Death Sets Sail Read online

  I just hoped I could get on the Internet, because service was not guaranteed on the high seas. It could be affected by the Queen Anne’s position and the weather.

  ⌘

  Chapter 16

  And Now We Were Nine

  The library was large with walls and aisles of neatly arranged hardcover and paperback books for passengers to check out, hold in their hands, and turn the pages. It was a throwback to the world before electronic reading and e-books became so abundantly, economically, and conveniently available.

  As it turned out, for Internet access there were rate reduction packages, but the savings was not much and there was no refund for unused minutes. All of it was outside my budget, but I was on a mission. A mission financed by my on-board account where the charges were posted and which I would pay.

  I spent my entire morning on the Internet.

  First, I scanned the latest news on Otto’s murder. It remained unsolved, but the official cause of death was repeated blows to the head. There was a defensive fracture on his right forearm, his left cheekbone and jaw were shattered, and he had four broken ribs. The frustrated and embattled New York’s finest still categorized the incident as an attempted burglary. Evidently, they had no other concrete leads. I checked the MWW chat room and mystery writer’s blogs. They were buzzing with exotic murder plots worthy of bestselling mystery books. The media fanned the flames by reporting anything scandalous short of defamation—sadly, filling their coffers at this icon’s expense. But all the speculation just made the NYPD appear more rational in its conclusion.

  Then, I got to work. I reviewed the effects of Mendel’s prescribed Synthroid and its interactions with drugs and alcohol. Nothing was heart related or life threatening, even though the drug companies enumerated an abundance of side effects ranging from constipation to total insanity. The vast number of absurd and remote warnings, to me at least, invalidated any legitimate warning they could have given. I truly believed that someday a victim of side effects would sue and win because the courts would instruct a jury that the scattergun, catch-all miniaturized font warnings of hundreds of side effects constituted no warning at all.

  I researched the symptoms I had observed before we left Mendel in his stateroom alive, but evidently dying, in his bed. I read about everything we noted after he died, including the time of death as Mary explained it. Mary was a very knowledgeable woman when it came to death and its symptoms. Her experience came from hundreds of deaths she had depicted in so many murder mysteries. I wondered if I would ever have her expertise. I feared I had started writing too late in life and, evidently, refused to devote the time it took to be like her.

  Mendel’s symptoms matched a conglomeration of side effects for an overdose of—or a toxic interaction with—hundreds of medications. When I studied the allergic reactions to medications, foods, and drinks the results were also manifold. All I could really conclude, after all the time and money I had spent, was that Mendel definitely did not die of a heart attack, as the good doctor would have had us believe. This research and learning the medical terms, at least, would make my conclusion more credible and help me express it clearly to whoever would listen.

  I thought back to Esther’s concern it could be something on board that would eventually affect other passengers—that Mendel was just the unlucky first. On other cruise ships, there had been literally hundreds of outbreaks of various illnesses over the years: most commonly a norovirus or a gastrointestinal disease, but also flu and even several dozen cases where passengers had contracted Legionnaire’s disease. There were a number of deaths as well. We in the know had to keep our hands clean and our eyes and ears open, because it was obvious the Queen Anne staff and the Wessex Cruise Line were economically vested in keeping things hushed.

  With all the variables, I needed to narrow my focus. I had to apply the mystery writer’s process of systematically eliminating the possible causes of death. But there were just so many.

  First, from my own observation, I saw Mendel drinking three Martinis that night and eat the olives. Then there was the half empty bottle of gin in his stateroom. And Amy inferred to the doctor that Mendel had been “downing” drinks at her table. So there were possibly more. The Martinis were served at two tables by the ship’s waiters and, presumably, came from the ship’s bar. And, Martinis were all liquor, which meant no tainted water or fruit juice—or anything other than the olives stuffed with pimentos—but they were a well-preserved condiment. Mendel ate nothing at our table before he got up to leave, not even the bread. And, he told Brent that he hadn’t eaten all day. That could have been an exaggeration, but I believed not in view of the marked effects of the Martinis.

