Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Read online

  Mavis was not on the list. However, I expected that if I had started younger and had received Otto’s help, I would have been.

  On the MWW homepage, Mavis and Esther had already posted an obituary. It was literally plagiarized from the Internet article I read before—but then they were both under time pressure. Mavis was right about the chat rooms. Rumors were flying! But she hadn’t mentioned it was a wholesale professional character assassination.

  Was this sour grapes—or had Otto’s death given license to tell the truth about this icon?

  I was now late, but informed. I shut down my laptop and double-checked the doors and the timers on the lamps and televisions. As I left, I set the alarm system. Organizing my life for a long week’s absence was hard. My dear departed husband had contributed more than I thought to the order of our lives. He had, unfortunately, died several years ago after an over-full, productive, and chaotic life.

  Just as I got to the sidewalk, the shuttle arrived. I was on my way and reveling in the expectation of soon becoming a part of Mavis’s inner circle and being vetted by her amongst the greats.

  On the way up Lincoln Boulevard to LAX airport, I imagined that I would have become Otto’s fast professional friend if he had sailed with us, especially with Mavis’s introduction. I didn’t care about his alleged past personal shortcomings—even if they were true.

  ⌘

  Chapter 3

  Clouds of Many Kinds

  I endured the pre-flight security invasion and noted the unlucky people who were randomly detoured for special treatment. After x-rays bulleted me with their probable cancer link, I reached for my shoes knowing my valuables were safe—because I brought none.

  I finally stuffed myself into my mini coach-class seat for the flight to Kennedy International. We were held on the tarmac, but I didn’t care. I was on my way to fulfill my destiny on the MWW awards cruise, and my aisle seat had some air circulation—albeit the oxygen-deprived passenger mix.

  During the flight, I studied the MWW program schedule and was delighted with all the big names in the writers’ world participating. I liked several panel discussions: “How to Kill Quietly or the Poison Pen,” “Characters to Live For,” “Plots to Die For,” “How To Self-Publish,” and “Self-Publication Pitfalls.” The self-publication part was intriguing. Maybe it was simpler than I thought. One panel about Octopus Books, the largest e-book self-publisher Internet retailer in the world, particularly interested me: “Octopus Books: Pimp or Publisher—Stealing Authors Royalties”. Did that mean what I thought it meant? Were authors Octopus’s whores after all the years of writing, editing, and advertising? I had heard about Octopus’s surprise unilateral royalty changes that yielded pennies to authors for their books. I needed to know more.

  I put the program away and leaned back. The only fly in the ointment on this trip was that my classmates Jody Thurston, Agnes Granchelli, and Herbert Frutlander were coming on the cruise. They were not writers of my skill and promise, but insisted, despite Mavis’s dissuasion, on accompanying us.

  The three had never completed any books, unlike me. And, over the years the chapters they shared in class showed they were fossilized writers stuck in their own mistakes, forever. They would never be amongst the published and they would never fit in on the cruise. At the moment, I was just glad they were not chewing my ear off on the flight. They had flown early to New York for the one-day tour of famous writer’s sites.

  After the cruise, I was going on the three-day tour of British writers’ sites in London and Shakespeare’s Stratford-on-Avon. I was a theatre arts major in college and had always wanted to visit Stratford-on-Avon. It would give me even more theatre cachet in my acting circles and social material for future MWW events—which I planned to attend when I came back.

  As I sat there with the drone of the airplane engines, I dozed off satisfied and happy in that thought.

  * * *

  During the flight, the pilot made up some time, but not all. We landed late in New York. I was anxious about logistics because I hadn’t traveled alone since my husband died. However, when I exited the jet bridge, there was a Wessex Cruise Line sign held high with a young man’s friendly face beneath.

  I magneted over with my roller carry-on trailing. The bag had everything I needed for my first night on the ship. Mavis had warned me that on her last cruise she had to borrow a dinner dress because her checked bag did not get to her cabin on time.

