“But I know my old partner will come through for Mendel and Frederick’s murders. I know him, and he’s still trying Otto’s. If he finds anything, he’ll reopen that,” Sean said.
Sean explained what we had found on the Internet that afternoon. Our table was deflated and Mary was angry.
“So that little bitch is going to get away with it?” Mary seethed.
“Not if I can help it,” Sean muttered. “It’s not over until the fat lady sings. My former partner has a channel to Scotland Yard. And I have tipped my stewards to find me here and at the banquet when he contacts me.”
“Enai kallo.” Elias rubbed his hands together. “Sorry. Good. It’s good.”
“Enai kallo. I’ll remember that.” I smiled.
“Come on guys, let’s focus. Amy and Heather are thick as thieves.” Mary observed the two at the bar. “And Amy’s laughing and flirting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.”
“She doesn’t know us!” I said. “Most of the hard evidence may be gone and she thinks she has outsmarted us. But we have cards left to play.”
“You’re tenacious, Veronica. That’s good,” Elias said.
“That’s kallo.” I smiled.
“Right,” Elias said. “We have circumstantial evidence and even though Amy’s motive is remote in time, it was rekindled by the Oscar show and the book. Veronica’s right about that.”
“But Sean’s NYPD didn’t help by closing Otto’s case,” Mary lashed out.
“I know. I know,” Sean agreed. “Confidentially, it’s a hard uphill battle for my partner . . . ex-partner. The labs are overworked and all those crime investigation television shows where the techs eat, live, and breathe their jobs are bullshit. They are nine to fivers, at most, and all lazy as a dog lying on the porch in a summer heat wave.”
“But you think we have enough to get her picked up and questioned on Mendel and Frederick?” Mary asked.
“I do. I’m sure of it.” Sean stood up. “But it’s time for the cocktail party, And drinks are free there. Elias, Let’s go. Esther asked me to present Otto’s life-time achievement award tonight. I’ll need the liquid support to keep a straight face.””
Free cocktails motivated this group. But, in point of fact, my motivation was that I might still catch Curtis outside the dining room. Our table group was now just rehashing the self-evident, and starting to implode by attacking each other instead of Amy.
“Why you, Sean?” I knew Esther had asked him from my eavesdropping, but I didn’t know why.
“I think because she caught me in the hall after lunch and couldn’t find anyone else,” Sean replied, as he signed for the bill. “She’s over her head on this trip.”
“Good luck,” Mary said. “I would have said ‘no way.’”
“I should have.”
“Keep it short,” Elias volunteered. “Short and sweet.”
“I will.”
“Sean, just a warning,” I said. “I heard Amy is doing your introduction to present the award, not Esther. I overheard Esther tell Mavis that just a while ago.”
As my three co-conspirators absorbed what I had told them, Sean remarked “I’d better not touch the water on the podium! Amy is going to go for us whenever the opportunity arises..”
“Na pari i eychi! That’s ‘damn it’ to the rest of you. I’ll be on my guard. All of us have to be, now more than ever.”
As we walked by the bar, Heather caught my eye.
“Veronica, hello!” Heather called with liquored cheeriness. “Time for the awards?”
I turned to answer and locked eyes with Amy. She was defiant and confident. I pulled my eyes away from her and smiled at Heather.
“Yes,” I answered cheerily.
Heather jumped off her stool and grabbed her handbag to follow us to the gala.
But an audible protest by the males around them fortunately made Heather and Amy linger in their popularity.
⌘
Chapter 40
Cocktails and Churlishness
As Sean, Elias, Mary and I made our way through the ship to our MWW festivities, I kept an eye out for Curtis. Passing the line going to the dining room, I lagged behind and looked at every tall man in a tuxedo.
Mary eyed me. “Looking for Curtis?”
“It’s our last night. But he must already be in there.”
“Too bad. Death seems to be trumping romance on this crossing.”
“At least it wasn’t our own.”
“Not yet. Just don’t get careless tonight. We still have at least twelve hours.”
“And then Amy gets taken into custody.”
“Right!”
I gave up my search.
* * *
When we got to the cocktail party, it was in full swing. It was the prelude to the biggest event in the mystery writers’ world. It was, in fact, also one of the biggest events in the entire writing world because it had been expanded over the years to include awards for mainstream novels and other genres.
But, more than that, the revelry was heightened because the bar was hosted by MWW. Free liquor was always a powerful draw and a great social lubricator.
The crowd gravitated to the long bar lining one side of the banquet room’s large cocktail and hors d’oeuvre area. Chatter and laughter swelled and undulated throughout.
The nominees needed the liquid courage to get through the night. The hangers-on needed it to embolden themselves to touch the auras of the nominated, to motivate themselves to write better and get nominated themselves next year. Agents and publishers were sucking up equally to all nominees, and savvy writers were genuflecting to their best guesses for the winners in each category. Friends are friends, but friends of value are golden.
Abutted to the cocktail area was an array of round tables with a stage and a podium beyond. Next to the podium was a table of sparkling gold pen-and-quill trophies to be awarded that night. In the center sat a very large one, obviously Otto’s lifetime achievement award.
