“You can just deliver this disk when you’re through to Rose Jenkins,” he told me. “She’ll print right from it.”
I sat down at the marvelous little machine the moment he was gone. I’d made a few notes of my conversation with Rose Jenkins and quickly perused them. The announcement of Marla Tralaine’s death was to be short and to the point. It had been decided during the meeting with Security Chief Prall that rather than meddle with the program’s basic format, what I wrote would be included as an insert, no more than five hundred words.
Up until that moment, I had the announcement already written in my mind. It would be a straightforward, classic journalistic approach. Simply tell the reader the who, what, why, where, and when of the incident. I hadn’t written anything journalistic for years, but I did remember from my undergraduate days how to construct a story’s lead, using what’s called the “inverted pyramid.”
But the moment I was alone with my thoughts, and the glare of the blank screen, I, too, went blank. It wasn’t writer’s block as I sometimes experienced when writing my novels. I was unable to focus in this instance because I couldn’t shake the face of the gentleman host who’d danced with Mary Ward, then with me.
I got up from my chair, looked through the sealed porthole to the sea, then closed my eyes. When I opened them, the porthole had become, for a fleeting instant, a television screen.
And there he was.
I sat on the bed, went through the shipboard phone directory, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for the library and bookstore. “This is Jessica Fletcher in Cabin ten thirty-seven.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Since the actress Marla Tralaine is aboard as a lecturer , I was wondering whether you’d brought along videos of some of her movies for this crossing.”
“As a matter of fact, we have. Three of them, I think.”
“There was a film she did that took place in London, if memory serves me.”
“Hold on.”
She came back on and said, “I’m reading the backs of the boxes the videos come in. Here it is. It’s called Dangerous Woman. Her picture is on the box. Very sensuous.”
“Yes, that’s the one I was thinking of. Dangerous Woman. I need to... I’d like to see it on my VCR.”
“I’ll have it sent right up, Mrs. Fletcher. And welcome aboard. We have all your books here. The cruise director said you’d be willing to hold an autographing session some afternoon.”
“Of course. I’ll get the video back to you right away.”
I again tried to start the story of Marla Tralaine’s murder, but had only written the first sentence—four times—when Walter, my steward, arrived with the video. He handed it to me, turned to leave, then said, “The captain says it will be getting rougher, Mrs. Fletcher. Sudden storm bearing down on us.”
“That isn’t good news,” I said.
“But not to worry,” he said. “This is a fine ship. The best. Built for rough weather.”
I nodded. I knew that not only were we on a crossing, not a cruise, despite that there was a cruise director aboard, but also we were on an ocean liner, not a cruise ship, built to much more stringent and demanding standards.
“Thanks for the video, Walter.”
“Yes, ma’am. Careful in the shower. Hold on tight.”
“I certainly will.”
I’d been so engrossed in other things that I’d ignored my mild nausea of a few hours ago and the ship’s increased movement. But now that Walter had reminded me, I became well aware of it.
I took the videotape from its box, slid it into the VCR attached to the TV, pushed the right buttons, and began watching Dangerous Woman. I’d seen it before, of course, on cable television prior to leaving Cabot Cove. I tried to run the film at fast-forward, but hit the REWIND button instead. Eventually, I figured out which button did what, and ran the film to where the reason for my wanting to watch it appeared. I leaned closer to the TV screen and narrowed my eyes.
The character played by Marla Tralaine had just entered her lavish London flat. It was raining hard; she was soaked as she stepped inside. The lighting was typical of British filmmakers, low-key and atmospheric, lightning punctuating the eerie interior of the house.
Ms. Tralaine, playing the role of the film’s title, discarded her wet outer garments and went to a library where a fire blazed in an oversized fireplace, coats-of-arms and huge oil portraits above it.
A door at the other end of the room opened and a man dressed as a servant entered.
Tralaine snapped at him: “Bring me a brandy, for God’s sake! And hurry up.”
The camera zoomed in tight on his face. It was twisted as he fought to control hatred of his mistress.
I sat back and conjured up the image of the gentleman host who’d danced with Mary Ward, then with me.
He and the actor in the movie were one and the same.
I played the scene over three more times before rewinding the tape and slipping it back in the box.
What did it mean?
This particular gentleman host, as he’s called, mentioned during our dance that he’d recently signed on the QE2. Had he done it because he knew Marla Tralaine would be on this specific crossing? If so, what was his motive for doing so?
To rekindle an old flame?
Or to avenge an old hurt?
The phone rang. It was Rose Jenkins, asking how the insert was going.
“Just fine,” I lied. “Almost done.”
“Just call me when it’s finished,” she said. “I’ll come by your cabin and pick up the disk.”
“Give me another hour,” I said, “to polish it.”
Having resolved my nagging feeling that I knew the gentleman host, my mind was free to get to serious work on the announcement of Marla Tralaine’s death. Once I started, my fingers flew over the laptop’s keys. I used the built-in spell-checking software, made a few word changes of my own, then called Ms. Jenkins. She was at the cabin in minutes.
