“Especially women. I’ve been a fan of your books for a long time.”
I doubted whether he’d personally read any of my novels. Somehow, he didn’t strike me as someone who read much, aside from financial statements.
“Which one of them did you like most?” I asked.
“I liked them all.”
I was right. He hadn’t read any of them.
“You’ve been the subject of some recent meetings in my organization.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking of launching a series of two-hour made-for-television movies, the way the British do with their mystery series. Original dramas introduced each week by a host—or hostess. I’d like to create a series of such movies out of your novels.”
“I—”
“And, of course, with Jessica Fletcher acting as the on-camera host.”
“That’s very flattering, Mr. Teller, but I’m afraid I’m not a television personality. I write alone. I’m not a performer.”
“I understand your lecture yesterday was great.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m talking a significant deal here, Mrs. Fletcher. A lot of money. Having your books translated into TV movies would do wonders for sales.”
“For sales? You mean for your advertising sales?”
Now he came to a chair across a small table from where I sat and took it. He narrowed his eyes as though that would help make what point he wanted to get across. “No,” he said. “I’m talking about book sales. Nothing like steady television exposure to sell books.”
“I wouldn’t debate that with you,” I said. “I’ve done my share of public appearances, including television, in order to sell a new book when it comes out. But frankly, Mr. Teller, my books sell extremely well. Each one is a bestseller.”
“That may be so, Mrs. Fletcher—you don’t mind if I call you Jessica”—It wasn’t a question, simply a statement of what he intended to do—“I’m talking tripling, quadrupling your sales. Make you some real money.”
I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. But I said calmly, “I’m quite comfortable with my life and professional career. Some of my books have been made into movies. I’m sure you’re aware of them.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t very impressed. We’ll put enough money into them to make sure the production values are the best. Top casts. When I take on a project, I insist that it be the best. There’s never any second best for me.”
I’d had enough of his arrogance. I stood and said, “Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with my agent once you’re back in the States. His name is Matt Miller. He’s in New York and—”
“I don’t deal with agents. I like to deal directly with the talent.”
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you,” I said, taking a few steps in the direction of the door. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again before Southampton.”
“That won’t happen,” he said. “Let me give you a word of advice.”
I was tempted to say that I didn’t need advice from him, but allowed him to continue.
“Forget about this Marla Tralaine incident. She was nothing but trouble. You don’t strike me as somebody who wants or needs trouble.”
“Am I to take that as a threat, Mr. Teller?”
“What I’m saying is that the smart way to get through life is to go for the things that make you rich, and avoid the things that don’t. I’m offering you a sweet deal, Jessica. Focus on that and forget about Tralaine.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Teller.”
It took me ten minutes to calm down. By the time I had, it was almost time to go to the tea dance. Why did he want me to forget about Marla Tralaine and her murder? Had he murdered her, or had someone else do it at his behest?
I called the QE2’s communication center and inquired whether any faxes had come through for me. None had; I asked them to be on the lookout for any that might arrive and to let me know.
I tried again to reach George Sutherland in London. No luck. I placed a call to Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove, feeling a little guilty I hadn’t tried earlier to return his call. No success there, either.
I looked at my watch. It was time to freshen up, change my clothes, and get to the Queens Room.
I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I picked it up quickly, thinking it might be the communications center informing me that my faxes from Ruth Lazzara had arrived. Instead, it was the TV plant lady, Elaine Ananthous.
“I was just leaving, Elaine,” I said. “Going to the tea dance. Will you be going?”
She started crying.
“Elaine, what’s wrong?”
“He’s missing.”
“Who’s missing?”
“Troy.”
“Troy Radcliff?”
“Yes. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him. He’s gone.”
“Calm down, Elaine,” I said. “This is a huge ship. He’s probably found a quiet comer in which to read a book.”
“No, Jessica, I know something terrible has happened to him. I had the steward check his cabin. He didn’t sleep there last night. No one has seen him anywhere on the ship today.”
“Well, Elaine, if you’re that convinced something has happened to him, I suggest you go to shipboard security.”
“I was going to, but I’m so upset. Would you go with me?”
If anyone had been in my cabin with me, they would have seen the frustration written all over my face. All I wanted to do was go to the tea dance and bask in the wonderful music of the Tommy Dorsey orchestra. I’d gotten on the QE2 to relax. It had been a long, hard winter. I’d written a play, read two others by friends, and had finished my latest book. I was tired, but ready for some fun.
“P-l-e-a-s-e,” she said, crying again.
“All right,” I said. “Meet me at the security office in ten minutes.”
I knew one thing as I hung up on her. The offer Cunard had made me of another free crossing would not be forgotten.
Chapter Seventeen
Elaine Ananthous was at the security office when I arrived. She was her usual agitated self. Her eyes were red from crying, and her wispy, mouse-colored hair was in free flight. As I entered the office, she leaped from her chair and threw her arms about me. I managed to extricate myself and suggested we sit.
