I showed her the faxes I’d received from Ruth Lazzara , including the long interview with Maria Tralaine in which she’d let slip—that’s the way I read it—that she had a son named Rip.
“Your director’s name is Rip,” Mary said.
“Exactly.”
“Which might explain why his copy of the script, the one with all his notes and comments, was found in her penthouse.”
“It could explain it,” I said. “This crossing might have been viewed as an opportunity for them to reestablish their relationship.”
“But you said that when you had lunch with him in New York, he used an unflattering term to describe her.”
“Which wouldn’t be surprising, considering the apparent estrangement between them. At least that’s what I got from reading the interview with her.”
“Do we k-ow who the father is?” Mary asked.
“No. An) ideas?”
“Well, let me see,” she said. “There’s the actor, Mr. Ryan, who we now know was romantically involved with Ms. Tralaine at the time of her husband’s murder.”
“Right.”
“And there’s that gentleman host we danced with. He was in a movie with her.”
“But that’s no secret, according to the ship’s security director. He put it on his résumé when he applied for the job. And she didn’t respond to the note he’d sent her, wanting to say hello.”
“According to him.”
“According to him.”
“I’ve been wondering about that physical fitness trainer,” she said.
“Mr. Silvestrie?”
“Yes. Strange, at least to me, that he was with Mr. Teller’s actress wife, Ms. Sims, up on the promenade. Remember?”
“He pushed away a young autograph seeker.”
“Why would he be so protective of her? After all, Jessica, he worked for Ms. Tralaine. Not for Ms. Sims.”
I nodded. “Worth thinking about,” I said.
“You say Mr. Kunz ... is that his name?”
“Marla Tralaine’s manager.”
“You say he’s been meeting with Mr. Teller about other projects for Mr. Teller’s network?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Certainly is fast, wouldn’t you say?”
“Fast in the sense that it’s terribly soon after his boss’s murder?”
“Exactly. Poor dear isn’t even cold in the ship morgue, and he’s discussing new business deals. Almost makes you wonder whether he’s happy she’s no longer around.”
“Perhaps he is—happy. What other thoughts have you had, Mary?”
She smiled, went to the porthole, and looked out over the dark, churning North Atlantic. “It’s getting rough,” she said.
“The sea.”
“And the people.”
She turned to me. “Do you know what I’m in the mood for?”
“What?”
“A lavish dinner in the Queens Grill.”
I laughed. “You can’t be serious, considering what you’ve been through.”
“Oh, but I am serious. I’m one of those people who’s always believed in getting back on the horse once you’ve fallen off.”
“It’s formal tonight,” I said.
“Then I can wear a special outfit I brought with me just for the occasion. My daughter, Katherine, bought it for me especially for this trip. She’s a lawyer in New York, although she’s now decided to become an English teacher.”
“Good for her. And I look forward to seeing what she bought for you.”
“I’ll show it off at dinner.”
“Oh, Mary, by the way, I’ve arranged to meet Rip Nestor tonight at nine in the Chart Room.”
“Yes?”
“I intend to be direct with him about whether he’s Maria Tralaine’s son.”
“Sometimes being direct is the best policy. See you at dinner in, say, an hour?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I just hope one thing.”
“Which is?”
“I just hope they aren’t serving mushrooms tonight. If they are, just seeing it on the menu could set me back.”
I went to my cabin and chose a dress my Cabot Cove female friends and I had decided upon during my impromptu modeling session prior to the trip. It was the fanciest item in my wardrobe, a floor-length sequined emerald green number that was an inch away from being too tight. Mary’s upbeat attitude had buoyed my spirits, too, although any ebullience was tempered by the disappearance of Troy Radcliff. I assumed, perhaps foolishly so, that the security office would call me the moment they came up with information about him. I tried to stop thinking about what might have happened to Radcliff, especially the worst-case scenario—that he’d taken his life by leaping into the sea because of a terminal medical prognosis.
Thoughts of him naturally kept Elaine Ananthous in mind, too. She’d confessed tearfully to me after we’d returned to her cabin that she and Radcliff had, indeed, been more than professional colleagues. It hadn’t been a torrid romance. They’d entered into what she termed a “caring relationship” based upon mutual respect.
“He thought I was funny,” she’d said. “Nobody else thinks I’m funny. Strange, maybe. Funny because of the way I look and talk. Laughing at me, not with me. But he always laughed because of me.”
That she spoke of him in the past tense was not lost on me.
I felt increasingly sad for her as we talked, woman to woman, especially when she got into her physical relationship with Radcliff. Not that she described it in graphic terms. I would have been surprised if she had. She said that Troy Radcliff not only looked remarkably young for a man his age, his hormones had reflected it, too.
She spoke of his many affairs with beautiful women, including Maria Tralaine.
“What brought them together?” I asked. “She didn’t strike me as a woman who’d enjoy climbing mountains.”
“Sam Teller introduced them. At some party, I think. It didn’t mean anything to Troy. None of his affairs did. That’s why he needed me in his life. I was always there for him, no matter what.”
