I shook Sean’s large but gentle hand. His greenish blue eyes were sparkling and his cheeks were red. I surmised he had been celebrating the voyage even before we sailed by the Statue of Liberty.
“Mavis and I already introduced ourselves.” Sean reseated himself, jostling the table.
“Well, it looks like we have Frederick Larsen, our Academy Award winner, joining us too.” Elias observed Frederick approaching our table led by the same white-coated young lady who had escorted Mavis and me. “He always has wonderful stories. And, he will have useful advice for our transitioning science fiction lady.”
Heather smiled. “Good.”
I was right. I would escape focus, at least for now.
Elias was pleased with his role as unofficial host and, after Frederick was seated, he began introductions yet again. He appeared to enjoy it.
First, Sean, the detective-turned-writer, and then Mavis.
“Pleased to meet you,” Mavis oozed as she stretched her hand across the table.
“A pleasure.” Frederick touched Mavis’s hand politely but briefly.
Frederick was very Hollywood in his tux. He had a pink cummerbund and his shirt, sans bow tie, had three buttons open, exposing his impeccably waxed chest. In my mind, he surpassed his glamorous tabloid pictures at the grocery checkout.
“Pleased to see you again,” I volunteered, knowing my familiar greeting choice would elicit more envy and curiosity from Mavis. From the look on her face, it did.
“Nice to see you again, Veronica.” Frederick was relieved to be extricated from Mavis’s gawking. “And, I am acquainted with everyone else, I think”.
Frederick nodded across the table at the other dining companions, who uttered a smattering of cheery greetings.
When Frederick’s ice blue translucent eyes got to Heather seated one chair over, they stopped. “Everyone but this charming lady.”
“Heather Edison,” Elias chimed in immediately, again in his happy-host role. “Science fiction.”
“Interesting.” Frederick extended his hand and took Heather’s, gently shaking it and then holding on long after the ritual ceased. “And why would a science fiction writer be here with us mere mystery mortals?”
Everyone at the table laughed. Frederick was charming.
“I’m incorporating mystery into my science fiction, actually.”
“Really?” Frederick encouraged her.
“I think it’s a fresh idea. I’ve started a series that I think is unique, but I’m here to learn and I was going to meet with . . .”
“Me?” Frederick volunteered, still holding her hand and grinning. “I’ll tell you right now I think there is real money there . . . think film rights. Have you sold any film rights for your science fiction books yet?”
“No.” Heather smiled awkwardly, looking at her entrapped hand. “I haven’t yet, but Otto wanted me to come on the cruise. He had contacted me about . . .”
“Otto?” The smile dropped from Frederick’s face.
“Yes, I’m an alumna. We were in touch again.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we had been talking about my new series. In fact, the evening he died he said he’d help me with the film rights for my other books here . . . on the cruise.”
“I’m sure he did.” Frederick grinned lecherously. “Poor man. But don’t worry, I can step in. I can show you the ropes better than Otto ever could have. After all, I’m in the industry. We’ll have a drink later and . . .”
Suddenly, Mendel staggered up, knocking Heather and Frederick apart and freeing Heather’s hand. He reached for the empty chair between them.
“My seat.”
Mendel grabbed the chair for balance as his Martini slopped over.
If looks could kill, Frederick’s would have put Mendel in his grave.
Barely visible and to my observation unnoticed by all but me, Heather wiped her now Frederick-tainted and Mendel-Martini-covered hand with her linen napkin.
Who could blame the young woman?
⌘
Chapter 9
Grated Expectations
“Greetings all.” Mendel saluted everyone with his Martini and then downed his last drop.
As I watched his antics, I noticed Amy in the background at her table. Her eyes were riveted on Mendel with the same intensity I had seen at boarding. She didn’t stop glaring until Esther turned and chatted her up.
Insensible to his spectacle, Mendel pulled out his chair and sat down, causing the water glasses to imitate a tsunami as he bumped the table.
