I wondered if he woke early like I did. When we returned to Southern California, I was sure I would have the opportunity to find out. We did hit it off.
* * *
Up on deck, the Atlantic haze filtered the sun. The sea was calm again with low crests, intermittently dotted with white splashes. I stepped across the deck to the rail and looked out into the distance. It went forever.
“Watch out,” a gray haired and gray sweat-suited jogger yelled.
He was going at a fast clip and unavoidably bumped into my shoulder. I leaned into the wood varnished rail and grabbed it. I looked down into the foaming sea at the base of the ship. It was a long way down.
“Sorry,” the man shouted back.
I stepped back away from the rail. The drop was scary. I watched the man jog away. He looked nothing like the wealthy promenaders depicted in Hollywood’s movie classics, nor did he have their manners.
“My fault,” I called.
“Coming up on the right,” a woman called from behind me.
I jumped back toward the rail. She and another woman in bright shorts and sweatshirts topped with blue and yellow baseball caps passed at a jog near me. Any further romantic illusions I had about my stroll were dispelled by the visual of the one woman’s ass—sweaty bare white buns jiggling below her blue shorts. The other woman’s broad butt bounced too, but stayed in her red shorts. The pairing was enough to kill any nostalgic remnant I had in my mind about old-movie sailings across the Atlantic.
I should have asked the deck etiquette before I embarked on my adventure. Evidently, there were no longer the chatting strollers one saw in the 1930’s movies. Not dissuaded, I staked out a path along the rail in the cold air and crisp winds. I took out my red cap and put it on. I walked in the wake of an older couple going at a slow pace and talking. They could have been the couple we had talked with in the elevator. They were in leisure wools. They renewed my original vision of the scene on the promenade deck, which apparently had become more of a track stadium in the twenty-first century.
As I walked, I scanned the expanse of the now gray-green sea with small white caps trickling into the distance. I thought of the movies about the Atlantic theatre of World War II on my oldies television channel: the submarines, airplanes, supply convoys and destroyer escorts rattling around its immensity with no satellites to pinpoint their locations with ease. Primitive.
I ruminated about Amy and the fact she had published a book. I knew she was the key, the last living member of the group of four. Perhaps the Amy connection was a dead end, but I believed in it, and evidently so did my seasoned friends. Besides, it was all I had, and as any good mystery writer knows, when that’s true, you go with it.
I took one turn around the deck and my Southern California lungs objected to the frosty and salty wet Atlantic air. My nose was starting to freeze and I put my hands in my pockets. I felt the salt air cling to my hair and my red cap. After another quarter turn around the deck, I decided to go to the gym. I needed exercise and, in any event, had to kill more time to assure Mavis had vacated our stateroom.
* * *
In the gym, the more practical passengers filled the jogging machines and stationary bicycles. This was never a scene one would see in the thirties movies.
My body sucked up the warmth in the room, boosted by the body heat the exercisers generated. I removed my cap and stuffed it into my pocket again. Brent was working out with weights in the distance, intermittently chatting with Sean. Then, I spotted a stationary cycle next to Heather in the far corner.
I grabbed a small workout towel from the stack by the door and bee-lined over.
I beat out an older man who had eyed the same cycle, but was slowed by his age and associated impediments.
“Hi.” Heather smiled as I climbed onto the seat and started peddling. “Gray day!”
“It is.” I set the bike for the least effort I could see on the settings, one hour at low resistance on simulated flat land. “It must be lonely without your husband here.”
“It is, but he’s busy.”
“What firm is he with in New York?”
“Blumberg and Hutchinson. He just started really. Brent exaggerated.”
“It took care of the Helga moment!”
“He does a lot of work for a partner who has authors for clients. Mendel was a firm client and my husband did work on his publishing agreements.”
“Really? So did you get a copy of his latest before it went on the shelf?”
“We always do. The partner gets every associate working on the agreements an autographed first edition. He thinks it’s their due. He has some old rare ones from the beginning of his career.”
“So you’ve read Mendel’s latest?”
“Yes. My husband brought it home. I have to say that it’s not like his others.”
“How so?”
“A woman is the main character, for one thing. And it’s sensitive, sad, and poignant.”
“That is different.”
“You should read it. It’s done really well. You wouldn’t guess the author was a man . . . let alone Mendel.”
“How interesting. It’s been a couple of years since he published. They say his creative juices had dried up.”
“Well, they came back. Either that, or he channeled someone’s tragic life.”
“I’d like to read it.”
“I’m sure it’s online. It’s probably for sale in the lobby with everyone else’s books.”
“Right!”
Everywhere authors gather they sell their books to each other, in an incestuous ritual. On the ship, I had avoided running that money-sucking author’s gauntlet of autographed books. But now, I would seek it out.
“I’m sure someone is manning his table,” Heather said. “And plugging their own books.”
“Right. Thanks. You know, I think I’ve had enough. I was jogging on the deck before this.”
I lied. I had to get a look at Mendel’s book and see if it revealed anything we needed to know to solve his murder. Getting to my investigation was more important than avoiding Mavis. I also needed to head to the library and spend more computer time on the foursome who had more than “crossed paths” so many years ago.
