Death Sets Sail

by Dale E. Manolakas

  I believed Heather would never make a true mystery writer like me. She was unobservant and not analytical. We mystery writers see the possibilities in all that is around us and presume evil—oftentimes where there is none—but, to us, it all deserves a look-see and an analysis. To Heather, it does not.

  I contemplated advising her to go back to the genre from whence she came. But I didn’t. Let her learn for herself.

  * * *

  Back at the dinner table, everyone was chatting except Brent. He was eating quietly and glowering at Helga. I had not seen him like this before. Up to now, he had handled Helga with good graces and humor. In spite of her tirades, he had always sprung back to enjoy the moment and the company. Tonight, I felt sorry for him. He looked truly beaten.

  Naturally, Helga didn’t even notice Brent’s distress or, if she did, she didn’t acknowledge it. She went from champagne cocktails to dinner wine and got louder and louder. She was charming to Heather the rest of the evening. After all, she believed Heather’s husband could be good for her. Helga made sure Heather put Brent’s card in her purse and she also gave Heather one of her own.

  Helga never apologized to Heather, but did obliquely refer to much champagne with no food. The same recipe that apparently contributed to the demise of Mendel, except it was Martinis.

  I thought to myself, “Too bad it didn’t do the same to this shrew.”

  * * *

  After dinner, I met Curtis in the bar. He was waiting with two glasses of Cabernet at the same table we had the night before. I sat as he held the chair for me. I knew more about him than he knew about me after Mary’s interrogation last night, but that didn’t make any difference to him. He sat across from me and gave me a monologue about his day—his presentations, successes, misses, strategies, and annoyances. I didn’t mind, though. I had been married for too many years to expect that men were anything less than self-absorbed.

  I gave him my undivided attention. His dark eyes were intoxicating . . . more intoxicating with every sip of my Cabernet. Just looking at him made the listening worth it.

  “Excuse me a minute.” Curtis slid out of his chair quickly. “I want to sign for my clients’ drinks over there. I’ll be right back.”

  While Curtis gregariously took care of his table of clients in a far corner, I glanced around the candle-lit bar.

  I spotted Mavis, Jody, and Agnes across the room at a table listening to the bespectacled Herbert, who was laughing and flashing his yellow teeth. He was obviously enjoying the sound of his own grating, nasal voice. His harem was drinking wine quickly and quietly. All three were postured in good female listening mode, much as I had been with Curtis. However, I knew Herbert was a charity case because nothing could compensate them for his always-uninteresting exchanges and unattractiveness. I concluded that too much wine had already anesthetized them.

  Beyond, there was Brent on a bar stool, leaning on his elbow and gulping wine. Near the center of the room, Helga, Anne, Mary, Sean, and Elias had pulled surplus chairs up to a small table and formed a raucous group with a few unknowns.

  More curious to me was the group of odd-fellows nearby sharing a bottle of red wine. They were none other than Heather, Esther, Frederick, and Amy. Esther and Heather sat across from Frederick, laughing as he performed an animated story, gesturing with his arms flying about. I was glad for Heather because she needed to form these relationships in the mystery genre if she was going to follow Otto’s advice. Amy sat smiling next to Frederick. She appeared to be happy. I didn’t know why, but she did.

  I recalled the first time I had met Amy at boarding, and the look in her eyes when she saw Frederick and Mendel. I decided Amy and Frederick could break bread after all and Mendel was the odd man out.

  Curtis returned. “Sorry, I got caught for a minute, but I am not going to allow anything else to interrupt our evening. Not anything.”

  Curtis smiled and leaned forward in his chair until the candle’s dancing light washed over his face. Then, as if a light bulb lit in his mind, he asked about me. However, unfortunately, it was the dreaded subject— my writing.

  “I want to hear about your writing.”

  I stalled by taking a long slow drink of wine. I gazed into his eyes. I was drawn into them, into him.

  Curtis reached across the table. My hand met his like a magnet. I forgot what he had asked and so did he.

  * * *

  We left the bar with no more conversation. We walked by the noisy casino taking money from passengers in full throttle. I knew where we were going and he knew where he was leading me—up the elevator to his stateroom. I was happy. And it was not because of the wine, which had flowed so generously that night, but because I felt desired and attractive and wanted.

  When we got to his penthouse stateroom, I realized I was all three of those things to him—desired and attractive and wanted. Curtis turned on one soft lamp across the large suite. A king-sized bed was visible through double doors.

  The mating ritual began with a Scotch from the bar, an offer of room service, and my freshening up. Then, it advanced to the couch with a seamless soft ritual of breathless tongue dances, tentative and then tender touches, and the removal of man’s inhibitor—clothing.

  “The bedroom?” He breathed into my ear with tongue caresses radiating tingles down to my neck.

  I moaned inarticulately.

  Curtis then stood tall, lean, naked, and erect. My eyes were unashamed; my breath came long and deep. I was his. I leaned forward and touched him, stroked him. He caressed my hair. I pressed my open lips into him and my tongue, wet and hungry, caressed and searched. I irresistibly stroked his erection until my mouth found its pleasure—sucking, moaning, desiring.

