“I’m Elias Vlisides, gourmet Greek cook and mystery writer.” Elias grabbed Frederick’s hand and shook it. “You’re Frederick Larsen. One of Otto Stein’s Oscar-winning students.”
“Ex-students. That was a . . .” Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony sounded on Frederick’s cell in his pocket. He grabbed it and started texting.
I leaned forward and smiled at Elias.
“I’m Veronica Kennicott. Nice to meet you, Elias V . . . li . . . si . . .”
Elias laughed with his sparkling dark eyes dancing and his gray moustache smiling over his bright white teeth. “Almost! You pronounce it Ē-lē-ĕs. And then Vlěh-sē-dēz.”
“Ē-lē-ĕs . . . Vlěh-sē-dēz?”
“Yes. Very good.”
“Obviously Greek.” I engaged playfully.
“Yes, my parents brought me here when I was young, but not young enough to lose this accent.”
I recognized Elias Vlisides’s name immediately from the bestseller lists. Of course, the accent was Greek and definitely a marketing tool. He wrote Greek food murders. The protagonist is a retired Greek surgeon who solves murders, all kinds of murders: The Grape Leaf Murders; The Moussaka Murders; The Tiropita Murders—all with recipes included.
“Take this.” Elias handed me his business card with his name and web site next to a figure of a dancing Greek man on it. It added his last name phonetically spelled in brackets for people like me. He also handed one to Frederick, who slid it in his shirt pocket between thumbing his texts.
“Thank you. I love your mysteries.”
I put his card in my purse and proceeded to shower him with all the white lies authors wanted to hear; the unreserved praise of their books. In reality, I had read only half of one of his mysteries because, although I found the characters interesting, his plots were thin and inherently unbelievable. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, perhaps his plots, based on the rampant disposability of females to premature deaths, were acceptable to him. There was, after all, a deep-rooted Greek heritage that instilled the adoration of the male, particularly sons.
“How’s your next one coming?” I asked.
“Etsy ketsy. So. So.” Elias shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to one side. “Soon.”
I understood too well that an author’s reference to “soon” could mean someday or never. I suspected from Elias’s body language that he was not going to have another book out this year. I sensed writer’s block and a kindred spirit. To me, naturally, writer’s block was nothing to be ashamed of. But maybe it was different for a successful author of a marketable series. I, of course, wouldn’t know.
Elias turned to Frederick to change the subject. But Frederick was still two-thumb texting with the intensity of a concert pianist reaching a crescendo.
“Texting is a challenge . . .” Elias chuckled to Frederick. “Those tiny little letters are made for elves’ fingers.”
Frederick did not even look up.
There was silence in the van.
* * *
The awkward moment was thankfully saved by the cardigan-clad woman who had plopped herself between Helga and Brent. She rotated around and thrust her ballooned white face—dotted with red cheeks from the run and too much blush—as close to Frederick’s as she could.
“Frederick Larsen?” Her shrill soprano voice reverberated. “Mary O’Connell. I am so glad to meet you. I am a fan.”
Frederick glanced up and produced a rigid, obligatory smile. Then, he went back to his texting.
I started to chuckle, but feigned a cough cover-up.
This woman, like Helga, was another example of what linguists call a “heavy presence,” and in more ways than the physical. Her energy filled every inch of the world she and those around her inhabited. She was going to engage Frederick, whether he wanted her to or not, because he was a captive audience for her.
Mary O’Connell was a force to be reckoned with. She even got Helga to cower. I scrutinized and enjoyed Helga’s distress from my perch behind. Helga steadfastly faced forward and scooted as far away from Mary as she could. It was futile. The more Helga scooted, the more Mary turned to fill the vacancy.
“Congratulations on your second Oscar,” Mary beamed, oblivious to the fact—or not caring—that Frederick was ignoring her. “I said congratulations! Well deserved.”
“Thank you.”
Frederick stopped texting. He was trapped and he knew it.
