“Well, it may not be a mystery book, but it is a mystery,” Sean said.
“Oh, my God. Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe we’ve all written too many books and films. I know he’s difficult, but who would . . . poison him? Really? Do you think . . .” Frederick leaned in to study Mendel’s face and then backed away. “But you’re right, that rash does look nasty and there’s some swelling. But you don’t die of an allergy as far as I know.”
“You do if your throat swells and closes up.” I remembered an allergy to tomatoes my uncle had late in life and how he was rushed to the emergency room to get his airway opened.
“Cover him back up,” Frederick said. “I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow when he’s sober.”
“Good. Talk to him tomorrow,” Sean agreed. “I think an autopsy’s in order.”
“Do you think it’s an overdose?” Brent asked Sean.
“I’ve seen hundreds of those on the force,” Sean said. “And I would say no. It doesn’t compute.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“I don’t know. That’s what autopsies are for.” Sean shook his head in frustration.
“It’s late. Let’s go,” Mavis ordained. “I personally think it was an overdose if reputations mean anything.”
Mary glared at her, but didn’t say a word.
Mavis had lost all interest in even discussing a cause of death, let alone investigating a real dead body. After all, she was just here to get information and then toady up to Esther.
“I have an early morning,” Curtis apologized. “I should go.”
“There is nothing more to be done now.” Sean started for the door.
We followed. Sean was respected as the authority at this point.
Curtis said goodnight to me at the elevator and took it up with Frederick. I took the other elevator down with the rest of the group.
Death had trumped our date, but I hoped for another. Date, I meant. Not death.
⌘
Chapter 15
Scones and Scorn
The next morning, Mavis and I got our automated wake-up call and she grabbed the shower.
While I waited, I caught the Queen Anne’s daily program on the day’s activities and a run-down of all the facilities available on this massive, luxurious floating city: a hair salon, an Internet café, a library, theatres, an ice cream parlor, gyms, massages, spa treatments, jogging, a pool and hot tub, steam rooms, and outside sporting activities, including golf off the deck. Not to mention an array of high-end boutiques and jewelers. It was amazing. Much nicer than any other cruise I had been on.
Mavis became friendly and chatty as we got ready. I decided to forget her slighting me the night before in Mendel’s stateroom. It was late, we were tired, and we had all had our fill of wine.
We left together, and timely, for the MWW welcome continental breakfast before the first program.
* * *
When we arrived, to my surprise, the large conference room was already full of MWW members standing about socializing and eating. It crossed my mind that all writers may be early risers, as I was. I chuckled to myself. Perhaps their literary careers began as mine had, killing time in the wee hours of the morning.
I admired the elegant continental breakfast laid out at the back of the room. Between the several multi-colored rose arrangements were scones with lemon curd and butter, pastries, coffee, tea, juices, decorative fruit platters, whole fruit jams, and the oh-so-British orange marmalade.
Unhappily, the minute we arrived, Jody and Herbert swept down upon us.
“Mendel Weitzman is dead,” Jody ejaculated.
Her coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup, disappearing into the green and cranberry herringbone carpet identical to the one in the dining room.
“Oops,” Jody took a drink of her coffee.
Agnes trailed up behind them, carrying a plate heaped with pastries and already buttered and marmaladed scones.
“Heart attack. Last night.” Agnes pushed a half chewed piece of raisin scone back into her mouth, but kept talking with her mouth full as her elementary school students undoubtedly do. “A premature loss of such a creative mind. He was a genius. But I have to admit, I couldn’t read his books.”
“Why?” Herbert glared bug-like through his thick black-rimmed glasses
“Too much sex. Sex in the morning. Sex in the evening. Sex at dinner time. Yuck!”
“Speaking of yuck. Wait ‘til you’re finished chewing, Agnes.” Jody turned to Agnes, again sloshing her coffee onto the carpet.
“Well, he was my personal hero,” Herbert announced. “I read every one of his books.”
