“Welcome everyone to our biennial gala awards dinner. As you know, I am Esther Nussbaum, the master of ceremonies for tonight, and it’s that time! The time you have waited for these two long years.”
There was a thunder of cheers and applause.
“If you will all be seated, we will begin our banquet and then proceed with the all-important presentation of the awards. The recognition we will bestow on our fellow writers is reported worldwide. Each award recognizes great works, great careers amongst us. It also launches new careers to carry on the MWW torch after the old guard is gone—and, as we know, our present losses are great.”
There was a murmur through the gathering.
“We do mourn the untimely loss of our fellow writers. Mendel Weitzman, a stalwart amongst us for many years, Helga Brodsky, the successful and incredibly prolific luminary, both winners of several past MWW awards, and the accomplished Hollywood screenwriter and double Oscar winner Frederick Larsen. And, it goes without saying that we suffered an especially untimely loss with the death of Otto Stein, whom we will honor with a posthumous Lifetime Achievement Award tonight. They will all be deeply missed.”
The applause rose. As it receded, Esther’s voice rang from the microphone again. “But we must begin. Begin in order to finish, recognizing those most deserving in our difficult and challenging profession, even as we grieve for those we have lost before their time. Dinner is about to be served. And don’t worry. The bar will remain open throughout the evening and there is wine at the tables. In that vein, can you all please take your seats?
There was a smattering of approval voiced at the confirmation of free booze all night, especially from the already imbibed attendees, including Sean.
Sean called out. “Hear, hear!”
The crowd followed their leader’s orders and herded into the tables for seats.
“Grab that table by the stairs.” Mary moved her chubby body forward with incongruous speed toward one of the front row tables. “Easier to get up and down to present.”
“Not that thirty feet make a difference,” Elias mocked.
Elias helped lead the charge, circling around in a second path to assure we got our chosen table and our four seats. Most of the heavy hitters in MWW and other presenters followed suit and started filling up the front tables.
We procured seats facing the podium, which was always a plus at an awards dinner. Mary sat next to me with Sean and Elias beside her. I was happy. I hated having to twist my neck the entire night to see the recipients get their awards and make their predictable speeches.
The adjacent tables filled fast with groups that had bonded, and optimistic nominees who also wanted to be close to accept their hoped-for awards.
As the tables formed, the sound level was rising with the excitement of the evening and anticipation of who would win.
Our table remained empty, but for us four. After all, with our activities we had not had a chance to get to know many of the other writers. Not to mention that three of our original dinner companions were dead, Heather was now friends with a murderer, and we had insulted Anne. But that dotty old Brit deserved the affront after she sympathized with Brent who had tried to toss me in the Atlantic.
We were a quartet—alone.
Mavis eyed two seats for her and Esther directly under the podium at the table next to us. They were between Anne and a tuxedoed man with his back to me. Mavis always went for the men. However, there were dinner napkins draped over the back of the chairs to reserve them. Mavis started to remove them, but the man stopped her with a glance and his hand on the nearest chair.
Mavis retreated, looked over at our table, and caught my eye. I ignored her and looked straight ahead at the stage. I didn’t want to spend my last evening with her demeaning comments about my amateur status. However, I was out of luck. From the podium, Esther signaled Mavis to take seats at our table.
Mavis did as directed and I was stuck. Mavis sat next to Sean and grabbed the napkin for the seat immediately to her left. She shook it with a flurry and placed it ceremoniously over the back of the chair for Esther.
“Good evening, all. Esther is coming to sit with us,” Mavis announced with pride that was wasted on us. “This is going to be a wonderful evening, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Elias agreed, ever the pleaser.
Esther’s amplified voice silenced our greetings. “We had ‘Reserved for Presenters’ signs for the front tables, but Mavis forgot them. So can you other presenters please fill in the seats down front? It will help move the ceremonies along later.”
No one obeyed. Why should they leave their friends and colleagues and fill in the few seats smattered up front? In point of fact, they were not nominated for an award and had no real investment in moving anything along, especially with the open bar. Esther should have asked the nominees to come forward; they might have obeyed to assist the progress of the proceedings.
“I left the signs here at the bar,” Mavis defended herself to our table, as if we cared. “And someone threw them away. How could I have known?”
“Understandable.” Elias remained the proverbial peacemaker and pleasant dinner companion. “But a shame.”
“Yes, you see my point. Thank you.” Mavis was grateful that someone had acknowledged her plight.
“Of course.”
Elias sympathized with such insincerity that I thought Mavis would have seen through him. But she didn’t. She simply smiled warmly and gratefully at him.
Esther concluded at the podium. “Enjoy your meal and we’ll begin our ceremonies with our coffee and dessert.”
Esther stood at the steps on the riser until a nearby server offered her his hand. She came down gingerly in her tight sparkling dress.
* * *
Esther joined us at our table and continued complaining about anything and everything that had gone wrong or probably would, whether imagined or actual. She intermittently gave Mavis a Helga-esque evil eye. Despite our differences, I felt badly for Mavis.
“Well, thank God you didn’t misplace the awards envelopes,” Esther glowered at Mavis.