“Very well deserved, but . . .” Mary telescoped her face as close as she could to Frederick’s and lowered her volume attempting, but not achieving, intimacy. “I saw you on the Academy Awards with Otto Stein. How could you forget to thank your old professor? He was so proud of you.”
Frederick didn’t respond. Instead, his analytical eyes studied the woman as if he was microscopically memorizing her for a future character, a character to kill off.
“You must be upset about Otto’s murder.” Mary force-fed Frederick without pausing. “I understand you owe everything to him. I wish I’d had a mentor like him. I might not be writing sex-slashers today.”
Mary laughed loudly.
“Doubtful,” Frederick muttered under his breath and went back to texting.
Mary either pretended not to hear, or actually did not hear, the comment—either way, she did not react.
Just then, I put two and two together. This dowdy, roly-poly middle-aged woman was “the” Mary O’Connell. The famous Michigan housewife and mother of four who had a degree in journalism, but stayed home with her kids and wrote sex torture-murder books in her spare time. She had four best sellers and one high-grossing film. The tabloids had pictures of the magnificent home she traded up to in elite Farmington Hills near Detroit. She had moved there from the ravaged, low rent Highland Park neighborhood. I was in awe.
Elias ignored Frederick’s re-engaged texting. “My condolences, too. Lifetime friends like Otto Stein don’t come along every day.”
Frederick took a deep breath and stopped texting. I could tell he’d had enough. He turned to Elias and responded softly and slowly and coldly.
“Otto took credit for everyone’s successes because he had none of his own.”
Frederick went back to texting—or pretended to.
“Hear, hear,” Helga chimed from the middle seat. “Well said. And accurate.”
“I see.” Elias swept his fingers over his salt and pepper moustache that was not yet the silver color of his hair. “Well, no matter. We should not speak ill of the dead.”
He took his right hand and made the sign of the cross in miniature in the center of his chest. I recognized it as Orthodox, Greek Orthodox, and the reverse of the Catholic sign of the cross, which goes to the left first. I shrugged my shoulders at Elias and he did the same to me. We knew there was definitely no love lost between Frederick and Otto. And, it was clear Helga had her issues, too. I knew then there must be a basis for the vicious blogging I had read about Otto.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Helga scoffed and then barked at Mary. “And can you please turn around.”
Helga was retaking possession of her rightful share of the seat back.
“Sorry.” Mary obeyed. “I was just going to . . .”
“Ready to take off! Buckle up!” The driver interrupted as he hopped into the driver’s seat.
We were all buckled up, all but Mary.
“The other end is hiding.” Mary fished for it under Helga.
“What the . . .” Helga jumped.
Brent hopped-to and found the other end for Mary under Helga. “Here it is.”
“Thanks.” Mary buckled up over her seersucker dress and white cardigan. Then she studied Brent for a long moment. “And who are you?”
“I’m Helga Brodsky’s husband.”
“Oh, my goodness. It must be exciting being married to such a genius,” Mary gushed. “And what do you do?”
“He does nothing,” Helga announced. “Nothing at all.”
“Oh.”
Mary was
muted, cut off at her chubby knees, so to speak. There was no response to cruelty.
Helga had won the battle and the war.
Silence resonated through the van as we pulled out from the curb.
⌘
Chapter 5
A Stormy Calm
It was mid-morning and the ride over the New York expressway was mercifully fast, but not quite fast or smooth enough for Helga.
Helga fought with the driver until she finally forced him to turn up the air conditioning full blast, even though the late morning air was not hot, or even warm. Then, she attacked him about the bumpy ride. That had merit. We were all being jostled by the van’s old shocks and the driver’s “infamous” New York driving—sadly, I’m sure, spurred on by the thought of disposing of Helga quickly.
“The crossing better be smoother than this,” Helga spit at Brent after finishing with the driver.
“I checked the weather. It will be.”
“No storms. I hate storms.”