“You would.” Agnes bit into her raisin scone smothered with butter and marmalade.
“He was young for a heart attack.” Herbert’s nasal tenor voice was loud and serious as he watched Agnes licking the butter off her lips. “I don’t eat butter for that very reason.”
“It wasn’t a heart attack according to Frederick Larsen.” Jody challenged Agnes. “I heard Frederick arguing with security when I first came down. “He went to find the doctor.”
“I should talk to Esther.” Mavis bee-lined to Esther, who was talking to a security man on the other side of the room.
I followed, but just as we approached, the security man left.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Well, not so good, Veronica . . . is it?” Esther retorted.
“Yes, Veronica.”
“Mavis, what is going on here?” Esther turned her back to me.
I stepped back but stayed in earshot.
“Esther, I’m so sorry about Mendel,” Mavis said. “I would have called you last night, but I didn’t want to wake you and there was nothing to be done.”
“Not according to Frederick . . . or Mary and Sean. They said the doctor was drunk and it might not have been a heart attack. But security just confirmed heart attack for the official report.”
“That’s just what I was coming to tell you. I was there and it was clear to me Mendel died of a heart attack. What else could it be?”
“An overdose,” Esther whispered. “And, in that case, we don’t want an investigation or autopsy. I mean that would not be good for Mendel or the MWW or, frankly, the cruise line. Tsuris we don’t need.”
“I see.” Mavis nodded.
“So perhaps we don’t need to stir things up?”
Esther was poised, even when she talked about a real murder. Her slow even cadence signaled no emotion or any urgency.
“It’s up to you of course, but perhaps we don’t,” Mavis echoed.
“You were there?” Esther turned to me and asked. “What do you think?”
“Truly?” I stepped up. “I think an investigation and autopsy wouldn’t hurt. I did discover an odd rash and his pupils were strange and I saw him shaking after dinner before he died.”
I answered definitively before Mavis could discount me again like last night. I wanted to contribute and do my part as much as Mavis did—whether I was a published author yet or not. I, after all, had just solved the Valentine Theatre murders in Hollywood and, as far as I knew, Mavis had never solved a real murder in her life.
“What happened?” Esther was interested.
“His pupils were . . .”
“What Veronica means is that we really don’t know anything beyond speculation,” Mavis interrupted and got Esther’s attention again.
I wasn’t surprised that Mavis fought for center stage, but I was surprised at her blatantly untrue response in view of Esther’s direct inquiries. It was clear her dialogue was aimed at giving Esther what she wanted to hear, and not the truth. It became obvious to me that Mavis was a “yes man” or “yes person.” I was disappointed in Mavis yet again, and believed Esther wanted the truth. I spoke up.
“I have to say the doctor was definitely drunk and I think Mendel didn’t die of a heart attack. I don’t know why he died, but he had an odd appearance. Looking back, I think something was wrong when we left h
im in his room.”
“What do you mean?” Esther asked.
“He had a rash and yellow eyes with small pupils . . . he was shaking and puffy or swollen . . . I’m no doctor, but it didn’t look like a simple heart attack and I’ve seen one before, sadly.”
“Really?” Esther said. “What do you suggest?”
“Hindsight is always 20-20. Looking back, it appeared to be some kind of reaction. I don’t think any of us focused on anything but his drinking last night. And the doctor was so sure of himself. But I remember Mendel drooling and definitely in distress. I don’t know exactly, but I think he tried to tell us what was wrong and couldn’t.”
Mavis stepped up and took the spotlight from me. She wanted to discount me to Esther again, even if I might be right.
“You’re right, Veronica, you are no doctor. And the doctor was clear. Heart attack. Now, he could be wrong, but I truly doubt it. Esther, you have to understand Veronica is really a novice at these things. She’s a beginner. She’s unpublished.”
“Oh? Really? So the truth is, you’ve got bupkes.” Esther looked at me and raised her chin just enough so that I knew I was being relegated to the status of a second-class citizen.
