Death Sets Sail_A Mystery

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “Too bad she stopped writing about murderers and became one,” Mary interjected.

  “Do you blame her?” I replied. “The utter betrayal, by people she loved and trusted.”

  “The flash drives would only have helped put the nails in Amy’s coffin if we had all the other stuff, but we don’t now,” Sean declared. “I think she wrote the novel before she decided to kill them. We’ll still see what my partner says about getting her for Otto’s murder.”

  “She should have just published it and not killed them,” I said. “If she had leaked its origin in the circles that count, she would have at least ruined Frederick’s career and any chance of Mendel’s revival.”

  “I guess that wasn’t enough for her,” Mary replied.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Sean focused the conversation. “We are where we are.”

  “And speaking of where we are,” I said. “I saw Brent.”

  “I thought he would hole up in his cabin until the cruise ended. Keep a low profile. Feign mourning,” Sean said.

  I told them what had happened.

  “Well, it’s not a confession, but he’s a desperate man and you’d better watch it,” Elias cautioned. “You should have played along more.”

  “I know. I made a mistake. I was just so upset about being used like that yesterday.”

  “At least we know if you go overboard, it’s Brent,” Sean chortled.

  “And if you or Elias or I have heart attacks, it’s Amy.” Mary joined in with a nervous chuckle.

  “They wouldn’t dare at this point, would they?” I asked.

  “Why not? The Wessex spin is working, and they have Esther teamed up with them,” Mary replied.

  “And desperation has its own momentum,” Sean added. “People who are desperate can do anything. I’ve seen it before in my cases. Rational thought is not the foundation for actions of people trying to preserve their freedom. We have eighteen hours until we dock in Southampton. Eighteen hours to keep our eyes on each other.”

  “Let’s have lunch in the dining room and then stay together at the afternoon panel discussions,” Mary suggested.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” Elias stood. “Especially for you girls.”

  “I hate to be sexist, but it is always the women who seem to go first in my mysteries.” Mary headed out.

  “And, in real life . . . excuse me . . . real death.” Sean followed.

  I fell in step behind them.

  “Sad but true.” Elias took a last look at his ransacked cabin and then trailed our troupe out the door.

  * * *

  Marching abreast down the hallway to the dining room, I felt safety in numbers, particularly after being held in Brent’s vise-like, angry grip.

  “We’ll keep together,” Sean recounted. “We’ll have lunch together and go to the same events this afternoon. We’ll escort you girls back to your staterooms to change for the awards. Then we’ll pick you up again.”

  “I really can take care of myself,” Mary objected.

  “Mary, we have to protect . . .” I started.

  “But . . . I’ll do it.” Mary interrupted. “But just because I like being referred to as ‘you girls’.”

  “Me too, actually.” I chuckled at Mary’s reasoning, which reflected her writing style.

  In Mary’s books, the smallest of events or references often changed the victim’s fate. It hit home with me, and from her sales numbers, obviously all of her readers. I tried to do the same in my books, but it was hard.

  The thought that small events or inconsequential conversations could change the course of your life scared me now. Did life turn on the minuscule, not the monumental—a light turned off or not, a car parked in the wrong or right place, an unkind or kind word, a fight picked when it should or shouldn’t have been?

  “I’ll escort you this afternoon, Mary,” Elias volunteered. “Your cabin is near mine. And Sean, you take Veronica.”

  “My pleasure. But what about Curtis?” Sean winked at me. “I don’t want him to think I am moving in on his territory.”

  I picked up the flirtatious cue and ran with it.

  “Why not? He could use the competition.”

  Sean and I laughed. I had made the old man happy. I enjoyed it.

  Mary interrupted our fictitious, but satisfying, tête-a-tête.

  “I have to get my awards speech ready. Have you done yours, Sean?”

  “Esther has me presenting for the best short story published this year,” Sean answered. “It’s the same thing I did two years ago. I just tweaked it a little.”