“No bad weather, dear. I promise.”
I wondered how Brent could promise that. Mavis and I had checked and stormy, rainy seas were predicted for at least a few days of our sailing.
I kept my mouth shut. With Helga’s silence, I again enjoyed listening to Elias chatting about his Greek recipes with Mary. The exotic names of the Greek dishes alone made me hungry, but the descriptions that followed made me ravenous: koulourakia, kourabiethes, pastitsio, galaktoboureko, kalamari, tzatziki, and avgolemono.
Mary was still leaning into Helga, but interestingly, Helga no longer even tried to possess her share of the seat. Instead, she retreated toward her window, slowly seething to a boiling point. Brent moved closer into his armrest to give Mary his space and stem Helga’s impending blowup.
Frederick remained engrossed in texting and Curtis faced forward reading a Wessex Cruise Line booklet.
I was just thrilled to be there, amidst tension or not, with some of the biggest names in our business.
“Our business.” I tickled myself with the thought. For me that is what it really was, or soon would be, with Mavis’s help and contacts. This crossing would make me a true part of my profession. I studied the creative trust that surrounded me. I fantasized that I was receiving the MWW award on the next cruise for the best first published book. My acceptance speech wouldn’t be a boring string of “thank-yous.” It would be original and funny. But how? I started composing my speech. My mind ground so loudly that I looked around to see if anyone had heard. They hadn’t. I kept composing until we arrived at the piers in the middle of the city.
* * *
“Thank God.” Helga’s bellow resounded through the van. “Finally, we’re here.”
As we approached the piers, I saw the Queen Anne. The ship was like a white mountain range sitting in the middle of a gray New York City. I had seen cruise ships—and even been on a West coast weekender down to Mexico—but I had never seen a ship of this size juxtaposed onto the skyline of New York City. It dwarfed New York City’s own magnificence.
“We’ll never get in a van again, even if it is ‘included,’” Helga snapped at Brent. “And the cruise better be smooth. I’ve had it.”
“The Queen Anne has state of the art stabilizers. You’ll be fine,” Brent reassured her.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”
There was a dense, tense silence until the van pulled up to the embarkation site. Then, we peeled out one by one. I was just as glad as Helga was to get out of the van, partially because of my impending motion sickness from the back seat jostling, but mostly because of Helga, herself.
The porters grabbed our large suitcases and carry-ons. I remembered Mavis’s cautionary first night tale and kept possession and control of my carry-on, not that I needed reminding. Everyone else let his or her luggage and carry-ons go to chance. But I remembered fondly a train trip in Germany I had taken with my late husband some years before. There was only one other passenger in our first class compartment, a tiny old German lady who had seven pieces of luggage with her, all linked by cords connected in a knot she held in her hands. When an attendant went to help move some of her luggage in the racks above her, she looked daggers at him and barked “Nein!” He backed off. I turned to my husband and remarked at her resolve to maintain “The Power of the Luggage.” It was something I never forgot, and something I always maintained myself thereafter.
I took a few deep breaths to dispel any motion sickness and looked around for Curtis.
He was gone and there were only hasty, polite good-byes amongst us remainders to our adjacent van mates. Then, everyone disappeared into the pack of passengers going into the pre-boarding building.
I was disappointed that Curtis didn’t acknowledge me, from near or far, before he left.
But then I knew he would be on the ship for five days. With me—I mean, with all of us, of course.
* * *
I entered the cavernous warehouse-like boarding structure with masses of people waiting, mingling, coffeeing, and chattering. There were wood benches around the perimeter and a snack area with tables and chairs.
Dragging my small roller bag behind me, I searched for Mavis. I spotted her seated in the center of the snack area, sipping coffee. I started over, but abruptly stopped.