The array of tables before the podium had black tablecloths, white china, and bright red napkins. The centerpieces were of red roses and in the middle of each were a lit candle and a dagger protruding upward. The room was dimly lit and low background music oozed mysterious notes through the air. It was impeccable and beautiful.
“My God,” I marveled. “I have to hand it to Esther, she has done a top-drawer job.”
“Yes, she has,” Elias said.
“This is amazing. All these heavy hitters in one room.”
“It’s a real fawn-fest,” Sean chuckled. “Everyone trying to guess who won. The nominees acting oh-so-humble, but hopeful. I remember the year I was nominated. I was the darling . . . until I didn’t win.”
“Right.” I ratcheted down my amateurish enthusiasm.
“There’s a lot of tension in this room,” Mary observed. “The nominees, the agents, the publishers. Everyone has a lot at stake.”
“That’s why the MWW plies them with free liquor,” Sean whispered. “It makes the evening go smoother.”
“Not always,” Mary warned. “Remember the year when the best thriller winner got decked by that drunk proctologist? He thought he should have won with his first book. Imagine an amateur who spewed out one halfway decent book thinking he should have won.”
“Yeah,” Sean smirked. “I was a judge that year. I only got halfway through the doctor’s derivative tripe. I don’t know how he got published or nominated. His book was a knock-off of every hospital serial killer book ever written.”
“There’s no end to the M.D. ego.” Mary shook her head.
“Amateurs,” Elias mocked. “They have no craft and no discipline. They all write only one aberrant publishable and saleable product. This guy is lucky enough to get nominated and he punches someone out over not winning. Really?”
The word “amateurs” rang in my ears. I cowered and kept quiet. I knew I had the discipline to write more than one book; I had already proven that. But not to edit.
Not yet. I knew I had to take the leap to edit, fully to master the writer’s craft, to submit to an agent, and to demonstrate real discipline. If I had learned one thing on this journey, it was that writing was a business: a real, hardcore, competitive, indeed cutthroat business. But the horror stories about self-publishing and the huge chunk Octopus takes and the control it has over just giving away your books scared me, too. Too bad it was the only game in town—practically speaking.
“He thought he was going to win, get a movie deal, and retire,” Sean added. “I don’t blame him. Who would want to be a proctologist? Obviously, that’s what motivated him to write in the first place. But we’re all good, and all of us standing here are still waiting for our movie deals. All but Mary, of course,” he grinned.
“Hey, I can always use more,” she retorted, with an even bigger grin.
I knew that the winning writers in each category tonight would double and triple their sales. They could plaster their award wins on their web pages, on their book covers, book backs, and even their foreheads if they wanted. The losers, just as readily, would follow suit and advertise that they were nominated, if they hadn’t already.
Many of the winners had a good chance of getting movie deals to put them on easy street, especially if that led to a second or third deal for other books. All savvy writers knew that writing series was where the big money was. And in movie deals, they always wanted a sequel or two optioned out in case the movie grossed well.
“Let’s go get the Martinis, Elias,” Sean said. “Remember . . . free.”
“I want a sour apple Martini.” Mary smiled. “Love them.”
“Sure,” Sean said. “The rest regulars all around?”
I agreed—to be part of the whole.
“You two keep an eye on our drinks,” Mary warned. “We’ve got to be vigilant with Amy’s Prolixin still around.”
“Of course,” Elias called back as he and Sean made a beeline for the hosted bar.
* * *
“Do you see Amy?” Mary looked around to see if she had come from the bar. “Is she . . .?”
“Veronica!” Mavis ran up, interrupted Mary, and pulled me aside.
“Esther wanted me to tell you that we tried to keep it on the QT, but the cat is out of the bag.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t still in the room to help you. But, then, I don’t know what I could have done. You must have been terrified.”
I realized Mavis was blathering about Brent and, true to her nature, lying by saying that she ever tried to keep it on the Q.T. Even now, her voice was ramped up to attract attention. She had undoubtedly told anyone and everyone who would listen that she was the roommate of a murder victim—or almost murder victim. I realized that she had tracked me down here for the intimate details in order to repeat them, particularly to Esther. It was all about her—again.
“Mavis, can you keep your voice down?”
“Oh, sure. I get it!” Mavis blurted, attracting stares and ears.
“Shh.”
“I suspected Brent killed Helga,” Mavis lowered her decibel level, but only in half. “Did you have proof? Was that why he went after you?”
“Who told you all this?”
“The doctor reported to us, of course.” Mavis preened in the limelight.
“’Us?”
“Esther and me. And Esther sent me to talk to you first hand. She doesn’t trust anything the doctor says. Who would?”
“You could have fooled me.” Sarcasm laced every single one of my words.
Mavis didn’t care that I was still here and alive; she merely wanted to trade on my information to ingratiate herself further to Esther.
“This is an ongoing investigation and I can’t talk about it.” I quoted a line from many a mystery book, including mine.
“But . . .”
I cut Mavis off mid-sentence with a quick exit and went back to Mary, who was schmoozing with Anne now.
Mavis retreated. She had gotten the public flurry of self-importance she wanted and knew she was not getting any information from me.
