Murder on the QE2 (7 page)

“What about family on board?” I asked.

“We still have to identify the victim,” he replied. “We’ll do all we can to ease their grief and to keep this unfortunate incident from spoiling the rest of the crossing for other passengers.”

“May we leave?” I asked.

“Will you cooperate?” he asked.

“In not telling others? Yes. But I assure you, Doctor, this will get around. But not through me.”

“Not through me, either,” Mary added.

“Well, all I can say is that if we all do our best to keep it quiet, we’ll achieve some modicum of success. Thank you both.”

“Of course.”

As we stood to leave, Security Chief Prall returned to the consulting room. He looked harassed; he was out of breath. He ignored us as he leaned on the desk and said to the doctor, “It’s the actress.”

“Mr. Teller’s wife?” Walker asked. “Lila Sims?”

“No,” Prall replied.

“Marla Tralaine?” I asked.

Prall turned to me. “That’s right. Marla Tralaine.”

“Cause of death?” Dr. Walker asked Prall.

He hesitated, took us all in, then said, “It wasn’t natural.”

“Oh, my,” Mary Ward said.

To which I had nothing to add.

Priscilla Warren was waiting for me when Mary Ward and I returned from Dr. Walker’s office.

“Will you excuse me?” Mary asked. “This has been a stressful start to the day.”

“Of course,” I said. “We’ll catch up later.”

Priscilla followed me into my cabin and shut the door. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you, Jessica.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m just shocked and sad that a famous movie actress had to die under mysterious circumstances on the
QE2.”

“Famous actress?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, her eyes open wide, her hand coming to her mouth. “Lila Sims? Sam Teller’s wife?”

It was my turn to express surprise. “No,” I said. “Not Lila Sims. It was Marla Tralaine. Didn’t you know?”

“No. I reported the body, but no one told me who it was. Ms. Tralaine? How did she die?”

“I have no idea. That will be determined by your security and medical people, and the authorities in Southampton. My question is what this does to your schedule of lecturers and the play. I assume there will be a cancellation.”

“Oh, no,” she said with sudden urgency. “There’s no need for other passengers to know what happened. Whenever there’s a death on board—it happens now and then—we do everything possible to not let the other passengers learn about it and spoil their holiday.”

“But surely, with someone as well known as Marla Tralaine, and with the number of people traveling with her, the word is bound to get out.”

“Not if we can help it.”

“You thought it might have been Lila Sims, Mr. Teller’s wife. I didn’t even know they were on the ship.”

“They asked that we not broadcast it. They’re staying up in one of the penthouses. Next to ... next to Ms. Tralaine’s penthouse. They take all their meals there.”

“I see. Well, Priscilla, I suppose all I can do is keep my promise not to talk about this with anyone else.”

“What about her?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Mary Ward’s adjacent cabin.

“Mrs. Ward? I’m sure she’ll keep her word, too.”

Priscilla moved to the door. “I’d better check in with the social director. In the meantime, I suggest you get ready for your lecture and the play.”

“I’ve been invited for a personal tour of the bridge,” I said. “At eleven.”

“Then go through with it, by all means. Obviously, Captain Marwick knows about this. The key, Jessica, is for things to go on as they normally would. That’s all we can ask.”

She left, and I checked my watch. It was nine—two hours before my tour of the bridge. I could stay in my cabin for the next two hours, but my energy level wouldn’t allow that. I needed to get out, resume my walk—not on the Boat Deck, of course—and clear my head.

I stepped into the hallway, where Walter, my steward, was about to deliver fresh ice and towels. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, smiling broadly. “A nasty turn in the weather.”

“So I noticed. Unexpected?”

“Yes. But on the North Atlantic you can never—”

Mary Ward’s door opened.

“I assumed you’d be resting,” I said.

“Rest? How could I? I thought I’d move about a bit, see more of the ship.”

“Exactly what I’m off to do.”

We were about to head for the shops, located on our deck, when Security Chief Prall approached. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I was hoping to find you.”

“Yes?”

“I wonder if you would—” He stopped in midsentence and looked at Mary Ward.

