Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Walter.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You said shooting someone. Was Ms. Tralaine shot?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what some of the stewards say. Excuse me, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

  I was stopped twice on my way to breakfast. An elderly couple saw me going up the main staircase. “Mrs. Fletcher, we recognize you from your picture on your books. We have them all,” said the wife.

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “We read what you wrote this morning in the program,” said the husband. “My God, it’s really true. There was a rumor that something had happened to Ms. Tralaine, but now you’ve made it official. Who could have done such a thing?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “London’s Scotland Yard has been informed. They’ll fly in to investigate when we’re closer to land.”

  “Not soon enough for me,” said the wife. “Dreadful, having a dead body on board. We saved for years for this trip.”

  “Don’t let it spoil your crossing,” I said. “The captain and his crew have everything under control.”

  My second interception came just as I was about to go through the entrance to the Queens Lounge on my way to the Grill. This time, it was one of the British journalists traveling in a group from New York to England.

  “Hamish Monroe,” he said, shaking my hand. He was a young man, no more than thirty, with pink cheeks and large brown eyes. He pulled a reporter’s notebook from the inside pocket of his brown tweed jacket, held a pen in the other hand, and asked, “Would you tell me the circumstances under which you found Marla Tralaine’s body?”

  “I didn’t find her body,” I said.

  “But you indicated in the program this morning that you had.”

  “It was a bit of a misstatement,” I said. “I was with the person who discovered the body. But I personally didn’t see it until it was pointed out to me.”

  He wrote in his pad, looked up, and asked, “Who was the individual who actually first saw her body?”

  “Another passenger,” I said. “Mrs. Ward.”

  “Ward? Is she traveling with you?”

  “No.”

  I should not have given out Mary Ward’s name. Too late now.

  “What is this Mrs. Ward’s first name?” he asked.

  My stomach growled. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Monroe. I’m late for breakfast. I’m meeting people.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “For breakfast? You look like you’re leaving the restaurant.”

  “A cup of coffee then?” He asked it pleasantly; his smile was genuine.

  “Mr. Monroe,” I said, “I’d just as soon not have to deal with the press at breakfast, and I’m sure my friends feel the same way. Could we meet at another time? Just the two of us?”

  “Splendid,” he said. “Your cabin in, say, an hour?”

  “Why don’t you call me later this morning and we’ll arrange something.”

  As I entered the dining room and received my usual expansive greeting from the maitre d’, I glanced over at my table where the TV chef, Carlo Di Giovanni, sat across from television’s plant lady, Elaine Ananthous. Judging from the angry expressions on their faces, they weren’t happy to be together.

  I hesitated before approaching them, and further observed. My initial instinct was obviously correct. Ananthous started to cry as Di Giovanni leaned across the table and spoke in a loud, angry voice. Maybe I’d better get there, I thought, to act as mediator.

  As I approached, Di Giovanni stopped speaking and sat back in his chair, his face an angry mask. Elaine dabbed at her eyes with her napkin and turned away from me.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerily, hoping to inject some pleasantness into the atmosphere. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No,” Di Giovanni mumbled.

  “Good. I hate to eat alone.” I slipped into the chair Jacques pulled out for me. He hovered there. “I’m hungry this morning,” I told him. “We have wonderful blueberry pancakes back in Maine, and I find myself yearning for them this morning. Would the chef make me a stack of blueberry pancakes?”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “And two strips of bacon, well done. Orange juice and coffee.”

  We sat in silence until I said, “I have the feeling you two have had a professional spat. Care to tell me about it?”

  Di Giovanni responded by standing, throwing his napkin on the table, and saying, “This woman is impossible. I will eat elsewhere.”

  We watched him leave, his steps heavy and deliberate. I turned to Elaine. “You’ve been crying,” I said. “Is there something I can do?”

  “I hate that man,” she said in her birdlike, singsong voice, running her fingers through her thinning hair.

  “He is a little volatile,” I said, adding a laugh to soften things. “But he seems nice enough.”

  She leaned closer to me. “Do you know what he’s been trying to do to me at the network?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  “No.”

  “He’s been trying for months to get my show canceled.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he has an Italian friend who’s a florist. He wants management to get rid of me and give the show to his friend.”

  “Sometimes there’s a misunderstanding about those things. Are you sure he’s personally trying to have you taken off the air?”

  “Yes, I am. He’s a vile, evil, wicked man. He told me just before you arrived that he’s meeting about it with Mr. Teller this afternoon.”

  I didn’t know what my reaction should be, so I said, “I’ve watched you on television, Elaine. I love your show. You certainly know a great deal about plants and flowers.”

  “Of course I do. I’ve been studying horticulture for years. My ratings are good, and the show gets lots of mail. Mr. Teller wouldn’t take me off the air with good ratings and with all that mail, would he?”

  “I don’t know Sam Teller, Elaine, except from what I’ve read in the newspapers.”

  “I tried to call him in his cabin this morning. He’s not taking any calls. At least he’s not taking my calls.”

  “He must be a very busy man.”

  “Do you think he would listen to you, Jessica?”