  I was stumped. And a lot poorer for every minute I spent on the Internet. So I stopped using the expensive Internet minutes. It was 1 p.m. and I left the library. I took a walk around the ship’s deck to reevaluate and analyze the facts.

  The cool brisk wind was rejuvenating. I inhaled the thick salty sea air and felt it settle on my face. But unfortunately, all I concluded was that I needed more information. I also needed to know more about Mendel and Amy and Frederick. They were a trio that did not compute.

  I went to the cafeteria up on the top deck before it closed for a bite to eat. I hoped I would see one of my new buddies to bounce some ideas off, hopefully Sean or Mary. I knew Curtis would be with his clients.

  I wished last night had not gone as it did. Not only for poor Mendel, but because I had missed my chance at romance as well.

  * * *

  At lunch, I didn’t run into anyone I knew. However, I enjoyed the spacious cafeteria alone. It had wonderful views of the vast Atlantic Ocean. There were dark clouds surrounding the Queen Anne with glimpses of sunlight shooting down, creating patches of sparkling water at the sea’s churning surface. I thought how difficult it must have been for the Allies and Axis powers even to find each other in World War II. The Atlantic was endless, mountainous, gray, cold, and foreboding.

  I meandered around the many food stations: Chinese, Italian, Indian, Thai, and American—even vegetarian. The fruits and desserts were inviting and every bit as gourmet as the dinner the night before. Finally, I chose Italian—crab-stuffed ravioli in white sauce. It was lovely.

  As I sat with my warm decaf Earl Gray tea after lunch, I thought about what Anne had said at breakfast about Otto and Mendel dying so close together. It was tragic, but was it more? Was it too coincidental?

  I had skipped the panel discussions I wanted to hear this morning to do my research. Unfortunately, this afternoon had all the MWW activities I dreaded. There were the groups meetings where authors read their works—presumptively for compliments, even though it didn’t always turn out that way. Then there were the tables of book sales and signings in the main lobby—sales, naturally, were the key to the money pipeline. Most authors dutifully shopped the tables, contributing to each other’s success. Lastly, there were critique sessions for new authors by assigned agents who were experienced authors or teachers. Mavis was in charge of one of them. I had purposefully not brought anything to critique. I didn’t want to be assessed by anyone on this beautiful voyage, least of all Mavis, whose stature had now diminished in my eyes.

  After my tea, I went out onto the deck. I stood at the rail, looked at the dark green sea, and thought about this evening and Curtis. I was soon chilled with no sun and went back to my room.

  I took a long hot shower and washed away the salt in my hair and on my face from my brief sojourn on the deck.

  I napped before dinner and, hopefully, before Curtis.

  * * *

  I woke to Mavis banging around the stateroom.

  “You’re awake?” Mavis was dressed and putting on her jewelry for dinner.

  “I am now,” I mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes, I am. How was your afternoon?”

  “Productive . . . but no time to talk now. I have to get down to the bar. Esther and a group of us are meeting with Frederic
k. Frederick graciously has volunteered to take over some of Mendel’s panel positions and, just maybe, we can get him to do Mendel’s presentation at the awards ceremony on the last night.”

  “That’s nice of him to pitch in.”

  I thought of Frederick’s phone call in the transport van and his irritation at even taking the cruise. I also remembered his angry interchanges with Mendel at the table.

  “I think he should be happy to pitch in.” Mavis dabbed perfume behind her ears. “It puts him out there more.”

  “Out there more!” I thought.

  I marveled at Mavis’s strange and incongruous obliviousness to the politics involved and the pecking order of Frederick’s popular and powerful position in the Hollywood world. Frederick didn’t need to put himself out there more. But it wasn’t my place to teach the teacher.

  “Any more news about Mendel?” I knew Mavis had been with the group all day and was a gossipmonger.

