“Yes, about the play. What play?”
“One I just wrote. I was up half the night.”
“Using
my
actors?”
“I didn’t think you’d mind. It would just be a reading, not a production. I don’t expect them to learn lines.”
“I sure as hell do mind, Jessica. Hey, does this have to do with what we talked about last night?”
“There’s a ... there’s an element of that, although it’s more an aside.”
“Well, forget it.”
“You might want to reconsider, Rip.”
“Why?”
“Because there are things about you and your relationship with your mother—and father—you might not want broadcast.”
“That sounds like blackmail.”
“It may sound that way, Rip, but I don’t mean it to. How about getting together for breakfast? I can better explain in person.”
“I still don’t understand. From what I read, it sounds like you’re going to solve Marla’s murder on-stage.”
“If only it were that easy. Breakfast? Seven?”
“Yeah. Okay. But I don’t like this.”
“You’ll feel better about it after we get together. The Pavilion? Meet you at the door?”
“Yeah.”
Although I’d had only an hour or two of sleep, I was bustling with energy. Showering wasn’t easy because of the ship’s motion, but I managed. I was in the cabin, drying my hair when the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sam Teller.”
“Good morning, Mr. Teller.”
“I read about this one-act play you’ve written.”
“I hope you’ll be there to enjoy it.”
“Why did you write it?”
“I’m not sure I’m obligated to answer that. But I will. This crossing has been a wonderful experience. I wanted to give something back to Cunard. You know, an extra added attraction.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“I wasn’t joking. Why are you calling me?”
“I’d like to see the script.”
“Of the play? Don’t be absurd.”
“Maybe it’d make a good TV movie.”
“Come watch and decide if it would.”
“Maybe I will.”
“I’d be honored. I have to run. Thanks for calling.”
I hung up and felt a surge of excitement. I’d hoped the announcement of the play would generate some interest on the part of those associated with Marla Tralaine. That was my intention. But I hadn’t thought that Sam Teller himself would call.
Or that I’d receive three other calls before heading for my seven o’clock breakfast date with Nestor.
“This is Peter Kunz, Mrs. Fletcher—Marla Tralaine’s manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Kunz. Up early, I see.”
“I read about the play you’re putting on this afternoon.”
“I hope you’ll be in the audience.”
“You bet I will. I’d like to see the script.”
“Why? It’s meant to be performed, not read.”
“Are you free for breakfast, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No.”
“I’d like to talk to you before you put on this play.”
“I’m listening.”
“No. In person, face-to-face. It might be worth your while to hear what I have to say.”
“Would it have to do with Mr. Teller?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, it would. He asked me to call you on his behalf.”
“I’ve already spoken with him this morning.”
“I know. When can we meet?”
“Nine? The Queens Grill Lounge?”
“I’ll be there.”
I’d no sooner hung up when the phone rang again.
“This is Jerry Lackman, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“The famous detective, Billy Bravo. Good morning.”
“I read about the play. Nobody told me there was going to be an added performance.”
“You don’t mind, do you? It’ll be a reading. I’ve already talked to Rip about it. We’re meeting for breakfast to discuss it.”
“What’s the play about?”
“I thought the insert in today’s activity program spelled it out.”
“It sure does. You wrote it based on Marla Tralaine’s murder.”
“Loosely based upon it.”
“What part do I play?”
“One with which you’re obviously comfortable—a detective called in to solve her murder, just as Billy Bravo does in the other play.”
There was a long silence on his end; I could hear his mental gears turning.
“Maybe you and I should have a little talk. Before the play.”
“Maybe we should. Ten?”
“Someplace we can be alone. How about the Crystal Bar? Nobody drinking there at that hour. It’s on the Upper Deck Forward.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up. The phone rang once more. It was journalist James Brady.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’ve solved Maria Tralaine’s murder.”
“Far from it, Jim. But I do have a few ideas.”
“And you’re about to reveal those ideas in this play you’ve written.”
