“No. My plate is full.” Amy was blunt.
Jody’s face fell and Agnes looked down. Another vacuum of silence filled the table, like a black hole surrounded by the cheerful chatter at other tables.
“It can’t be that full, can it?” Heather was embarrassed for her new friend.
Elias came to the rescue.
“Are you agent shopping, Jody?”
“I will be. I haven’t finished my book yet.”
“You just started it?”
“Oh, no I have been working hard for years . . . editing and stuff.”
“Ah, interesting.” Elias fumbled for his wallet and handed Jody a card. “Then call me when it’s done. I’ll connect you up with someone. And you too, Agnes. I presume you’re not quite finished yet either?”
Elias knew hangers-on when he saw them. Writers who wrote and wrote and wrote—never to finish anything.
“Not quite,” Agnes admitted.
Jody beamed as she reached across and took the card and Agnes covetously took the second.
I knew Elias was making an empty gesture, and so did everyone at the table except Jody and Agnes. “Working on it for years” was code for never finishing in amateur-author speak. Everyone has a story they think is worthy of a book or even a film. And everyone in L.A. is working on a book or a film script. L.A. is ground zero for “talking” about books and scripts, not writing them. Or, if the writing has begun, never finishing it. Or, if finished, never polishing and editing and publishing. I was the poster child for all of the latter.
Elias was savvy. He knew his offer was empty. He knew it was very unlikely that Jody or Agnes would ever finish their in-progress books. And, the chance either would edit it or get it ready to submit with a good query letter and synopsis was even more remote. Naturally, I knew that more intimately than anyone else at the table.
Elias had hit a home run and slid safely to the plate pleasing everyone, with absolutely no cost to him.
* * *
The wine flowed as the salad plates were cleared and dinner came with no other incidents.
Esther quietly peeked at her presentation cards. Jody talked her book to death, encouraged by Elias sharing his card. Heather listened politely and Amy ignored her. Agnes watched Jody like a hawk. She wanted to get in on the Jody amateur-hour bandwagon. The bandwagon where novices bored everyone to death with the details of their books. They think people are actually interested in their undeveloped characters, unexecuted plots, and embryonic drafts.
I knew in the professional company at this table there were only two kinds of books—the published and the unpublished. And it was clear no one was listening to Jody. They also ignored Agnes trying to derail Jody by interjecting her Italian-American family novel into Jody’s oration about her coming of age American frontier novel.
The four of us were actually busy keeping an eye on Amy. And Amy felt and was enjoying her power. She had not been neutered by our comments.
Agnes couldn’t stand being back-seated by Jody and terminated Jody’s lecture on how to write authentically about frontier life.
“So who’s going on the British writers’ tour after the cruise?” Agnes asked.
“I am.” Jody raised her hand with wine-induced enthusiasm.
“Besides you and me and Herbert. Obviously.”
No one else acknowledged going. Nor did I. I decided I was canceling my tour no matter what the cost. Being on a bus tour for three days with the three stooges was not my idea of anything other than torture. I would stay in London and do the play circuit until my flight left. I could pleasantly, and by myself, relive my past as a college theater arts major and my amateur endeavors in Hollywood with old college friends. Then, Curtis popped into my mind. Perhaps he had the time—this man who had become my sexual renaissance—this man I was falling, plummeting, for.
“Too bad,” Jody said. “It will be fun.”
I sensed that the entire table shared a collective shudder at the thought of being with those three doing anything—even the ever-kind Elias and accommodating Heather.
Esther signaled our server—her hand and wrist, as usual, adorned with diamonds marking her recently acquired status as a married and wealthy woman. I knew her past mystery series had not earned her such baubles.
* * *
“Can you get the tables cleared and serve dessert? Tell the maître d’ to do it quickly. It’s time for our program. And I want a coffee now, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took Esther’s half-eaten plate and then went for Mary’s.
“Hold up.” Mary seized it. “I’m finishing.”