  “Not really. But Sean lodged a complaint with the cruise line about the doctor being drunk. It might make a difference but I don’t know how . . . Mendel’s gone. In my opinion, there is no use ruining our cruise over it.”

  Mavis was dressed in a sky blue silk dress and fabric shoes dyed to match. She looked like she was going to a prom in the sixties. I was glad I was not walking into dinner with her.

  “I suppose not.” I was appalled at her attitude. “But Sean has a point. The doctor might have been able to do more, especially if it wasn’t a heart attack.”

  Mavis did not jump to the bait.

  “I’ve got to go. Esther may have me do one of Mendel’s presentations if Frederick can’t do them all. What a coup that would be! I’m so excited.”

  “Well, good luck!”

  “Thanks.”

  I thought to myself, “You’ll need it.”

  “Speaking of good luck, are you seeing your friend tonight?’ Mavis asked. “What a find he is.”

  “Don’t know.”

  I didn’t want to share with Mavis, not my research, theories or my personal life, let alone “girl talk.”

  Mavis left.

  “Good riddance,” I grumbled.

  I was awake now, so I got up and got dressed.

  I wanted to talk to Sean about my research, anyway. I was intent on rehabilitating myself in Esther’s eyes and possibly making a name for myself on the cruise—just like I had at the Valentine Theatre.

  * * *

  As I approached the dinner line, I spotted Amy waiting alone. I rushed to take advantage of the opportunity to probe.

  “Amy, hi!” I slipped into the line next to her.

  “Hello. Did you enjoy the panel discussions today?”

  “I didn’t get to many.” There was a cheeriness in Amy’s voice that had been absent before.

  “Oh, too bad,” Amy said. “I was on three. I provided the agent perspective. I have done this so much that I was just on auto-pilot.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “But I was a reader for one of the new authors critique groups this afternoon, too. That was interesting.”

  “Do you actually discover new talent that way?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. And I did hear a very interesting chapter read. The young man had a very unique, dark voice. I gave him my card.”

  “That’s good, especially for him.”

  I noted Amy’s unusual chattiness as the line moved forward—more quickly tonight because everyone knew where to go. The faster pace made me push to take advantage of Amy’s unguarded sociability.

  “Have you ever thought of writing instead of being an agent?”

  “I’m published. Many years and a lifetime ago.” Amy was uncharacteristically candid. “But I like being an agent. Who’s yours?”

  “My what?”

  I knew full well I was about to do the agent-two-step again with her as I had at pre-boarding.

  “Agent?”

  “I don’t have one yet,” I admitted bluntly without excuse. “To tell you the truth I haven’t bothered. I will someday.”

  Amy looked at me surprised. “From our conversation at boarding I thought you had one.”

  “No.”

  “Humph, usually novices without agents do nothing but hound me about their books. You haven’t. That’s refreshing. Aren’t you interested in an agent?”

  I had no rhetoric at the tip of my tongue. There was silence. The conversation was not going the way I planned or wanted.

  “Well, look . . . here’s my card,” Amy smiled with her bleached white teeth and two small evenly matched dimples.

  “Send me something! I think you may just have a good mystery under your belt.”

  “Thank you.”

  I put the card in my evening bag, but knew I’d never use it. I was wary of her and didn’t really want any kind of a relationship with her. I was content being the voyeur peeling back fascinating layers of her onion-like personage to see what made her tick. One of those layers, the most important of course, was her time with Otto and why she appeared to dislike Frederick and Mendel—the latter now deceased, with the definitive cause as yet to be determined.

  We were approaching the dining room and time was short. I pushed my agenda.

  “Did Otto help you get started as an agent after you gave up writing?” I delved quickly, and I thought artfully, into her background at Otto’s program.

  “No. Not really.”

  “You must have tried to land Mendel or Frederick as clients.” I needed to know if her observable hostility toward them was professional or personal. “They would have been the plum prizes.”

