Death Sets Sail_A Mystery

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “But Esther is not doing either of them a favor, even if it’s well meaning,” Brent said.

  “From my years of research and killing people on paper,” Mary added, “I can guarantee there were no recreational drugs involved here. At dinner, Mendel had barely begun to party before he had to leave.”

  “It all makes no sense,” Brent concurred. “Mendel left the table because he said he didn’t feel well. Remember? But he fell into that table because something was really wrong.”

  “I can tell you Sean will agree.” Elias insisted. “He’s a cop. He’s seen hundreds of overdoses in his time on the force. He’ll know with one look at the bodies.”

  “You’re right,” Mary concluded. “We’ve got to talk to Sean. This is more than suspicious.”

  Like Ouija board fingers, we started to walk again slowly to the conference room.

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Elias noted. “Last night at the bar when Frederick came over to our table from Esther’s, he hadn’t had that much. He was way behind me, to be frank.”

  I recalled seeing Frederick with Esther and Amy and Heather. “He did look fine.”

  Mary avowed with gravity, “One of the reasons people get away with murder is because no one thinks it is murder.”

  Elias smiled a sly smile. “Murder at our little mystery writers’ conference? You’re such an optimist, Mary.”

  “Bite your tongue, Elias.” I feigned a reprimand, but was really excited too.

  I, and apparently my cohorts too, believed there was foul play afoot. And, I was in the thick of it. In on the ground floor. But more than that, my new friends valued my deductive reasoning abilities. I was an official sleuth amongst stellar sleuths who, in my mind, were the cream of the crop and should indeed be compared to Sherlock Holmes. I knew that I would be truly one of them when, not if, I published.

  “Perhaps we are paranoid,” Mary responded. “But even if coincidental heart attacks will out . . . at least we all have something to do besides listen to writers drone on and on about their craft and Esther bore us to death with her speeches.”

  “I do know two deaths are worth at least a second look,” Elias agreed.

  “If I can help, let me know.” Brent started down the hall. “I’m going to get the end of Curtis’s presentation. I might as well at this juncture.”

  “We will,” Elias replied.

  Brent left and we continued to confer—getting up a head of steam. Personally, I was more convinced than ever that Esther and Mavis were wrong, and I intended to prove it.

  “I’ll do my part too.” Mary said. “I’m going to grill some of these so called security guys. I’ll probably come up with a big fat zero. From what I have seen, these play-cops are only here to enjoy the cruise, too.”

  “Check out any security camera footage you can get access to,” Elias said. “Sean and I will find that refrigeration unit where the bodies are. We’ll take a good look at both again. It’ll be much more interesting than the afternoon panel discussions anyway, even if we don’t find something new.”

  “Can you get in?” I asked

  “I’m sure we can. No one seems to care about much here. If we have trouble, Sean’s badge will do the trick.”

  “Good,” Mary said. “And Veronica, you get started on motive.”

  “Really?” I was honored to be assigned the most important and elusive element of our case.

  “Of course,” Elias agreed. “You are observant and analytical. Frankly, you’re quite good.”

  “You’ll have it,” I said with the confidence of a pro, hiding the butterflies in my stomach.

  “We’ll meet before dinner in the bar,” Elias said.

  “Isn’t this something? A real killer cruise,” Mary laughed, but caught herself. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. I meant no disrespect to the dead.”

  I was excited about my new friends and my new imperative. I was more excited about our investigation than the MWW meetings. I was in search of a real killer, a murderer or murderers. But, ironically, where better to begin than in the meetings?

  “Let’s go assess the suspects, if we can figure out who they might be!” Elias reached for the door.

  He and I slipped back into the room where the panelists were proceeding as if nothing had happened. It appeared that the routine of these authorial purveyors of death was not to be interrupted by real death.

  However, I had no great interest in this panel discussion other than observing potential suspects. I spotted Mavis affixed to Esther for her own reasons and wondered if Esther’s apparent motivations of protecting Mendel and Frederick’s reputations from reports of an overdose were sincere.