“Remember, Mr. Prall, Mrs. Ward and I discovered the body together. In fact, she was the one who spotted it first. So, please speak freely in front of her.”

“Oh, yes. I wondered if you’d come with me to Ms. Tralaine’s penthouse.”

“Of course I will if you want me to. But why?”

“We found something there that should interest you.”

“Then let’s go,” I said. Before he could protest, I added, “Come on, Mary.”

The
QE2’s
thirty-two penthouse suites are accessed via the Queens Grill Lounge. Prall led us through a doorway and up a carpeted staircase with a light wood banister to where a distinguished-looking gentleman in uniform stood at attention.

“This is Mr. Montrose,” Prall said, “gentleman’s gentleman to our penthouse guests.”

The tall, proper Montrose nodded and stepped aside for us to pass.

Prall led us down a hall to the Queen Mary Suite. The door was closed. He knocked. Marla Tralaine’s personal trainer, Tony Silvestrie, opened it. He wore gray gym shorts, a white T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique to good advantage, and sandals. He looked at Mary Ward and me as though we’d dropped in from a foreign planet.

“Excuse us,” Prall said, sounding official.

Silvestrie frowned, then did as he’d been instructed.

The Queen Mary Suite defined opulence. It was a duplex, one of two “First Suites” out of the thirty-two, the other being the Queen Elizabeth Suite next door. While all penthouses contained a balcony, the First Suites had two of them, one enclosed in glass to allow the occupants to enjoy the outdoors even in inclement weather.

We stepped into the large living room where Silvestrie stood alongside Candy Malone, Marla Tralaine’s hairdresser, and two uniformed members of the ship’s security staff.

“This is Jessica Fletcher,” Prall said. They muttered greetings. “Would you come with me, please? Mrs. Ward can wait here.”

I followed Prall into the larger of two bedrooms. He went to a nightstand, picked up a sheaf of paper, and handed it to me. It was a copy of the script I’d written. I glanced at it, looked up at him, then said, “Yes?”

“It’s your script, isn’t it?”

“I wrote it.”

“No,” he said. “What I mean is that it seems to be your personal copy, with notes written all over it.”

I examined it more closely; there were copious notes on every page. I said, “You’re right. There are many notes. But I didn’t write them.”

“Who did?”

“I believe this is the copy used by the play’s director, Mr. Nestor.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes. I saw him use it during the rehearsal last night. These are his stage directions—ideas about how characters should move and speak, motivation and such.”

“Any idea why Ms. Tralaine would have his copy in her cabin?”

“No idea at all, Mr. Prall. Maybe he gave it to her to study.”

Prall shook his head. “I doubt that,” he said. “I talked to her manager, Mr. Kunz. He told me she wanted no part of being in the play, didn’t take part in the rehearsal. True?”

“True that she didn’t take part. But she told me she would participate.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“When she came to the rehearsal.”

“But she didn’t rehearse.”

“No. She left before we finished. But that isn’t strange, Mr. Prall. She had what amounted to a walk-on at the very end of the play.”

“Any idea where she went after leaving the rehearsal?”

“No.”

“Okay. Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks for coming.”

“Call on me any time,” I said. “By the way, how was she killed?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“I understand. I assume I can leave now.”

“Of course. And we’re still keeping this quiet, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“With all those people out there knowing?”

“We’re doing our best.”

“And I’ll cooperate.”

Mary and I left the penthouse and stood in the hall. She had a strange expression on her face, a puzzled one.

“Did you notice?” she asked.

“Notice what?”

“The odor in Ms. Tralaine’s suite.”

“What odor?”

“Garlic. Very pronounced.”

“Oh? Probably from something she ordered from room service.”

“I didn’t see any trays. Did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Mr. Montrose, the gentlemen’s gentleman, was busy in a small galley near the top of the stairs. I poked my head in and asked, “Did Ms. Tralaine order room service last night or this morning?”

“No, ma’am. She had dinner in the Queens Grill, as I understand. There was no room service.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I saw her at dinner.”