  “Plum prizes? I suppose so.”

  Amy’s voice was neutral and detached, and she turned forward as we reached the front of the line. She had closed down, but I still pushed.

  “I think any agent would put it that way.”

  “Ah, here we are. Have a pleasant dinner.” Amy took her leave without looking back at me.

  Amy went toward her table—I to mine.

  * * *

  I side-winded through the people and tables to the bustling MWW area. Diners were greeting each other, inter-table and intra-table. Groups were blocking the aisles as collegiality brimmed over. I spotted Mavis hovering over Esther, who was already seated. Esther ignored Mavis and spoke intently to Frederick nearby.

  “Hey, where have you been? I popped my head into a few of your meetings and didn’t see you.”

  I turned in the aisle to see Curtis’s dark eyes sparkling down at me.

  “You didn’t?” I smiled—it was nice to be missed.

  “Fess up. Did you have another date?”

  “No,” I laughed as we now bottlenecked the aisle. “I was indulging in mystery and intrigue.”

  “Writing?”

  I wished. But now was not the time to have a conversation about writer’s block or my recalcitrant muse.

  “No, I did my own research about Mendel’s death,” I whispered. “It was no heart attack! And I ruled out food poisoning, or any poison for that matter . . . no stomach pains.”

  “I think we know all that, Veronica.”

  “Do we?”

  “Of course . . . it’s an overdose. The doctor is simply being discreet.”

  “What? Discreet . . . by covering up a drug overdose?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I do know an overdose wouldn’t look good for Mendel, Wessex or the MWW, would it?”

  “No.”

  “Just a theory from a finance guy. I never underestimate corporate greed. But then, of course, I don’t have your credentials when it comes to bodies or mysterious, untimely deaths.”

  I was pleased Curtis thought well of my credentials, no matter how tenuous they really were in the face of the accomplished, published, and successful writers here. And, I would say nothing to the contrary—not tonight—not ever. I believed that unabridged and voluntary honesty is overrated. Especially, when it comes to relationships, particularly budding ones.

  “Bu
t Mendel was drinking, not taking drugs! He . . .”

  “Who knows without an autopsy and a tox screen?” Curtis interrupted me as diners squeezed by. “I watch cop shows and you write this stuff!”

  “True . . .” I rehabilitated myself. “But the drugs dissipate and . . .”

  “Excuse me.” A portly man’s cummerbunded stomach pushed by.

  “Now is not the time. The bar after dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  For a moment, my gaze followed Curtis to his table. He was so tall and so distinguished with his graying hair and his tuxedo. I wanted a date tonight, not a debate about Mendel’s death.

  As I went to my table, I decided tonight with Curtis we would talk only about him and a possible “us.”

  * * *

  My table—our table—had no place setting for Mendel. Now we were nine. But despite the loss of Mendel, we carried on as usual—hungry, happy, angry, flirtatious, brooding, and boozing.

  Sean studied the menu. Brent leaned over and chatted up Heather, who was giggling and enthralled. Brent, happy with Heather’s attentions, laughed at his own wit and looked down her gently scooped black dress, much as Mendel had done.

  Helga finished her champagne cocktail and ordered another as she, in normal form, gave Brent the evil eye. Brent ignored her glares and Helga occupied herself with her fresh champagne cocktail.

  Mavis, who had deserted Esther, enthusiastically described Mendel’s body to Elias.

  I took my seat and scanned the menu.

  “Good evening,” Elias greeted me. “Mavis just filled me in on poor Mendel.”

  Mavis turned to the brooding Helga.

  “It was horrible.” I replied.

  “Is it true the doctor said it was a heart attack and there’s some doubt?” Elias asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I’m not surprised. All he cares about is what he’s paid to do . . . make Wessex look good.”

  “That’s the bottom line. He was just too quick and cavalier. He didn’t account for any of the strange symptoms.”