He let it go.
Sean’s plate was empty and gone, but he grabbed one more roll as the server cleared the basket.
“Another, sir?”
“Nope, just this one and my dessert and coffee.”
“Certainly, sir”
“I’ll have Earl Gray tea.” I dutifully released my uneaten dinner, which had probably remained Prolixin free.
I hadn’t been able to do more than play with my food sitting next to Amy, but I downed several rolls and a seeded flat bread.
“Certainly. Decaf or regular?”
“Regular.”
Heather followed suit. “The same for me, thank you.”
Amy got a caffeinated double espresso. Caffeine all around was the consensus. Obviously, the table, and probably the entire room, were hyping themselves for a long-winded ceremony, at minimum, given Esther’s unfortunately predictable and numbingly methodical droning.
Agnes finally wedged her way into the conversation again and nattered on about her unfinished book.
“My husband loves my take on the Italian-American experience in Long Beach,” Agnes basked in the limelight—once Jody’s. “He says that I caught the flavor perfectly, especially the religious overlays.”
I leaned over and whispered to Mary, “How can you eat?”
“I can always eat. Besides she’s next to you, not me!” Mary finished the last of her salmon, put her fork on her plate, and let it be cleared.
She was right. Brent’s attempt on my life, however unconnected, made me an acceptable target. And I was within Amy’s orbit. Within easy reach of being surreptitiously Prolixined.
“Your husband edits it?” Elias asked Agnes.
“No. I just tell him about it.”
“Ah,” Elias responded robotically.
“It does sound interesting,” Heather smiled, salvaging the moment.
Agnes was encouraged and prattled on to Heather until Jody bent Heather’s other ear stereophonically. I noticed in the cacophony of the evening that being amongst adults, instead of her elementary school students, had speeded up Agnes’s speech, and perhaps even elevated her vocabulary.
As our desserts and beverages came, I marveled at the elephant in the room. No one mentioned the deaths on the Queen Anne, including the little-old-death-purveyor Amy. It was also the end of the meal and nearing the end of Amy’s chance to use her Prolixin. I was wound tight waiting for her to act. Her window of opportunity was narrowing.
Tonight was progressing and tomorrow we landed.
The server placed Amy’s double espresso in front of her. Then, he put my teacup with a nice sized teapot of the Early Gray before me. I poured a generous hit of the caffeine into my cup. I was confident this was a Prolixin-free offering. This entire cruise I had been delighted that the Brits’ individual teapots were huge, unlike the tiny restaurant ones. The Brits knew tea lovers because they were a nation of them.
“I’ll just grab the cream.” Amy suddenly reached across my dessert and cup of steamy Early Gray for the creamer.
“No.” I grabbed her wrist.
My teacup toppled and the creamer fell from Amy’s fingers. Tea and cream splattered the table, Amy, Heather, Agnes, Jody, and me. I didn’t care. I was not going to have Amy reaching over my tea, my last chance to consume anything.
“What was that?” Agnes exclaimed, taking her napkin an
d stopping the flow of tea towards her on the table. “You two are worse than the kids in the lunch room at school.”
“I’m sure there’s enough cream on this boat to get more,” Jody mediated.
“Ship,” Agnes corrected her.
“Yes, you’re right . . . ship,” Jody said. “We’ll get more.”
“Let go,” Amy seethed at me.
“What?” I realized I still had my hand clenched around her wrist. “I . . .”
I started to apologize but stopped. Instead, I twisted her palm up and looked to see if she had the vile of Prolixin in it.
“Ow.” Amy objected. “Let me go.”
“You’re hurting her,” Heather said.
I looked down at Amy’s hand. It was empty. She had set me up.
“Let go,” Esther commanded. “Are you crazy?”
“No, I’m sorry. I just . . .”
“Just what?” Esther was incredulousness.
I released Amy’s wrist.
“She was just trying to pass the cream.” Elias defended me with diplomacy.