  “Mary, this is your first time, isn’t it? Are you ready?”

  “Holy sakes, yes. Esther trapped me when I was in a pliable mood. Best first time published book. Piece of cake. I’m a talker,” Mary glanced at me. “But I wish I was presenting it to you, Veronica.”

  “Maybe next time!” Elias’s mustache bounced with his encouraging smile.

  “Yes!” Mary’s eyes crinkled in her chubby face as she beamed. “Next time, Veronica.”

  “I hope so.”

  I smiled. But I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I feared I would never get an award at the rate I was going. If I survived this cruise, of course.

  The four of us got in the short line for the dining room single lunch seating. Most passengers lunched in the cafeteria on the top deck, in their rooms, or not at all.

  “Each of us has to put our crime-solving brains to work. We have to get something incriminating and solid on Amy tonight. Let’s be at the bar before the cocktail party to strategize and share our ideas,” Sean whispered with finality and authority. “Lunch is open seating. Be careful what you say. There could be big ears around us.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I guaranteed. “Being in Amy’s closet was no fun for me.”

  I actually looked forward to not rehashing the murders and meeting new people at the open seating lunch. It would be refreshing to get our minds off death. But I held that thought to myself. I didn’t want to be less serious than the exalted writers with whom I was now associated.

  “And having my room ripped apart was no fun for me either,” Elias said.

  We paused in the foyer. The view down to the elegant dining room was as breathtaking in daylight as it was at night. The chandeliers were lit and sparkled and the tables set as beautifully.

  “We’ll meet at the bar at six,” Elias said.

  “It’s noon. That gives us six hours,” Sean added. “Just think of some plan, no matter how outrageous. Think outside the box like me and my partner did when a case stumped us. We need a strategy to get Amy and now Brent.”

  “Okay, but I am more worried about the next eighteen hours until we dock than I am about the six until cocktails.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mary turned to me. “We’ll be together.”

  “It’ll be a long eighteen hours.”

  “We need it to catch these murderers,” Sean said. “And it is not much time for that.”

  “You’re right . . . even with the brain trust here, we’ll have to move fast.”

  I hid my fear and feigned enthusiasm. Over the next six hours, and indeed the next eighteen hours, I was more concerned for my life—our lives. Those hours until we landed in Southampton would be the longest eighteen hours of my life.

  The word life gave me the shivers. It was now too closely associated with the word death.

  Was that the mindset of a professional writer? No fear in the face of adversaries? It appeared so. Evidently, that was set these multi-million dollar authors apart from the herd. It was also what being a professional meant; showing no fear—ever. Just stepping up and doing what needed to be done, however hard that might be.

  ⌘

  Chapter 37

  Mealtime Minuet

  We were seated at a large round table for ten with two men already settled in. The waiter was just finishing taking their orders and removing their menus.

  We quickly selected from th
e never-ending elaborate gourmet choices on the menu, which I had come to expect. They were as tempting as dinner. I was glad. I, for one, was hungry. Facing death on an empty stomach was not my first choice. Even death row inmates got their last meal.

  Then, there were introductions all around. The men were Australians who had gotten partial financing in the United States for their software company. Now, they were on to London for more of the same. They were a couple—a charming one, who engaged in delightful banter and had social IQs that were one of their assets—perhaps their biggest.

  Other interesting passengers, all non-MWW members, successively joined us. I enjoyed meeting them—most of them, at least. An American couple introduced themselves and within minutes showcased their wealth and prominent status in Charleston, South Carolina. I had to admit their lifestyle was large and their pocketbook matched it, but who couldn’t be big in Charleston compared to my competitive, exclusive spot in the glittering world of Los Angeles?

