Death Sets Sail Read online

  What did I know about any of that? Besides, I had heard authors made a pittance while Octopus Books made millions.

  Nonetheless, in my mind’s eye, I am what I believe myself to be—an author—an author about to have dinner with my new colleagues.

  ⌘

  Chapter 7

  Table for Ten

  Mavis and I headed out early in search of the dining room for our eight o’clock dinner seating. I was hungry, but that was secondary to my excitement at meeting our table full of possibly famous professional writers—our dinner companions for the entire cruise. I thought of my table assignment in my evening bag as a lottery ticket. However, if Helga were seated at our table, she would be the booby prize, world-renowned or not.

  On the way to dinner, we met several wandering hordes of hungry passengers also searching for the dining room for the first time. Confused, excited, dressed to the nines, and mostly charming, we all chattered our way in the right direction. I was surprised at the large British and European contingents. I recognized them only by their array of accents ranging from upper-class British to working-class Cockney, and from German to French to Italian.

  An older, modestly dressed Scottish couple joined us in our elevator quest.

  “Good evening.” The man nodded with formality and spoke with the unmistakable Scottish brogue of his people.

  The wife didn’t speak. He had done their duties.

  “Good evening,” we replied in unison.

  I enjoyed the Scottish-ness of him. The Scots were a proud people and were offended if you called them Brits. After a bloody history, by the Act of Union in 1707 England took Scotland’s parliament and self-rule away. But the Scots remained fiercely Scottish if conflicted, with a last violent gasp in the Jacobite Rebellion in support of “Bonnie Prince Charlie”, which failed in the bloody battle of Culloden in 1746. After centuries, in 1999 they got their own parliament, for domestic matters only, yet still took an oath of allegiance to the British Crown. They were still ruled by Westminster for UK-wide-issues. In 2014 they volitionally voted to stay in the UK. The economic strings that tied them to the UK could not be ignored and corporate propaganda, an uneducated youth, dependence on the dole, rewritten history, and ignorance of their great heritage had diluted their fierce pride.

  As the Scot held the elevator door for his wife and the rest of us, I flashed back to my husband and how much had changed since his passing. I had begun my authorial life to fill a void in the early morning hours when I was alone except for my television. For a time, too long a time, I joined the brain-atrophied populace in channel surfing, looking for something to care about in its transparent pabulum. I made the home shopping salespeople my buddies, talked to newscasters like they were friends, and slid into the world of old movies and television series. But no more, and this cruise was testimony to my new, improved way of living.

  * * *

  By the time we found our way through the ship, Mavis and I were no longer early.

  We got off the elevator and saw a loosely organized line waiting for the eight o’clock dinner seating. The head of the line was up a majestic walnut paneled staircase leading to the dining room entrance. The line extended down it into a wide hall carpeted in emerald green. It was color coordinated with the fleur-de-lis in our “stateroom” corridors.

  The Scots queued quickly, as was their national custom. We made our way to the end with the moans of American impatience.

  The line buzzed with conversations and friendly introductions. The men were either in dark suits or tuxedos. The women wore short or long evening dresses or evening pants, many sparkling with sequins, beads, or rhinestones. Everyone’s faces shone with expectation.

  This MWW cruise was the most coveted event in the mystery writer’s realm. During the five day trans-Atlantic crossing all the big name writers, agents, and publishers participated in daily programs, panel discussions, and presentations. Every mover and shaker in the mystery world was headlined, including film and television producers and writers in the “industry.” Networking was the order of the day. Deals were made and careers launched.

  Plus, I had to admit Otto’s murder added to my interest, and I looked forward to being in the hubbub about it, too. I would be a part of Otto’s memorial and mingle with his graduates who undoubtedly would have thoughts on his murder, solved or otherwise by then.

  Mavis’s long beige dress was perfect and so was my simple but elegant mid-calf black silk dress with a long sleeved, waist-length jacket.

