“Troy Radcliff?” I said. “No, I didn’t see him.”
“He promised he’d be here. He’s such a good man, you know. He really is quite fond of my show. I know he’ll go to bat for me with Teller if he tries to get rid of me. I hope he isn’t sick. He’s getting on in years.”
“Yes, I noticed” I said. “But we should all be in such wonderful physical condition at his age.”
“I’ll go call his cabin,” she said, standing and straightening her shapeless gray dress.
Because we both looked up at her, our vision also took in the shopping promenade one deck above.
“Look,” Mary Ward said, “that’s the actress, Lila Sims.”
Elaine looked up, too. “Sam Teller’s bimbo wife,” she said, lip curled, her voice a snarl.
“Who is that with her?” Mary asked.
“That’s ... that was Ms. Tralaine’s personal trainer, Mr. Silvestrie,” I said.
“He’s trying to get his own show on the network,” Elaine Ananthous said. “Physical fitness. I’m sure he’d like to get rid of me, too, and use my half hour for his own stupid program.”
Passengers on the promenade also recognized Lila Sims. One asked for her autograph. She was not a big star, but had made a name for herself appearing in B movies in which she played sexy young female characters, her on-screen wardrobe consisting primarily of bikini swimsuits. The passenger asking for the autograph was young, a teenager. As he held up pad and pen, Silvestrie pushed him aside, took Sims by the arm, and hurried her away.
“Hardly the way to please your fans,” I said, disgusted with that sort of behavior from a public person.
“He’s probably just trying to protect her, considering what happened to the other actress on the ship,” Mary Ward offered. She seemed always to see the good in people, to find a reasonable explanation for bad behavior.
Ananthous left us to call Troy Radcliff’s cabin, and Mary Ward and I departed the Grand Lounge in the opposite direction.
“I took a walk on the Boat Deck this morning,” I said. “I missed your company.”
“And I missed my early morning exercise,” she said. “I’ll be sure to make up for it tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll join you. In case we don’t see each other for the rest of the day, shall we make it seven tomorrow? On the Boat Deck?”
“Yes,” she said. “I look forward to it.”
I whiled away the hour before James Brady’s satellite feed by sitting in a deck chair where a young deck steward wrapped me in a thick red blanket and brought me a steaming cup of bouillon. Frank and I had done this every day during our crossing twenty years ago, and the forty-five minutes represented the first true moment of peace and tranquility I’d experienced since boarding.
Soak up every blessed minute of it, Jess, I told myself. You may not have many more moments like it
Chapter Sixteen
James Brady’s satellite feed represented an impressive exclusive for his network. With the sun shining and a stiff breeze causing his yellow necktie to flap, he stood in front of a huge camera and assorted supporting electronic gear supplied by the ship’s communications department, and told of Marla Tralaine’s murder, stressing that the cause of death had not been released by shipboard medical personnel. He mentioned the names of others traveling with her—her personal manager, Peter Kunz, her hairdresser, Candy Malone, and her personal trainer, Tony Silvestrie—and also reported that the founder and chairman of the Teller Cable Network, Sam Teller, and his actress wife, Lila Sims, were aboard. Before ending his report, he glanced over at me, then faced the camera again, and said, “And America’s most famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher, is here with us, perhaps poised to solve this murder before we reach Southampton. This is James Brady reporting from the North Atlantic on the beautiful QE2, which unfortunately is also the scene of controversial actress Marla Tralaine’s murder.”
“How was it?” he asked.
“Sounded good to me. You’re the only television commentator with the story. As they say, timing is everything.”
He laughed. “Have you learned anything new this morning?”
“No.”
“Anything new about Scotland Yard flying to the ship in a couple of days?”
“No,” I said. I would have been happy to share the information with him because not only had he been a friend for years, but his reputation as a journalist was pristine. But I couldn’t betray the confidence George Sutherland had placed in me, so I added nothing.
Because my next lecture wasn’t scheduled until the following day, the afternoon promised to be a more tranquil one than yesterday. I would, of course, attend Act Two of the play, and was determined to again enjoy the tea dance. TV chef Carlo Di Giovanni was to give his lecture and cooking demonstration at five, with Mary Ward as his special dinner guest.
I wasn’t hungry after my sizable breakfast and would have preferred eating lunch at the last possible minute. But that would mean missing the beginning of Act Two. I opted to skip the Queens Grill, going instead to The Pavilion, at the stern of the ship just off the One Deck swimming pool, where meals are served cafeteria-style, including light fare. A lot of other passengers evidently were in the same mood, because the lines were long. But they moved quickly, and I eventually found a table for my grilled chicken Caesar salad and cup of tea.
Although a few passengers stopped by to say hello, only one asked anything about my insert in that day’s program. He wanted to know whether there was any truth to the rumor that Marla Tralaine’s body was to be buried at sea. I said I hadn’t heard anything about that, adding that 1 doubted it since her death was not from natural causes, and a full investigation would have to be launched once we got to England.
What rumor would be next? That she’d risen from the dead and was seeking revenge on her killer? I wouldn’t have been surprised.