Mavis, cowed, picked up the basket of rolls, with the usual seeded flat crackers and cheese-drizzled bread sticks.
“Would you like one, Esther?”
“No, I don’t see any whole wheat.” Esther turned her nose up.
“Neither do I. What poor form.” Mavis passed the basket the other way without partaking either.
“Well, it looks like it will be a marvelous evening.” Elias eased the tension. “We have several presenters here excited to do their parts.”
“Indeed.” Esther glanced condescendingly at me.
Elias took the basket. “Efharisto. Thank you,” Elias took two rolls, Greeking happily—never to be defeated. “We Greeks love our bread. It’s not a meal without it.”
i sat quietly. I was at the table with my friends and at Mary’s side. We had all made a mutual pact of protection. I did not want to attract more Mavis attacks and would not be forced out if she started.
Just then, to my horror, Agnes, Jody, and Herbert came running up.
“Veronica,” Agnes boomed. “We were looking for you. What happened with Brent?”
“Is it true? That . . .” Jody joined in.
“Did he really . . .” Herbert interrupted in his irritating, nasal, tenor voice.
I replied, “What?”
All three of my classmates focused on me in unison, like three baby birds chirping for a worm dangling from their mother’s beak.
“. . . try to kill you?” Herbert finished his question.
“And murder Helga?” Agnes prodded.
“What happened?” Jody demanded.
“This is a celebration tonight and . . .” Elias tried to stop them.
“But we want to know if . . .” Agnes insisted.
“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Mary interrupted with a booming voice tantamount to a judge’s gavel. “No more questions. Period.”
; The three shut up and I ignored them. I busied myself with my roll. I poured olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto my plate, broke a piece, soaked it, and enjoyed it.
Mavis, who always wanted to be the authority, ignored Elias and Mary’s shutdown of the subject. She took center stage and explained.
“Evidently, Brent might have had something to do with his wife’s death and . . .” Mavis looked directly at me “. . . someone knew it! And so . . .”
“Excuse me,” Amy interrupted Mavis and shouldered Herbert aside. “This is my seat.”
As if the night couldn’t get any worse, Heather and Amy arrived. They descended on our table from behind without warning.
Of course it wasn’t her seat, but Amy pulled out the chair next to me and sat down.
“Huh?” Herbert was bewildered. “But I was going to sit . . .”
Herbert could not stand his ground and solidify his claim on the seat.
My body stiffened as Amy settled next to me. I instinctively moved my water glass to the left away from her. I grabbed my Martini, took a drink, and did not put it down. I needed it now, without a Prolixin kicker. Images of Mendel and Frederick’s horrific Prolixin deaths flashed across my mind. Amy had sat next to me assuming I was the weak one of our quartet and could be culled from the herd. There had already been one attempt at culling and she obviously presumed she could do a better job than Brent.
I was afraid. I scooted my chair back to leave. Then, I felt Mary’s fingers hard on my knee. We glanced at each other for a microsecond. She was brave and true to our plan. Me? I was a coward ready to run and she knew it.
I obeyed Mary’s fingers and relaxed into my chair again. We had to stick together. More than that, it was a perfect set up for Amy to get caught in a mistake if she was emboldened enough and stupid enough to sit with all four of us.
I stayed. I recommitted to the role of investigator and author extraordinaire. I held my ground with my associates. We were together in this to the end. Body bags or buddies forever. I personally didn’t like the fact that I was the one sitting next to Amy, but that is how the hand was dealt.
“Sit,” Amy ordered Heather, who hesitated after Herbert’s objection.
Heather sat next to Amy, right under Jody’s nose.
“But . . . ,” Jody grabbed the dinner napkin from the next place setting and sat quickly.
It was musical chairs. Agnes grabbed the last chair and Herbert lost the game. There were ten little Indians at the table and Herbert was the odd man out.
“We’ll fill you in later, Herbert,” Agnes told Herbert, who stood there dismayed. “There’s a seat over there.”
Agnes pointed to a table with a single seat nearby. Two attractive women, one younger and one Herbert’s age, book-ended the seat. Herbert’s lips turned up in a smile of his yellowed crooked teeth as he honed in on it.
He raced over to grab it, having learned that speed was of the essence—a quality he generally lacked, both physically and mentally.
* * *
Our table settled down in silence.
Elias, ever the pleasant host, greeted Agnes and Jody and then introduced them all around, even though it was essentially unnecessary.
Mavis then grabbed the limelight and filled in everyone about Brent’s death. I was silent even in the face of Mavis’s half-truths.
Amy zeroed in on Mavis with piercing and quizzical eyes. She listened with the intensity of a judge conducting a trial in a pivotal legal case. But she was not guaranteeing justice; she was evading it. She was evaluating just how effective our foursome could be.
“So . . .” Amy turned to me. “Why don’t you tell us the reason Brent chose now as the time to off his wife, whom he had endured for years?”
“Uh . . .” I froze under Amy’s predatory glare.
“How could Veronica know what was in his mind?” Sean came to my rescue and then baited Amy. “As you know, murderers can lie in wait even for years and then act at the slightest provocation when they think the time is right.”