Mavis had put me in my place again. I didn’t like it. I knew I was right. I looked at Mavis through different eyes now. She was a suck-up, a glad-hander. She was a lapdog. I didn’t like her. I might be unpublished, but I wasn’t a novice. I was as much a criminalist as she was. More, in fact. I had written four books. One, as yet unfinished, was based on the murders that I had actually solved for the two inept Los Angeles detectives officially on the case. Furthermore, I had researched many medications, allergic reactions, and poisons to write one of my books.
In my mind, I was anything but a novice. Besides, my new friends who had bigger mystery minds than me, and much more experience, agreed with my assessment. After all, Sean was old NYPD.
“As long as it’s not one of those ship epidemics. They happen too often for me,” Esther looked at Mavis, purposely excluding me.
“That’s so remote.” Mavis assured Esther.
“We’ll talk later, Mavis. Let’s prepare the program.”
It was clear I was not part of their club. The validation of publication had not anointed me.
I decided on the spot that I would spend the rest of the cruise substantiating my theory of Mendel’s death to Esther and discrediting Mavis as she had me. It wasn’t a heart attack and I knew it, and so did Sean, Mary, and Frederick. I would enjoy discovering the cause of Mendel’s death and there would be plenty of time left for Curtis too. If, as Esther intimated, there were a ship-wide problem, we’d soon know anyway. We had all read the news of tainted food, noroviruses, and bad water on cruises. But the doctor couldn’t cover that up for long.
Esther and Mavis walked toward the food tables.
I was left standing—feeling three inches tall.
I went to get tea. I would prove myself right and extricate myself from Mavis’s clutches. Soon, she would be the one feeling three inches tall.
* * *
I got my tea and looked for a group to join. I saw Agnes, Jody, and Herbert, but refused to resort to that.
Beyond, Amy and Anne were by the assorted fruit, delicately cut and colorfully laid out. Amy was dressed beautifully yet again in a brown sweater and slacks. And Anne? Well, Anne was Anne, ever the Brit. She was in a nice light blue wool sweater and skirt ensemble that matched her eyes but a mismatched brown and green floral shirt underneath shattered the effect.
I headed over. Amy intrigued me. Besides, I knew she had a history with Mendel. A history that I could undoubtedly use in the rehabilitative independent investigation I had just launched.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Veronica.” Amy nibbled a small piece of pineapple.
“Good to see you again.” Anne Britished through a tight-lipped smile. “I was just explaining to Amy how I started my book writing career despite believing that my destiny was to be a poet.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I sat in my home outside Bath for endless hours and wrote what I realize now were marginally acceptable poems. I wrote one after another describing my prize garden. I wrote the ‘Happy Yellow Rose’ poem, the ‘Sad Red Rose’ poem, and the ‘Primrose Proper’ poem. Need I go on?”
Anne laughed. Amy smiled. I laughed too, but wondered if they had talked about Mendel’s death. Perhaps that conversation was over, but I would bide my time for an entree to glean information from Amy.
“I was so self-assured poetry was my destiny that I self-published three short books of poems. Blue Sky, Yellow Happiness ,and Red Heart. They didn’t sell. Looking back, I was daft.”
“How did you get into mystery writing?” I asked.
“Easy. The money. My husband’s accountant told him, and he told me, that if I liked writing so much I should make money at it . . . like Agatha Christie. It made sense to us. I wrote The Red Rose Murder and I haven’t run out of flowers yet . . . there are hundreds of kinds of flowers. And then I can go to trees!”
Anne laughed. I chuckled mostly at Anne rather than with her. She was a delightful storyteller even about herself. I had read a few of Anne’s books. Her sarcasm, irreverence, and sharp sense of wit came through in them, even in the titles. Splitting the Agapanthus was my favorite title and book.