  Suddenly, he pulled away, reached down, picked me up, and carried me to the bedroom.

  ⌘

  Chapter 18

  Immoderation

  In the wee hours of the morning, I snuck back to my room. I woke late and Mavis was gone. I ordered tea before I hopped in the shower.

  As I showered, Curtis swept through my mind and body. I could still smell him and feel him all over and in me. He was very experimental, for me at least. As I stepped out of the shower, my face felt hot. I looked in the mirror. The face I saw looking back at me was bright red. My thoughts had embarrassed me, but they had delighted themselves.

  I hurried and dressed as I drank my tea. I chose a low cut red sweater and black slacks in hopes of running into Curtis during the day.

  This morning, I was attending an MWW panel discussion on “Marketable Ways to Kill Off Your Characters.” Frederick was the moderator and I knew he would be entertaining. I actually did want to improve my authorial skills on this cruise. I was, in fact, a writer, and even though I was delighted with this recent and unexpected opportunity to flex my investigatory skills once again, I did need to learn something. However, there was one series of panel discussions I would still avoid at any cost, anything to do with editing and publication. To me, it would be like going to church and having guilt drilled into my writing soul.

  I grabbed my purse and room key and rushed to the conference room. I was twenty minutes late.

  * * *

  At the conference room I reached to open the door quietly, assuming it had started. Instead, I literally ran into Brent rushing out.

  “Oops! Excuse me.” Brent sidestepped just in time. “Sorry. Are you alright?”

  “Yes, fine. You in a hurry?”

  “On an errand for Helga before I get to Curtis’s investment seminar.”

  “Enjoy.”

  As I watched Brent speed down the hall, I thought I might slip into one of Curtis’s seminars tomorrow, too. But seminars were not really what I wanted from Curtis. My memories of last night burst into my mind. I remembered Curtis’s dark, dark eyes in the dim light of his bedroom looking down at me. I paused and then snapped back into the reality of the morning. I didn’t want my face flushing again here.

  In the room, the program had not yet
begun. The others were as late as I was. Although most people were seated, there was a group still mingling around the continental breakfast table at the back of the room.

  On the platform were the three presenters who were each geniuses in their own right on “Marketable Ways to Kill Off Your Characters.” First, Sean, who was, of course, the expert on murders in the Big Apple, the grotesque and unique deaths in New York City catalyzed by humans stacked on top of each other with anonymity until their inhumanity erupted. Then came Anne, who took the British reserve and peeled it back until common things became uncommon vehicles for murder, including pillows, stairways, scarves, automobiles, delicious food, or the ever-present English tea. And, lastly, Helga, who was so prolific she had done it all in her books, including scaring victims to death.

  I went in and sat at the back next to Elias.

  “Good morning.” Elias was always friendly and displayed his signature broad smile from beneath his moustache.

  “I guess I’m not so late?”

  “You’re late, but our panel moderator is later.”

  “Frederick?”

  “Yes, Helga sent Brent to drag Frederick out of bed. I think we might need a curfew at the bar for our dear MWW membership, especially the panel members.”

  “As if anyone would be able to enforce it in this group.” I scanned the audience and thought how I, personally, would not have given up my Curtis rendezvous—hopefully plural from now on.

  My eyes rested on Heather and Amy diagonally across the aisle forward from us. I leaned over to Elias and nodded towards the two.

  “It looks like our new inductee Heather has made a friend, or is trying to.”

  “Yes. And, of all people, Amy.” Elias studied the pairing.

  Elias was right. When I took a second look I realized Amy was staring straight ahead at the panel on the platform while Heather talked at her. Heather didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Heather had made a connection she wanted.

  Mary suddenly plopped herself down with a thud into the chair next to me.

  “I’m late.” Mary whispered in my ear so loudly her words bounced around inside of my skull. Then, she leaned across me. “Good morning, my Greek friend.”

  “Kalimera.”

  “I know what that means! Good morning.”

  “Correct! We were going to call out the cavalry for you.”

  Mary laughed. “Liar. You two didn’t even miss me.”

  She was right. I hadn’t even given her a thought.

  Mary leaned up to the row in front, said good morning to anyone within earshot, and explained how she hated being late. I thought to myself that while she might hate being late, she loved an audience empathizing with her for being so.

  I spotted Mavis in the front row desperately sucking up to Esther. She was so transparent; I was appalled and embarrassed for her.

  I studied the panel table beyond and up on the platform. They were all waiting for Frederick to come and perform his task as the moderator.

  Helga sat on the end, talked to no one, and this morning she had a particularly sour look on her face. After seeing her in the bar last night, I suspected a hangover was enhancing her ever-charming self.

  I sat back, relaxed and let my mind return to Curtis. I liked him beyond lust. I anticipated going with him to the California Yacht Club in Marina del Rey and sailing with him on weekends. I wondered if he would invite other couples. I started worrying about not having enough time to do my writing. Then I scoffed at myself. What writing?

  “Earth-to-Veronica.”