“Yes,” Heather agreed.
“It could have happened to any of us.” Elias said.
“Not to any of us who were table-trained,” Mavis muttered.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to pass the cream.” I took Elias’s lead.
“Here, madam.”
Our server brought more cream and then cleaned up the tea and cream from the table efficiently, handing the splatter victims new napkins.
“Of course.” Mary took her queue from Elias. “I’ve collided with the creamer many a time.”
“But Veronica grabbed Amy’s arm and . . .” Jody stopped when she saw Agnes’s teacher-like evil eye.
Amy smiled, showing her properly bleached teeth and two small evenly matched dimples. She had achieved her purpose and played a chess piece that fully discredited me. She had made a fool of me. She was playing cat and mouse with our quartet.
I cowered back into my chair. I didn’t say another word. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Esther got up and started the ceremonies.
The room lights dimmed and the riser spots went up at the podium.
With every presentation, all I could focus on was Amy. She had demoralized me. I was even more vulnerable now because I was unsure of myself. I couldn’t act so precipitously again. She knew it. All I wanted was for her to be detained tomorrow morning when she disembarked.
But would she be? And would I be alive to see it?
⌘
Chapter 43
An Unexpected Honor
The awards ceremony was just that, an awards ceremony, with its own dull rhythm—broken up with vapid remembrances of our fallen comrades; couched in regret, not outrage, at their murders. The audience of mystery writers was buzzing, but attentive and even somber when required.
In truth, however, the room pulsed with desires to win, regrets at not being nominated, hope for next year, and hopelessness at muses gone missing.
As the ceremony unfolded in all its repetitive nature, the presenters, being writers, tried their best to be interesting. And at the correct moments, they were sad and respectful about the recent deaths.
The presenters were word wizards and masters of storytelling. Each speaker added jokes, sarcasm, witticisms, quotes, and a mention of our fallen fellow authors as they rattled off the names of the nominees. However, in the end these people, all of them, were ultimately handicapped by being word crafters and not entertainers—and they were not charismatic speakers. They necessarily lived an isolated existence with their characters and their plots. Thus, they flopped more than they succeeded and elicited only minimal smatterings of polite laughs. What had been so unique about Frederick was that he had triumphed in Hollywood, not only because of his talent, but because he had a high social IQ. Mendel had reason to have been jealous.
The acceptors, much to everyone’s regret, did nothing unique. They abounded in cookie-cutter “thank you’s” to the deserved and undeserved. It was serial brown-nosing to the writing world and to families who didn’t sincerely support these financially draining insular writers, at least at first, anyway. Every speech was a meaningless monologue of rapid-fire and unfamiliar names—unfamiliar particularly to me and every other newcomer here.
I listened like a trapped animal as the redundant accolades for Mendel, Frederick, Helga and Otto trickled through the speeches while the evening painfully wore on. I also endured the occasional more iconic references to Frederick and Otto. I knew too much of the back-story to join in the applause at the pauses the speakers took just for that purpose.
Mary, Elias, and Sean were enjoying seeing their colleagues recognized. Mavis managed an artifice of interest. Agnes and Jody were in awe. I believed Jody would have taken notes if she had pen and paper with her. Amy was on autopilot doing timely, appropriate and mime-like silent claps throughout the program. She was a picture of control and blending in. Heather’s eyes sparkled either from the wine or perhaps because of genuine interest. It was clear why she was such a success and so popular.
I whispered to Mary, “Why does Heather like Amy?”
“No clue.”
“And look at Amy. She has no fear.”
“She feels invincible.”
“Is she?”
“No. Sean’s done his work. Scotland Yard will get her. You’ll see tomorrow.”
Amy slowly turned her attention from the speaker to our soft buzz of whispers. She put her hand on her evening bag. A shiver went down my spine as I clapped for the winner walking up to the podium.
Maybe because I was an amateur, I had faith in justice and in our investigation. I had faith that law enforcement actually wanted to get the murderers. I put my faith in the system. Past experience should have taught me something different. I suppose I just could not become a total cynic.