  “Hi. I’m Veronica Kennicott for the Queen Anne sailing.”

  “Good morning. Welcome to New York and the Wessex Cruise Line. A group is waiting for us. I’ll take your carry-on.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed him through the crowd to ground transportation. As we wound through the airport, I touched up my lipstick and straightened my cherry red shirt collar over the lapels of my navy linen summer suit. I had bought it just for the flight and boarding. It was a loose size eight now. I had purposely dropped five pounds in preparation for the crossing. I had read about the famous Wessex gourmet meals and wanted to enjoy every one.

  Down the escalator in the luggage area, three men and a woman were loosely grouped near another Wessex sign held high by a woman.

  “May I have your claim check?” My escort held out his hand.

  “What?”

  “Baggage claim check to get your luggage?”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  He disappeared, still in charge of my carry-on safety net.

  * * *

  As I approached my group, a tall, toned man with brown hair, graying temples, and sunglasses stood with his back turned. He was having an intense “thing” on his cell phone. I slowed and listened.

  “Wait a minute. I’m here, aren’t I? Any more threats and I’m not going to sail on that ship! You’ll have to come yourself and do the Otto-adoration dance. The guy was a monster. He deserved what he got.”

  I was shocked. I stared open-mouthed at him. He glanced around to see if anyone had heard him and caught me full face. He turned back and lowered his voice. He was less audible, but still uncontrolled.

  I kept walking, but even under his sunglasses I had recognized him. He was none other than Frederick Larsen, the famous film and television writer, and a graduate of Otto’s. His antics were Hollywood tabloid fodder at my grocery store checkout stand and he had just been on television getting an Oscar for his independent film script—it was his second. Twenty years ago he had received his first for best original screenplay.

  This year Otto had presented the Oscar to Frederick. Intriguingly, Frederick didn’t shake Otto’s hand or thank him in his acceptance speech. But, when Frederick finished, Otto stepped forward and put his arm around Frederick’s shoulder. He spoke about Frederick’s great talent and their enduring friendship until the music-signaled time was up and drowned him out.

  The news the next day touted it as the most moving moment of the night. I realized now, after my eavesdropping, that Frederick had intentionally ignored Otto both on stage and in his speech.

  * * *

  As I joined the clustered Wessex group, a tall, striking, exquisite middle-aged woman snapped at me.

  “We’ve been waiting an hour.”

  The woman’s short, seamlessly highlighted rich jet-black hair showed her colorist was an artist and expensive. It encircled her pale pancaked face which was crayoned with bold black eyeliner around her dark eyes, blushed cheeks, neon red lips, and a thin penciled black brow arched above her depilated natural one, gone missing.

  I recognized her as well. She was Helga Brodsky, the most prolific and best selling female mystery writer in the last decade. She used several noms de plume, but each one was well known now. Everyone sought out her twenty-five books regardless of the names she had used early in her career. They loved her fast-moving plots and intense, if not distorted or, I would say, psychotic characters. Mavis and Esther had gotten Helga to take over some of Otto’s roles on the cruise. Helga had agreed to moderate his panel on
agents and to be the keynote speaker at the awards, as well as to present Otto’s posthumous lifetime achievement award.

  “I’m so sorry.” I extended my hand as I smiled up at her. “My plane was delayed. I’m Veronica Ken . . .”

  “Let’s go.” Helga interrupted, ignoring my hand, and headed to the double glass doors labeled “Ground Transportation”.

  I was stunned. Helga not only looked just like her pictures on her book jackets, but she acted just as the tabloids depicted—rude and hideous. I recollected the news coverage of her marriage to old Puritan and Boston Brahmin stock from Cape Cod several years ago, and her rancor at the press characterizing her as a “cougar”. She had to be at least fifty now, but looked thirty-five thanks to a skilled plastic surgeon.