  “Here we are,” Mavis announced, very teacher-like. “This is the end. Long way up there, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll get there.” I looked at the flood of passengers now behind us. “Do you know who is seated at our table?

  “No, it’s been . . .”

  Mavis stopped abruptly.

  “What?” I turned back to her.

  To my surprise, Curtis was standing with us. He looked even taller and more handsome than he had this afternoon in his black tuxedo with a forest green cummerbund and tie.

  Mavis stood silently, gawking.

  “Veronica.” Curtis smiled down at me. “May I join you?”

  “Of course!” I instantly self-edited my excessive enthusiasm. “I’d like you to meet my stateroom mate and friend, Mavis Osborne.”

  I was so happy he had made the first move after taking leave of me at the transport van.

  Mavis fluttered her eyes and in an unfamiliar girlish voice oozed, “Hello. I’m pleased to meet you. Are you with us? I mean do you write also?”

  “No. Nothing so exciting. I’m giving a series of financial seminars.”

  “Oh? You’re a professor then?”

  “No.” Curtis smiled with his winning smile. “I’m a financial advisor with American Financial Management.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Mavis syruped. “It’s quite famous.”

  “I’m sailing with clients. Doing seminars. Business getting.”

  “How interesting.” Mavis beamed. “Can we attend?”

  “Of course, you both would add glamor to our little group.” Curtis exuded chivalry and charm. “Plan on it.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Yes. Wonderful,” I echoed. I was disgusted with Mavis’s palpable purring motor that was obvious, uninvited, and uninviting. “Where’s your roommate?”

  “I don’t have one. I have to work.”

  “Oh?” I wished I didn’t have this roommate interruptus, either, at this moment of expectant anticipations and possibilities.

  But Mavis would not take her eyes off Curtis. Her eyelashes kept batting and she kept chatting about herself and the MWW.

  I was more than annoyed.

  * * *

  The line moved quickly and efficiently. We finally reached the head of the line at the top of a mahogany staircase. We waited on the large landing overlooking the breathtakingly expansive dining room.

  Too bad it didn’t take Mavis’s breath away. Mavis was still monologuing to Curtis about herself and her mysteries. Each of her books sounded like a literary masterpiece on the level of Joyce Carol Oates. Not! I had read a few of Mavis’s “who dunnits” and I had never even finished her last one. Unfortunately, I knew who “dunnit” far too early in the book, and she had no strong character to hold my interest. Mavis made money with her books because they were pabulum for lonely elderly ladies. However, I did admire her immediate skill in redirecting all of Curtis’s attentions from me to herself. I would have to be more careful of this pseudo-femme fatale.

  At present, there was no upside in interrupting Mavis and vying for Curtis’s attention. It was a done deal that would end with our parting for our own dinner tables. But it was an object lesson: keep Mavis at arm’s length where interesting males were concerned—not that I considered her serious competition with her age-associated matronly shortcomings. But she was a gnat I had to swat.

  * * *

  On the landing, as Mavis noised on, I was in awe at the dining room below
.

  The main floor was polka-dotted with large round white-linen covered tables. They were amply spaced and popped out on the background of the green and cranberry herringbone carpet. Each table of ten was already filling with animated diners. The perimeter had two upper tiers with rectangular tables. All the tables had multi-colored rose centerpieces encircled by place settings of sparkling white china, silver flatware, and simple elegant stemware. Above it all, in the center of the gold leaf sculpted ceiling was an immense sparkling crystal chandelier.

  When our turn came, a silver-haired, quite charming, and pleasantly portly maître d’ greeted us with a highbrow British accent, just as he had the couple before.

  “Good evening. I would like to personally welcome you to the Queen Anne and our exquisite dining experience. We’ll escort you to your assigned table this evening.”

  Then quickly and efficiently, white-coated servers stepped forward to inspect our seating cards. The couple behind us did not have cards, but the maître d’ found them quickly on the tablet he carried.