“The promenade?”
“Yes.” I got off the cycle.
“Wow, you’re brave. It’s a speedway.”
“I figured that out.”
“Ah, it doesn’t take long to learn. I made that mistake, too.”
I didn’t admit that I naive when it came to the promenade deck.
“See you at dinner.” I hopped off the bicycle.
“Bye.”
The older man, who had missed getting my stationary bicycle, was still waiting. He smiled when I left. He undoubtedly wanted the cycle next to Heather to chat her up while he exercised.
* * *
When I got back to the cabin, Mavis was just leaving.
“I’m late.” Mavis gathered her things. “Esther called. That damn Helga hasn’t shown up yet for her ‘Agitating Agents’ panel discussion.”
“Oh?”
Mavis was chatty despite submarining me last night at dinner. My immediate choice was to accept her as she was this morning. Some drinkers didn’t even remember the night before. I didn’t know if she was one of them. I didn’t care. I was polite because her openness was to my advantage. Information flow was my objective, no matter how trivial.
“Is it chilly out there?” Mavis asked.
“Yes, take a wrap.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you mean Helga hasn’t shown up? She must be awake. I just saw Brent in the gym.”
“Awake or not, it doesn’t matter. Esther says when Helga starts writing she tunes the world out and does no-shows for meetings, lunches, you name it. Evidently, she won’t answer her cabin door or the phone. She’s probably holed up there with her muse.” Mavis paused and then added with a bitter edge to her voice. “She isn’t known as ‘Ms. Prolific’ for not
hing.”
“That’s a gift.” I recognized Mavis’s writer’s envy, but carefully did not reveal mine.
“She’s self-centered and egocentric to be leaving us in the lurch.” Mavis grabbed her short black coat from the closet and her purse. “Esther and I have to deal with this. I might take over. I have my own agitating agent.”
“Good solution.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t know what that was like.” Mavis’s fangs came out. “Dealing with an agent.”
I did not jump to the bait. Evidently, last night was fresh in her mind and her attacks on me were to be repeated whenever she felt like it. I let it go. It was more interesting to me that Mavis was in a tizzy about the Helga-drama of the moment. It made her important to Esther and she thought she might get something out of it.
Without another word, Mavis headed out to vie for the spot on the panel.
“Good riddance,” I mumbled.
I got dressed and balanced my desire to look smashing for Curtis against my need to get on with my investigation. I had to get my research done on the outrageously expensive shipboard Internet and brave the book gauntlet to buy Mendel’s new—and last—release.
⌘
Chapter 27
An Open Book
By the time I got ready, I was hungry. I dropped by the twenty-four-hour coffee bar on the way to the library and picked up a tea and a raisin scone. This was a British cruise line and I wanted to have at least one authentic scone. I had seen kippers on the breakfast menu, too, and planned to go to the dining room open seating breakfast and try them as well before the cruise ended. Kippers were strewn amongst the old British movies.
The library was nearly empty. I sat overlooking the ocean again and sipped my tea and ate my scone as I did Internet searches. I looked for information on anyone in our growing and complex drama.
I read everything I could about Otto, Frederick, Mendel, and Amy.
Finally, the information became inbred with every search leading me to the same pages and repetitive information. Then, I decided to look at information on Mendel’s new book that Heather had found so interesting.
She was right. The reviews were stellar. They touted the realistic vengeful female main character and the intricacy of the plot. But of more interest was the setting. It was a depiction of Otto’s writing program, but disguised as an acting program. I needed the book. I decided I would search for Amy’s outdated published book later and left for the book fair.
* * *
At the book fair, the long tables of books were manned by five of our authors. They were promoting their books and signing them for a surprisingly sparse, but eager, group of passengers.
Mavis sat at the end of one table with no comers. I wondered if she had been allowed to grace the panel discussion in Helga’s absence. Certainly, if so, it had done nothing for her sales here. Not even my classmates were buying from her.
Agnes and Jody were waiting together at Mary’s table. Mary was signing copies for a chatty, elderly woman who bought a whole bag of her books. Herbert was at Sean’s signing table, which had a group of animated men talking and laughing. Sean was a real man, and it showed. Too bad Herbert wasn’t. That showed too.
Elias was across the way, surrounded by women. He was signing his books and charming them all with his mustached smile and gleaming teeth. I went to his table.
“Elias, when are you through here?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, but we need to meet,” I whispered. “I have new information.”
“Sure, lunch? Give me at least an hour. One-thirty?”
“Yes, in the dining room. I’ll tell the others.”
I told Mary and then Sean over at his table.
“What meeting?” Herbert interrupted and glanced from one of us to the other through his thick-rimmed glasses. “I want to come.”
“It’s just a book meeting,” Sean placated him. “I’ll tell you about it after I sign this for you.”
Herbert was pleased. He believed Sean’s subterfuge.
“Right on, Sean,” I muttered as I left.
I was irritated at myself for not being more circumspect around Herbert. He was a bother.