“Great,” she said after reading on the screen what I’d written.
“I think it accomplishes what the ship’s staff wants to accomplish, without unduly scaring anyone.”
“I’ll get this printed right away,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”
“No.” I checked my watch. “I still have time to get to the Queens Grill. Or there’s always a hot dog down by the pool.”
“Well, thanks so much for doing this,” she said. “I think it will go a long way to keeping everyone calm. The word is really getting around now. Other passengers are asking questions.”
“Inevitable.”
I retouched my makeup, left the cabin, and headed for the Queens Grill. The weather hadn’t seemed to dampen anyone’s spirits, judging from the laughter as people navigated the stairs, leaning left and right against the ship’s movements, or pausing to allow it to rise out of a trough. I remembered from my previous crossing with Frank that those prone to seasickness often ended up in the ship’s infirmary, receiving a shot to help them get through the rest of the trip. But these passengers I saw evidently had sound sea legs. Mine were supporting me pretty nicely, too. My minor bout of nausea had passed without the use of wristbands or patches. Despite Walter’s warning that a serious storm was bearing down on us, I really didn’t anticipate the crossing becoming any rougher.
As I entered the restaurant and was greeted by the handsome, suave maitre d’, I wondered whether I’d be dining alone, considering the late hour. I was mistaken. Troy Radcliff, Carlo Di Giovanni, and Mary Ward had just been served their entrees.
“Glad to see you,” Radcliff said as Jacques held out my chair. “We were worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I had something to do.”
“Concerning Ms. Tralaine’s murder?” Di Giovanni asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What kind of cruise is this?” he said with a flourish.
“It’s a crossing,” I said.
“Crossing, c
ruise, whatever. The ship bounces us around like a cork in the water, and somebody goes around killing people.” He let out a string of words in Italian, unflattering ones I was sure.
“They say it was you who discovered the body,” said Radcliff.
“No,” I said. “Mrs. Ward saw it first. But we were together, taking a walk on the Boat Deck.”
“What were you doing just now that involves her murder?” Radcliff asked.
“Writing an announcement about her death. It will be in tomorrow’s program as an insert.”
“You write about it?” Di Giovanni said loudly. More Italian came from him.
“It’s better to have all the passengers learn about it from one source,” I said, giving out the official party line. “It heads off unsettling speculation.”
I sensed others in the dining room looking in our direction. I smiled at a few of them, then redirected my attention to my tablemates. “I’d better order,” I said.
“How was she killed?” Radcliff asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Poison,” Di Giovanni muttered.
We all looked at him.
“Poisoned?” Mary Ward said, eyes wide.
“That’s what I hear,” the TV chef replied.
“Where did you hear it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The judge.”
“Judge Solon?”
“Right.” He started to eat his entree, a veal dish he’d specially ordered at lunch.
The ship made a sudden, energetic motion that caused us to lean to the side and grab hold of the arms on our chairs.
Once we were righted again, I took a fast look at the menu and ordered a filet mignon with black pepper and raisin sauce.
Radcliff and Di Giovanni excused themselves once they’d finished their meals, leaving Mary Ward and me at the table.
“Do you think it really was poison that killed Ms. Tralaine?” she asked as Jacques delivered my steak. I don’t eat a lot of red meat. But when I do, I like a quality steak. This one certainly was, as good as I’ve ever tasted in my favorite steakhouse restaurants.
“Sounds like idle speculation to me,” I said.
“The sort of speculation you hope to avoid with what you’ve written about it.”
“That’s right.”
Recognizing the actor from Dangerous Woman, now one of eight gentleman hosts on the QE2, posed a dilemma for me.
On the one hand, I felt an obligation to share that knowledge with the ship’s security staff. On the other hand, his having been in a film with the actress many years ago did not, in itself, indicate he was guilty of any wrongdoing.
There was also the internal debate over whether to tell Mary Ward of my discovery. Because we’d been together when Marla Tralaine’s body was found, I considered her a partner of sorts. Besides, she was obviously someone with a keen interest in such things, who’d want to be kept abreast of developments.
I decided to put that decision on hold for a while. There was simply too much happening, at too rapid a pace, to add it to the mix.
“Jessica,” Mary Ward said as Jacques cleared my plate and took my order for coffee.
“Yes?”
“If it was poison that killed Ms. Tralaine, why would she have been taken to the lifeboat without any clothes on?”
“A good question,” I said.
“Unless she was naked when she ingested the poison.”
“That’s a possibility, too, Mary.”
“Ms. Ananthous is going to lecture tomorrow on poisonous plants and their use in murder mysteries.”
“That’s right,” I said. I looked at her. “You aren’t suggesting that—?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. It just crossed my mind, that’s all.”
We left the Queens Grill together, and paused in the lounge to observe the dark sea through the large windows. Although we couldn’t observe much, it was obvious this was not a night to venture out onto any deck.
“Jessica!”
James Brady, my journalist friend, entered the lounge. “Buy you a drink?” he asked.
