Murder on the QE2 (3 page)

“I see they have tempura,” I said. “I’ll have that.”

“Cholesterol city,” he said.

I ignored the comment, and we ordered. I asked, “Do you specialize in producing and directing murder mystery plays, Mr. Nestor?”

“Call me Rip, please.”

I always have trouble calling people Chuck, or Buck, or Rock, and now Rip. But I did. “All right, Rip,” I said. “Do murder mysteries constitute the bulk of your work?”

“No,” he said. “I do a lot of low-budget films. A couple of made-for-TV shows. But interactive mysteries are very popular these days. V-e-r-y popular. So I set up Malibu Mysteries. We do dinner theater up and down the state.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Do you work ships very often?”

“More and more. But this is my first on the
QE2.
You ever been on it?”

“Yes. Years ago. I was with—” I felt a lump developing in my throat and changed the subject. “So, Rip, tell me what you want in this script I’m to write.”

“I really prefer to leave that to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“It’s Jessica.”

“Right. It’s your call, Jessica. Actually, I have a dozen, maybe more, standard plays we use. Different styles, different approaches to match up with whatever audience books us. We do a lot of corporate work. Conventions.”

“I see.”

“But the entertainment director for Cunard decided
since you were going to be on board anyway giving a lecture, it would be good marketing to have you write an original play. I assume they’ll advertise it a lot. Makes sense.”

“I suppose it does. I still wish you could give me a better idea of the sort of play you’d like me to write.”

He responded by pulling videotapes from his bag and handing them to me. “These are two of our most popular shows. I wasn’t going to give them to you because I didn’t want to influence what you write. But they’ll give you an idea of how I work.”

“Thanks,” I said, putting the tapes in my bag.

“Actually,” he said, “I do have an idea on how to make this show different. You know, special—aside from it being written by the world’s most famous mystery writer.”

“I’m hardly that,” I said.

“You’re too modest. Cunard’s entertainment director gave me the names of the other lecturers who’ll be on board. Quite a list. Troy Radcliff, the mountain climber. The TV chef, Di Giovanni, and that strange lady who talks to plants and flowers. Oh, and the judge from the K.C. James trial.”

“Judge Solon.”

“Right. And that bitch, Marla Tralaine.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged. “Pardon my French. Anyway, I was thinking that maybe you could write them into the script. Just walk-on parts, a line or two. Could be fun weaving their areas of expertise into the show.”

“An interesting idea,” I said. “Of course, it will depend upon whether they’re willing to take part.”

“I’m sure you could persuade them.”

“Me? Maybe the entertainment director should be the one.”

“Whatever works,” he said. “Enjoy your tempura?”

“Yes. It was excellent.”

“Hate to eat and run, Jessica, but I have another appointment.”

“And so do I.”

Since he didn’t reach for the check, I did, paid it, and we said good-bye on the sidewalk.

“You’ll have it to me in a month?” he said, referring to the promise I’d made during lunch to deliver the script in thirty days.

“Yes,” I said.

“Just one last thing,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Keep the cast small. There’s a budget.”

“I’m glad you mentioned it, although having all the other lecturers take part hardly accomplishes that.”

“I mean the professional cast, the actors and actresses, the ones I have to pay. I figure the lecturers will do it for fun.”

I wasn’t sure he was right, but didn’t wish to debate it.

“Ciao,
Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Thanks for lunch.”

Having the script to write helped pass what turned out to be an especially cold and snowy late February and early March. It took me a number of false starts before I could really get into the story. One of the problems was working in a format that was alien to me.

The last time I’d attempted to write a script was for a television adaptation of one of my novels. I was pleased with the result; the producer said he was, too.

I knew that television shows and motion pictures were collaborative efforts, with the original writer’s work subject to rewrite by committee. But what appeared on the screen bore virtually no resemblance to what I’d written. It was demoralizing, of course, but I quickly got over it and went on to other things.