“Careful, buddy.” Sean steadied the table.
“I’m back, my dear Heather.” Mendel ignored Sean and ogled Heather with his dark eyes. “Would you like a Martini? I have another coming.”
Mendel glanced around to see where his fresh Martini was. It wasn’t. Yet. He refocused on Heather, putting his arm on the back of her chair and leaning his face into hers. His eyes overtly perused down the neckline of her black evening dress. It was cut high enough that it should not have invited such transparent lechery, but for the fact Mendel was Mendel.
“And we have new dining companions who you may not know, Mendel.” Elias diplomatically gestured to Mavis and me, attempting a rescue of Heather in the process. “Mavis Osborne and Veronica Kennicott. Fellow mystery writers.”
“Nice to meet both of you.”
Mendel nodded at us quickly. He then turned back to Heather and whispered something in her ear that made her pale face flush pink.
“And so.” Sean turned to me. “What is your forte in this mysterious group of authors extraordinaire?”
“My latest is about a theatre murder.” I gauged how to dodge the inevitable publication issue. “And the . . .”
I stopped mid-sentence as Helga was deposited at our table with Brent in tow.
“I’m Helga. And this is my husband Brent.” Helga announced perfunctorily, presuming everyone knew who she was and, obviously, not caring who anyone else was.
“Nice you are joining us,” Elias lied.
Mavis made the error of attempting to introduce herself.
“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Helga grunted without even a glance in Mavis’s direction.
It was hideous seeing Helga at our table, but it was not hideous being interrupted. I was not up for the not-in-the-bookstore sidestep with Sean or any of the others.
“Good evening. We’re pleased to join you.” Brent held Helga’s chair and then took his own.
“You need no introduction, Helga.” Elias fed the insatiable Helga the recognition her ego demanded for the good of the order.
I had deduced in the short time I had known him that Elias read people well and was adept at giving them exactly what they needed and wanted. Elias, wanting to give the table its due, quickly went around the circle with all of our names. Helga settled her napkin on her lap and ignored Elias, but Brent dutifully greeted each person in turn.
When Elias came to Heather, Brent’s face lit up.
“I’ve read all of your books. They are wonderful,” Brent flattered. “Really original science fiction.” Heather blushed. “Thank you. I’m . . .”
“But what are you doing here amongst us earthbound mystery writers?” Helga snapped.
“She beamed in to spy on us,” Mendel interloped, laughing alone at his own joke.
“She’s creating a niche for herself blending science fiction with mystery,” Elias observed. “She’s brilliant. And, if this book series is as good as her science fiction, she’s on her way to our MWW award for best book of the year next year. But now, with Otto’s untimely passing . . .”
“It’s been done before and ridiculously so.” Helga’s dark, heavily lined eyes glared at Heather with an intensity that could have bored through steel. “Otto was just a dirty old man who wanted a toy on the cruise.”
Brent opened his menu and retreated to its neutral safety, unwilling to challenge his wife.
Heather sat, nonplussed and open-mouthed.
After a moment of awkward silence, Elias commented on the good weather for our launching from New York and Anne joined in with a stiff upper lip.
I dreaded being subjected to Helga’s theatrics and marital discord every night, at every dinner. Any hopes I had that her transport van horrors were an aberration were dashed. I was relieved when Helga engaged Frederick in a dialogue with a pleasant smile on her face, congratulating him on his Oscar. At least she left us alone.
I quietly studied Amy’s prestigious and sedate table for a moment. A server delivered a Martini to Amy; presumptively the one Mendel was seeking. I would have been delighted to be seated at that table, but here I was. Then, I observed Curtis at his table, engrossed and animated. I fantasized sitting next to him. As I scanned my table once again though, I was satisfied. I just wished Helga would fall overboard. However, given that wouldn’t happen, I planned on flying under the radar and staying out of her crosshairs.
My eyes rested on Mendel and the uncomfortable Heather. Beyond, I saw Amy call a server over. She had the fresh, green-olived Martini sent over to our table.
