Death Sets Sail_A Mystery

by Dale E. Manolakas

  As we descended into the bowels of the ship, Sean and Elias watched Brent and I also studied him in profile. Brent’s jaw was set hard, with muscles bulging in his mandibles. His eyes looked straight ahead. He was worried, but in my estimation, not about Helga. He didn’t express any concern on the way down.

  I could feel his mind twirling and fighting through the alcohol he had consumed. I believed he was steeling himself against what we would find, not because he was worried about Helga, but because he was worried about himself. He was calculating the ramifications of the situation in his mind.

  There was nothing spontaneous about Brent’s reactions. He was as controlled as he had been this afternoon with me. As controlled as he could be, with the copious amounts of bar drinks and dinner wine he had consumed.

  I wondered if they should be called celebratory libations in his case.

  * * *

  Our bizarre group went down into the bowels of the ship until, finally, we arrived at a lower, non-passenger deck.

  Curtis caught up to me. “Thought you could use some support.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This way.” The security officer led us single file now down a narrow passageway. “Be careful. Watch your step. And your heads.”

  He led us through several magnetic card controlled access doors. Then, we went through an even narrower gray metal passageway out to the starboard side of the ship. At the end, he opened a small metal hatch in the bulkhead leading out onto a wooden deck, damp with sea spray.

  The captain waited with a group of his security officers and the ever-present, but reliably useless, Dr. Witte. They stood encircling a lifeboat, hanging from its davits adjacent to the gunwales of the ship. There was a pool of very red blood near their feet.

  As we approached, the men turned, exposing Helga’s long, lean and bloodied body. Her black sequined gown from the night before was now wet from the sea air and spray. Her body was crumpled over the edge of the white lifeboat—her hair matted and caked with blood. Helga was obviously, and violently, dead. Her black ostrich feather wrap was absent and her black sequined dress was hiked up, exposing her well-toned thighs.

  “Saints preserve us!” Mary made the sign of the cross beginning on the left side, like any good Catholic.

  “My God!” Elias made the Greek Orthodox sign of the cross repeatedly, once again.

  I was shocked by Helga’s bloodied body rag-dolled over the edge of the white lifeboat surrounded by red splatter. Her head and arms dropped over the edge like frozen icicles suspended upside down. Her dark hair hung toward the ship’s deck and her open, dull, lifeless eyes receded into her sockets. Her ever-red lips gaped open. Her black, spiked, sling-back open-toed shoes were below her on the deck. One had landed upright below her icicled arms.

  “Oy gevalt!” Esther slapped her hand over her mouth to stop her cry and grabbed at the hatch handle to steady herself.

  “I’m here.” Mavis immediately put her arm around Esther’s waist for support.

  “Can we get her a chair?” Mavis asked a security officer, who immediately double-timed down the hallway in search of a chair.

  “Just get her out of here.” The captain dressed down the security officer who had led our parade to the bloody scene. “Get them all out of here. I told you to get her husband.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The security officer cowered. “They followed.”

  “Go, take care of yourself, Esther.” Dr. Witte knew the value of having Esther’s cooperation for the Wessex Line. “I’ll sort it out and meet with you later.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  Esther and Mavis left with the security officer.

  “Where’s that blanket to cover her body?” The doctor barked at another security guard in crisp upper-crust British.

  The word “body” rumbled through our little troupe like a 10-point earthquake. The doctor had now confirmed another death. We knew he was at least talented enough to easily recognize death and this time the cause was obvious—a fall.

  “Which one of you is Mr. Brodsky?” The captain scanned our group.

  “Mr. Hawthorne,” the security office whispered to the captain.

  “What! What did you say?”

  “He calls himself Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Oh, well. Americans. What do you expect?” The captain turned to Brent, almost but not quite eye-to-eye with the tall man. “Mr. Hawthorne, we are very sorry, but your wife has had a terrible accident.”

  Brent, who had been standing stone still at the back of our group, now erupted into an animated tirade as if a director had shouted “action.”

  “Helga. My God, what happened? Helga. Helga. She’s . . .”

  “Yes.” The captain stood at attention in his dress uniform as a sign of respect. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you in time. She’s passed. You have our deepest condolences.”

  “In time?”

  “We found her alive. She tried to hold on for you.”

  “What?” Brent was startled. “What do you mean? Hold on?”

  “You are Brent, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “We believe she said . . . murmured your name before she passed.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” The captain feigned compassion as best he could. “I’m sure she was saying good-bye in the only way she could.”

  “What happened?”

  “It should be apparent, sir . . . your wife fell . . .” The captain’s irritation bubbled up again.

  “Yes, I see that, but . . .”

  “Obviously, from her balcony and, as she descended, she was swept back into these lower lifeboats in the storm. The wind . . . the rain . . . the swells . . . the ship tossing. We hit a few big ones”

  “Of course.” Brent noticeably relaxed.

  “There’s only one thing.” The captain paused.

  “What?”

  “What was she was doing out on your balcony in the storm?”

  “I don’t know. I was playing blackjack most of the night.”

  “But out there? In a storm like that?” The captain murmured.