The two videos given me by Rip Nestor proved helpful, but off-putting. If they were indicative of what he expected from me, I knew I was in for a month-long struggle. The scripts and performances were broad to the point of farce, the interaction with the audiences spirited and loud. After watching them, I knew I could never write that way. Mr. Nestor would have to be content with Jessica Fletcher’s style.

Although I’d agreed to contact personally the other lecturers scheduled to sail with me in May to see whether they’d be willing to take parts in the play, I decided not to. I wrote the play in such a way that if any one of them, or more, declined to participate, it was easy to adapt the script on the spot to cover their absence.

But I did watch their TV shows. I found it interesting that they all appeared on the same cable network, the Teller Network, a new addition to Cabot Cove’s cable service’s array of programs. The network’s owner, Sam Teller, was a controversial person in broadcasting. His reputation, at least what I’d read in the papers, was that of a rich, ruthless businessman whose list of enemies was long and distinguished. He was married to a young actress named Lila Sims; their names appeared in the gossip columns and on tabloid TV with regularity.

I also stayed up late one night to watch Marla Tralaine in one of her earlier films,
Dangerous Woman.
She was stunningly beautiful, although I had to agree with critics that her acting range was limited and one-dimensional. But who was I to judge? I’m a writer, not an actress. In the film she played a classic femme fatale, the proverbial “other woman” who gets it in the end.

Prompted by seeing Marla Tralaine on-screen, I went to my local library and pulled up a few old newspaper articles about her husband’s murder, and her being charged with the crime. It made for interesting reading. At least I knew something about this woman who would be one of my companions on the QE2 for five days.

I proudly typed THE END on the script and sent it by Federal Express to Rip Nestor in Los Angeles. Feeling refreshingly liberated, at least until I got back to the book I’d shelved, I ventured out from my self-imposed hibernation to touch base again with Cabot Cove friends.

“Well, what do you think, Mrs. F.?” Sheriff Mort Metzger asked me as we had breakfast with Seth Hazlitt in Mara’s luncheonette. An unusually early spring thaw had set in; sunlight streamed through the window into our booth and onto plates piled high with blueberry pancakes.

“About what?” I asked.

“My play.”

“Oh, Mort, I meant to mention that. I didn’t want to start reading it until I finished writing my own because I was afraid it would... influence me.”

Mort looked dejected.

“But it’s the first thing on my agenda today,” I said brightly.

“I was hopin’ you’d send it to your director friend in Hollywood,” Mort said, “instead of having to write one yourself.”

“And I still may,” I said. “Mr. Nestor has a catalogue of mystery plays he uses, depending upon which audience is involved. Maybe he’ll add your play to his repertoire.”

“You think he will?” Mort asked.

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

We all looked up as Charlene Sassi entered the luncheonette and came to our booth.

“Morning, Charlene,” Seth said, his corpulent midsection wedged against the table, keeping him from standing.

“Good morning everyone,” she said, sliding in next to Mort.

“Morning rush over?” Seth asked our favorite baker.

“Yes,” Charlene said, exhaling with gusto. “Ran out of donuts. That hasn’t happened in a long time. Must be the break in the weather.” She looked at me. “So, Jess, will my nephew be the next Neil Simon?”

“To be honest with you, Charlene, I haven’t had a chance to read John’s play. I’ve been so busy writing my own that—”

“What play?” Mort asked.

Charlene explained.

Mort’s expression was one of abject despair.

“Mort,” I said, “I’m perfectly capable of reading two plays.” I placed my hand on his.

“But Charlene’s nephew goes to college,” Mort said. “He’s educated in writing. You’ll like his a lot better than mine.”

“Well, we’ll just see,” I said. “These pancakes are delicious.”

 

 

As always happens, reading the two scripts given me by my friends took much longer than I’d anticipated. I made pages of notes suggesting editorial changes, although I constantly acknowledged that I was not a playwright, and so my reactions should be judged with that in mind.