The server brought it over on a small tray. He quietly placed the Martini near Frederick, who was engrossed in Helga’s flattery. During a break in the ego-stroking dialogue, Frederick picked it up.
“Hey, Mendel, I think this is yours.”
“About time. Pass it over.”
“Sorry, sir.” Our head server signaled to his assistant.
The assistant scurried and carried it on a tray to Mendel. Mendel grabbed it off the tray over Heather’s head.
“You’re spilling.” Heather wiped her hair with her napkin.
“Oops.” Mendel stroked Heather’s long hair feigning to help. “Soft. Natural blond?”
“Please, don’t.”
“She’s fine.” Anne zeroed in on Mendel with the evil eye of a protective matron.
Mendel ignored Anne, but did stop stroking Heather’s hair—only to take a drink of his Martini. He then popped the olive in his mouth. As he chewed loudly and open-mouthed, he asked Heather about her writing.
Before Heather could answer, Helga asserted her dominance. She called across the table and interrupted Mendel’s tête-a-tête.
“So, Mendel, what are your thoughts about who bludgeoned old Otto to death? That is, if you can tear yourself away from Otto’s leftovers.”
Heather blushed and looked down.
Mendel’s head swiveled in Helga’s direction. He took another drink of his Martini.
“To anyone with half a wit, it’s obvious that old letch was the victim of an angry woman. A woman who was good at batting practice.” Mendel laughed, took a slurp of his Martini, and then gave his full attention back to Heather.
“Well, if anyone would know, it would be you.” Helga’s pointed and blunt character attack did not draw Mendel’s attention away from Heather.
“Once a womanizer, always a womanizer. Right, Mendel?” Frederick validated Helga’s comment and then looked at Heather. “Careful, young lady.”
“Still beating the same old drum I see, Frederick.” Mendel snickered and then stood and held his Martini up to toast.
“Here’s to the two time Academy Award winner, the great Frederick Larsen, who persists in throwing stones even though he lives in a glass house . . . a glass house of debauchery.”
Mendel drank to his toast. No one else raised a glass.
“You son of a . . .” Frederick jumped from his chair and leaned into the table at least a head higher than Mendel.
“Hold it, guys.”
Brent stood imposingly to stop the combat, verbal or otherwise. He dwarfed Mendel and more than equaled Frederick in height and size.
“You can do this later, gentlemen. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
I saw the dominating, raw power of male size and youth cowing both of the other men. I also saw the surrounding tables, including Curtis’s and Anne’s, shocked at the impending combat.
“Yes, the menu looks lovely.” Anne encouraged civility amongst the well-decked out rabble that was our table.
“Someday I’m going to . . .” Frederick muttered settling into his chair again.
“What?” Mendel laughed and flopped back into his chair, sloshing his Martini on himself.
“Let me order some wine for the table. My treat.” Elias offered, glancing at the fellow diners eyeing our table. “First night and all.”
“I’ll do the second day,” Sean volunteered.
“Elias and Sean, that’s too kind of both of you.” Anne acknowledged in her British accent. “I’ll get it the day after tomorrow.”
“Count me in for the fourth,” I said.
“I’ll split the fourth night with Veronica,” Mavis joined in, obviously not wanting to be out done, but also not wanting to do more than half since she could have volunteered for the fifth day.
“Give me the fifth by myself.” Helga glanced pointedly at Mavis. “I don’t need to split it.”
Mavis buried her head in her menu.
“The fifth is the banquet.” Elias said.
“Well, I’m off the hook.” Helga laughed and Brent parroted her on cue.
The tension dissipated and the surrounding diners went back to their own conversations at their tables. Elias had rehabilitated the moment.
Our table’s attention turned to the menus with Queen Anne beautifully printed in gold on the maroon faux leather covers.
* * *
As I opened the menu, I decided I was just as happy that Mavis had spoken up to share the fourth wine night. It would be expensive from the looks of our already too-lubricated table. Elias did as promised and the wine flowed readily.