  Helga strode away, not quickly but determined in her haute couture red tailored silk suit. The short coat was tight across her broad shoulders. At her side, her hands with long red nails marched away with her. The straight short skirt was loose through her narrow hips and displayed her long muscular legs bottomed-out with red four-inch heels perfectly matched to the handbag swinging at her side. She was an imposing person, even from behind. But a noticeable totter on her spiked heels, born of age, as they carried her through the double glass doors, flawed her exit.

  The Wessex woman followed Helga with her Wessex sign bouncing overhead.

  “Too bad she doesn’t fall over,” I murmured.

  I looked to make sure no one had heard me. They hadn’t. But an attractive, very tall man to my right smiled and stepped over.

  “Sorry. It’s been a long night for Helga. I’m Brent Hawthorne . . . Helga’s husband.” Brent extended his hand.

  I noticed a slight Bostonian accent as he spoke. He was part of the Hawthorne family based in Boston, but himself living in Cape Cod. His ancestors included a judge at the Salem witch trials and the famous 19th century American author Nathaniel Hawthorne. He was taller, younger, and nicer looking than his news coverage. I hadn’t noticed him there. No one would have, given her machinations.

  “I understand.” I shook his hand and smiled. “Veronica Kennicott. Nice to meet you.”

  Brent was not particularly embarrassed or surprised at Helga’s rudeness. He smiled politely and handled the situation smoothly, suggesting this was routine for him.

  Brent’s suit hung loosely on his tall, thin body. His hair was done jet black like Helga’s. His complexion was that of a man who spent a lot of time in the sun. He was attractive, animated, and charming, but his blue eyes were incongruous. Despite the facade, his eyes could not hide a disturbing hollow sadness. They had the worn look of a “non-person.”

  I surmised the grocery checkout tabloids were correct. After he had squandered the family inheritance, he had married Helga for her money. It and she allowed him to keep his Cape Cod lifestyle and do his tabloid-touted competitive sailing.

  “Brent, come!” Helga glared at me.

  I instinctively cowered. Brent instinctively obeyed.

  “Yes, dearest.” Brent neoned a detached smile.

  When Helga swiveled her head back around, Brent’s smile fell from his face and his eyes narrowed. But he heeled after his wife without another word, like a well-trained big dog.

  I stared in amazement.

  * * *

  My Wessex man came back rolling my large checked bag with my carry-on perched on top. With his sign dangling at his side, he followed Brent.

  Frederick walked past me whispering loudly on his cell.

  “Gotta go. And when I said no speech, I meant it. Don’t bother me again.”

  Frederick put his cell in his shirt breast pocket as he fell into step behind the others. He was Hollywood-attractive in his light washed blue jeans and black linen shirt, extensively wrinkled from his flight. He trailed along slowly with his camel leather jacket over his arm.

  I usually loved a parade, but this one was a bit too intense for me.

  I followed, shadowing these professional writers who I knew were my colleagues-to-be.

  * * *

  After several steps, a deep voice with an intoxicating base tremolo spoke to me from behind.

  “Going on the Queen Anne?”

  I glanced back.

  Behind me was a tall man wearing a midnight blue business suit, white shirt, and maroon, cream, and midnight blue stripped tie. His deep eighty-five percent cocoa eyes twinkled as he fell in step with me and smiled down at me. He appeared to be in his mid-forties but had a stunning head of gray hair with traces of his former dark brown. He was over six feet tall, and filled out his suit jacket nicely around the shoulders and chest.

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. In fact, I had to arrest a sloppy grin in the making. He was so good-looking and so friendly.

  “I’m in the mystery writer’s group. Are you?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. But it sounds like fun.”

  “I’m Veronica Kennicott.”

  “Curtis Mihaly. Nice to meet you.”

  He held out his large hand. It encircled mine gently. I looked up into warm, friendly eyes.

  The trip might be more exciting than I had planned.

  ⌘

  Chapter 4

  Vanities

  At the van, the driver piled our suitcases and carry-ons in the back, Helga’s on top as was her command.

  Helga and Brent took the entire four-person center seat. Brent’s head skimmed the van roof and his long legs were pretzled against the front seats and still blocked the walk space to the back seat. Helga simply spread out luxuriously next to him displaying her bare smooth crossed legs.