  I studied the players in the room and decided to damn the torpedoes and sail full speed ahead. The expression seemed appropriate since we were cruising through the Atlantic Ocean of World War II, even if it came from our Civil War. After all, this was now a war for me as well.

  ⌘

  Chapter 20

  Curiouser and Curiouser

  In the meeting room the panel discussion was lively, despite Frederick’s death.

  Evidently, Esther and Sean had been successful in controlling the group and proceeding with the discussion on “Marketable Ways to Kill Off Your Characters.” An enthusiastic and creative subject for the MWW members, who were the serial killers of the book world.

  I surveyed the room and thought, “Why shouldn’t the panel proceed? No purpose would be served by canceling it. Besides, leaving these book-bound criminalists with too much free time might lead to a herd panic if they discovered what Mary, Elias, Brent and I suspected. More than that, they could interfere with our investigation and my newfound friendships. I didn’t want that.”

  Elias got a coffee and I a tea before we slid into the last row unnoticed. I sipped my tea and mused that if Esther had cancelled meetings based on body count, two mornings of instruction would already be gone.

  At the long table for panelists on the platform, Amy and Anne sat attentively and listened to Sean describing the best types of guns to use for murders in mysteries. Helga listened with only half an ear. I scanned the room looking for motive amongst the mystery writers. Sean ended his presentation by describing New York gun favorites he had found in his years on the force.

  “Thank you, Sean.” Esther stood and led the applause. “That was a very good analysis of the best types of guns to use in different murder situations. Questions anyone?”

  There were, of course, many hands up because all the lower echelon writers wanted knowledge from the premier earners who sat as panelists.

  Esther called on Heather.

  Heather stood. “What is the most marketable murder vehicle?”

  “Thank you, Heather. A very insightful question. Helga, what is your answer to Heather’s question about the most marketable murder vehicle. I presume other than guns.”

  “Yes.” Heather smiled and sat.

  “Helga, can you tell us what you consider the most marketable murder vehicle?” Esther caught Helga off guard doodling on her notepad.

  Helga looked up startled through her dark, heavily lined eyes. “Oh, there are so many.”

  Helga thought and then smeared a grin across her face showing her white teeth surrounded with a cherry-red lip-sticked mouth. She put her left hand up to her chin. Her gigantic wedding diamond blazed in the lights as she thoughtfully tapped her chin with her forefinger.

  “I personally use and adore surreptitious poisonings. They are people pleasers,” Helga announced authoritatively. “Especially dosing over a long period of time. It builds suspense and makes the reader turn the pages to see if, or when, someone will discover the sequential acts. Of course, they never do . . . until it is too late.”

  “Follow-up!” Heather stood and addressed Helga. “But as a beginner, isn’t that too hard to handle with all the clues a writer has to imbed over the long period of time? I know when I started my science fiction writing it took me several books to graduate to
the tough stuff. I mean, might it not just be easier, and just as marketable, for a novice to have someone run over by a car or shoved off a cliff . . . something more spontaneous and simpler?”

  As Heather stood waiting, Helga slowly tilted her chin down and dissected Heather standing exposed and vulnerable. The entire audience followed Helga’s stare to Heather, including me.

  From my observations, Helga was the antithesis of Heather not only in looks, but also deep into the marrow of her being. Helga was demonstratively bitter, ugly, and jealous. Heather was fresh, happy, and excited about blending science fiction and mystery to create her own niche. Helga showed no quarter to this burgeoning, expectant star.

  Helga swept back her black hair, leaned forward, and said pointedly, “I suppose those who can—do. And those who can’t—don’t.”

  Heather’s shoulders visibly slumped and she lowered herself into her chair as if the wind had been knocked out of her.

  Helga crossed her legs, sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms. She was satiated.

  “Well,” Esther stammered, and then looked at Anne at the end of the table to rescue Heather. “Anne, do you have anything to add?”

