Murder on the QE2 (21 page)

“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 equipment 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.”

“It is?”

A mischievous laugh from Brady. “Come on, Jessica, you know it’s true.”

Mary and I stood.

“And a rather good chum of yours is in charge,” Monroe added. “Sutherland?”

“No comment,” I said.

We started to walk away, but Mary stopped, turned, and said firmly, “And there’ll be no comment from me, either.”

“Where are we going?” Mary asked.

“We’re not going anywhere. We’re leaving.”

“Because they’re members of the press.”

“Exactly.”

Sandy, the junior officer assigned to me, had waited outside the Queens Grill during dinner. He fell in behind us at a respectful distance.

We strolled with no particular destination in mind, passed the movie theater, and ended up at the Grand Lounge, where stagehands prepared for the evening’s entertainment. The ship’s movement had become more pronounced; I noticed that even Mary, who’d been so surefooted, was having trouble navigating the undulating floor.

“Aren’t you supposed to meet your director, Mr. Nestor?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s right.” I checked my watch. “I’d forgotten. It’s nine.”

“You’d better go.”

“Care to join me?”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said, “not if you intend to ask him directly whether he’s Ms. Tralaine’s son.”

“I’m not sure I will, Mary. After all, I’m basing my suspicion purely on something she said a few years ago during a newspaper interview.”

“Sometimes little things like that tell great tales.”

I looked at her and smiled. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll ask him. But I don’t think having you there would be inhibiting.”

“I’d just as soon not,” she said. “I haven’t done any shopping yet, and promised to bring things back for my children and grandchildren. You know, small souvenirs of the trip.”

“All right. I’ll meet up with you later. Say an hour?”

“Right here?”

“Right here.”

I went down one level to the Quarter Deck, with Sandy at my heels.

“Where are you off to next?” he asked.

“I have to meet the director of my play—in the Chart Room. I’d appreciate it if you could ... well, Sandy, make yourself inconspicuous while I’m with him.”

“No problem. I see a friend. I’ll be outside at one of the window tables.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

When I entered the elegant Chart Room, Rip Nestor was already seated at a table for two.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

I took the remaining vacant chair.

“Crowded tonight,” I said.

“Like a big party all over the ship.”

“Spirits are high, despite the weather.”

“Supposed to get worse overnight,” he said.

“The handrails will get a workout.”

A pretty young waitress took my order of a white wine spritzer. Nestor had a dark ale in front of him. When my drink was served, I raised my glass. “Here’s to a successful production.”

He touched the rim of my glass with his heavy mug. “So, what’s on your mind?” he asked, sipping.

“Well, Rip, I’ve been busy since Maria Tralaine’s body was discovered.”

“Yeah?”

“I was asked to get involved by the ship’s security director, Mr. Prall.”

“That’s pretty obvious, Jessica. The announcement in the daily program and all.”

“No. Beyond that. I’ve taken it upon myself to try and find out who killed—”

His smile was crooked. “Find out who killed Marla?”

“Yes. Was she... were
you
close to her?”

It was a forced guffaw. “Close to her? What do you mean?”

I sighed, then closed my eyes, opened them, looked directly at him, and asked, “Are you Maria Tralaine’s son?”

I didn’t know what his reaction would be. He might have angrily denied it, refused to acknowledge it, stormed from the room, or ... or, perhaps, admit it was true. I waited and watched.

He sat back in his chair and took another drink of his ale. I couldn’t read what he was thinking, contemplating, intending to say or do.

“Why do you think I might be?” he asked into the glass mug, eyes focused on its contents.