I delivered the scripts back to them, then settled in to finish my novel. It was difficult because my thoughts kept wandering to the contemplation of May twenty-eighth when I would board the QE2 for the second time in my life. But I played all sorts of mind games to keep my thoughts and energies channeled, and managed to finish the book on May twenty-second.

It took a long time for Rip Nestor to react to the script I’d sent him. He called in late April to tell me he loved it, and that he was in the process of putting together a cast for the May twenty-eighth crossing. His call boosted my spirits, which had been flagging. Writers work alone, in a vacuum, with a lack of frequent and ongoing feedback to their creative efforts. I’ve always felt that every publisher should have someone on staff whose only job is to call writers under contract, ask how things are going, and give them a feeling that someone else cares about their work. It will never happen, but it would be nice if it did.

Susan Shevlin, my travel agent, gave me all sorts of promotional material about Cunard and the QE2, and a handsome portfolio arrived in the mail. It contained everything I needed to know about life aboard the massive ocean-going vessel. The middle three nights of the five nights at sea would be formal. There was a three-dimensional cutaway map of the ship; it was like a small city. A “dictionary” of nautical terms briefed me on the difference between port and starboard. I was told how I could receive and send telephone and fax messages from the ship, using satellite communications. And every shipboard amenity, including the beauty shop and spa, the casino, bars and cocktail lounges (there were nine), dining rooms, computer learning center, library, bookstore, entertainment, gift shops (including a branch of London’s famed Harrods), florist, hospital and medical staff, valet and laundry services, was explained. There was a kennel for pets and a day-care center for little children.

As I said, the QE2 is a floating city.

The portfolio also contained my boarding pass and cabin assignment. I would be staying in Cabin Number 1037, which meant I would take my meals in the Queens Grill, one of five restaurants. I had a spark of déjà vu; Frank and I had enjoyed the ambiance of the Queens Grill level of accommodations when we sailed twenty years ago.

What to wear, what to wear?

I gathered a few of my female friends from Cabot Cove to help me decide on a wardrobe. It turned into a wonderful party, with lots of laughter and good-natured kidding of me and my clothing dilemma. After modeling myriad choices for them, a consensus was reached, and the clothes I would pack were decided.

On May twenty-seventh, the night before I was to leave, these same female friends, augmented by my male buddies, including Seth Hazlitt, Sheriff Mort Metzger, Susan Shevlin’s husband, Jim, the mayor of Cabot Cove, and others, threw me a bon voyage party at Cabot Cove’s newest restaurant, Simone’s, owned by a large Italian family who also operated a popular pizza parlor. The mood was festive, the food classic peasant Italian fare: pasta to start, veal spiced and cooked to perfection, and a rolling dessert cart that should have come with a gift certificate to a spa.

We said our good-byes outside the restaurant. I was tired; I had to be up early for my flight to New York with Jed Richardson. The QE2 would set sail between three and four in the afternoon. I was advised to be at the dock by two.

“Well, Jessica,” said Seth Hazlitt, “all I can say is that I wish you a safe and smooth passage.”

“Thank you, Seth.” I kissed him on the cheek.

“Stay away from that midnight buffet,” Jim Shevlin said. “If you don’t, you won’t fit in Jed’s small plane for the trip home.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I intend to exercise discipline for the five days.”

“Sure,” Charlene Sassi chimed in. “Until you get a taste of all that scrumptious food, morning, noon, and night.”

“Pack that seasick medicine I gave you?” Seth asked.

“I certainly did, along with the wristbands and patches. But I don’t intend to get sick. I never do.”

“Always a first time,” Seth said grimly. “If none of those things work, you get right down to see the ship’s doctor, get a shot.”

Eventually, my friends ran out of advice, and I made it home, where I put the finishing touches on my packing. I was about to get into bed at midnight when the phone rang.

“Jessica?”

“Yes?”

“Matt Miller.”

“Oh, hi, Matt.”

“Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to say two things.”

“Happy to hear them.”

“First of all, I read the novel. It’s wonderful. One of your best efforts. I couldn’t put it down.”