I bought a copy of Mendel’s book from an author I did not recognize. He was manning Mendel’s table to piggyback his sales in on Mendel’s reputation. I hurried to my cabin to read it. I was convinced it held the key to his death—and maybe more.
* * *
In the elevator, I reveled in the potential irony of Mendel helping to solve his own murder. But then, I thought, what in the book could have been the catalyst for his demise?
In my cabin alone, I skimmed through the book quickly.
The main character was a thinly disguised Amy at a premier graduate acting school. And the male characters were none other than Otto, Frederick, and Mendel—by other names. It was a plot of female revenge for rape, betrayal, and the destruction of her acting career. Did Mendel think that this rendition of their pasts would go unnoticed by the woman who had paid the price—Amy? How arrogant he was if he thought so!
Every paragraph confirmed that this book was autobiographical and depicted Amy’s horrific background. To me the guise of an acting school was transparent. Mendel had taken Amy’s life story, her true and tragic life story. The rape scene was graphic, brutal, and perverse. It had a victim participatory element that made it equivocal—made it a he-said she-said with overtones of desires that were just not believable for a young, inexperienced female. Frederick was there too, not in name, but in context. He was weak, opportunistic, and evil.
Had Mendel run out of plots? Or, was he so jealous of Frederick’s Oscars and commercial Hollywood wealth that he had to get even?
The public at large would not know the true biographical nature of the book. Amy would–and now me after delving intimately into the obscured past and also having seen the interaction between Mendel, Frederick, and Amy.
The book clearly depicted Amy’s strength and capacity for sustained anger. I was right that she was the last of the four standing. But had I been mistaken? Was this slender, reserved, elegant woman’s life in danger, too? Or, was her new-found light-heartedness a product of delayed but successful revenge? Had I gotten it wrong? Was Amy the murderer, not Helga? A triple murderer?
I looked up at the clock. I was just going to make it to the lunch meeting. I grabbed my purse, put the book in it, and headed out.
* * *
In the dining room Elias, Mary, and Sean were waiting at a table for four in a far corner. The dining room was not full and had groupings at other tables on the main floor, but not in the tiers above.
“Sorry I’m late.” I sat down.
“We just got here, too,” Elias said.
“We all ordered Salade Niçoise and got you one, as well . . . and that’s your iced tea,” Mary said. “Hope that’s fine.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” I grabbed Mendel’s book from my purse and put it on the table. “Have any of you read this?”
“No.” Mary picked it up and leafed through it. “Not yet.”
“Sadly, his last,” Elias said. “I haven’t read it, either.”
“I bought it yesterday afternoon,” Sean said. “After you told us about those four being in Otto’s writing program together. I started it last night and I finished it a couple of hours ago. Now, I have to say I’m not afraid for Amy . . . I’m afraid of her.”
I leaned back in my chair, let out a sigh. “Then you see the same thing I do?”
“Yes.” Sean put his elbow on the table and leaned towards Mary and Elias. “Amy’s revenge.”
“Amy’s what!” Mary exclaimed. “I thought she was in danger.”
“What is going on here?” Elias insisted. “I don’t understand.”
The server brought our lunches and we all hushed until he left.
“It’s about a graduate acting program and has four main characters.” I leaned forward again.
Sean and I explained the plot and the characters. Then, I related it to the actual picture I had found.
“But the acting program in New York is transparently a duplication of Otto’s writing program. The setting, really everything, is the same,” Sean added. “And the characters are the promising and talented female acting student in the program, her boyfriend, his best friend and teaching assistant, and the head of the program. In other words, Amy, Frederick, Mendel, and Otto.”
“Mendel barely changes their physical descriptions!” I interjected.
“You’ll recognize them immediately when you read it,” Sean added. “The female graduate student is raped by the teaching assistant and goes to the police.”
“But in the book the rape is ambiguous and makes Amy’s character appear to want it rough and has her begging to be sodomized and degraded. It’s horrible.”
“Oh, my God,” Mary said. “That elegant little thing would never invite that. Not at that young, tender age anyway. I write enough of that stuff to know.”
“And I’ve seen enough on the force to know that as well,” Sean agreed.
“Yes,” I said. “And that makes this book a real slap in the face to her.”
“I can see why she’s irate,” Elias said. “But murder?”
“It gets worse,” Sean went on. “Her boyfriend and the head of the department coerce her into dropping the complaint she had made.”
“Yeah,” I added. “The department head gets the boyfriend a big film part in Hollywood for his part in the betrayal.”
“Anyway.” Sean was getting annoyed at my interruptions. “She gets pregnant from the sex . . .”
“Rape,” Mary corrected.
“Okay. Rape.” Sean was impatient to finish. “She drops out of the program and has the kid, but it dies suspiciously of SIDS. Then . . . she learns the boyfriend had traded her for that job in Hollywood. That is where the book takes a different turn. She becomes a successful movie actress and systematically tries to destroy the men’s acting careers and marriages. But in the end, she doesn’t exact catastrophic revenge because the three men join forces in time. She doesn’t kill them or even try to kill them.”
Death Sets Sail Page 20