Free Murder on the QE2 by Jessica Fletcher Page B

at that early hour.
    I changed the subject.
    “Tell me what you’ll be lecturing about,” I said.
    “Poison,” she replied.
    “Poison?”
    “I know it sounds silly, but since so much of what’s going on during the crossing has to do with murder—your lectures and the play, I thought I’d discuss poisonous plants and how they’ve been used in murder mysteries to ... kill people.”
    She was about to break into tears.
    ‘ “That sounds like a wonderful lecture,” I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice.
    “Maybe I shouldn’t do it,” she said. “I could say I’m sick.”
    “But then you’d miss the fun of the crossing. No, you give your lecture on poisonous plants. I’m sure it will be fascinating.”
    I hadn’t noticed that Mary Ward had joined us. When I did, I told her the subject of Elaine Ananthous’s lecture.
    “I always enjoy mysteries where poison is the instrument of death,” she said. “I don’t like blood and gore, guns and knives. Give me a good old-fashioned poisoning any day.”
    I smiled and said, “I tend to agree with you.”
    “‘How oft hereafter rising shall she look; through this same garden after me—in vain.’ ”
    She answered our quizzical expressions with, “It’s from the Rubaiyat. A favorite of mine. I love poetry.”
    “We’d better break this up,” Rip Nestor cut in suddenly. “You’ve got a full house waiting for you, Jessica.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “I almost forgot I’m supposed to speak.”
    Priscilla Warren, whom I hadn’t seen since the dismaying events of earlier that day, suddenly appeared. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I’ll introduce you.”
    Working from a biography supplied by my publisher, she breathlessly rolled through a list of my publishing credits. The audience applauded as I stepped from the wings and approached the microphone. But Priscilla intercepted me halfway there and whispered, “The word is getting around about Ms. Tralaine. If anyone asks about it, please say you know nothing.”
    I spoke for almost forty-five minutes, tracing the history of the murder mystery, mentioning the basic types, and talking about how I’d been influenced by great mystery writers, past and present. I then asked if there were any questions.
    There were, many of them. But no one mentioned Marla Tralaine.
    The other lecturers, who’d stayed after the play to hear me, were congratulatory, as were Priscilla Warren and Mary Ward.
    . I looked at my watch. “I did go on, didn’t I?” I said, shaking my head. “It’s four. The tea dance is starting.”
    “A word, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    Jerry Lackman, the actor who would make his appearance as Detective-Sergeant Billy Bravo in tomorrow’s second act as the officer called to the TV studio to investigate Millard Wainscott’s murder, beckoned me to join him apart from the group.
    “Yes?” I said after we’d moved a few feet away. “Oh. You wanted me to arrange an introduction for you with Marla Tralaine. I’m afraid it’s too—”
    “Yeah, too late,” he said. “She’s dead.”
    “You know.”
    “I know.”
    “The captain has asked us to not publicly discuss it,” I said.
    “I know that, too. What did they tell you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Very little.”
    “You discovered her body.”
    “Yes, I—actually, Mrs. Ward over there made the discovery. I was with her. How did you learn about it?”
    “The word’s getting around.”
    “That I discovered the body?”
    He nodded.
    “No one in the audience seems to know.”
    “They’re keeping it in official channels.”
    “Why would that include you, Mr. Lackman?”
    “Call me Jerry. I didn’t mean I was official or anything. I guess I get too wrapped up playing a detective. Live the part.”
    Somehow, I didn’t believe him.
    “Jessica,” Troy Radcliff said. “You promised me the first dance.”
    “I did?”
    I watched Lackman go to where other cast members congregated, and replayed our brief conversation over in my mind.