  “She . . . she loved weather. Real weather. Storms. Rain. She often walked in it. For inspiration, I think.”

  I glared at Brent. I had listened to Helga enough to know he was lying. Brent caught me. I looked away.

  “Ah, understandable then. And, we . . . uh . . . we think her coat blew away?”

  “I imagine.” Brent agreed.

  We had gone down an elevator aft from where Brent and Helga’s cabin was located to get to her body. She had been swept backwards—a very long way. I knew Brent had to have thrown her off that balcony. But he had done so awkwardly, and she had missed the sea under their balcony, contrary to what Brent had planned.

  Helga’s body showing up onboard was Brent’s surprise, not the fact that she was dead. And I distinctly remembered in the van when she warned Brent that the cruise better not be stormy and at dinner when she said she hated rough weather at sea.

  “Are you sure she’s . . .?” Brent asked the doctor. “Can we help her?”

  “No.” Dr. Witte stepped forward.

  “Oh.” Brent darted a nasty look at the security guard who had led him to believe Helga might still be alive. “Did she suffer?”

  “No, she was more than likely disoriented from a fall that high.” The doctor took the blanket from the returning security man and placed it over Helga’s body. “She was not conscious for long, if at all, given that height.”

  “Thank God.” Brent lowered his head. “Thank God. She didn’t suffer.”

  Brent was suddenly calm and relaxed. The Captain and doctor thought it was because Helga had not suffered. They were wrong. I knew it was because Helga hadn’t been conscious and able to reveal that Brent had thrown her off the balcony.

  “The machinist who found her thought she tried to speak . . . your name a
t least. But as a doctor, I can assure you it was just air being released from her lungs when he moved her head to see if she was alive.”

  I leaned over to Curtis and Sean and whispered, “He killed her. I know he killed her.”

  Curtis looked at me, surprised. “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Shh,” Sean sputtered.

  Brent glanced over malevolently. Had he heard what I said?

  “Didn’t you miss her when you went to bed last night?” Dr. Witte asked.

  “Finally, a good question,” I thought.

  “She’s a writer and keeps her own hours. I don’t disturb her,” Brent replied. “We have a suite so that she can . . . well, be alone to write when the muse strikes, which is . . . or was . . . erratic.”

  “Yes, quite,” the captain said.

  “I hadn’t seen her all day. I tried to find her. In fact, I asked Veronica over there to help out. I suppose I was upset because we’d had a tiff in the bar the night before. But then, that was nothing new, as anyone can attest. She was a temperamental artist to the core.”

  I shivered. Not because of the cold, but because I had to be his witness—or I knew I would be his victim.

  “Quite understandable.” The captain cleared his throat again. “Long marriage and all that. Can’t avoid the occasional disagreement, can we?”

  “No, we can’t.” Brent stepped up close to Helga’s body and buried his hands in his face.

  “Oh, Helga . . . Helga . . . Helga . . .”

  Brent stood sobbing like a baby with his hands over his face and his shoulders bouncing a rhythm with his sobs. He and his sobbing and his outburst were as phony as the CGI animation they shoved down our throats at the movies now. I didn’t want to walk out on the theatre-of-the-absurd before me—and valiantly suppressed my urge to mock the Brent Show.

  Sean put his hand on Brent’s shoulder. I glanced around the sympathetic group. Sympathy wasted. This was murder, a third murder on board the Queen Anne. I scrutinized Brent, as any good criminalist would. Unfortunately, his hands were devoid of scratches or other signs that he had struggled with Helga before tossing her over her balcony.

  “Dr. Witte, get him out of here,” the captain said. “He’s had enough. Give him a sedative if he needs it.”

  “I’ll take you back to your stateroom.” Dr. Witte doctor wedged himself between Sean and Brent.

  Sean turned to our group. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes.” Mary turned to lead our group back into the bowels of the ship.

  I lingered further to observe Brent. His face had no marks or scratches either. But, to my surprise, Brent’s eyes were red and real tears flowed from them over his cheeks. Brent was a superb pretender and a shrewd murderer.

  “Come on.” Curtis took my arm.

  As we left, the only question in my mind was whether Helga’s murder was premeditated. Had Brent planned this before the cruise? Or did he just take advantage of the storm and Helga’s own uncontrolled, public drunken spectacles? Proving this murder would be hard with no observable scratches or marks on him, his credible alibi, and the Wessex corporate machine burying everything not Disneyworld-worthy.

  I was angry. I was offended. Brent had used me publicly to cover his tracks. He did it with Mavis as a secondary witness. He chose me not because he thought I would be discreet, but because he believed I was stupid, gullible—an amateur who was a cut below all these famous, published authors. He took advantage of me because of Mavis’s dinner table disclosures and humiliation.

  I was his dry run before dinner—his rehearsal to prepare for the big guns who observed him here: the captain, the doctor, and the published sophisticated criminalists like Mary, Sean and Elias.

  Little did Brent know that he had made a mistake by using me.

  I would not be his friendly witness, his patsy. Unpublished I might be, but I had no less an analytical mind than my new cohorts. I could compete with any mind on this ship, including his. My past success in crime solving proved that.