I studied the pages inserted with tonight’s menu. I was overwhelmed at the gourmet selections. Each of the four courses had three individual five-star gastronomical dishes described in detail. One selection of each course had a small red heart next to it, footnoted with the words “Heart Healthy.” I naturally ignored those. I hadn’t lost my extra pounds to engage in anything healthy on this sailing to the U.K.
Time motivated us as the server pushed for our orders. I decided on the wild mushroom Brie en croute to start and then the arugula and pear salad with mascarpone and toasted walnuts. For my main course I got the beef Wellington with roasted vegetables, and finally two desserts. Why not? I couldn’t decide between the lemon tart or the coconut ice cream with a chocolate raspberry cookie. And why should I choose? It was all free! Well, it was all included in the price of the cruise, that is.
After we ordered, the conversation flowed as the server brought a lovely basket with a variety of rolls, seeded flat crackers, and interesting thick cheese-drizzled bread sticks. I took a bread stick and a dark seeded roll and passed it on. After I poured olive oil and balsamic vinegar on my bread plate, I passed them on also. Only Sean reached for the butter.
Helga passed on the carbs, literally, as she listened to Frederick’s pitch to write the screenplay of her latest book. Her pale pancaked face crinkled in a pleased smile. Her dark eyes riveted on Frederick, crayoned bolder with black liner for the evening, sparkling with expectation and lust.
When Mendel got the basket, he set his depleted Martini down and the basket on his plate. Then, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward holding his head.
“Mendel, I want the bread.” Frederick glanced over from his pitch. “We haven’t eaten all day. Pass it on.”
“Neither have I. So . . . just back off, you son of a . . .” Mendel glared glassy-eyed across at Frederick.
I expected an escalation to hand-on-hand combat when Mendel stood up, knocking his chair back onto the floor. But instead, he swayed and held onto the table for balance.
“I . . . don’t feel good. I need to . . . lie down. I’ll just . . .”
Mendel abruptly turned his back to us. He side-winded haltingly toward the dining room stairway knocking into the backs of diners’ chairs.
“Shouldn’t someone help him?”
I asked as we all watched the Mendel spectacle.
“He can handle it. It’s his thing,” Frederick scoffed and then turned back to Helga. “Your books do lend themselves to the screen. You write almost like a screenwriter anyway. Your books are exciting.”
“You think so?” Helga purred.
“I think I should help Mendel out.” Brent volunteered. “He looks . . .”
“Forget it,” Helga’s blood red lipsticked mouth barked as she swept back her black hair with her diamond-laden fingers tipped with long red nails. She leaned forward and ignored Brent seated between them. She smiled invitingly at Frederick. Frederick smiled back, but less invitingly.
“The dining room is lovely, isn’t it?” Anne initiated civil conversation.
“Yes, it is. I remember . . .” Elias was stopped short in his response.
Suddenly, screams exploded and dishes clattered near the mahogany stairs at the dining room entrance. I turned to see Mendel sprawled on a large round table between a man and a woman, crushing plates of salads and jettisoning glasses of wine and water.
One woman shrieked and the man next to her pushed Mendel off the table.
As Mendel flopped to the floor, he held onto the tablecloth, dragging the ten place settings, food, and drinks with him to the floor.
The elegantly dressed, wine-spattered women at the imploding table cried out. The tuxedoed men grabbed them off to safety.
⌘
Chapter 10
Boozeterism
The dining room rang with chaos. Passengers stood, spectated, and opined. Some ran over and joined in the cacophony of distress and confusion. Servers at each table tried to quiet the passengers and asked them to remain seated. Most didn’t.
Amy got up from her table and ran to Mendel splayed on the floor. Esther followed and the less sprightly Mary O’Connell brought up the rear. She trotted along in her sensible shoes with her graying bun bouncing at the nape of her neck.
Death Sets Sail Page 6