“I just thought the other passengers would enjoy ... would appreciate having a little light shed on a murder of a famous person that took place during their five days on the
QE2.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will. Care to give me a sneak preview of the play? I’m doing my satellite feed at noon.”
“I’m sure you know as much as I do, Jim. The play is based upon supposition, nothing more.”
“Come on, Jess. I know you better than that. It’s okay if you want to play it close to the vest. But maybe I can give you a few lines to add.”
“Oh?”
“Marla was strangled.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“A reliable source. Here’s another new line for you. Your director, Rip Nestor, has an interesting family background.”
I held my breath. Had he learned that Rip was Marla Tralaine’s son?
That’s exactly what he then told me.
“I’d heard rumors,” I said.
“What about his father?” Brady asked.
“You tell me. You seem to be tapped in to the right sources.”
“Haven’t pinned that down yet. You’ll let me know if you do, of course.”
“Of course.”
The fact was I did have an idea of who Rip Nestor’s father was, based upon input from Mary Ward. She didn’t know for sure, of course. But her reasoning, coupled with an uncanny ability to see physical similarities in people, was compelling.
The question was, should I share it with my old friend James Brady? He’d been forthcoming with me. But I couldn’t have him broadcast to the world what would be revealed in the play three hours later.
“Jim,” I said, “if I tell you who I
think
Rip Nestor’s father is—and I stress the word ‘think’—will you promise not to broadcast it until after the play this afternoon?”
“Sure.”
Had it been another journalist, I would not have taken such a chance. But Brady had never gone back on his word with me before.
I told him.
His response was to whistle into the phone.
“I’m dealing with a hunch,” I said. “Strictly a hunch.”
“I understand. Mind if I call my producer in New York and suggest I do a second feed later today? After your play?”
“I don’t have any problem with that.”
“Great. Thanks, Jess. I’ll be in the audience.”
My announcement that a new one-act play, based upon Marla Tralaine’s murder, would be performed that afternoon generated interest beyond those who called me that morning. It seemed everyone on the QE2 was talking about it. I was approached by other passengers everywhere I went, including one passenger who chastised me for “cashing in” on tragedy. I didn’t bother to explain that I wasn’t seeking money or notoriety. I simply smiled and said I was sorry he felt that way. What else could I say?
My instinct after meeting with Jerry Lackman was to retreat to my cabin until it was time for the plays to be performed, and have lunch sent in. But I decided I might as well maintain a public posture. Bringing everything into the open was the reason for writing the one-act play in the first place. No sense playing the shrinking violet at this juncture.
The Queens Grill was abuzz with talk about my announcement in the program. My tablemates during lunch were now reduced to three—Judge Dan Solon, chef Carlo Di Giovanni, and Mary Ward. Elaine Ananthous would remain in her cabin for the rest of the crossing, we were told, under heavy sedation ordered by the ship’s medical director. She’d been told by Mr. Prall that all indications were that Troy Radcliff had, indeed, taken his life by leaping into the sea, although he did not tell her about the videotape that confirmed Radcliff was dead.
With Elaine no longer taking meals in the dining room, Di Giovanni felt comfortable enough to abandon his self-imposed exile and to join us once again. I hadn’t told him that Mary’s illness was the result of Elaine having tampered with the mushrooms. There was enough bad blood between them to add more. I simply said that a chemical had evidently gotten onto the mushrooms. “Not your fault,” I said. “Nothing to do with you.”
We left the restaurant a few minutes before two and walked to the Grand Lounge, where Act Three of the murder mystery was about to begin. It was standing room only. The crowd spilled out into the broad hallways on either side. Passengers lined up three deep on the Grand Promenade, the front row hanging over the railing.
“My goodness,” I said to Priscilla Warren, who’d joined us. “There’s not enough room for everyone.”
“Most of them are here because of what’s to follow,” she said.
“Thanks for getting the printing and photocopying done,” I said. “Sorry to have woken you up out of a deep sleep.”