Carrying Tralaine’s photo in his wallet gave credence to what Elaine Ananthous told me. Unless, of course, Troy Radcliff was nothing more than a fawning fan with an overactive imagination. I seriously doubted that was the case.
I had left Elaine’s cabin with a heavy heart. My shipboard experiences with her had not been especially pleasant, or uplifting. She was, to use a phrase, a strange bird, dreadfully unsure of herself, suspecting the worst in people, paranoid, and even vindictive.
But she was also a vulnerable creature, a woman who’d forged a special career for herself despite obvious shortcomings, and who looked for love and affection—a human being.
As I applied the finishing touches to my makeup, my sympathetic feelings for her were tainted by what I believed to be true—that she’d tampered with Carlo Di Giovanni’s mushrooms in order to injure his reputation. That an innocent person—in this case, Mary Ward—had suffered as a result, made it that much more upsetting. Of course, I couldn’t prove Elaine had done it. But it was one of those instinctive moments we all experience now and then, when we just know we’re right.
“Where the hell is everybody?” Judge Dan Solon growled after I’d joined him at our table. Mary Ward had arrived moments before; there were only the three of us.
“They must have had other commitments,” I said, glancing at Mary. Her daughter’s choice of a dress had been a good one. It was a simple, yet elegant beige sheath that complemented her perfectly, especially now that she’d regained color in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes.
“I understand you had a bout of food poisoning,” Solon said to Mary.
“Yes.”
“Happened during the chef’s demonstration?”
“Yes, although I don’t blame—”
“I wouldn’t eat anything that madman cooks,” he said, handing down an irrefutable sentence.
Jacques, our waiter, announce
d the evening’s specials that weren’t listed on the menu. “For a beginning,” he said, “we have mushrooms prepared in a savory butter-garlic sauce that is—” He pressed his fingertips to his lips and blew a kiss to the table. “That is—”
“Why don’t we just get to the entrees?” I suggested, looking to Mary, who managed a smile.
Across the room, James Brady shared a table with the other journalists on board, including the British reporter, Hamish Monroe, and the stars of the previous night’s musical entertainment, Pamela Fiori and Michael Cannon from Town and Country. They were in high spirits, judging from the laughter and unending flow of Champagne.
In fact, the entire dining room was festive that particular evening. It certainly wasn’t the weather. The seas had become increasingly rough throughout the day. Was the storm getting closer? Hopefully, it wouldn’t keep George Sutherland and his people from flying to the ship on our fourth day at sea, one day out from Southampton.
We enjoyed our dinner, although the other lecturers were missed. Judge Solon didn’t know that Radcliff had disappeared, and that a search was under way. Di Giovanni had told the judge right after the incident with Mary that he was having dinner in his cabin for the duration of the crossing. As for Elaine Ananthous, I would have been surprised if she’d shown for dinner.
Despite the gaiety surrounding our table, we had relatively little to say to each other. Mary’s gastronomical experience hadn’t diminished her appetite, judging by the vigor with which she ate. We were on dessert when the maitre d’ came to the table and handed me a note. I opened it, read, stood, and said, “Excuse me, please.”
Mary’s expression asked whether she should come with me.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said.
Security Chief Prall stood just outside the dining room. “Sorry to interfere with your dinner, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“That’s quite all right. I was almost finished.”
“We’ve come up with something on Mr. Radcliff’s disappearance.”
“Oh?”
“This.”
He removed a shoe from a bag and showed it to me.
“His?” I asked.
“Evidently, although that hasn’t been confirmed. I thought maybe Ms. Ananthous might be helpful.”
“There’s just the one?”
“Yes. We found it on the Two Deck Aft.”
“Near the rear of the ship. The stern.”
“Exactly.”
“And you found just this single shoe?”
“That’s right.”
I examined the shoe again. It was highly polished, just as all of Radcliff’s shoes had been when I saw them in his cabin. It also appeared to be of a style that was consistent with his other footwear.
“Any idea why only one shoe was found?” I asked.
“No.”
But I had one. If Troy Radcliff had committed suicide—leaped into the sea—he would have done it with both shoes on, or both shoes off. That only one was found said to me that if he had gone over the side into the North Atlantic, it was not a voluntary act.
“Have you spoken with Ms. Ananthous about it?” I asked.
“Not yet. You seemed to have forged a relationship with her. I thought it might be wise to have you with me when I ask her about the shoe.”
“I’d really rather—”
“Only take a moment. I called her cabin. She’s there, and I asked her to stay.”
“All right,” I said. “Let me tell my table companions I won’t be back for coffee.”
When I returned to the table, I leaned dose to Mary’s ear and said, “There may be news about Mr. Radcliff’s disappearance. Will you wait for me, let’s say, in the lounge outside?”
“I’ll be there.”
“What’s the rush?” Solon asked.
“No rush,” I said. “Just a personal matter.”
“Going to the casino?” he asked Mary as I started walking away. “Could use some of your good luck.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “My gambling days are over.”