He turned to continue the chore I’d interrupted. As he did, I noticed a roster of passengers occupying the penthouses. Mr. and Mrs. S. Teller were listed in the Queen Elizabeth Suite, next to Marla Tralaine’s quarters. Written in red next to their names was SPECIAL MENU.

Mary and I went down the stairs, grasping the banister to keep from falling.

“Still want to go shopping?” I asked.

“I think I will get some rest,” she said. “If you don’t mind shopping alone.”

“Of course I don’t. But can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you interested in a garlic smell in Marla Tralaine’s penthouse?”

She shrugged and said, “I’m very sensitive to odors, Jessica. We don’t use much garlic in southern cooking. I fry most everything. My grits and molded gelatin salads are quite popular in Lumberton.” She laughed. “Except my children aren’t always crazy about my cooking. But I like Italian food with plenty of garlic when I visit Italy. When I was introduced to that Italian fellow who has the cooking show on television, I smelled a lot of garlic on his uniform.”

“Uniform? Oh, his white chef’s outfit. Come to think of it, I noticed that, too.”

“Just an observation,” she said. “Means nothing. Thank you for letting me tag along.”

I watched her walk away and couldn’t help but shake my head and smile. I felt a little like Sherlock Holmes, Mary Ward my Dr. Watson.

Garlic in the air in Marla Tralaine’s penthouse.

Rip Nestor’s copy of the script there, too.

This was shaping up to be a memorable crossing.

I detoured on my way to the shops through the Queens Grill where breakfast was being cleared and preparations were under way for lunch. I spotted one of the waiters serving my table, the one with the French accent. The tag on his uniform said his name was Jacques.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said.

“Good morning.”

“You missed breakfast.”

“Yes. I had it in my room. I wonder if you would do me a small favor.”

“Oui.
Whatever you ask.”

“I’ve been told that Mr. and Mrs. Teller, in the Queen Elizabeth Suite, have a special menu they enjoy each evening.”

He laughed.
“Oui.
They certainly do.”

“I’d love to know what it is. I hear it’s a very healthy diet. I could use a healthy diet.”

“Pasta,” he said without hesitating.

“Pasta?”

“Oui.
For lunch and dinner. Extra-virgin olive oil for Mrs. Teller—Ms. Sims—and red sauce for Mr. Teller. With plenty of garlic. We laugh about it in the kitchen. With all the wonderful dishes available, they eat only pasta and salad. And fruit for dessert.”

“It does sound healthy,” I said.

“And boring,” he said, chuckling.

“That, too,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Will I see you at lunch?”

“I think so.”

“Pasta for you?”

“We’ll see. Thanks again.”

I bought a few inexpensive gifts to bring back to my friends in Cabot Cove, but mostly just browsed the lovely shops along the promenade. At a few minutes before eleven, I met up with an escort who took me up to the bridge high above the ship, where the captain and his officers guided us across the Atlantic.

Captain Marwick was as charming as he was handsome, and the young men and women working under his command that morning looked as though they’d stepped out from a military recruiting poster.

The
QE2’s
bridge, rising almost a hundred feet into the air, is spacious, with windows affording the crew a hundred-and-eighty-degree vista. I assumed the view from there on a clear day was spectacular. The problem was that the weather obscured even the bow of the ship. It was like sailing into oblivion; would we fall off the edge of the Earth any minute? I mentioned this to Captain Marwick.

He laughed and said, “Not a problem, Mrs. Fletcher. Last I heard, the Earth was round. Then again, I might have had a second-rate public education.”

I laughed along with him. “But what if there’s another ship out there?” I asked. “Just beyond where we can see?”

That’s when I received a lesson in the ship’s state-of the-art navigational equipment—the radar scanning twelve miles in all directions, the technology so advanced that trained radar observers can differentiate a ship from a large wave, an iceberg from a whale. Everything is fed into computers, which plot the
QE2’s
course. Aside from needing a human hand when leaving a port and entering another, the passage across the Atlantic is controlled by the autopilot The crew never touches the controls once the course, speed, and other factors are entered into the system.