“Happens on a regular basis,” she said.
Rip Nestor stepped to the microphone, welcomed everyone, and recapped what had taken place in Acts One and Two. He introduced Detective Billy Bravo, played by Jerry Lackman, and the third act was under way.
The audience continued to grow, and seemed to enjoy this act as much as they had the first two. Lackman was impressive in the way he engaged audience members, cracking jokes about what he knew of their personal lives and identifying some of them as suspects.
The act ended a little before three. On the previous two days passengers quickly dispersed when the performance was over. Not today. No one made a move to leave.
“Looks like I’m on,” I said, getting up from the table and heading for the stage, accompanied by Priscilla, who carried the dozen copies of the new script.
The actors and actresses had gathered behind screens, out of sight of the audience. Rip Nestor was with them.
“Everyone ready for the reading?” I asked.
“They’re ready,” Nestor said.
“Splendid. Priscilla, would you please pass out the scripts?” I’d marked each one with the character’s name, and with the name of the actor or actress who’d play that person.
“I love readings,” the young actress assigned to play Sam Teller’s wife, Lila Sims, said. Her character’s name was “Suzie Starlet.”
I’d assigned names to the characters that would help the audience identify their roles.
Sam Teller was “Stan Mogul.”
Peter Kunz was “Bob Manager.”
Marla Tralaine’s personal trainer was “Sal Biceps.”
Troy Radcliff was named “Roy Climber.”
Ms. Tralaine’s hairdresser, Candy Malone, was “Cindy Curl.”
Sydney Worrell, the gentleman host and actor with Marla Tralaine in
Dangerous Woman,
was “Dan Dancer.”
Marla’s lover when her husband was killed, Ron Ryan, was “Joe Gigolo.”
The only character remaining the same from the other murder mystery play was Detective “Billy Bravo,” played by Jerry Lackman.
“Ready, Rip?” I asked.
“I suppose so.”
The cast sat in a semicircle on the stage. Nestor went to the microphone, surveyed the overflow crowd, cleared his voice, and read from the script: “You’re about to be treated to a special one-act play written by the mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher. It’s a work of fiction. But it is based on certain events that have taken place during this crossing on the QE2.”
He went on to talk of Marla Tralaine’s murder, where she’d been found, and of the speculation over who might have done such a dastardly deed.
“But this is fiction,” he said, “and so we will not refer to the decreased actress as Marla Tralaine. For the purposes of this play, our murdered star is ‘Veronica Rivers’.”
The audience laughed. I wanted them to. I’d written the play as a broad farce, with heroes and villains to be cheered and booed.
“Fortunately for everyone, one of the world’s great detectives, Billy Bravo, a legend in someone else’s time, is also aboard. He’s been called upon to investigate the brutal murder of Veronica Rivers. Let’s see what he’s come up with. Here he is—the Columbo of the high seas, the Sherlock Holmes of the North Atlantic, Billy Bravo!”
The crowd went wild, applauding and whistling and stamping their feet as Lackman stood and took a bow. Nestor stepped back, and Lackman took over, utilizing a wireless body mike.
“So what do we have here?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his fingers in front of his mouth, as though holding a cigar. “We have a former famous movie actress, Veronica Rivers, attempting to make a comeback but having it thwarted by m-u-r-d-e-r.”
“Go get ’em, Billy,” a man yelled.
Lackman smiled and said, “That is exactly what I intend to do—with your help.”
“We’re with you, Billy,” shouted a woman.
Applause.
“I’ve taken a close look at all the circumstances surrounding this brutal, wanton act, and I have some questions to ask those close to the deceased—v-e-r-y probing questions.”
He spun around and faced the rest of the cast, seated behind him. “One of you snuffed out the life of Veronica Rivers. And I, Billy Bravo, sleuth without peer, intend to find out
who.”
The cast looked at each other suspiciously, as the script directed them to do.