  “I can’t imagine why he would.”

  She became animated. “Would you talk to Sam Teller about this situation? Put in a good word for me?”

  “If I have the opportunity.”

  She appeared to be somewhat relieved. “I just know he’d listen to someone of your stature,” she said. “He’d have to. He’d probably like to make movies of your books for the network. Yes, I’ve heard that he was thinking of doing that. Oh, please, Jessica, show him how wrong it would be to take me off the air.” She grasped my forearm and squeezed.

  Jacques arrived with my breakfast, and not too soon. I was becoming uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “Still planning to speak on the use of poisonous plants in murder mysteries?” I asked between bites.

  “I suppose so. That’s what I came prepared to do. I might as well go through with it, although I don’t know how I possibly can, considering everything that’s happened to me, Marla Tralaine’s murder, and that disgusting chef threatening me.”

  I was tempted to ask how Marla Tralaine’s murder impacted negatively upon her, but didn’t. She was obviously distraught. Better to let her vent, and stay out of the way.

  I promised her I’d show up to hear her lecture, which seemed to please her. She left the table to get ready, and I lingered over a second cup of coffee. The dining room had begun to fill up; other passengers approached the table to ask me about Marla Tralaine’s murder. I tried to be as gracious as possible, although I found myself becoming annoyed at yet another intrusion into my quiet time. I left the dining room as soon as it was convenient and headed for the Boat Deck where, weather permitting, I’d take a brisk walk to counter my heavy breakfast.

  I stopped in the Quee
ns Lounge to peer out the window. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sun was shining, a welcome sight.

  As I stood on the Boat Deck and took deep breaths of the refreshing ocean air, Sandy, the young man who’d led me to my cabin when I boarded in New York, came up to me. “I just want you to know, Mrs. Fletcher, how much we appreciate you writing that insert for the program. I think it has put many passengers’ minds to rest.”

  “That was the intention,” I replied, “although I’m not sure it will accomplish anything.”

  “I think it will. There was a growing restlessness. Perhaps this will calm things down.”

  “What I’m delighted about is this change in weather,” I said. “How lovely to see the sun again.”

  “I hate to be a wet blanket, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s only a brief respite from the foul weather we’ve been having. The bridge has been tracking a North Atlantic storm since leaving New York. Forecast was that it would veer away. But it’s taken a sudden turn and is bearing down directly on us.”

  “Can’t we change course?” I asked.

  “From what I hear, there isn’t time for that,” he said. “But not to worry. This grand old lady of the sea can ride through any storm. I was aboard last year when that monster wave hit us.”

  “I vaguely remember reading something about that.”

  “Oh, yes. Almost a hundred feet high. Came right up to the bridge.”

  “Must have been frightening for passengers,” I said, mentally placing myself into the situation.

  “Most didn’t even know about it. It hit us at two in the morning. The passengers slept right through it. Only minor damage.”

  “Well,” I said, “that certainly confirms what you’ve said about the seaworthiness of this ship. Glad to hear it.”

  “About to take a walk?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’d better take advantage of this ‘brief respite,’ as you put it.”

  As I walked, I realized this was only the second full day on the QE2. It would all be over so fast, this marvelous five days at sea. I’d heard that Cunard intended to extend future QE2 Atlantic crossings to six days in order to provide an extra day for passengers, as well as to give the captain more time to make course corrections in the event of inclement weather. Whatever the reason, I was all for a longer journey.

  When I approached the lifeboat where we’d discovered Marla Tralaine’s body, I looked away and picked up the pace.

  I’d just completed one full turn about the deck when Priscilla Warren, my assigned guide for the crossing, stepped onto the deck from an inside hallway and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Well, you found me, Priscilla. What can I do for you?”

  “You’ve been getting a series of calls. Here.”

  She handed me a dozen message slips. George Sutherland had called from London. My Cabot Cove friends, Seth Hazlitt and Mort Metzger, had left messages asking me to return their calls. And there were nine messages from passengers, including the British journalist I’d briefly chatted with that morning, Hamish Monroe.

  “Do I have to return all these passenger calls?” I asked.

  “Up to you, Mrs. Fletcher. The cruise director simply felt we ought to get these to you straightaway in the event some of them were important”

  “I appreciate that. I think what I’ll do is take a couple more turns around the deck before going back to my cabin.”

  I did two more laps, message slips in hand, before returning inside. I was on the Midships Staircase when Security Chief Prall came bounding up from below. “Mrs. Fletcher, glad to have caught up with you. A word?”

  I sighed. My intention to cross the North Atlantic curled up with a good book was obviously wishful thinking.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, gravity in his voice, “two of our passengers are spreading the story that Scotland Yard is going to be flying a helicopter in here to investigate the murder of Ms. Tralaine.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes. They said you were the one who informed them of it.”

  “I did?”

  “My question is, how did you find out?”

  “I—”

  “Our communication with Scotland Yard in London was on a secured line.”

  “Was it?”