* * *
With Sean and Elias intent on the free liquor, I stepped back to where Mary was and stayed with her now, as close as two peas in a pod. Amy’s expected Southampton detention tomorrow morning would not keep us safe tonight.
“It should be a great banquet,” Mary said. “And . . .”
“Veronica!” Anne interrupted Mary. “I am so glad to see you with us. I hear we almost lost you.”
“Oh?” I knew who she had heard that from—my dear Mavis.
“And poor Brent,” Anne Britished at me with crisp consonants. “I can’t believe that handsome gentleman would have done you harm.”
“Neither could we,” Mary added, “Until we saw Helga in a puddle of blood.”
Anne damned her proper British manners and just bulled ahead. “Imagine the utter horror of living with a woman like Helga, though. She always pushed him so. Remember, we only saw the tip of the iceberg at our dinners. She attacked everyone, really. And I shan’t forget her discourteous, not to say nigh unforgivable, abuse of my offer to pay for wine for the table at dinner. Still, she didn’t deserve death for that, and such a hideous one!”
“Yes.” We were going to be subjected to this woman’s crisp English drivel whether we liked it or not. I agreed with this disconnected old British bag who had the nerve to have said poor Brent to the person he almost threw off her own balcony.
“Pushed?” Mary chided Anne. “Poor choice of words.”
“Quite so,” Anne acknowledged with a wry little smile, exposing her oh-so-British yellowed teeth with receding gum lines. “Well, anyway, all of us were with Helga and Brent, if only for a few evenings this cruise, and I for one was almost ready to kill her, too. What an arrogant, unpleasant woman.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I smiled, thinking “You stuffy British twit.”
“I just don’t understand, though,” Anne ruminated, oblivious to everything and everyone else. “The news reports said Helga fell because of the storm. Obviously, you knew more or Brent wouldn’t have . . .”
“I’m sorry. I really can’t say. This is all under investigation.”
“Oh?” Anne was offended that I wouldn’t analyze Helga’s demise with her.
“Well, I’m sure they’ll sort it all out. Isn’t that the quaint British euphemism you all use?” Mary did some British bashing to get rid of the woman.
Anne left in a huff for chattier pastures.
“She can take her flower murders and stuff them.” Mary said.
I laughed.
“This is going to be a long . . . long evening.” Mary shook her head.
“I am starting to view British accents as speech impediments . . . for that matter, brain impediments, as well.”
“Crack observation.” Mary mocked in a stilted British accent.
“Funny!” I nodded toward the door. “Over there. We have company. Amy at three o’clock, with Heather. Just entering.”
“What in the hell is a nice girl like Heather doing with Amy, anyway?” Mary studied the incongruous duo.
“Maybe she’s not such a nice girl.”
Heather led the way to the bar while Amy followed, scanning the room. Amy spotted Mary and myself and glared at us. She whispered to Heather. Heather glanced over but did not smile.
“Maybe,” Mary said. “Hey, do you think Amy’s going to represent Heather’s mystery books?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Heather has one of the best literary agents in the business. He’s gotten all her science fiction sold. Authors usually don’t trade down, especially down to Amy’s mid-level.”
Elias and Sean came back with Martinis all around.
* * *
Elias handed Mary her Martini. “No sour apple. Only the usual.”
“Too bad.”
“I got yours very dry.”
“Thanks. This is the only way I’m
going to get through the night.” Mary took a drink. “Mmm, that hits the spot, but sour apple would have been nicer.”
Sean handed me mine. “Liquid courage.”
I took a sip and involuntarily winced.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Sean laughed.
Elias tapped our Martini glasses all around and toasted, “To us. May we disembark safely, and most importantly, alive!”
“And may death not disembark with us.” Sean did a second toast.
“How poetic,” Mary initiated an enthusiastic interactive universal glass clicking.
“You are a surprising man, for a cop.”
“Detective. And I’m counting on Amy being in custody tomorrow so I can enjoy my stay in London.”
“Me too,” Elias agreed.
“But first we have to get through the open seating here tonight,” Sean said. “We have to stay clear of Amy’s Prolixin, stick together, and disembark tomorrow devoid of body bags . . . our own, that is.”
“Sean’s right,” Elias added.
“I changed my mind. You are not poetic. Just gruesome,” Mary said.
“You should talk, Mary,” Sean said. “Ms. Slasher of the Year.”
“Let’s grab a table up in the front now.” Elias led the charge
⌘
Chapter 41
The Devil Comes to Dinner
As we caterpillared through the array of empty round tables to the front, Esther stepped up to the podium on the riser. She was stunning in her silver sequined evening gown literally painted on her older, thin and fit body. She was coiffed and her makeup impeccable. Her eyes sparkled as she looked out over the assembling diners. This was her moment.
“Testing, testing,” Esther’s microphoned voice boomed through the room.
As Esther struggled to adjust the microphone, it emitted an equally loud high squeal. A server rushed to her rescue, but not before I covered one ear with my non-Martini’d hand. Other lookers-on followed suit.
The sound was quelled and Esther proceeded in a moderated boom—feedback squeals squelched. She was poised as always and spoke in her slow, self-important cadence, enunciating every word.
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