  I tucked my head down and squat-walked past Brent’s knee into the narrow rear seat book-ended by the wide wheel wells. When Curtis Mihaly started to follow me, the driver stopped him.

  “I can’t believe I got three of the tall ones. Sit shotgun. It’ll be more comfortable for you.” The driver threw his lunch and papers off the seat.

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I thought, disappointed to be separated from Curtis and hoping he was, too.

  The bus driver then turned to Frederick.

  “I am sorry, sir, but would you be more comfortable in the middle or the back?”

  Brent retracted his legs to make room for Frederick, but Helga spread out more.

  “Thanks, the back is fine.”

  Frederick instinctively knew that a scene with Helga would accompany any attempt to sit in the middle seat. Actually, we all knew it and were grateful for the reprieve—especially the driver, whose face notably relaxed.

  Frederick squeezed into the back seat and put his jacket over his knee.

  He greeted me through his sunglasses. “Hello. I’m Frederick Larsen.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Sorry about the phone call back there. Just agent problems.”

  “I understand.”

  I lied. I literally had no understanding about agent problems and, furthermore, I knew full well the phone call was not about agents, but instead about Otto.

  “Are you an MWW cruiser?”

  “Yes. Veronica Kennicott.”

  “Veronica Kennicott? I can’t place the name.”

  I knew the dance-of-the-published-book-titles was coming. I had my excuses on the tip of my tongue, but knew this would be a very sophisticated volley and not something I was used to. Worse than that, the entire van would be the audience and potential participators, including Helga.

  “Oh? I . . .”

  I was happily interrupted.

  “Yoo-hoo . . . Yoo-hoo.”

  An energetic plump woman called and waved as she ran up to the open van doors in her sensible white heels as her large white purse pendulumed at her arm. Her white and blue pin stripped seersucker dress had ridden up, exposing her bare white chubby thighs.

  Trailing in her wake was an out of breath, older, stocky man in khaki slacks and a bright blue short-sleeved golf shirt.

  “We made it. You
didn’t get rid of us.” She teased the Wessex woman as she leaned on the van to catch her breath—her ample white and thoroughly pilled cardigan bunched under her generous arms. “You were supposed to wait while we went pee.”

  Her high-pitched squeal was incongruous with her substantial stature.

  “I’m so sorry. I . . .”

  “Forget it, dear. I’ll grab that seat there in the middle.” The seer suckered mass started to move again.

  “ . . . thought you could see us.”

  The Wessex attendant apologized to the backside of the harried, hard-breathing woman thrusting her heavy body into the van. There was, of course, no seat per se between Helga and Brent. However, as the determined sizable woman jostled across Brent’s long legs, Helga’s defensive slide to the window quickly created one.

  The woman plopped herself down between Helga and Brent. She perched her purse on her knees and what was left of a lap at the end of her stomach.

  “That’s my Dior you’re sitting on.” Helga grabbed her red handbag peeking from under the seersucker.

  “Oops. Sorry.”

  The woman adjusted her seersucker down over her knees and straightened her cardigan. Her brown and gray bun loosely pinned on the back of her head bounced as she adjusted herself.

  “Where shall I go?” The older, stocky man boomed with a deep voice and heavy accent that I could not place.

  He peered into the van at me with his dark sparkling eyes. I smiled and scooted as far as I could toward the window.

  “Thanks, I’m coming in.” The man started his crawl across Frederick.

  “Let me move, too.” Frederick’s tall body slid agilely over to me in the middle, giving the older man the seat near the wheel well.

  “Thank you, sir.” The older man plopped down.

  Frederick actually had more legroom now spreading out in between us two shorties.

  “I’m Elias Vlisides, gourmet Greek cook and mystery writer.” Elias grabbed Frederick’s hand and shook it. “You’re Frederick Larsen. One of Otto Stein’s Oscar-winning students.”