  As Curtis started to follow his server, he turned back to me, leaned over, and whispered, “Would you like to have a nightcap later?”

  “Sure.” I was audibly calm, but my heart jumped.

  “The main bar by the casino after dinner?”

  “I’ll join you there.”

  I watched him going down the sister mahogany staircase inside the dining room to the main floor.

  A hesitant young woman in a black skirt and starched white coat then took Mavis and me to the right. She led Mavis single file up the narrow stairs to the mezzanine level. I trailed after them, disappointed at not going to the main floor. We wound through the mezzanine with its tables for two or four, and some for eight, abutted to the wall with four chairs on each side, ill-configured for true sociability.

  When we reached the end of the mezzanine, the server stopped and talked to a white-coated older man. He pointed down to the main floor. We followed her and she followed the direction of his point down a flight of steps.

  “Good,” I murmured, anticipating being deposited on the main floor.

  We wound past several tables now filled with elegantly dressed diners. They were smiling and introducing themselves to their tablemates and dining companions for the five-day sail across the Atlantic.

  I held my breath as we walked by Agnes, Jody, and Herbert seated at their table. As we thankfully passed by the few empty seats there, Agnes, making mileage as usual, was talking about her husband’s big Italian family. Her dining companions were actually engrossed. I was happy for her that she had a good shtick going for a couple of dinners.

  Agnes caught my eye, waved, and called, “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!”

  Because of her twenty-five years of teaching, elementary school behavior infused her every action. I nodded in recognition to shut her up and kept walking. That acknowledgment satisfied Agnes and she turned her attention back to her table. I knew they would eventually get tired of her prattle, but then they were a captive audience for five nights unless they chose room service or the cafeteria.

  Ahead, Amy was at a table seated across from Mary O’Connell and near our MWW president Esther Nussbaum. Esther was diminutive and her impeccable shoulder length blond hair sparkled, incongruously youthful around her late-forties face. I had never met her, but recognized her from MWW newsletter pictures.

  At that table, Mendel stood behind the empty chair between Amy and Esther commanding everyone’s attention with a bombastic speech. He was swaying, but it wasn’t from the ship’s movement. The Queen Anne was sailing as smoothly as Brent told Helga it would. The empty Martini glass in Mendel’s hand flaunted the reason for his instability.

  I noted that even his tuxedo could not make this man attractive or taller. Energetic charisma? I gave him that, but that was all. The entire table enjoyed his story, whatever it was. I observed him as he swept back his receding, graying sandy brown hair. He picked up a fresh, green-olived Martini from near Amy’s wine glass and took a drink.

  As we passed, he lifted his Martini and gestured sloppily with it as he orated. He then lifted it higher in a toast.

  “And that was the Otto I knew and hated!” Mendel proclaimed with his raised glass sloshing Martini down onto the table. “May the marvelous bastard rest in peace.”

  Everyone at the table laughed uproariously, everyone but Amy who glared up at him. Mendel took another drink of his now halved Martini, popped the olive in his mouth, and signaled the waiter for another.

  “Your table.” Our guide redirected my attention.

  * * *

  My hope was fulfilled. Our table for ten was on the main floor amongst the elite. It was near Amy and Esther, but strategically away from my classmates. The table already had four diners and one of them was Elias. I was delighted. I was even more delighted when I noticed Curtis at an adjacent table. It was populated with attractive, animated elderly couples.

  He nodded at me. I nodded back.

  As the guide left us, Mavis scanned the four diners already seated. She sat with a portly tuxedoed man who she chatted up immediately, as she had Curtis. I took Mavis’s cue and deserted her for Elias. I knew I enjoyed him and would the entire cruise. Also, I didn’t want to risk the roulette wheel of seating with unknowns.

  I put my napkin on my lap decisively. I had also chosen that seat with a secondary objective in mind. It had a direct line of sight at Curtis.

  I thought “out of sight, out of mind” and I did not want to be out of Curtis’s mind’s eye—even for a second.