  I’d made my indiscreet comment about Scotland Yard to two passengers earlier that morning, and was wrong in having done it. I’d heard it directly from the proverbial horse’s mouth, George Sutherland, who was to be in charge of the investigation, and I had no right telling anyone else. I thought back to a line from a blues song written by a pianist and singer I enjoy, Mose Allison: “Your mind is on vacation, your mouth is working overtime.” Better keep your mind and mouth on vacation from now on, I silently admonished myself.

  “If I did say something like that, Mr. Prall, all I can say is I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  He shook his head and pursed his lips before saying, “Mrs. Fletcher, that’s not the point. How did you know Scotland Yard would be sending a helicopter here once we’re within flying range of Southampton?”

  “I suppose it just makes sense to me for that to happen,” I said, getting deeper into my lie. I’ve always avoided lying because liars have such trouble remembering what lies they’ve told. By the same token, I didn’t want to reveal my relationship with George Sutherland. So I said, “Obviously, as good as security is on this ship, you don’t have the forensic personnel to properly investigate a murder. But someone is going to have to do it, some official law enforcement body. And since we’re sailing to England, it just makes sense that it would be Scotland Yard fulfilling that responsibility.”

  He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to accept my explanation. But then he said, “I don’t read a lot of murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher, so I’m not familiar with the way a mystery writer’s mind works. I suppose if you were writing a book about this, you’d have Scotland Yard fly to the ship and take over the investigation.”

  “Yes,” I said brightly, “that’s exactly right. If I were writing a book about this, that is precisely what I would write.”

  “All I can ask is that you not repeat this fictional scenario to anyone else. It’s misleading, if you know what I mean.”

  “I certainly do, Mr. Prall. Sorry to have caused you any problem.”

  I went to my cabin and returned George Sutherland’s call. He was out of the office and wouldn’t be back for hours.

  I checked my watch and saw that there was only a half hour until Elaine Ananthous’s lecture in the Grand Lounge. I decided to put off returning the other calls until later. But as I was about to leave, the phone rang.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes.”

  “James Brady.”

  “Yes, Jim. How are you?”

  “Great. What’s this about Scotland Yard flying to the ship to investigate Tralaine’s murder?”

  “Sounds like the overly active imagination of a mystery writer.”

  “Any mystery writer I’d know?”

  “Can I talk to you later, Jim? I have to return some calls, and I’m due at a lecture.”

  “Sure. Want to be a guest on my satellite feed at noon?”

  “Goodness, no. But if I get a chance, I’ll pop up and watch. Where are you broadcasting from?”

  “The Helicopter Deck. Nice break in the weather.”

  “Lovely day, although they say it might change. Noon on the Helicopter Deck, you say? I’ll be there.”

  The crowd for Elaine Ananthous’s lecture was sparse. I spotted Mary Ward sitting alone at a table and joined her. “Breakfast in your room this morning?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s such an indulgence.”

  I laughed and said, “There’s an old saying, Mary. ‘Living well is the best revenge.’ ”

  She looked at me with wide eyes. “But I don’t have anyone I seek revenge against.”

  “Just a saying, that’s all,” I said as Priscilla Warren came to the microphone to introdu
ce Elaine. Before she did, she said, “As you know if you’ve read your program this morning, the famed television chef Carlo Di Giovanni will be giving a cooking demonstration right here this afternoon following Act Two of the murder mystery play. He’s been gracious enough to offer to cook a gourmet meal for one special passenger. We’ve pulled a cabin number from the hat, so to speak, to come up with the winner. And she is—Mrs. Mary Alice Ward.” There was a smattering of applause.

  “Mary, that’s wonderful,” I said.

  “This must be my lucky year,” she said. “Winning this crossing, and now a gourmet meal by a famous chef.”

  “Just as long as you like garlic.”

  “I think I can get used to it.”

  A table set up next to the microphone contained a variety of plants. Elaine tentatively approached the mike, eyes darting left and right, her facial tic visible even from where we sat.

  Her lecture was, to be kind, painful. She spoke so softly she could barely be heard. Worse, she seemed perpetually confused. The small audience soon became smaller as people wandered away. By the time she was finished and asked if anyone had questions, no more than two dozen people remained, including me and Mary Ward.

  She came to our table and sat heavily for such a small woman. “I just knew it was going to be awful,” she said, wringing her hands. “My God, it was excruciating being up there.” She sat up straighter and took in the large lounge. “Look. Everyone left. They hated it. It’s bound to get back to Sam Teller. He’ll use it as an excuse to fire me.”

  “I thought it was very interesting,” Mary Ward said. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  I said, “Elaine, stop worrying so much about Sam Teller. I’m sure he won’t have any idea that the audience was not as big as you would have liked it to be. And Mary is right. It was interesting.”

  “But I was so nervous. I’m supposed to be a television star. Did I look like a television star up there?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  But she wouldn’t be dissuaded from her grim post-mortem of her performance. “It’s all because of that rotten man, Di Giovanni. He deliberately upset me this morning because he wanted me to fall on my face. I hate him. I really and truly hate him.”

  She took in the lounge again. “Wasn’t Troy here?”