Mavis was with my classmates Jody, Agnes, and Herbert. Agnes was holding court. None of them saw me. I was not going to start my trip keeping company with my never-to-be-published classmates from home, especially after my van ride with the elites of the mystery world. I spun around to make a quick exit, but collided into a woman behind me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
I was face to face with a petite, stunning woman who was golden from head to toe. She wore a light mustard pants suit and had at least three shades of honey blond mingled artfully and expensively into her shoulder length hair. Her eyes were hazel with a light gold rim that sparkled in the light. Despite that electric gold rim, her eyes had an intriguing stillness about them. Her face had delicate features; her skin was light and flawless.
Interestingly, her mature years were revealed only by her rose lipstick spidering beyond her lip in age lines and horizontal forehead creases peeking out from under her wispy bangs.
“Yes, no harm done.”
She held her coffee away so that the drops which spurted out through the plastic lid’s small sipping hole fell to the ground.
The woman then gracefully floated around me in her matching mustard heels.
It was the calm depth behind her eyes and her ballet-like grace that made me want to know more about her. I impulsively introduced myself.
“I’m Veronica Kennicott. It’s going to be a wonderful cruise, isn’t it?”
The woman glanced back at me, her gold-hooped earrings dangling through her hair. “Quite eventful.”
I noticed she did not volunteer her name. An omission. I spoke before she could leave.
“Eventful? Then you must be with the mystery writers group, too?”
“Yes, I am. An agent”
“Small world.”
“Why? Are you looking?”
“Looking?”
“For an agent?”
I sensed that she was approached too much and too often as an agent. But, God knows, I was not looking for an agent. In fact, I was probably the only non-published writer here avoiding the possibility of submitting a book to an agent.
“Oh, no. Definitely not.” I laughed to myself and sidestepped the agent issue with an ambiguous response. “I’m here to enjoy myself.”
“Refreshing.” The woman extended her hand to me. “I’m Amy Miller.”
“Veronica Kennicott.” I stepped up, took her hand, and matched her firm grip.
“Nice to meet you, Veronica.”
My ambiguity had won the day. I realized that even agents who are looking for the next best seller needed relief from the pitch, just like I needed relief from being grilled about my books. I did, however, d
ecide I would name drop fellow travelers just to up my coinage. I was not immune to making friends and influencing people.
“Nice to meet you too. This is my first awards cruise and I think it’s going to be exciting. I already met Helga Brodsky.”
“Too bad.”
“You mean she’s always like that?” I chuckled.
“What do you think?” Amy’s eyes scanned the crowd.
“No comment! But, fortunately, Elias Vlisides was also in our transport. He’s a hoot.”
“He is that. And very successful.”
Amy smiled for the first time. Her smile displayed properly bleached teeth and two small evenly matched dimples on her cheeks. It was engaging. She was engaging as she looked directly at me with her hazel gold-rimmed eyes.
“He’s actually one of my regrets,” she said. “I passed on his query letters several times. What a mistake. Who would have known such silliness would catch on? But everyone loves Greek food and a happy, tubby Greek man, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. But I agree with you. Who would have guessed? I wouldn’t have either.” I glanced around to make sure no one would hear, especially Elias. “I picked up one of his books years ago. I liked it, but I didn’t read another. Not my cup of tea.”
“Very diplomatic.” Amy shot me another charming smile.
Then, my eyes rested on Frederick walking quickly toward us. In his sunglasses, light washed jeans, and camel leather jacket over his black linen shirt, he stood out as “Hollywood” even more than he had at the airport.
“Oh, there’s Frederick Larsen coming over. He was with us in the van, too.”
“Frederick Larsen?”
Amy’s smile dropped from her face. Her eyes narrowed. Her head snapped to where my eyes had rested on Frederick, her golden hairpin wheeling into her cheeks and then settling back into place.
Ignoring my presence and comment, Amy studied Frederick working his way through the crowd in our direction. I knew from the look on her face that they had a history; a history that did not engender even a modicum of warmth. I watched Amy glaring at Frederick as he approached.
Death Sets Sail Page 3