The Grand Lounge was standing room only when I arrived at two, and dozens of onlookers leaned on the railing of the shopping promenade above. I was, of course, delighted that the play I’d written had attracted so many interested passengers. But I also wondered whether the news of Marla Tralaine’s murder, now public knowledge because of the insert I’d written, had attracted the curious who would not have been there otherwise.
Director Rip Nestor bounced out to the microphone, welcomed everyone to Act Two of the shipboard murder mystery, and briefly brought the audience up to speed on what had occurred the previous day. I glanced around in search of my fellow lecturers. The only one I saw was Judge Dan Solon, sitting with people he’d been with at the craps table last night.
Nestor completed his recap. He then said, “The New York Police Department has sent one of its top investigators to the scene in an attempt to unravel the murder of Millard Wainscott. The man is a legend in criminal investigation. Please welcome Detective Billy Bravo.”
Jerry Lackman, the actor playing Detective Bravo, swaggered onto the stage. He wore a holster beneath his left arm in which a snub-nosed revolver was nestled. A portable radio hung from his belt, and he carried a pad and pen. I watched with interest as he took the lines I’d written and used them only as a blueprint for his ad-lib presentation to the audience. He did the same while questioning the other actors and actresses playing the parts of employees at the TV studio. Because I had seen the two videos of other shows produced by Malibu Mysteries, I’d deliberately created situations in which Detective Bravo could use the names and a few facts about certain passengers in the audience, and drew them into the plot as potential suspects. He was brilliant in the way he handled the audience. I was very impressed.
I thought back to Mary Ward’s comment that he sounded to her as though he came from California, not New York; I had to agree with her. Lackman did not have an accent that even hinted of native New Yorker. Did that matter? I wondered. Was there some meaning I should assign to it in terms of Marla Tralaine’s death? If there was, I couldn’t come up with it at the moment.
But then I also
thought of Lackman’s telling me he’d learned of the murder through “official channels.” And, why had he been visiting Sam Teller in the cable network owner’s penthouse suite?
I didn’t linger on these questions because I became caught up in the stage action. I’ve always thought that writing a play must be the most rewarding of all literary efforts because you get to see what you’ve written played back in an immediate setting. Great playwrights must gain a tremendous psychic satisfaction from seeing their efforts performed night after night, with skilled actors and actresses interpreting the characters they’d created. Of course, the play being performed on the QE2 would hardly rank as great theater. But I was satisfied.
As Act Two neared its conclusion, I anxiously waited for the second murder to occur. It wouldn’t surprise, me, of course. But I hoped it would shock the audience.
It happened with such suddenness that even I was taken by surprise. A young woman suddenly stepped from behind a screen, a knife in her hand. She took a few steps toward the character, John Craig, the TV studio’s floor director played by the handsome black actor, John Johnson.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Johnson asked.
“To do this,” she responded, raising the knife high above her head and plunging it into his chest, the blade on the specially constructed stage prop disappeared into the handle, making it appear that it had entered deep into his body.
The girl disappeared. It had happened so fast that it was doubtful anyone could describe what she looked like.
Johnson, the actor, clutched his chest and stumbled forward to the stage apron. Red theatrical blood oozed from behind his hands as they clutched at his wound. He fell to his knees. His eyes opened wide. So did his mouth, but no words came.
He tumbled over onto his back.
Detective Billy Bravo had been off-stage when the second murder took place. He reappeared, gazed at the body on the floor, looked out into the audience, and said with theatrical flourish, “Very interesting. Now, two people are dead. And I think there are some suspects sitting here who need to answer some tough questions.”
He called on four audience members by name, causing them to giggle. When each stood, he asked them a series of questions about a relationship they might have had with the floor director, John Craig. It all went smoothly, and there was much laughter. When Bravo walked with purpose from the stage, a determined look on his face, the audience jumped to its feet and applauded long and loud. This was better than I’d ever hoped it would be when I sat in my house in Cabot Cove, the snow swirling around outside my window, and wrote the scene.
A number of people stopped by to congratulate me. Judge Dan Solon, whose gruff style had been off-putting ever since we’d first met, offered a surprisingly warm comment, which I graciously accepted. The QE2’s cruise director told me how much wonderful feedback the play was generating. And I was pleased to see Mary Ward approach from a far corner.
“That was wonderful,” she said.
“Thank you, Mary. Are you all set for your special gourmet dinner with Mr. Di Giovanni?”
“I think so. I just hope what he prepares isn’t too heavy.”
“I’m sure he’ll whip up something to your liking. Going to the tea dance?”
She waited for others to leave before answering my question. “I certainly intend to,” she said. “I’m interested in seeing that man again you say was in one of Ms. Tralaine’s early films.”
“I’m interested in seeing him again, too,” I said. “I’m considering being direct with him, telling him that I know of his previous career as an actor.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to play it by ear. You have your dinner with Di Giovanni right after the tea dance, don’t you?”
“Would you mind if I skipped going with you to the dance?” she asked. “I think I’ll rest a little before my big culinary event.”