  Elias blasted into and interrupted my very pleasant thoughts.

  “I said . . . do you want me to get you a coffee?”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear you.”

  “What were you thinking of? Your mind was not in this room with us?”

  “It was, really. I was thinking how much I like being with other writers.” I offered him a big white lie and stood. “I’ll go with you and get a tea.”

  * * *

  At the rear, we got our coffee and tea. With the Frederick-imposed delay, a steady stream of fellow writers got up and followed our lead to fortify themselves with more caffeine or more continental breakfast calories.

  Esther went forward to the platform, shadowed by Mavis. Esther went up to the front corner of the platform. Mavis remained below. Esther switched on the freestanding microphone.

  “Testing.” The word resounded throughout the room.

  “Could we please stay seated everyone? Frederick will be here to start the program any minute.” Esther spoke slowly and authoritatively. “We have a wonderful and very knowledgeable panel today and when it gets underway, it will be worth the wait. After, we’ll announce an adjustment to the schedule to accommodate the late starting time. Those of you at the back, please, get your goodies and take your seats so that we can get started the minute Frederick arrives. Any questions?”

  There were none. But no one returned to his or her seats.

  Esther frowned at the non-compliance and shook her head with her well-prepped blond hair bobbing. She remained poised, but went to complain to Sean at the panel table.

  With her retreat, the room got noisier. More people ignored Esther’s request to stay seated and migrated back to mingle and consume. Amy stood and headed back as well. She left Heather seated and, literally, talking to herself. Surprised, Heather got up and followed Amy—still talking at her.

  As Amy and Heather approached, I overheard Heather’s rapid fire monologue. She was telling Amy in detail about her idea for her crossover-genre mystery book with an overlay of science fiction. An unexplainable, horrific snowstorm isolates the exclusive resort of Aspen, Colorado and vacationers disappear en masse. It sounded like something out of H.P. Lovecraft, and not in a good way.

  I understood why Amy was trying to escape from Heather. Nothing is worse than listening to an author talk about a book instead of writing it.

  To me there were only two kinds of books; those that were written and those that were not. I didn’t bore people by talking at them about unwritten books. In my view, only a real beginner did that. It confirmed my conclusion that compared to me, Heather was less-than-a-novice in my mystery genre.

  I approached Amy and decided to rescue her as a gesture of good will. Why not? I’ve needed rescuing before and I still believed that with more questioning, Amy could reveal something useful to my investigation.

  “Amy, good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Amy happily and immediately joined Elias and me. “Good morning, Elias. You both know Heather, of course?”

  Greetings flowed all around. Heather’s hellos were less friendly and more those of a thwarted and disappointed ear-bender. I knew Amy’s plan was to dump chatty Heather on us, but with Elias’s ear to relieve mine, I didn’t mind.

  “Of course.” Elias said. “Frederick must have had a late night?”

  “Yes, Helga sent Brent to drag him out of bed.” I turned to Amy. “How late were you guys drinking?”

  “What do you mean?” Amy snipped. “I wasn’t drinking late with anyone.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shrank from Amy’s unexpected defensiveness. “I meant the group must have kept Frederick up late.”

  “I don’t know about the group.” Amy replied. “I personally left after one glass of wine.”

  “That’s right,” Heather intervened. “I left too, when Frederick started that sailing talk with Brent . . .”

  “Not Frederick. Me.” Elias jumped in, generously placating and appeasing the nonsensical ruffled edges. “Frederick was tired. He left, too. Brent and I talked about the sea until late. I’m from good Greek islander stock . . . mariner stock. If my grandfather’s ships hadn’t been blown up by mines in World War II, he would have been a shipping magnate like Onassis or Niarchos.”

  “Really?” I was fascinated.

  “Another story for another time.” Elias drank his coffee. “Where is Frederick? Come to think of it, Frederick should be here . .
. I should be the one in bed after last night!”

  Elias laughed at his observation. He really enjoyed his life and I enjoyed him. I laughed and added, “If they didn’t have such a wonderful by-the-glass wine selection, I suppose we’d all retire earlier and soberer.”

  “They are really exceptional.” Heather turned to Amy. “Don’t you think so?”

  Amy was staring over at the conference room door and ignored the question.

  “Amy?” Heather repeated.

  “What?”

  “The wine. Isn’t it exceptional in the bar?”

  “Oh, . . .yes. It . . .”

  Amy stopped abruptly when a boom resounded through the room. The double conference room doors had burst open and ricocheted against the walls.

  All eyes followed Brent after his spectacular entrance—without Frederick. All eyes but mine, that is. Mine rested on Amy. She was startled, like everyone else, and focused on Brent.

  As murmurs wafted through the room, Brent bee-lined with long strides up the aisle to the platform.

  * * *

  Amy saw me studying her and said derisively “No Frederick? He must have gotten really soused.”

  Heather moaned, “We’ll never start.”

  The whole room was now silent and focused on Brent and Esther conferring up on the podium.

  “What are they doing?” Elias glowered.

  Suddenly, Esther’s face turned white and her knees buckled. Brent grabbed her around the waist.