“Speaking of vegetation, there was a garden tour of Central Park in the MWW New York writer’s tour? Did you go?” I asked.
“No. I was on holiday visiting my daughter in Ithaca . . . upstate New York. She settled there several years ago . . .” Anne stopped abruptly when she saw Amy zeroed in on Frederick getting coffee. “Amy?”
“What?” Amy whirled back around.
“I’m so sorry. Frederick must be upset about Mendel. I understood they studied writing together with Otto.”
Anne had inadvertently delved into the exact topic I wanted to. But Amy didn’t answer. Her hazel eyes with sparkling gold rims were distracted.
“First, Otto murdered,” Anne added. “And, now, Mendel’s death. It is all so sudden and unexpected.”
“Perhaps it isn’t, though?” Amy had no reaction to my probing.
“Excuse me. I have to speak to Esther,” Amy said. “She had me take Mendel’s place moderating the first panel discussion today.”
Amy left.
Anne looked at me and shrugged. “Have you heard anything?”
“No. Not really. I wish we would have helped him more.”
“I’m sure you did as much as you could.” Anne generously told me what I wanted and needed to hear.
“I imagine so. Did Amy say anything?”
“No. Just how Mendel’s lifestyle predicted it.”
“Ah.”
“I’m going to get another tea and a seat. Join me?”
“Thanks, but I have to talk to Frederick. I’ll see you later, Anne.”
“Perhaps at lunch?”
“Sure.” I agreed disingenuously as I made my way over to Frederick.
“Hello, Frederick.”
“Oh. Good morning, Veronica. It looks as if it’s true.”
“What’s that?”
“Life goes on.” Frederick drank his coffee.
“Yes it does. A little less smoothly, but it does go on.” I thought of my deceased husband and that life had gone on, then, too—rather quickly at that.
“You know . . .” Frederick said. “I . . . ah . . . spoke to Mendel’s agent this morning . . . just to explain to him what happened. I thought he should know. He was the closest thing to family Mendel had. And he was shocked. He said Mendel was as healthy as a horse.”
“Really? No heart problems?”
“No, none.”
“Allergies?”
“No.”
“That’s strange,” I said.
“Yes. So much for the ship’s doctor!”
“Yeah . . . useless. Poor Mendel. Do you think it was a medication interacti
on with the alcohol?”
“Not prescription, anyway. Mendel’s agent said all he actually took was Synthroid.”
“Could it have been something in the water or the food?”
“Don’t know. No one else is sick. I guess time will tell. I drink bottled water.”
“I . . .”
“Excuse me,” Frederick interrupted when his gaze fixed on Esther and Amy, coming our way in the crowd. “I have to catch Esther.”
“I’ll see you at dinner then.”
“Yes.”
I actually couldn’t believe that Frederick had taken me into his confidence. I lauded myself for being so perceptive and outspoken last night. Frederick’s call to Mendel’s agent confirmed that I was being regarded professionally by at least one person here. It spurred me on to pursue my personal investigation of Mendel’s death and countered my humiliation by Mavis.
I turned and left the meeting. I sacrificed hearing the panel discussions by the biggest names in the mystery world. I sacrificed everything I actually needed, including “Characters to Live For,” “Plots to Die For,” and “Publication Pitfalls.”
“But duty calls!” I said to myself.
I left needed to research Mendel’s symptoms and I knew just where to do it after watching the Queen Anne’s closed circuit ship’s guide this morning.
I headed for the ship’s library. It had computers and Internet access. I decided the Internet café would be too busy and noisy. I hadn’t brought my personal old laptop with me to use in my room because it was too heavy, but more than that I had, had no use for it in my current creative dry spell.
I needed to prove my worth amongst these published authors and my new friends. I also wanted to prove that Mavis was wrong about me. I was tired of being humiliated by her in front of everyone, including Esther. It was so cruel and so unfair. I was going to find the cause of Mendel’s death, no matter what the cost—monetarily and personally.
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 10