“Something terrible has happened to Troy,” she said, voice quivering. “I just know it.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Last night. After dinner. He was with that dreadful man, Di Giovanni.”
“Yes. I had a late dinner with them. They left the Queens Grill together. Where did you see them?”
“In the Golden Lion Pub.”
The Golden Lion Pub was a QE2 nightclub where rock ’n’ roll music kept the dance floor filled into the wee hours. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Elaine Ananthous frolicking there. Come to think of it, I couldn’t picture Troy Radcliff gyrating to a rock beat, either.
“Did you have a drink with them?” I asked.
“No. I would have. With Troy. But not with Di Giovanni there.”
I glanced at the closed door to Security Chief Prall’s private office. “Does he know you’re coming?” I asked.
“Yes. He told me he was busy, but would talk to me shortly.”
“Elaine, why are you so convinced something bad has happened to Troy?”
“Because he wouldn’t have ...” She started crying again.
“He wouldn’t have what?”
“He wouldn’t have missed my lecture,” she managed, her words choked.
Was this the only factor upon which she based her fear? I wondered. If Radcliff had seen her lecture before, his decision not to attend was understandable. An insensitive thought on my part.
I turned to her. “Surely, Elaine, missing your lecture isn’t reason to—”
The door opened and Wally Prall came to us. “Sorry,” he said. “This Tralaine business is dominating my every waking m
oment.”
“Understandable,” I said. “Mr. Prall, Ms. Ananthous believes something might have happened to her friend Troy Radcliff, the famous mountain climber.”
“So she’s said.” He pulled up a chair. “Now, Ms. Ananthous, suppose you tell me why you think this is so.”
She repeated that Radcliff hadn’t attended her lecture that morning, adding, “I spoke with his steward. Troy didn’t sleep in his bed last night.”
“How can the steward be sure of that?” Prall asked.
Elaine shrugged, pulled a tissue from her purse, and blew her nose loudly.
“Perhaps we should talk to this steward,” I offered.
Prall closed his eyes and sighed. I understood. He was swamped with responsibilities regarding the murder of Marla Tralaine and didn’t need to launch a search for a passenger based upon what appeared to be irrational reasoning, a passenger who’d probably decided to hibernate out of public view.
He opened his eyes. “All right,” he said. “I’ll get the steward to come here. What’s Radcliff’s cabin number?”
Elaine gave it to him.
As she did, it suddenly struck me that Elaine’s intense concern for Troy Radcliff could possibly stem from their having some sort of personal—intimate?—relationship. They made an unlikely couple, in my mind, but that meant nothing. I learned long ago never to judge why any two people are attracted to each other.
Prall disappeared into his office to summon the steward. I looked into Elaine’s green, watery eyes and asked, “Is there another reason, Elaine, that you have this concern about Troy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just sense that there might be a ... what shall I call it? ... there might be a bond between you and Troy Radcliff that goes beyond just ... knowing each other.”
It was as though I’d physically struck her. She stiffened, pressed her lank lips tightly together, and stared straight ahead.
“Elaine?”
I could barely hear her when she said, “Is it that obvious?”
“Then there is a certain ... bond ... between you and Mr. Radcliff?”
“It’s too personal to talk about,” she said, still in her rigid posture.
I wasn’t about to press it. She was right; her personal life was none of my business.
Except, there was now the probability that her fear about Radcliff was based on more than his not having showed up to hear her lecture. Maybe I should take it more seriously, too, I decided.
Prall returned. “The steward is busy serving passengers in that section. Come on. We’ll go to him.”
He led us from his office to the hallway, off which Radcliff’s cabin was situated. When we reached it, Elaine stepped back, as though afraid to enter. The steward came from the cabin across the hall and said hello to Prall.
“This is Mrs. Fletcher and Ms. Ananthous,” Prall said.
“I know,” said the steward, smiling slyly at Elaine.
“Did you tell Ms. Ananthous you didn’t think Mr. Radcliff slept in his cabin last night?” Prall asked.
“Yes, sir. When she came looking for Mr. Radcliff, I brought her into his cabin. The bed was made just the way it was yesterday afternoon.”
“And you’ve checked again?” Prall asked. “He’s not there now?”
“I haven’t gone back in,” the steward replied.
“Let’s take a look,” Prall said.
The steward opened the door to Radcliff’s cabin. I turned to Elaine to see whether she was following us inside. She wasn’t. She remained pressed against the hall wall, fright written all over her face. I didn’t press her to join us. Better she remain outside.
Radcliff’s cabin was much like mine, although the color scheme was different. His built-in furniture was
blond; mine was black. The layout was basically the same, except I noted he did not have a closet adjacent to the bathroom, as I did.
I observed that Troy Radcliff was a neat individual. There wasn’t a thing out of place. His highly polished shoes were lined up with military precision in the closet. His clothing was hung so that the jackets faced in the same direction, and the space between them was equidistant. There was the faint aroma of male cologne in the air.