“That’s for sure,” Elias said. “The killer’s mind is something that has been studied for centuries. Look at my people’s ancient Greek tragedies written by the greats: Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. We mystery writers do that in our own way as well.”
Mary spoke up and completed the trio’s frontal assault on Amy.
“But then, of course, maybe Amy can analyze a killer’s mind better than all of us. I mean, as an agent, she must have a well-honed critical sense about that after reading so many submissions.”
A vacuum of shrill profound silence fell on our table. Amy did not answer Mary. Instead, she studied the four of us.
Fortunately or unfortunately, the dependably oblivious Jody took this opportunity to machine-gun questions at me about why I suspected Brent had murdered Helga.
She was cut short by none other than Esther, who had been detached and aloof from the conversation. She took charge and turned the subject to the awards. She was going to have no more talk of murder at her exalted table. Her purpose and that of the MWW was not going to be waylaid by some amateur like me taking center stage at her event.
Esther had, unknowingly, and I was sure, unintentionally, done me a service. I didn’t want to answer Jody, Amy or anyone else.
“Esther’s right,” Mavis expectedly parroted Esther’s sentiments. “This is a celebratory night. Let’s recognize our fellow writers and enjoy the evening together. Even if all of us may not have the credentials.”
I just shook my head. The comment went over the heads of Agnes and Jody, who were pleased with anything that came out of the gospel mouth of their teacher.
I had to admit, Mavis was in rare form trying to rehabilitate herself with Esther. However, Esther just looked down again and reviewed her note cards for the awards. With her head down, I caught a glimpse of gray roots at her part. I smiled at the one imperfection.
Whether wise or not, my friends had confronted Amy. I kept my peripheral vision on this triple murderer sitting next to me and looked for any sign of the Prolixin. When she started fumbling with her evening bag on her lap, my heartbeat and my flight-or-fight adrenaline pumped.
Amy finally put her small gold evening bag on the table between her and Agnes.
I knew her last opened vial of Prolixin was in that bag, or, possibly, in her hand below the table now.
I finished the last of my Martini and set it down—never to drink again at this dinner with Amy.
⌘
Chapter 42
All Hands a Wreck
I missed the Queen Anne gourmet menus with sumptuous descriptions of dinner choices. We all did. Tonight was banquet style with a menu picked by Esther.
“Yuck,” Mary whispered to me. “Salmon or vegetarian pasta. I suppose Esther or Mavis arranged this.”
“Mavis,” I grumbled. “She’s so pedestrian.”
We chose, begrudgingly. The servers poured our choice of red or white wine and left bottles on the table. Then we got a generic salad of assorted baby lettuce, arugula, spinach, orange and red tomato slices, and Parmesan croutons.
“Even the salad is dull,” Mary murmured.
“But colorful!” I replied.
Mary grunted.
Observing the salad serving, I decided there was no way Amy could have Prolixined my salad or those of my cohorts. Nor could she have laced the dressing, because the servers drizzled dressing for us. But, even though Amy had not touched my salad or the dressing, I couldn’t take one bite. Objectively, I knew it was safe. I had watched mine and presumed Amy was not into mass murder, at least not aboard the Queen Anne. But I still just shoved it around on my plate while my associates ate heartily. I couldn’t drink my wine or my water, either. I just couldn’t.
“Don’t care for the salad?” Amy whispered to me.
“What?”
Amy then spoke past me to Mary. “So did you go to the afternoon panel discussions or did you write all day? I understand there are several on board
vying for the most prolific authorial throne . . . now that Helga is gone. I presume you’re one of them.”
Mary did not jump to the bait. “I enjoyed the panel discussions, but I didn’t see you at any.”
“I didn’t, either,” Sean added.
“No?” Amy smiled. “I might have been doing some housecleaning!”
“Housecleaning? On board a ship?” Jody intruded with a loud incongruous laugh awkwardly trying to impress Esther and the heavy hitters at this elite table.
“She means work.” Agnes clarified with the authority of a schoolteacher. “Not literal housecleaning.”
“Oh.” Jody was unabashed, as usual.
I kept a poker face, but I knew what Amy meant. Agnes and Jody did not. Amy was referring to the literal house cleaning—of the evidence. She was telling us that all the evidence in her cabin had been destroyed—except, of course, the Prolixin she kept close.
“Beautiful bag,” I said to Amy.
I wished I had x-ray vision to confirm that the last vial of Prolixin was in there and also not in her hand. It would be solid evidence. In addition, I would feel safer, at least from the Prolixin, which was apparently Amy’s murder vehicle-of-choice this cruise.
“Thank you,” Amy gloried in patting it lightly. “The minute I saw it, I bought it. It literally takes your breath away doesn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s killer,” I defied Amy.
Amy had her left hand on her lap under the table. She could be holding the Prolixin. She only brought one hand up at a time to eat her salad or drink her wine. I wished she had taken a roll, instead of a cheesy breadstick, and needed to do a two-handed tear to dip in the olive oil.
“So do you like being an agent?” Agnes asked Amy.
We all knew where this inquiry was going.
“It has its moments.” Amy was not pleased to be the focus.
“Are you looking for new clients?” Jody smiled.
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 32