“Good God! What’s going on here?” A man with a thick Scottish brogue looked up at us leaning over his balcony. “Don’t you two move!”
We were silent. Even in the aftermath and panic, I recognized him from the elevator ride our first night.
“Call the authorities, lass,” the man barked at the whimpering woman as his eyes ping ponged between Brent’s body and us. “Don’t you dare move.”
“Shall I get a doctor?” A woman called with the same Scottish trill but in a contrasting soprano register.
“We’d better,” the man answered. “But I’m sure he’s dead.”
Sean and I stared down at Brent’s body.
* * *
I had no feelings one way or another about Brent’s death. I was just glad it wasn’t Sean or me splayed down there or in the deep, cold, dark Atlantic.
Strangely, I flashed on my frog-eyed, enthusiastic high school history teacher who had shocked us all with the revelation that the Vikings came to the Americas before Columbus. It had shattered my lexicon of reality. Then, I thought of all the Americans in World War II who died in the depths of the Atlantic saving Europe from the Nazis. The aged veterans were dying off now, their individual sacrifices buried with them and most forgotten eventually—the years of their lives, the limbs from their bodies, and the mental peace they gave up to serve.
In a short moment, I was jolted back to my reality as a white uniformed carnival of ship personnel began fluttering about barking orders on the fateful balcony below. The Scottish couple looked up at us and pointed accusingly and emphatically.
They mouthed the condemnations and presumptions that were spewed by all witnesses who see half of an incident—half of the truth. These half-truths once born take on a life of their own as the witnesses’ egos insist on their rightness. Thus, lies are born and grow to punish the innocent. All witnesses who observe after the onset of an act never know the genesis of a conflict and never believe they could be wrong. They become invested in being right. The proof of this lies in all our childhoods when parents punish the innocent sibling while the initial aggressor watches quietly or is theatrically crying.
“Stay there,” a ship’s security officer called up to us in the commotion.
“Get Dr. Witte down here,” a higher ranking man ordered, but in working-class Cockney. “You, call for the captain.”
There was a flurry of more white dots and upturned faces.
I dealt with my disheveled clothes and face in the bathroom. When I came out, white uniforms were surrounding Sean. The captain entered and the door slammed shut on crowd in the hall being told to move on. The white uniformed array around Sean peeled open to look at me. They stood at attention as the captain entered my stateroom.
Security confirmed Brent was dead. A quick and quite deadly broken neck from his head-first plummet.
“Veronica, how are you?” Sean asked.
“Fine.” I stood with Sean. “I guess.”
“This is Veronica Kennicott,” Sean introduced me to the captain. “It’s her stateroom. And I’m Sean O’Flarity.”
“I recognize you both from last night’s incident.”
Sean explained that Brent was our dinner table mate and then began to tell the captain what happened, but the captain interrupted.
“It’s Ms. Kennicott’s stateroom. Let her tell us what happened.”
I told my story. The captain listened with no reaction. His eyes could not belie his annoyance with Sean and myself and the bodies piling up during his trans-Atlantic crossing. He whispered something to his uniformed and apparent number-one man. I could not hear, but Sean did.
“What do you mean you don’t want us on board again?” Sean yelled. “Someone just tried to murder this woman. It’s not her fault. And it’s not my fault I had to rescue her. If you would have detained Mr. Hawthorne last night on suspicion of killing his wife, none of this would have happened here tonight. We’re both lucky to be alive and not on that balcony below.”
“Or in the Atlantic,” I added
“I mean what I said emphatically,” the captain enunciated perfectly in his toff British upper-class quipped words. “As far as I can see, all you people apparently get your material from murdering each other. Take your inbred blood-bath to some other cruise line next awards cruise, because I'm going to see to it you don’t sail with us again!”
Sean shouted, “Then you admit people have been murdered on board your ship?”
The captain turned and left.
The head of security stepped up to Sean. “We don’t admit anything of the sort.”
“Your captain just did.”
“You’re mistaken, sir.” The man retorted, thumping Sean's chest with his index finger and our ears his loud middle-class Queen’s English. “This is not your jurisdiction, Mr. Ex-NYPD Detective. Heart attacks, fights, suicides, accidents . . . those are the doctor’s findings and everyone is satisfied with them. Talk to Ms. Nussbaum, your MWW president if you don’t agree. My work’s done. You want murders, you take it up with her or the authorities when we land. Just see how far you get.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Wessex’s barristers have already sorted this out with the powers that be. And between you and me, mate, it would be easier to change the tides. Britannia hasn’t ruled the waves all these centuries for nothing!”
Sean hit the officer’s hand away from his chest. “Well, I've already contacted my buddies at the NYPD and they reached out to Scotland Yard. So we’ll just see about that, you British stuffed-shirt rent-a-cop.”
“Back off, you bloody American! And, inform your friends to keep their little mystery writers’ minds to themselves. I am chalking this one up to self-defense and defense of others. That is, unless you want me to change my mind and call it out-and-out murder . . . committed by both of you two. Misplaced revenge for your fellow writer . . . premeditated revenge.”