“Well, I’m next at the podium. Best unpublished mystery novel.” Mary smoothed her hair back into her bun. “Tell me, why didn’t you enter this category?”
“I don’t know. I . . .”
I was tired of lies. I stopped midsentence. I was just pleased I had talked a good game. Mary actually believed that my books were edited and ready to be entered, I guessed. I hadn’t thought of the contest for myself because, of course, I knew I was an unabashed liar when it came to my authorial life. I desperately wanted to get at least one of my books edited for the next MWW awards contest, though. I would try because I would lose my credibility with my new friends if I didn’t.
“I could do it,” I thought. “I could”.
“You’re just going to have to submit next time. If you’re worried about Esther, don’t be. The submissions are anonymous, so Esther can’t get you black-balled.”
“That’s good.” I wanted off the subject.
“Yes.” Mary shook her head. “Oops! Here I go.”
Mary got up to and went forward to stand at the steps at the side of the riser for her entrance and presentation. I looked over at Sean and Elias. They were enjoying themselves. Amy whispered intermittently to Heather. Agnes and Jody clapped starry-eyed with loud alcohol-punctuated vigor every time they had a chance.
Agnes called out to Mavis across the table, “That could be one of your students next year winning. One of us!”
“Yes,” Jody raised her glass of wine to Mavis and took a drink. “You’re the best and so are your students. Right, Veronica?”
“Of course.” Too bad Herbert wasn’t here to round out the idiocy of the trifecta.
“Thank you,” Mavis preened. “That would make me proud.”
She glowed at the recognition because she knew she wasn’t going to get any other accolades tonight, especially for her stale and defunct writing.
Before I upchucked, I stood and went back to the bar. I wanted a fresh glass of wine that I wasn’t afraid to drink. Needless to say, I had bothered neither with the table wine nor any more of the Earl Grey tea in my teapot.
* * *
At the bar,
I got a glass of Cabernet. I studied the platform, the diminishing number of trophies yet to be awarded, and the spotlighted pageantry. It looked less important from the bar so far away. And, concomitantly, the writer’s world I aspired to was diminished proportionately at this particular moment. Why wouldn’t it be? This cruise had turned from an authorial adventure into a string of murders and a fight for my life. Death was too close, too physical, and too personal.
“What time is it?” I asked the female bartender.
“Half past ten, ma’am.” She sparkled at me with her plump cherry-glossed lips and a smile with rounded, full cheeks that signaled her fertile, ready years.
“Thanks.”
The word ma’am shot old lady through my anxious, fear-riddled mind. I gulped my wine to take the edge off.
The loudspeaker hurled Esther’s voice in all its prodding monotony at me.
“And now Mary O’Connell! She is our own very successful suburban housewife who writes those bestselling graphic slasher sex crime novels. She will present the award for best unpublished mystery novel. One of these lucky unpublished authors, judged anonymously, will win a contract with a publishing house. We have no idea who this new rising star will be, but he or she will officially be one of the elite amongst us. I wish all the nominees well. They are our future.”
I laughed to myself. I knew with Esther’s unadmitted ghostwriting and Mavis’s writer’s block that neither one of them were our future.
Mary headed up to the podium with surprising agility. Her secret? The sensible shoes peeking from under her long dress. She was as frumpy in her dressy evening clothes as she was during the day. I took my glass of wine and headed back to our table.
It would be Prolixin free as long as I didn’t set it down. And I wouldn’t. I needed it—all of it.
* * *
At the podium, Mary grabbed her audience with her first sentence. Unexpectedly, she was an amazingly entertaining speaker with impeccable timing. Unlike most of the other writers, she was humorous and charismatic with a marvelous array of personal anecdotes and jokes. She woke up the entire flagging audience. And artfully, before her presentation, she said a few seemingly heartfelt words about our departed colleagues.
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 33