  ⌘

  Chapter 8

  Almost All Present and Accounted For

  “Veronica!” Elias boomed. “How wonderful. We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Never.” I bantered.

  I was proud that this pillar of mystery writing was vetting me to the group.

  “I’m so glad to see you again.” I milked the moment.

  Mavis eyed us and eavesdropped on our jovial and familiar interchange. She scrutinized me quizzically, obviously curious, surprised, and I believed envious at my connection with this nationally known writer.

  “We are going to have a fun table.” Elias leaned toward Mavis. “And you are?”

  “Oh?” I was gratified to be the one making the collegial introductions. “Elias Vlisides, this is my friend, author Mavis Osborne.”

  “Hello.” Mavis was obviously thrilled to meet Elias. “I loved your Tiropita Triple Homicide.”

  “Thank you.” Elias ate up the recognition. “And I certainly recognize your name. Nice to meet you.”

  I knew full well Elias was lying. He didn’t recognize Mavis at all because he didn’t mention any of her books by name. That would have been the standard-and-proper acknowledgment decorum with writer-on-writer introductions, but only if he actually knew of Mavis and her works.

  “Let me introduce both of you to our other dinner companions.” Elias moved on quickly to cover his lack of Mavis-publication knowledge. “Everyone, this is Veronica Kennicott and her friend Mavis Osborne.”

  The three other seated diners turned their attention to us. I was ecstatic that Elias introduced me first and then referred to Mavis as my friend, instead of the other way around. I momentarily felt like a professional writer—an author-in-print amongst the same—or, at least, an indie e-book author in the distribution chain.

  “This is Anne Thomas, British mystery writer extraordinaire from Bath.” Elias referred to the elderly woman on his other side.

  “Good evening. Nice to meet both of you. It’s going to be a lovely cruise.”

  Anne had a refined and upper-crust British accent. She was a small, thin woman with gray unruly short hair and sparkling blue eyes that matched her blue evening dress with blue beads sewn around the collar. I recognized her immediately from her book jackets. Her famous international best-selling British murder mysteries were based on gardening themes. I had read Pushing Up Daisies, Under the Roses, and Splitting the Agap
anthus. It was her humor that made them so saleable.

  “And next to Anne is Heather Edison, an Otto alumna. Science fiction now, but looking at changing to one of us because we are more fun.” Elias gestured to the striking beauty next to Anne.

  Heather smiled at both of us with shimmering pink glossed lips. Her long straight natural blond hair hung like pale silk over her pure white skin that had a touch of blush on her high cheekbones. Long dark luxurious lashes framed her round, deep sapphire-blue eyes. I didn’t read science fiction, but I did recognize her name. She was touted as a brilliant, creative science fiction writer. I was curious as to why she was interested in mystery writing, but perhaps she had simply run out of science fiction plots. I had days to find out.

  Elias then turned and introduced me to the man Mavis had chosen to chat up.

  “And this is Sean O’Flarity . . . a former NYPD homicide detective who immediately started writing his mystery books when he retired. Once a novice, but now the premier, most authentic detective writer on the scene.”

  Sean O’Flarity wore a tuxedo, wrinkled from his un-artful packing. He held his napkin in one hand, stood, and reached across Mavis with the other to shake my hand. When he stood, he exposed his paunchy white-shirted belly spilling over his displaced black cummerbund. He had an aged but not unattractive square, wrinkled face with reddish hair and graying temples.

  “Hello. Any friend of Elias’s is a friend of mine.” He shook my hand vigorously.

  I was pleased that he regarded me as a friend of Elias. I also noted the phrase “once a novice” Elias had chosen for him. I knew Sean actually had achieved instant success when he came on the scene with writing as a second career and, interestingly, from a non-writing background. I had read one of his books. It was a good plot driven man’s man book that apparently women loved, too. I hoped his success story would take the attention off my unpublished status. It had certainly attracted Mavis. I understood her choice of seats now.