bracing, isn’t it?” she said, moving her arms as though warming up to run in a marathon.

  “To say the least.”

  As we started walking together, I realized she was steadier on her feet than I was. I chalked it up to her being shorter, closer to the moving deck. I’ve always been good at rationalizing things like that.

  By the time we’d made one full turn of the Boat Deck, the weather had turned even more foul, the mist threatening to become rain.

  “Maybe we’d better go inside,” I suggested.

  “Oh, one more time around,” she said.

  I had to laugh as I set off with her again. As we walked, we talked a little about our individual lives. She was a widow; her deceased husband, an internist, was named Frank, as mine had been. She’d taught high school English, had four grown children, and loved reading murder mysteries and doing crossword puzzles, the harder the better. I really liked this woman. She reminded me of some of Cabot Cove’s older citizens, their ages not getting in the way of their busy lives.