Di Giovanni was so immersed in his cooking he was oblivious to what was happening. The rest of the audience hadn’t caught it either, at least not initially. But when Mary slumped down in her chair, her fingers still pressed tightly against her stomach, and more anguished sounds came from her, it became evident to all that something was terribly wrong.
“Oh, my God,” I said, circumventing the tables and heading for the stage. Di Giovanni was now aware, too, although the realization had frozen him into inaction.
Priscilla Warren, who’d been backstage, quickly came to Mary’s side and said into the microphone, “Is there a doctor in the house?” Then, she shouted, “Get someone from Medical up here right away.”
“She looks like she’s been poisoned!” a woman yelled from the audience.
“Mushrooms!” someone else shouted. “It must have been the mushrooms.”
Di Giovanni started talking into his microphone, his hands waving wildly. “No, it’s not the mushrooms,” he said, his voice booming through the speakers.
People from the audience crowded in front of the stage.
I jumped up onto it and knelt next to Mary, who was obviously in pain. “Help is coming,” I said, hoping to comfort her.
“I don’t want to die,” she said, her voice weak.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, stroking her arm. “You’ll be fine.”
A number of QE2 staff milled about on the stage, waiting for medical help to arrive. I looked up at them from my position low to the floor. As I did, I saw her, only a fleeting glance as she quickly left the backstage area and disappeared from view.
What was Elaine Ananthous doing there?
When I’d left her in her cabin, she’d seemed completely drained, incapable of doing anything but resting on the bed.
But here she was, backstage at a cooking presentation by a man she despised.
She’d given a lecture on using poison to kill people.
Simplify my life during five days on the
QE2?
What a quaint, misguided concept.
Chapter Nineteen
I waited until Mary Ward was carried away on a stretcher by two uniformed ship hospital workers before stepping down from the stage.
“Where are you going?” Priscilla Warren asked.
“Back to my cabin. I have calls to make, and some thinking to do.”
“I’ll go to the hospital and make sure everything is being done for Mrs. Ward.”
“Thank you,” I said. “She’s a remarkable woman. I only met her a few days ago, but I feel as though we’ve been friends for years.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll check in on her, too.”
I passed through the casino on my way to the stairs to One Deck, where my cabin was located. Dozens of passengers were already pulling slot machine handles and betting on the turn of the roulette wheel. I’d stopped for a moment to observe the action when Security Chief Prall approached.
“Yes?” I said.
“I just heard about Mrs. Ward.”
“She’s quite ill. It happened so suddenly.”
“Food poisoning,” he said. “Mushrooms, I understand, prepared by that TV chef.”
“No one knows that for certain. At least not yet.”
“This is becoming an unpleasant crossing,” he said.
“Events have certainly taken the edge off its pleasantness,” I said.
“And I’m determined to see that nothing else happens before we reach Southampton.”
“I hope you’re successful.”
“I’ve met with my staff and other ship’s officers. We’ve tried to establish a pattern that we can use to head off other incidents.”
“A pattern?”
“Identifying those passengers who might be at special risk.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Ms. Tralaine was accompanied on the ship by three people—her manager, Mr. Kunz, her physical fitness coach, Mr. Silvestrie, and her hairdresser, Ms. Malone.”
“And?”
“We feel they need special security for the duration of the crossing.”
“Who else have you identified?”
“You, for one, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Why me?”
“Ms. Tralaine was also aboard as a lecturer. It could be that her killer is targeting lecturers.”
“I’m not sure I follow that logic, Mr. Prall. Ms. Tralaine is the only lecturer to have been ‘targeted,’ as you put it. Mrs. Ward isn’t one.”
“But she was taking part in a lecture.”
He was right, of course. Still, I didn’t think that event supported his thesis.
“And there’s the disappearance of Mr. Radcliff.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Anything new on the search?”
“Not yet. Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve ordered that each person I’ve named—Ms. Tralaine’s people and all remaining lecturers—be assigned a security guard until we reach Southampton.”
“I suppose that’s prudent, although I hope it doesn’t become intrusive. Despite what’s happened, there’s still three more days to enjoy, which, by the way, I intend to do.”
“Good point, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll see to it that everything is kept low-key.”
“There are others who might fit this pattern you’ve established.”
“Oh? Who?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Teller.”
“Why them?”
“Mr. Teller was involved in nasty negotiations with Ms. Tralaine’s people over two movies he wanted to star her in.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” he said. “But there’s really no danger to them. They’re spending the crossing secluded in their penthouse.”
“Next to Ms. Tralaine’s penthouse.”
“Yes, but—”
“And it isn’t as though they’re without visitors. I’ve visited Mr. Teller at his invitation. Mr. Kunz evidently spends considerable time there working on new projects without Ms. Tralaine—now that she’s dead. And one of the actors in my play has been there.”
“Your point is?”
“My point is that it’s highly unlikely that Ms. Tralaine was murdered by a stranger. It was someone she knew, possibly from the very list of people you’ve developed. There’s no telling how many of them have been invited to Mr. Teller’s penthouse. All the lecturers, with the exception of me and Ms. Tralaine, work for him on his cable network. I’ve been told there’s intense infighting among these people over whose show stays on the air and who goes.”
He listened intently, a frown creating deep creases in his wide forehead. “Hmmmm,” he muttered. “You’re saying I should expand my number of people we protect.”
“No, I’m not necessarily suggesting that, Mr. Prall. What I
am
saying is that there are more people on this crossing with links to Ms. Tralaine than you’re aware of.”
“I see.”
Should I tell him that one of his gentleman hosts had appeared in an old Marla Tralaine film? I decided to.