“Thanks, no. This is Mary Ward.”
“A pleasure,” Brady said. “Jess, can I comer you alone for a few minutes?”
I looked to Mary, who said, “You go right ahead. I read your column in Parade every Sunday, Mr. Brady. I like it very much.”
“Thank you, Ms. Ward.”
“I’m going to the casino,” she announced.
“You gamble?” I asked.
“Oh, a little. Some of my friends back in Lumberton gave me money—just small amounts—to gamble for them whenever I’m going to a place that has a casino. A few quarters for the slot machines, that sort of thing. If I win with their money, we share it.”
“What a nice idea,” I said. “Maybe I’ll join you there later.”
“Is she a mystery writer, too?” Brady asked as Mary walked away.
“No,” I said. “But she could be. Now, you said you wanted to talk with me. About Marla Tralaine, I assume.”
“Good assumption. You’ve known about it from the beginning.”
“Yes.”
“This morning, when I asked if you’d seen her.”
“Again, yes. I didn’t feel it was my place to tell anyone about it, especially a member of the press.”
“I understand. What do you know?”
“Very little.”
“I hear you’re writing something for the daily program about it.”
I forced a laugh. “It isn’t as though I’m doing an article, Jim. The Cunard people felt it would be good if all the passengers learned about the tragedy at once, from a single source.”
“And you’re that source.”
“Yes.”
“I heard she was stabbed.”
“Stabbed? With a knife?”
“No. With some sort of ice pick, like the ones used by mountain climbers.”
“Oh?”
“Is that what you’ve heard?”
“Not exactly.”
“Have you been in touch with Sam Teller?”
“The cable TV Sam Teller? No. He and his wife are in seclusion, I’m told.”
“Bad blood, Jessica, between Sam Teller and Marla Tralaine.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Brady, as handsome an Irishman as I’ve ever known and with a charm to match, said, “My TV producer back in New York asked me before I left to file reports from the ship. I told him I didn’t want to, unless there was some breaking news. Well, this qualifies.”
“I would say so.”
“Since you seem to be in the thick of things, Jess, I’d appreciate being kept in the loop.”
“For you, James Brady? Of course. Quid pro quo.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Then you keep me in your loop, which is always considerable. Deal?”
“Deal. Where are you headed?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought. Maybe I’ll join Mrs. Ward in the casino.”
He reached in his pocket, pulled out two quarters, and handed them to me. “For a slot machine. We’ll split the winnings.”
Chapter Thirteen
I intended to go straightaway to the casino to meet up with Mary Ward, but on my way there, I took a detour and stopped in at the office of the QE2’s director of security, Wallace Prall. I caught him as he was leaving.
“I finished writing the insert and gave it to Ms. Jenkins,” I said.
“Good. That’s great, Mrs. Fletcher. Very much appreciate it.”
“But there’s something I think we should talk about.”
He looked as though he were in a hurry, so I quickly said, “Theories seem to be running rampant about how Ms. Tralaine was killed.”
His face reflected surprise.
I continued, “Some people are saying she was poisoned. And I just heard from someone else that she was stabbed to death with some sort of ice pick.”
“That’s bound to happen in
such a situation,” he said.
“I can understand that, Mr. Prall, but don’t you think we should include something in the program about how she died? To head off these rumors?”
“You already said you’ve written the announcement. Too late to change it, isn’t it?”
“Probably. But I was thinking more in terms of announcing it in some other way. You suggested I hold a briefing each day on the situation. If I knew how she died, I could mention it tomorrow morning.”
“That’s good of you to suggest, Mrs. Fletcher, but I think I was premature in suggesting daily briefings. We won’t need anything further from you. The insert you’ve written more than suffices.”
His attitude bothered me. I asked directly, “How was Ms. Tralaine murdered?”
“I really have to run,” he said.
I repeated my question, with more emphasis this time.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”
“Has cause of death been determined?” I asked.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I do have to run. I’m late for a meeting. Her death has us all hopping.”
As I watched him walk away, I tried to understand his point of view. Obviously, he had a serious and difficult job to do. Having me—who after all was only a mystery writer and passenger—probing into his area of expertise was undoubtedly annoying.
But they’d reached out to me, and I’d responded. Surely, they owed me at least the courtesy of basic information.
The casino was a beehive of activity when I entered the QE2’s large space devoted to gambling. The air was filled with a discordant symphony of bells and whistles from the dozens of slot machines. The roulette tables were three deep, and the two craps tables were doing a land-office business.
I looked for Mary Ward among the slot machine players, but didn’t see her, so I wandered over to one of the craps tables where Judge Dan Solon yelled words of encouragement to other players in his deep, gruff voice.
I’m not a gambler, but a friend once took me to a London casino and gave me a primer on shooting craps, saying he enjoyed that game the most because it involved participation with others. Everyone at the table was playing against the house, he explained, with the exception of the occasional person betting the wrong way, placing bets along with the casino, and hoping the other players at the table would lose. These are not especially popular players, according to my friend.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 8