I laughed. “That sounds like a good idea. Whatever I decide to do with our favorite gentleman host, I’ll let you know later.”
“By the way, Jessica, did you receive the material from your friend back in New York?”
“Not yet, and I’m glad you reminded me. I’d better alert the communications office that I’m expecting faxes from the States. Enjoy your rest.”
I decided to spend some time in my cabin, too, before the tea dance. As I headed there, Peter Kunz, Marla Tralaine’s manager, joined me.
“Have a minute, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“That depends,” I said. “I was hoping for a quiet hour before the tea dance.”
“It won’t take long,” he said. “There’s someone who would like to spend a few minutes with you.”
I stopped. So did he. I looked at him and asked, “And who might that be?”
“Sam Teller, chairman of the Teller Cable Network.”
“Why would he want to see me?”
“I don’t know. He asked me to find you and bring you up to his penthouse. That is, if you’re not too busy.”
The real question I had was why Sam Teller would dispatch Marla Tralaine’s manager to bring me to his penthouse. I asked.
Kunz smiled. He was a handsome young man, dressed this afternoon in a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, white shirt, blue-and-red tie with a nautical motif, and white slacks with a knife-edge crease. “Marla and Sam Teller were in negotiations for her to do two movies for his network,” he said as we resumed walking. “As her manager, I was intimately involved with the talks. Now that she’s dead, I’m developing other projects with Mr. Teller. We’ve been huddling during the crossing. Will you come meet him? I’m sure it won’t take more than ten minutes.”
“All right.”
I followed Kunz up the stairs from the Queens Lounge to the penthouse level where the personal butler to its passengers, Mr. Montrose, stood proudly in his small kitchen, preparing a tray of snacks and drinks. Kunz ignored him and headed down the hall in the direction of Teller’s penthouse. But I greeted the butler, and he returned my greeting. He had an expression on his face that almost said to me that there was something important he wanted to say, but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it because Kunz had already reached the door and knocked. The door opened and Samuel Teller, head of one of the country’s most powerful media conglomerates, stood in the doorway. Although I had seen many pictures of him over the years, I didn’t realize how big he was, almost filling the space created by the open door. A thick head of battleship gray hair was perfectly shaped to his strong, square, tanned face. He wore a short Chinese red silk smoking jacket secured around his waist with a sash. His eyes were green, the color of Granny Smith apples.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m Sam Teller.” He extended a large, strong hand, which I took.
“Please, come in,” he said, stepping back to allow me to enter. As I did, he said, “It was good of you to come up here on such short notice.”
Kunz started to enter, too, but Teller told him, “Come back in a half hour.”
Teller closed the door, and we were alone, unless his wife, the young actress Lila Sims, was somewhere in the suite.
He crossed the large room to the sliding doors leading to one of his two balconies, turned, and said, “Drink?”
“No, thank you. This is a lovely penthouse.”
“We like it. Coffee? Cup of tea? Soft drink?”
I smiled. “None of the above. I told Mr. Kunz that I was anxious to get to my cabin for a little private time before the tea dance. He said you were anxious to speak with me. About what?”
Teller answered by pointing to a couch. “Please, sit there,” he said.
He continued to stand by the sliding doors. “I read that insert you wrote this morning about Marla Tralaine’s unfortunate death.”
“I’m not sure I should have written it, but I did.”
“Very well written, but that doesn’t come as any sur
prise considering your preeminence in the publishing business.”
“That’s very kind, but writing a summary of a real murder doesn’t fall into my area of expertise.”
“Still, impressive. Marla was going to make a couple of movies for me. Were you aware of that?”
“I recently became aware of it.”
“It probably wouldn’t have worked, even if she’d lived,” he said matter-of-factly. “Most difficult woman I’ve ever encountered.”
I said nothing.
Still standing in his pose by the doors, he said, “I understand that not only do you write good murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving a few. Real ones, that is.”
“That’s true, Mr. Teller. Unfortunately, I ended up in a position to do that. It was certainly never my intention.”
“Are you looking to solve Marla’s murder?”
“What I’m looking to do is to enjoy this crossing on the QE2.”
“But I hear you’re doing some snooping around.”
“I don’t wish to debate semantics, Mr. Teller, but I don’t consider myself to be someone who snoops.”
He ignored my comment, continuing, “Have you received your faxes yet from New York?”
I was surprised that he knew about that, and I suppose my face reflected it. It brought forth from him a small, almost cruel smile.
I replied, “No, I haven’t. But I expect them later this afternoon.” I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of asking how he knew.
“I understand you’re pretty tight with the Scotland Yard inspector who’ll be investigating her death.”
I couldn’t let that pass: “To whom are you referring?”
“What’s his name?—Sutherland?”
I said nothing. It was obvious he was either receiving tips from someone in the ship’s communications room, or had gathered information from the network of correspondents working in his far-flung news division.
“I have to admit, Mrs. Fletcher, that I sometimes stand in awe of women like you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Only women?” I asked.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 12