Sean, red-faced and angry, yelled, “Is that a threat?”
“Is it?” The head security officer shouted back. “Try me and we’ll see if your machine is bigger than . . .”
The doctor burst into my cabin and interrupted the prelude to a cockfight. “I’m done. Let’s get to dinner.”
Even from a distance, I smelled the whiskey on the doctor’s breath. He ignored Sean and myself. But to the doctor’s credit he was not slurring his words or staggering— yet.
“He’s dead. Cracked his neck. Fractured his skull,” the doctor confirmed and then turned to Sean and I. “It seems this is the last night of our cruise and you are four for four. That’s a record on the Queen Anne, the Wessex Cruise Line, and probably every cruise ship that ever sailed the ocean blue. It’s a good thing we land tomorrow morning. Who knows who’s next with all you mystery writers aboard? Quite exciting!”
The doctor chuckled and one security officer followed suit.
“That’s enough.” The head security officer glared at his underling. “Let's get the body bagged and below with the others. That is . . . if we’re not out of bags.”
“Yes, get the body below. Put it with the other three,” Sean needled. “If you had done your job, this man would have been detained and would still be alive.”
“You killed him, so I’d just count my blessings if I were you, gov,” Dr. Witte whispered. “And don’t prod a wasp’s nest, if you get my drift. It’s all been sorted out.”
“And what about the other murders?” Sean reacted as the men turned to leave.
“There were no other murders. You’ve been warned. Both of you.” The head of security left with his entourage.
“We'll see about that. We’ll see what the news has to say about your great Wessex Cruise Line.”
The head officer turned back, and added, “I guess you haven't been checking the news? The unfortunate deaths have been taken care of by our Wessex liaisons with a little help from your MWW president. And Mr. Hawthorne, a/k/a Mr. Brodsky, or whatever he goes by, will be too . . . by tomorrow morni
ng. Too little, too late for your little NYPD friends.”
Sean didn't respond. The security officers left and the door slammed shut.
He had been checkmated and so had I.
Or had we?
* * *
Sean and I were left in the cabin. I picked up my high heels and the cashmeres that had almost been the death of me. Sean picked up my black sequined bag, which had saved my life— along with him of course— and handed it to me.
“That’s unnerving,’ I said.
“I didn’t like it, either. A little power goes a long way out here on this ship.”
“What do you expect from a multi-national corporate machine like this?” I tossed my sweaters back in the suitcase.
“The battle’s not over though, by a long shot,” Sean sat in a nearby chair. “They can’t cover things up that easily.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. They’re fighting for their financial survival.”
“They’ve never fought me. Come on.” Sean had gotten his fight back. “Let’s get to the Internet. We’ve got to check the damage they’ve done.”
“Yeah, Elias and Mary can wait. I don’t like being threatened, either.”
I spoke with conviction despite the threat of arrest for Brent’s murder—after all, I had been accused of murder before, at the Valentine Theatre. I had simply detected and exposed the real murderer.
I followed my leader, but with some trepidation.
* * *
We went to the library. It was empty at this hour. We searched through the New York and London newspapers, blogs and Internet for news on the deaths. We found the media called them just that, deaths, not murders.
We scrolled through one screen after another, silently reading what Wessex’s mighty publicity machine had done with its cover-up.
As Sean did a new search, he said, “I know I transmitted enough evidence to the NYPD at least to get Amy detained when she gets off the ship whether she disposed of the other evidence or not.”
“Then she will be.” I gave Sean the reassurance he was looking for.
“Shh. Just a minute.” He peered at the screen.
“Look. Frederick’s own publicist announced his death was the result of a heart attack, too.”
“Well, what else, if Wessex got to him first?”
“Yeah.” Sean flipped from screen to screen.
“And there’s the video Sean found of Mendel on the floor in the dining room.”
We played it.
“Well, that helps explain the uphill battle on my partner’s part. That looks like Mendel was partying and out of control.”
“Too bad.”
We opened a few more sites.
“Stop . . . there . . . see?” I pointed to a New York Times article from today and read it out loud. “‘The New York Police Department confirmed last night in a statement that there was no reason to suspect foul play in the death of Otto Stein. The deaths at sea of Frederick Larsen, Oscar winner and prominent writer in Hollywood, and Mendel Weitzman, famous novelist appear to be from natural causes. Although the police investigation remains open, the NYPD can confirm that, at this stage, there would appear to be no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of either man on the Wessex cruise liner the Queen Anne.’”
“No wonder my ex-partner has been hemming and hawing on the phone.”
“Did he say they were reopening Otto’s death?”
“Side-stepped the subject.”
“My God. We’re ensconced in this . . . Queen Anne microcosm steaming across the Atlantic with corporate thugs and, of all people, Esther filtering what goes out into the real world.”
“You do have a way with words. I want to read one of your books, published or not.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Sean signed off the Internet and stood. “Look. I don’t care what’s on the Internet. I know my partner, and I know at a minimum he’s going to get Mendel’s and Frederick’s murders investigated. Don’t worry. Scotland Yard has to pick up Amy for questioning with what we forwarded and what my partner can do.”