Prall went to the bed. It was made, as the steward said it had been, the bedspread pulled taut, not a wrinkle to be seen.
Prall asked the steward questions about when he’d last seen the cabin’s occupant. As he did, I took the opportunity to peruse the bathroom. Like the main cabin, it, too, was a monument to neatness and order. Radcliff’s toiletries were arranged in a cluster in a corner of the marble sinktop. Every label faced forward. His toothbrush stood at attention in a glass. A nail brush rested on the surface. The man was obviously pristine in his hygiene.
I rejoined Prall and the steward in the living room.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“No,” Prall replied.
I went to the desk. On it were printed materials about the ship, along with the daily programs that had been delivered to the cabin. I opened the drawer and saw, among other things, a wallet. I called Prall over and pointed to it.
He picked the wallet up, turned it over in his hands, then opened it. I watched as he first examined the folded money section, withdrawing a wad of bills and counting it. There was a little over four hundred dollars. He next looked at the photos secured in clear plastic sleeves. There were six of them. Two were of Radcliff posing at the summit of unnamed mountains. There was a color snapshot of two dogs. Another depicted a small group of people at a celebration of some sort, laughing and looking happy.
The fifth photo was of actress Marla Tralaine. It appeared to have been taken years ago, at the height of her career. It had the look of posed celebrity photographs one finds in picture frames displayed for sale, or in empty wallets in a leather goods shop.
Prall and I looked at each other, our arched eyebrows reflecting what we were thinking.
He turned to the sixth picture. It was of the TV plant lady, Elaine Ananthous.
“That’s her outside,” Prall said.
“Ms. Ananthous. Yes.”
He dropped the wallet on the desk, picked up the phone, and called his office to request one of his officers be sent to the cabin. I picked up the wallet and went through other items in it. A small slit created a pocket within. I wiggled my fingers into it, felt slips of paper, and pulled them out, unfolding each and reading. There were two.
The first contained small, meticulous writing with a fine-point pen. It said: “Dr. Jessup—final word—terminal—six months.” There was a phone number added at the end of the cryptic writing.
The second slip of paper had a printed message on it, which I read with interest: “A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist.” The name “Stewart Alsop” appeared in smaller letters.
I certainly recognized the name—Stewart Alsop, the famed journalist who’d succumbed to cancer a number of years ago.
“Mr. Prall,” I said, handing him the notes.
He read them, looked at me, and said, “Sounds like Mr. Radcliff was a sick man.”
“Seems that way.”
We said it in unison: “Suicide?”
“I’ll have a security force search the ship for any sign that Mr. Radcliff might have taken his life.”
“Gone overboard?” I asked.
He nodded.
“It’s happened before?”
“On rare occasions.”
Prall’s assistant arrived, and Prall issued the order to go over every area of the ship. “Quietly, of course,” he added.
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Ananthous,” I said.
“Think she might know something?” Prall asked.
“I think she probably does, considering how concerned she was that something bad had happened to Mr. Radcliff.”
“Talk to her. She seems to trust you,” Prall said. “
I have to get back. Let me know if you learn anything.”
“Of course.”
Elaine had wandered to the end of the hall, where it joined another corridor leading to the nearest staircase.
“What did you find?” she asked when I reached her.
“Elaine,” I said, “it’s obvious you and Mr. Radcliff were very close.”
“I really would rather not—”
“You don’t have a choice,” I said sternly. “Despite his incredibly healthy appearance, he was a very sick man, wasn’t he?”
She let out a whoosh of air, leaned against the wall, and focused on the floor.
“Look at me, Elaine,” I said. “Troy Radcliff was dying. We found notes in his cabin.”
“No,” she said. “They said he was. But he was so strong. He was fighting it. I was helping him. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow that to happen to him. Happen to ...”
“To us? You and him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever talk to you about taking his life?” I asked with difficulty.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
I said nothing, my silence announcing clearly that I was waiting for a different answer.
“Yes,” she said weakly.
“Since he’s been on the QE2?”
“Yes.”
“Weren’t you worried that he would follow through?”
“No.”
“If you’d taken him seriously, told others about it, he might have been dissuaded from taking his life.”
“He has?” she asked, eyes opening wide. “Troy is dead?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Prall and his security staff are going to thoroughly search the ship. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” I might have chosen a better descriptive term.
She slumped against the wall and wrapped her frail arms about herself. I was tempted to embrace her, but didn’t. We stood together in silence. I assumed she dwelled upon the possibility that Radcliff had committed suicide. My thoughts were on the photo of Marla Tralaine found in Radcliff’s wallet, along with Elaine’s picture. I wanted to ask about it, but didn’t feel it appropriate, at least as it applied to her. Whether George Sutherland would find it useful information when he took over the investigation was another matter.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 13