  But the wife was a delight anyway—the giving, interested, relaxed superficial delight that came from being ensconced in affluence. She “just adored” the crossing, Elias’s mysteries, Mary’s bravery in slasher writing, and Sean’s career at the NYPD. However, her husband was her unpleasant opposite. In fact, he was clearly angry that he was stuck on this cruise and particularly with this lunch table. Nothing was quite right and neither was our company. He made it clear he never read fiction. He was too busy and too important. He also mocked the two Australians’ startup business, predicted its failure, and said their investors were looking for tax losses. But, after a glare from his wife, he arrested his remarks on their gay lifestyle. It appeared to me Helga’s ghost had taken up residence in him, in all its aggressive, belittling, and cutting nastiness.

  Then, thankfully, another couple came to fill the last two seats and stopped this man from continuing to lay waste to our lovely lunch.

  They were the cute British couple we had all met in the elevator when they were headed for their trek around the promenade deck. The wife under protest, I remembered. They were led by the mâitre d’ himself to their seats.

  “Here you are, your ladyship,” the mâitre d’ held the woman’s chair as she sat. “Anything further, your lordship?”

  “No, thank you.”

  There were looks all around the table at the royalty references. They introduced themselves using their given names with no reference to titles. We acknowledged the elevator encounter with humor. They charmingly reported on the walk on the deck and it seemed the pleasure of it was in dispute between them.

  Our male Helga was attentive and engaged the newcomers who, clearly, were worth his charm. The lunch became predictable and I wished shorter. Although the British royalty and other VIP’s had a private dining room, they often came down for lunch and breakfast to enjoy their fellow passengers and the large dining room in all its elegance. Also, the common man was of course a fad in England after the late Lady Di and Prince William’s commoner-wife Kate Middleton.

  Whether the commoners were popular or not, I had read about the Wessex Cruise Line’s Canterbury Club, the separate and very exclusive dining room for people of their ilk. The elite guests all traveled in AA category staterooms. The pictures of the exclusive art deco dining room showed a high ceiling with backlit decorative glass panels, a sandblasted decorative glass wall commensurate with the finest Lalique crystal pieces, and panoramic windows over the sea. Had our Charleston couple been that huge, that’s where they would have been.

  The lovely lunch was served. Afterward no one desserted, but we all cappuccinoed.

  During most of the lunch conversation, in which verbal one-upmanship and social pecking dominated, I was quiet. I didn’t want to compete with any of these people and, of course, I couldn’t. Not in wealth, royal breeding, writing, business accomplishments, or, fair to say, nastiness.

  I lost myself in thoughts of Curtis. I re-experienced his touching me in ways that were new, gentle, urgent, and rough. I was balconied, couched, and bedded; licked, bitten, hurt and pleasured. I couldn’t get my mind off the balcony with my hair blasted by Atlantic salt air as I leaned over the rail and let him take me.

  “You look far away,” Mary leaned over and whispered. “And pleasantly so. Curtis?’

  “I wish!”

  I coveted my privacy and added, “Actually, I was thinking of how to nail Amy to the wall.”

  “Of course,” Mary respected my little white lie. “Speaking of that, we had better go.”

  I took the lead. “I’m sorry. I hate to be the first to leave, but I have a conference. Please excuse me. It was a pleasure meeting all of you and seeing you again, too.”

  I directed my last comment to our royalty just to one-up our new male-Helga with exaggerated feigned familiarity. It was real enough to irritate him. I was getting adept at lying without a thought at the drop-of-a-hat now. I started to admire myself for this expanded skill.

  “As do we,” Sean and Mary stood. “I’m so sorry.”

  Elias followed suit reluctantly because he, not unsurprisingly, was immersed in the lunch banter. Knowing him, as I was getting to, I appreciated that he was memorizing characters for new books—me included— and I hoped kindly. I suspected this whole trip was to get his juices flowing and another book out soon. I did wonder if he went back and made notes on the people he met or even wrote little scenes to use later. I might ask him at some point. But then, as generous as he was, it has been my experience that writers do not candidly share the deepest secrets about their real processes.

  We left the dining room as a group for the first of our two two-hour panel discussions. As we had agreed, we were all four joined at the hip to assure we would survive.