“How thoroughly are the backgrounds of your gentleman hosts checked?” I asked.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, it’s just that one of them, a Mr. Sydney Worrell, once acted with Ms. Tralaine in a film,
Dangerous Woman.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?”
“To answer your first question, Mrs. Fletcher, every employee on the QE2 has undergone a thorough background check. It’s management philosophy that our passengers deserve to be served only by top-notch men and women. That extends to every level.”
“I wouldn’t expect less.”
“Sydney included his acting career on his resume when he applied to become a gentleman host. He mentioned he’d made a movie with Ms. Tralaine.”
“What was his reaction to her death?”
“He was asked about that. He said he knew her only from making that one picture. In fact, I understand he tried to make contact with her just to say hello after she boarded. He sent up a note to her penthouse. She ignored it.”
“Are you sure she never responded to his note?”
“That’s what he told people. He laughed about it, I understand.”
“Will you excuse me?” I said. “I need to make some calls from my cabin.”
“Of course. I’ve assigned someone to you. He should be waiting.”
“I really don’t think that’s ... all right. Thank you, Mr. Prall.”
Sandy, the junior officer who’d escorted me to my cabin when I boarded, was in the hall outside my cabin. “Evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“Good evening, Sandy. Are you here to be my security guard?”
He smiled. “Afraid so.”
“I didn’t realize you were in the security department.”
“I’m not, but they’re running a little shorthanded and thought I might be up to the job.”
“I’m sure you are. I’d invite you in, but I have private calls to make.”
“Of course. I’m not to intrude on your privacy. I’ll wait right out here.”
I closed the door behind me, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. Rip Nestor answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Rip,” I said. “It’s Jessica.”
“Oh, hi. What’s up?”
“I wondered if we could get together tonight. Perhaps right after dinner.”
“Sure. But why? Something wrong?”
“No. I just need to run something by you.”
“Okay. Where?”
“The Chart Room?”
He laughed. “I didn’t take you for a bar type,” he said.
I let the comment pass.
“What time?” he asked.
“Nine?”
“I’ll be there. By the way, how did you think the show went this afternoon?”
“I thought it went quite well.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“Rip.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m fascinated with two of your cast members—Jerry Lackman and Ron Ryan.”
“Why?”
“No special reason. I’ve had a chance to speak with both and find them interesting. Do you know a great deal about them?”
“Sure. I mean, I know their acting credentials.”
“I’d love to see their résumés. Do you have them with you?”
“No. They’re back in California.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Sure it’s just idle interest?”
“Of course. What else would it be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, have to make other calls. See you at nine.”
“Yeah. Nine.”
I tried another call to Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove. This time I was successful.
“Jessica? Are you calling from the ship?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like you’re next door.”
“Modern technology at work. How are things back there?”
“Everything’s ’bout the same as when you left. Only been a couple of days, Jessica. Not time for things to change. I understand that’s not the case with you, however.”
“You heard about Marla Tralaine?”
“Of course I did. Saw it on the TV show with that James Brady fella. He mentioned you.”
“I know. I was there during his broadcast.”
“Hardly what you expected on your ... crossin’, is it?”
“Yes. And no, it’s not what I expected. You tried me before, Seth. I’m returning your call.”
“Ayuh.
I called—so did Mort—just to ask how things were goin’ on the ship, and to say we arranged with the caterin’ folks to deliver a bottle ’a the best Champagne to your table.”
“That’s sweet, Seth.”
“They do that?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure they will. Probably tonight at dinner.”
“You make sure they do, Jessica. Cost a pretty penny.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“But now that I know the actress, Tralaine, has been murdered right there on the ship with you, I’d like to know what you’re doin’ about it.”
“ ‘Doing about it’? What do you mean?”
“Protectin’ yourself is what I mean. You’ve got yourself a murderer loose on board. No tellin’ who he’ll go after next.”
“I’m not worried, Seth. The ship’s security staff is top-notch. I have a personal security guard standing outside my cabin door as we speak.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear that. How’s the weather?”
“Good. It was sunny most of the day, but it’s clouded up now. We might run into a storm.”
I was sorry I’d said it.
“Not a proper place to be in a storm, Jessica. The North Atlantic has taken its share of big ships.”
“I think the storm has veered away from us, Seth. I have to run. Love to Mort. No need for me to return his call, is there? You’ll tell him what we talked about.”
“Ayuh.
I’ll tell him we spoke. Drivin’ me crazy, with all his talk about the play he gave you.”
“Have to run, Seth. Love to all. See you in about a week.”
I called George Sutherland’s London office and was pleased he was there. But he sounded angry.
“Something wrong, George?” I asked.
“The local press has been calling, asking about the plan to helicopter to the ship to investigate Ms. Tralaine’s murder.”
U-h oh, I thought.
“I may be wrong, Jess, but I can’t remember telling anyone on the QE2 of that plan but you. And, of course, the security people.”
I kept my voice light. “Oh, you know, George, how things like that are bound to get around.”
“The story was filed by a reporter on the ship with you. Name is ... ah, yes, Hamish Monroe.”
“I’ve met him. He wanted to interview me. I put him off.”
“Good decision, I’d say. Prudent to avoid the press at all costs. He mentioned a woman named Ward as the person who discovered the body.”
“She ... I’ll fill you in on that when you arrive. Any idea when you’ll be flying in?”
He hesitated. Was he reluctant to give me more details about the question?
But he answered my question. “Day after tomorrow, weather permitting. I checked with our meteorologist an hour ago. You might be facing a nasty storm in the next twenty-four hours.”
“I’d heard something about that,” I said. “Really bad?”
“Could be. Well, Jess, it’s good hearing from you. Mother Nature cooperating, I’ll see you soon. On the QE2.”
“I look forward to it. Thanks, George.”