  Anne shook her head in the negative. She was not going to enter this fray.

  Esther looked out into the audience. “Are there any other questions?”

  No one dared put a hand up now. Helga had cowed Heather and her colleagues—just as she did her husband. And Helga hated Otto, too. I began to wonder what Helga’s real relationship with Frederick and Mendel might have been.

  “I’ll release you for lunch early. Obviously, our afternoon panels can resume on the original schedule,” Esther announced. “And by then we’ll have an update on Frederick and his untimely passing. I know we are all waiting for some word.”

  I remained seated as the crowd filed out.

  “Will you tell Sean I’ll meet him outside to find the bodies?” Elias turned to leave.

  “Sure.”

  I was left alone. Amy glanced at me as she made a beeline for the door. Heather puppy-dogged after Amy, but the crowd swept her out the other door. Mavis, the ever-present boot-licker, waited for Esther in the front row. Sean saw me and signaled from the platform to wait. He dutifully gave Helga his hand to help her down the raised platform steps, and then Anne and Esther in turn.

  Anne and Helga left. But Esther, shadowed by Mavis, accosted me.

  “Did you go to see the body with Brent?”

  “Yes, Elias and Mary, too.”

  “Well . . .” Esther glanced around, obviously looking for a better source of information, but Elias and Mary had left. “. . . uh . . . the doctor was there too, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Good.”

  I was silent and not forthcoming with anything. Dr. Witte’s presence had been useless in finding the truth, but Esther apparently had her uses for him. They were joined at the hip to avoid bad publicity. Esther was well meaning, I presumed, but the doctor was merely a corporate lackey.

  “Did he . . .” Esther continued her questioning, but was interrupted.

  “Ladies, may I join you?” Sean closed the circle.

  “Of course,” I said. “We were just talking about the doctor and Frederick.”

  “Well, what did the doctor say?” Esther demanded impatiently. “I haven’t been updated.”

  “I think the only diagnosis he learned in medical school is heart attack.” I was sarcastic. “He’s like a broken record. I think . . .”

  Mavis interrupted. “So the doctor has diagnosed a heart attack?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Sean interceded. “What Veronica is trying to say is that two heart attacks in . . .”

  “Let’s go find the doctor, Esther,” Mavis interrupted Sean. “We need to talk to the authority in this matter.”

  “You’re right, the expert, not these self-proclaimed mavens,” Esther agreed.

  Esther and Mavis left. I certainly didn’t mind being slighted and, in fact, expected it from Mavis. I knew, however, that Sean should have been treated with the regard a seasoned NYPD homicide detective and prominent published mystery writer deserved. Sean knew it too. He was flushed and his greenish-blue eyes flashed with anger.

  “Good riddance.” Sean had recovered his dignity. “They would just muddle things over to avoid problems. Give me the dope, Veronica—figuratively speaking, I mean.”

  I filled Sean in.

  “And Elias told me to tell you he’s waiting for you outside. He wants you two to have another look at the bodies.”

  “Two heart attacks. That’s ridiculous. I’ve examined more bodies in the morgue than I can count. There’s something not right here and we’ll find out what. Want to come?”

  “No, we divided tasks.” I shuddered at the thought of being with bodies, yet again. “I’m researching motive.”

  “Ah, perhaps the most important element and the often most difficult to find. We’re in good hands with you. Let’s get on it, then.”

  As Sean walked left down the hall, I was proud. I was in charge of the key element of the probable—no, not probable—in my mind definite murders.

  I wanted to deliver motive on a silver platter to my fellow sleuths, my published and popular new writing friends. My new cohorts who were, I believed, just like me in all respects, except for my aversion to publication. I knew after the cruise I had to address that one flaw in my otherwise illustrious writing career.

  But right now, I had to deliver the goods—for real.