I followed Prall to Elaine’s cabin. She took a long time responding to Prall’s knocking. When she did, seeing me seemed to unnerve her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Mr. Prall thought I might be helpful, that’s all,” I replied. “If you’d rather I—”
Prall resolved the question by gently ushering me into the cabin with a hand on the small of my back.
“Ms. Ananthous, we found this on one of the decks,” Prall said, removing the shoe from the bag and holding it out for her.
“Troy’s shoe,” Elaine said.
“You’re sure?” Prall asked.
“Yes. Where did you find it?”
Prall told her.
“Where’s the other shoe?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Prall said.
Elaine slowly sat on the bed, wrapped her thin arms about herself, and began rocking. Prall looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I nodded. It was best to leave her alone.
As we went to the door, Elaine asked, “How is that older woman?”
I stopped and turned. “Mary Ward?”
“Yes.”
“She’s all right. Fortunately, she had only a taste of the mushrooms, if that’s what actually caused her poisoning.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“Would you excuse us?” I asked Prall.
His quizzical expression said he wasn’t sure what was transpiring.
“Please,” I said.
“I’ll be outside.”
I joined her on the bed. “You did it to embarrass Mr. Di Giovanni, didn’t you, Elaine?”
“It was so stupid of me. I snapped, I guess. Lost my head.”
“You never stopped to think of killing Mrs. Ward?”
My question spurred renewed animation. “Oh, no, that was never a problem. I put such a small amount of poison on the mushrooms that even if she ate all of them, she’d only become ill.”
“ ‘Only become ill,’ ” I said, unable to keep disdain from my voice. “It was a terrible thing to do.”
“I thought everyone would think it was his mushrooms that made her sick. But I can’t live with that lie. I can’t live with myself.” She started to cry and went back to her rocking motion.
I got up and went to the door, looked back, then suffered a wave of pity and left.
“I gather that had to do with the woman getting sick at the cooking lecture,” Prall said.
“Yes. But it’s been resolved. Anything else I can do for you before I rejoin my friends?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
I drew a deep breath and exhaled.
“There’s a videotape I’d like you to see.”
“Of what?”
“Of Two Deck Aft.”
“Where Radcliff’s shoe was found?”
“Yes. Can we keep what I tell you between us?”
“That depends.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, we’ve had a couple of suicides from Two Deck Aft over the years.”
“Oh?”
“It’s ... it was a spot where going over the side was somewhat easier than other locations on the ship.”
“I see.”
“We took steps to correct that situation, including installing a hidden surveillance camera.”
My heart skipped a beat. Was he about to announce they’d taped Troy Radcliff’s demise?
“Because you’ve been so involved with this unfortunate incident from the beginning and have cooperated with us, I’d like you to be among those invited to view this tape.”
“Well, I... yes, of course. Where is it?”
“In our communications center. It’s just one segment of hundreds of hours of tape from Two Deck Aft. They’re working on it now, trying to narrow it down to cover only the period during which Mr. Radcliff might have been there. There also the problem of picture quality. It varies, depending upon the weather, and how well the equipme
nt is working.”
“When do you think you’ll have it ready?” I asked.
“I don’t know. As soon as possible, of course. I’ll let you know.”
“All right. I appreciate being included.”
“Frankly, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m well aware you’ve been busy looking into Ms. Tralaine’s murder ever since you and Mrs. Ward discovered her body. Maybe by watching the tape, you’ll be able to put to better use what you’ve already discovered.”
“Are you suggesting her murder and Mr. Radcliff’s disappearance are linked?”
He gave me a wan smile. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I leave that entirely up to you. Go back to your friends. I’ll let you know the minute the tape is ready for viewing.”
Finding out there was a videotape that might possibly shed light on what happened to Troy Radcliff was exhilarating. At least one mystery would be solved before we reached England. No, there would be two mysteries solved, now that I knew for certain that Elaine Ananthous had, indeed, put something on Carlo Di Giovanni’s mushrooms.
I headed straight back to the Queens Grill Lounge where Mary Ward waited. She sat with James Brady and the British journalist, Hamish Monroe. I wasn’t sure I liked her being with them. She knew everything I knew, with the exception of what I’d just learned about the shoe, the tape, and Elaine’s confirmation that she’d tampered with the mushrooms.
“Jessica,” Brady said, getting up and pulling a chair closer, “off investigating?”
“No,” I said, continuing to stand. “What would I be investigating?”
“The whereabouts of that aging mountain goat, Troy Radcliff.”
“You do get around, Mr. Brady.”
“My calling, Jess. Well? Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully, but barely so.
He gave me that smile that has elicited information from a who’s who of the celebrity world. “Have no idea, Jess?”
I said to Mary Ward, “You and I have someplace we have to be.”
She raised her eyebrows, realized I was attempting to extricate us from the situation, and said, “That’s right, Jessica. I almost forgot.”
“Before you go,” Hamish Monroe said, “a question?”
“Yes?”
“I hear The Yard is flying in to investigate Maria Tralaine’s murder.”
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on the QE2 Page 16