“We have motive down solid.”
“And opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“That’s enough to sweat her,” Sean stood. “And she could break. Let’s get going. Mary and Elias are waiting. We’ve got to fill them in . . . about Brent too, if they haven’t already heard.”
I followed, but not with Sean’s motivations. After my near jettison off the balcony, I wanted to find Curtis before he went to his dinner. My heart already missed him. I needed to be comforted by him.
I suddenly became worried about that need—but not enough to put on the brakes.
⌘
Chapter 39
Angst and Appletinis
At the bar, Elias and Mary were just ordering another round for themselves. Our drinks sat untouched, waiting.
“There you are,” Elias called. “We were just going to send in the troops. We got you appletinis.”
Sean nodded. “Fine by me.”
“Me too.” I really would have preferred a glass of wine, but sat next to Mary and took a sip.
“Took you a while to get Curtis-worthy?” Mary whispered in my ear as I sat down.
“Unfortunately, no.” I put the small black sequined bag that had helped save my life on the table.
Sean and I recounted Brent’s attack in my cabin and my save by grabbing Sean’s ankles. Both of them vented their anger and shock. They were glad we were alive and then enjoyed some bantering to relieve the gravity of what had just happened.
“So that little purse and our Sean saved your life?” Mary sipped her Martini.
“Yes.” I looked over at Sean with gratitude.
“And our little Veronica saved Sean’s ass, so to speak.” Elias’s mustache popped with his smile. “’Tini’s are on me.”
There were smiles all around.
“And the captain? Did he finally make the leap to murder or did he conclude Brent accidentally tried to toss you overboard?” Elias smirked.
“Yeah,” Mary chuckled. “Or are they arresting you for murder, Sean?”
“They all said I acted in defense of others.”
“Well, that’s a change of tune.” Mary shook her head.
“Not quite. He did say to back off our investigation or he might decide it was first-degree murder, with me and Veronica as the defendants. He accused us of avenging Helga’s death!” I said.
“That’s absurd. Forget it,” Mary said. “He’s a bag of wind. No one would avenge Helga’s death!”
We all laughed. Me, not so much.
“The doctor said . . .” Sean halted mid-sentence.
“What?” Mary asked. “What did he say? Spit it out.”
“It’s hard to quote that incompetent whiskey-saturated quack, but he finally hit the nail on the head,” Sean said. “Brent landed on his head . . . snapped his neck.”
“Huh . . . too bad. In a way, he was charming.” Mary said. “But a man like that deserves what he gets. He married that witch for money and couldn’t stand it. Very much like the character I’m making the centerpiece of my new book when I get home.”
“We shouldn’t be pleased with this. It was horrible,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, but ideas for new books are ideas,” Mary insisted. “He was inspirational in more ways than one.”
I found this ghoulish aspect of Mary quite off-putting. She could at least let the idea percolate privately. Then I smiled to myself. Maybe I would beat her to the plot and the really amazing Brent character. I started thinking of a serial marriage murderer called The Merry Widower. Suddenly, Mary didn’t seem so ghoulish.
“You did what you had to do, Sean.” Elias ignored Mary’s plans and observations. “You had no choice. If you had hesitated, Veronica wouldn’t be here.”
“I know. But he was a fun guy and he didn’t deserve Helga’s crap. Believe it or not, I have only had to t
ake out two other people. It’s hard no matter what.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” I said. “But for you, I’d be in a body bag with Frederick, Mendel, and God forbid . . . Helga!”
Elias added, “What a wretched thought.”
“But the frosting on the cake is that the captain said the MWW can’t cruise on Wessex again,” Sean interjected.
Mary laughed. “I’d like to see Esther’s face when she finds that out.”
“Speaking of murderers,” Elias interrupted. “There she is . . . our other little problem.”
Amy sauntered in and slid into a barstool by Heather, who was settled in and surrounded by a clique of men vying for her attention.
* * *
We watched the two. I suddenly caught a glimpse of Curtis in the hall headed toward the dining room with his group of investors. He scanned the bar. But I was buried at the back. Then, he disappeared down the hall toward the dining room. I felt cheated. I knew I wouldn’t see him at dinner because we had our awards banquet. I wanted to run after him, but didn’t. I couldn’t have caught up with him with any modicum of grace anyway.
I relied on the fact that our modus operandi was to meet in the bar after dinner. I had to have faith our ritual hadn’t changed in less than 24 hours, especially after last night.
I turned my attention back to my friends. Each of them watched Amy with eyes of cold analytical steel, but there was something else in them, too, an overlay of fear. The fear that emanates from deep within. It makes prey fight even in the hopeless face of death. I had proved that with Sean tonight. I recognized their fear because I was afraid of her, too.
“Speak of the devil. Are they at least looking into Amy for Otto’s murder?” Elias asked. “Have you talked to New York?”
“Oh, yeah. Veronica and I looked at the internet and the news reports.” Sean replied.
“Otto’s murder is moot and Mendel’s and Frederick’s are being neutralized, too,” I said.
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 30