  Suddenly, my mind ground to a halt and I panicked. After my behavior at the Helga-discovery, did he now realize that he had made a mistake in using me?

  I should have kept my looks to myself.

  I should have been circumspect.

  I should have kept my big mouth shut.

  ⌘

  Chapter 34

  The Mourning After

  The captain and security officers stayed to facilitate depositing Helga’s body with the mounting pile.

  Brent, escorted by the doctor, followed us and a crew-leader as we all filed back through the entrails of the ship to the elevator. We waited.

  “So, Brent, you played blackjack most of the night?” Sean, the ever-detecting homicide detective, probed at him.

  “I’m sorry?” Brent looked cold eyed and steel-faced at Sean.

  “Let the man be,” Dr. Witte ordered.

  Elias elbowed Sean who stopped the interrogation.

  “I feel so badly I wasn’t there for her, doctor,” Brent said.

  “How could you know?” the doctor soothed. “I’ll give you something to rest.”

  I didn’t laugh out loud, but I could have. In point of fact, Brent needed his rest after laying his wife to “rest” so brutally.

  Brent and the doctor exited on Brent’s deck. Brent dragged along behind the doctor, stoop-shouldered.

  It was farcical to me.

  * * *

  “He killed her.” Sean announced the minute the elevator doors shut.

  Mary smirked. “Can you blame him? That woman was a monster.”

  “And he used me in his cover-up charade this afternoon.”

  I explained the afternoon and Brent’s implicit threats just minutes ago.

  “Well, he tossed her off, that’s clear,” Sean concluded.

  “Yes,” Mary agreed.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Are we sure?” Elias asked, startled at the vehement, unquestioning consensus.

  “Yes,” Mary answered. “You’re no amateur. Put two and two together.”

  “I have. I just don’t want to believe that he did it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what criminals trade on,” Sean interjected.

  “Then, what do we do now?” Elias asked.

  “I think we have to keep our mouths shut.” Sean said. “We have no proof.”

  “Yeah,” Mary agreed. “And, God knows, we have enough trouble without taking on a man who tosses people off ships.”

  “Next time, he’ll get the body into the sea.” I said. “Practice makes perfect.”

  “What do you mean . . . not say anything?” Curtis spoke up. “Even I know he did it. I watched him. His eyes were cold and the tears well-done but without emotion.”

  “They sure were,” Mary chuckled. “I smelled the onions he had on his fingers when he touched his eyes. And, I’ve put that scene in at least ten of my books. Who doesn’t know that trick?”

  “Are you kidding?” I exclaimed. “That’s how he did it? They looked real to me and his eyes were red.”

  “An old trick,” Mary went on. “Onions are particularly good, and fun, a little flavorful addition to spousal murder plots.”

  “Film actors use onions, too,” Elias added.

  “The raw onions he ordered for his steak!” I said. “I could kick myself!”

  Curtis leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Veronica, your friends are fascinating. I think I may take up mystery writing myself.”

  I smiled at Curtis. His wonderful musky smell overwhelmed my analytical thoughts. As he whispered, his breath wafting gently on my ear reminded me of last night. His thick strong chest, iron shoulders, and lovely gentle biceps positioning me—first above him and then below and then doggy style. As we made love, the evening had become a Kama Sutra night of exploration for me. Exploration that I, at this late age, invited with hesitation, then fascination, and then wild participation.

  Suddenly, I caught myself breathing
deeply. I shook the images and thoughts off. I had to focus.

  The elevator opened on the main deck, and we all gravitated to the bar like animals to their watering hole.

  * * *

  In the bar, we grabbed a couple of tables and put them together. Curtis held the chair for both Mary and myself. And then took a seat next to me. That pleased me. Curtis was enthralled with our group’s never-ending pastime—solving murders—never-ending murders.

  “That’s number three.” Mary settled in.

  “Four . . . if you count Otto,” I corrected.

  “True,” Mary agreed. “But either way, I personally didn’t expect another body to pop up . . . or drop down . . .”

  Mary chuckled and I couldn’t resist.

  “This is amazing.” Curtis shook his head. “If I weren’t with you all, I never would have suspected murder in any of the deaths.”

  Mary smirked. “Well, I thought the bodies were done piling up. I didn’t know Brent would join in the mayhem at sea. Brent either planned this or decided no one would notice one more body.”

  “I don’t think he planned it.” Sean signaled a server. “I think he was just fed up and drunk and stronger than her.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think he came on the cruise with Helga to kill her. I believe the two other deaths actually inhibited him. But then, she was such a horror he just cast caution to the wind. Her gambling with his allowance was the last straw.”

  “I agree,” Elias said.

  “I think Veronica has hit the nail on the head,” Curtis said. “If I may express my opinion as a mere financial advisor.”

  We all chuckled at the needed levity.

  “She has,” Elias agreed. “At dinner, Helga said Brent talked her into the crossing. He was always planning n taking advantage of the storm. But Mendel and Frederick’s deaths became flies in the ointment. Then, he went ahead anyway when Helga got so publicly out of control.”

  “I have to concur . . .” Elias shrugged. “It was set up too nicely for him to ignore.”