  ⌘

  Chapter 21

  No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

  I raced to the library and the Internet again. Yes, the rates were outrageous, but so was murder. The difficulty factor of this task was amplified because I really was an amateur, but it was the most important thing in my life—along with meeting the geographically desirable and perfect Curtis, of course.

  Finding motive would solidify my new MWW friendships. The Internet price tag daunted me, but did not dissuade me.

  The library was a room full of temptations for me, like a candy store is to a child. I started to look through the mystery section to see whose books were stocked on the shelves. I wished I had one of my own to sneak in with them, but I didn’t.

  Since only one of the six computers was unoccupied, I thought better of my detour into the mystery shelves and took the last one.

  I readied myself to glean motive by researching relationships because murders by strangers were much rarer than those by friends or relatives. Besides we had two, possibly three interconnected dead people. I was committed to paying the exorbitant Internet rates to buy credibility and respect. And, indeed, to solving my piece of the puzzle at hand.

  The computers were beautifully placed in the library with expansive views of the endless ocean. I was entranced by the rolling Atlantic with its white caps, at this moment sparkling with tenuous patches of sunlight. There were dark, stormy clouds in the distance, and I thought of my seasickness patches.

  Then, I snapped to. I contemplated an approach, a word search, to find a common thread for Mendel and Frederick’s lives. I believed emphatically that Agatha Christie was right in observing that murders do go unsolved because no one believes they are murders.

  When I signed on, I read the news flashes that scrolled in a frame at the top of the screen. The President was doing something cute with children at the White House, there was still starvation in North Korea, and there was a fire raging near Durgin Park, a well-known restaurant in the Faneuil Hall marketplace in Boston. Just as I poised my fingers on the keyboard to enter my search terms and begin the task at hand, a picture of Frederick popped up with a lead line under it about his death.

  I clicked on it before it carouseled away. There it was, a UPI article about his death:

  “UPI- Frederick Larsen, celebrated two-time Oscar winner and popular fiction writer, is dead. Mr. Larsen’s agent Howard Edelstein and Esther Nussbaum, the President of the
Mystery Writers of the World, confirmed today that Oscar winner Mr. Larsen died from heart failure on the Queen Anne, a Wessex Cruise Line luxury liner. He was to be a keynote speaker on the celebrated mystery writer’s award cruise across the Atlantic. The Wessex Cruise Line expresses its regrets that shortly after the Queen Anne sailed from New York Mr. Larsen passed from a cardiac event in his stateroom. Mr. Larsen’s agent states that funeral plans are pending.”

  Naturally, I thought, the official cover up. And, there was no mention of Mendel’s death. I supposed that his death was not banner-worthy news like Frederick’s; after all Mendel’s career had waned. I did a search and discovered a buried, “back page” similar release about Mendel—again stating death by heart attack.

  I put my anger aside and started my uphill fight to prove our theories. I read Frederick’s and Mendel’s biographies on their respective web sites. They had grown up on different sides of the country. They were never in proximity nor did they even meet until they attended Otto’s writing program in New York. That is where their paths first crossed.

  Interestingly, both of their biographies glossed over their years in Otto’s program. That was a red flag, along with Frederick’s slighting of Otto at the Academy Awards. I was sure, if there were a common ground for their deaths, it would be connected to Otto’s program. That was the intersection of their lives. An intersection with a dead end so to speak, because Otto was also dead.

  Since I knew Amy had been in Otto’s program with them, and she was still alive and breathing, I looked at her agency site for clues. Interestingly, in Amy’s biography on her agent’s website she didn’t mention she was even in Otto’s program. I searched Otto’s program and found that Amy was in an entering class, but was not an alumna. She had never graduated. That fact, and her lack of enthusiasm about Otto, tweaked my interest.

  I recalled Heather had told me a picture of Amy, Frederick and Mendel together was in Otto’s office. I looked at the university yearbooks online. I found one obscure picture of Amy, Frederick, Mendel and Otto on a collage page from Amy’s first year in the program. I studied it closely.