“For what?”
“For ... being you.”
Concluding our conversation was sad. But I sensed George was under the gun, and I had things to do, too, beginning with a trip to the ship’s hospital to check on Mary Ward’s condition.
Sandy was waiting patiently when I left my cabin.
“Are you going to be with me everywhere I go?” I asked, heading for the stairs.
“Afraid so, Mrs. Fletcher. Where are we going?”
“The hospital. My friend took ill during the cooking demonstration in the Grand Lounge.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“She’s an older woman,” I said, modifying it with, “a little older than I am. Food poisoning can be especially hard on an older person.”
“Food poisoning?”
We rounded the corner and headed down the midships staircase to the Two Deck, near the G Stairway where the hospital and Dr. Russell Walker, the QE2’s medical director, were located.
“It looked that way,” I said over my shoulder.
“From our food?”
I stopped walking and turned to him. “Cunard prides itself on its food, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, it certainly does.”
“Unlikely, isn’t it, that ingredients provided by the ship to the TV chef for his demonstration would be tainted?”
“Very unlikely, Mrs. Fletcher. Unless he brought his own food aboard.”
“Yes, that’s a possibility.”
But not probable, I thought.
I paused at the door to the medical suite. I was almost afraid to step inside. Despite my optimistic prognosis for Mary Ward, I harbored a parallel fear that she might be deathly sick.
I couldn’t shake seeing Elaine Ananthous at the cooking demonstration. I’d conjured a scenario over the past hour. There was no reason for Elaine to attempt to poison someone like Mary Ward. But it was possible, considering her fragile personality, hatred of Carlo Di Giovanni, and fear of losing her television show to his Italian florist friend, that she could be irrationally driven to do something to ruin Di Giovanni’s cooking demonstration. If that scenario proved accurate, my new friend, Mary, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Going in
?
” Sandy asked.
“Yes.”
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Seated in a blue vinyl armchair in the reception room was Mary Alice Ward. Aside from being pale, she didn’t look any the worse for wear after her experience.
“Hello, Jessica,” she said.
I sat next to her. “Mary. How are you?”
“A little shaken, but otherwise pretty good. Healthy southern stock, I suppose.”
“I was so worried. Last time I saw you you were ... well, frankly, you were green, and in pain.”
“My stomach still hurts a little, but not too bad. It happened so fast. I was enjoying myself until I picked at those two mushrooms.”
“It was good there were only two, and that all you did was pick.”
“I don’t really like mushrooms, but didn’t want to be a spoilsport for Mr. Di Giovanni. All I know is that all of a sudden I had these terrible cramps. And then, almost as fast, they were gone.”
“Thank God for that,” I said, exhaling. “What did the doctor do for you?”
“He examined me and gave me some medicine.”
“And he says you’re okay now?”
“Yes. I said I just wanted to sit here a spell before going back to my cabin.”
“Where is Dr. Walker?” I asked.
“Visiting a sick passenger in his cabin.” She looked up at Sandy, who stood in the doorway.
“He’s my bodyguard,” I said.
“Bodyguard? My goodness. I wonder ...”
“What, Mary?”
“I wonder if I could speak privately with you, Jessica.” She glanced at Sandy again.
“Would you mind?” I asked him.
“Sure.”
When he was gone, she leaned closer to me and whispered, “Ms. Tralaine was strangled.”
I sat back hard against the chair, got over my shock, and said, “Would you repeat that?”
She said, “Ms. Tralaine was strangled.”
“How do you know?” I asked, lowering my voice to match hers.
“I looked.”
“Mary—”
“I didn’t look at the body, although I would if I could have. I peeked in the morgue. The room is off that other room over there.” She pointed.
“And you went in there?”
“Just poked my head in.”
“So how do you know she was strangled?”
“There was a report lying on a cabinet just inside the door—an autopsy report. I don’t think they do a complete autopsy, but they obviously examined her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it said under ‘Cause of Death’ ... no, it said ’Apparent Cause of Death’ ... that the cause was strangulation. I saw some notes about bruises on her throat. I would have read more, but I heard someone coming and didn’t want to be caught.”
“I—”
“I hope you aren’t angry with me for taking a look. I just thought that as long as I was down here anyway, I might as well.”
I stood. “Feeling well enough to walk with me to your cabin?” I asked.
She stood, too. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m feeling much better.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“What?”
“I’m feeling much better, too. Come on, Dr. Watson. We have some more talking to do.”
Chapter Twenty
I spent a half hour with Mary Ward in her cabin.
She’d developed a theory of who killed Maria Tralaine, and laid it out for me with clarity and precision. Although it was only that—a theory—it made a great deal of sense, particularly her speculation on why Maria was naked when dumped into the lifeboat on the Boat Deck. I understood why my newfound North Carolina friend had won the murder mystery contest in her hometown. Her deductive powers were as impressive as her physical resilience.
During our conversation, I offered everything I’d learned about those aboard the QE2 who’d had some connection with the slain actress, as well as those who were involved in pursuits that might provide a motivation for murder.
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, announced 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—”