Murder on the QE2

Table of Contents

 

 

I was enjoying my walk on deck with Mary Ward, the lady from North Carolina who had won a trip on the QE2 for winning a contest in mystery solving. We were both reveling in the brisk breeze and the sea-scented air.

 

 

“You know, Mary,” I said, “this is bracing.”

 

 

She’d moved from my side and didn’t answer. She was leaning forward over a lifeboat, as though to better see something.

“What is it?” I asked, joining her.

 

 

I didn’t need an answer because I saw what she had seen—a woman’s bare foot poking up through a small gap in the orange tarp. As shocking as it was, my focus for the first few seconds was on the perfectly applied nail polish on her toes, which was only to be expected from one of the passengers on this supership where everything was done in style. Even murder ...

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First Printing, October 1997

Copyright © 1997 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP.
Murder, She Wrote
is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

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eISBN : 978-1-440-67359-7

 

 

Renee—observer, prod, foil, confidant, and, incidentally, loving wife;

 

 

Susan Shevlin, friend and travel agent, and Jim Shevlin, Cabot Cove’s “mayor”;

 

 

Joe, Priscilla, Tony, and Candy, who made the splendor of the QE2 even more splendid;

 

 

Ron Pacie and Joni Emanuele Pacie, whose Murder Mystery, Inc. sets the standard for murder mystery plays the world over;

 

 

And Joan, Kathleen and Elizabeth McAndrews, Mary McDonough, and Bob and Janet Nakushian, staunch sailing companions across the North Atlantic.

The older I get, the harder it is to surprise me.

But when Matt Miller, my literary agent, called late last winter from New York with a new and unusual project for me, I was surprised to the point of near-shock.

“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Why
me
?”

“The fact that you’re the world’s most successful and best-known mystery writer is reason enough, Jess.” He laughed. “I’ve delivered lots of good news to you, but I’ve never heard you so excited before. As I said, it doesn’t pay that much, and it means having to drop the book you’re working on for a month, but—”

“Matt,” I said, “one day soon I’ll explain why I’m so enthusiastic. In the meantime, I’m running late for lunch with Seth Hazlitt. You remember him.”

“Sure. Cabot Cove’s answer to Marcus Welby. Say hello for me.”

“I certainly will. Can I call you later for more details?”

“I’ll be here all day.”

I hung up and let out a loud yelp of joy.

But that euphoria lasted only a few minutes, replaced by a wave of sadness.

It was twenty years ago that I made my first, and only transatlantic crossing on the fabled
Queen Elizabeth Two—QE2—
the grande dame of all ocean liners. My husband, Frank, was alive then, and had given me—us—the crossing as a joint Christmas present.

We set sail on May twenty-eighth of that year and reveled in the ship’s majesty, and the pampering we received from its large international staff. It was the most pleasurable five days of my life. But it involved far more than the wonderful, seemingly unlimited gourmet food, tea dances at four each afternoon, movies and lively shows and the pool and spa, the dance classes and endless Champagne parties, or being wrapped in a blanket on the top deck at eleven in the morning and served hot bouillon by a courteous young steward.

What was especially memorable was to stand on the deck in fog and heaving seas, and to sense the adventure of being where Columbus and other fearless explorers had gone before without the advantage of advanced navigation technology, or knowing there was a port just a few days away.

My recollection of that trip was as clear as though I’d taken it yesterday.

 

 

Frank and I stood on the
QE2
’s Helicopter Deck, its highest, arms about each other, peering into the distance at Southampton, England, after five glorious days at sea.

“Know what I think, Jess?” he said.

“No. What?”

 

 

“I think we should make this a yearly event. Save toward it all year. Treat ourselves to this grand experience every May we’re alive and can enjoy it together.”

I hugged him tighter. “For a conservative New Englander, Frank, you do have your extravagant moments.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “But only when it concerns you.”

We kissed, and spent the next week in London extending the moment.

We never sailed across the North Atlantic again. Frank became very ill shortly after we returned home, and died later that year. Of course, I often thought about making another crossing on the QE2, especially when May twenty-eighth rolled around. But I could never bring myself to call Susan Shevlin, my travel agent in Cabot Cove, and book myself a stateroom. I just didn’t want to do it without Frank.

But this was different.

This was business.

 

 

“Say again, Jessica?” Dr. Seth Hazlitt said at lunch. We’d been best of friends for more years than I care to admit.

“They want me to lecture about writing murder mysteries, on the
QE2
between New York and Southampton. I’ll be one of a group of people lecturing on different subjects. And I’m to write a murder mystery play to be acted by a Los Angeles theatrical troupe.”

“Sounds like a fairly good thing,” he said in his usual understated way. “How do you feel about travelin’ alone?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, Seth. I travel alone all the time.”

“But not on a big ship crossin’ the Atlantic Ocean.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Makes a considerable difference, it seems to me. I could go along with you.”

“That would be lovely, Seth, but—”

“We’ll talk more about it. In the meantime, finish your lobster roll, Jessica. Especially good, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Seth. It’s especially good.”

I called Matt Miller the moment I returned home. He’d been one of advertising’s top commercial directors, and I’d met him when he directed me in a twenty-second public service announcement. After a stint as president of the Association of Independent Commercial Producers, he decided to follow his natural love of books and became a literary agent, my literary agent and one of the best in the business.