  * * *

  In the first panel discussion, “Marketing for Money,” Amy was a panelist. During the presentation, when she was fallow, her hazel gold-rimmed eyes were riveted on Mary. I only caught her eyes on me once, which is not to say they weren’t there more.

  I would have preferred to hide in another panel discussion on “Spicing up the Dialogue” down the hall without Amy. But we needed a united, strong presence. I didn’t think this tactic was necessarily wise, but I followed the lead of the professionals.

  The group, both in its demeanor and questions, was different than I had imagined. There was no frivolity. Amy, as an agent, bolstered with authority what the five other panelists, all hardworking professional writers, said. They were serious about publishing, serious about making money, and serious about the business of book writing. And the attendees were even more so, because of the bleak financial prospects most writers faced.

  One very prolific and wealthy mystery writer took the lead on the panel, obviously because of his years of experience, longevity, monetary success, and probably his gray hair. He told the hungry audience that supporting oneself being an author was a seven-day a week, fourteen hour a day job. He did share some secrets with us, including the fact that he devoted one third of his workday to writing, another third to editing, and the last third to marketing.

  My face dropped. I didn’t know if I had that sort of discipline. I knew I didn’t have the marketing knowledge. I should have gone to all the self-publishing panels and especially that one about Octopus Books being a pimp and we its writing whores.

  Suddenly, my hand popped up like a spring to ask a question. The wonderful old author pointed at me before I could pretend that I was scratching my head, a grade school tactic when we acted before we thought.

  “Yes? Question?”

  “The marketing?” I stammered, formulating my question so that I appeared to be a professional, published writer. “With all the advances in technology and self-publishing, what sources do you use to keep updated?’

  I was satisfied that I sounded knowledgeable, not like an utter amateur. My real question should have been “How the hell do you even get started selling a product to the public and does it have to be Octopus Books?”

  Interestingly
and generously, however, the panelist gave a broad answer. He knew I needed more than updates on marketing. I needed a basic plan. I was amidst perceptive and intuitive people. People who made their living studying, with great skill, the human character and reading nuances of communication both verbal and physical. This man, this established popular author, instinctively knew my quandary. To him, I was Agnes, Herbert, and Jody all rolled into one. I shuddered at that thought.

  “If I may, first let me give some basic guidelines for the novices amongst us. In point of fact, they are precious to us and must be nurtured. They will carry the baton after we are gone. This is sadly in the forefront of all our minds after the passing of our colleagues on this cruise. Then, of course, I will answer your question on updates specifically. Is that alright with you?”

  “Yes, of course.” I was relieved that this insightful man had been generous and respectful of my status—my non-status—and my privacy as well.

  He gave a succinct outline of on-line, print, new media, social media, Internet podcast marketing, and interviews. He then balanced the cost in money and time of the various options against their effectiveness. He condemned agents and publishers as unable, or refusing, to help more—or at all—these days. He complimented indie authors, working entirely on their own, for sharing their tradecraft through chat rooms, YouTube, and blogging. He also analyzed the effectiveness and costs of hiring a publicist or marketing consultant and their limitations. Then, he offered his conclusions on the use of each and how to keep up with changes and update oneself for each.

  None of it sounded like fun. Murdering people on paper in the wee hours of the morning was fun, but so different from the business of marketing. All of that seemed onerous and alien to me.

  I looked around the room and down the row at my new friends. Could I discipline myself like they did? Maybe. At least I could give it a try, because I wanted to be part of this—of them.

  I resolved to absent myself from the neighborhood coffee shop and gnawing at my muse. I also committed to editing my finished books, or at least one, and sending them, or it, out to agents and publishers. The indie route seemed overwhelming, and I wanted to be a professional, to publish, and keep my newfound friends. Also, non-agent, unassisted Octopus Books authors were ending up with an insignificant piece of their own pie after working so hard.