Death Sets Sail

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “This is interesting.” Elias looked up from his laptop. “It’s a book synopsis and a draft of a book by Amy. The plot parallels Mendel’s book, but in reverse. He is the villain. And it’s in a writing program.”

  “What?” Sean exclaimed.

  “I’ll read through it more before dinner,” Elias said. “And then I’ll put it in my safe.”

  “I’m going to send some documents to my ex-partner now.” Sean stood.

  “And I have a few other things to do.” I had done my duty and wanted to go by Curtis’s meeting room to see if he was finished for the day. “See you later.”

  “Okay,” Elias said. “We’ll meet an hour before dinner at the bar.”

  “At the bar it is.” Sean chose several of the documents he had read to send to his partner. “These are about as much as I can do in one sitting.”

  I left.

  I thought of looking for Mary, but the consensus was that she was not in danger. I started to the elevator to find Curtis and give him the opportunity to make a date with me tonight.

  I had, apparently, solved two murders on the high seas and one in New York. Of course, I did it by now committing some of the crimes I had only written about up until now—but c’est la vie. I intended to take the night off and celebrate my triumph. There were other things in life besides solving crimes and writing them up as fiction.

  ⌘

  Chapter 30

  Helgatory

  I missed Curtis at his seminar. It ended early. I went back to my stateroom to get gorgeous for dinner and hopefully post-dinner—if no more bodies piled up. Unfortunately, Mavis was there. My envy of both Elias and Mary having no roommates intensified. At that moment, I was truly motivated to edit, publish, and get a wad of money to be roommate-less two years from now.

  As I entered my sardine can, I felt claustrophobic and vulnerable to Mavis’s assaults. I was still unnerved because of this afternoon’s scare. Naturally, I didn’t share a thing about it with Mavis and only half listened to her self-absorbed chattering. I grabbed the shower and welcomed the steamy heat relaxing my whole body.

  As we got ready for dinner, Mavis bragged nonstop about her possible new agent who might reissue her first murder series with new splashy covers and new names. It was her most popular book series with, in her words, a “marvelous” female protagonist—a Los Angeles detective who solved crimes others couldn’t. As Mavis spoke, I decided she was talking this up to convince herself it would happen.

  “But why re-issue?” I put my lipstick, money, and room key in my evening bag. “Isn’t it more profitable to go on to the new series you announced last year in class?”

  “It depends.” Mavis called out from the bathroom where she was still in her robe and finishing her make-up. “If an agent gets a publisher to print my old series on demand and as an e-book, I think it would be great. It’ll be money in the bank for everyone with no work . . . well for me, anyway.”

  “I guess so. Those were published in the paperback days, weren’t they?”

  I still did not understand why any publisher would reissue an outdated, already sold series. The books would be so stale, given the massive changes in technology and popular culture.

  “Sure they’re paperbacks. What of it? I have a following for all my books and I get e-mails about the ones out of print all the time. Besides, it’s my agent who’s pushing it.”

  “Well, congratulations.” I knew then she had writer’s block, just like me, and no new series to publish electronically. “I guess it is worth a try, but I . . .”

  A loud banging on the door interrupted my next question.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  I heard a muffled response. I went and looked through the peephole. Brent was standing at the door looking up and down the hall nervously. I opened the door.

  “Brent?” I was dumbfounded as to why he was at our door—and banging on it.

  “Are you alone?” Brent whispered.

  “No.”

  “Who is it?” Mavis called.

  She came in from the bathroom still in her bathrobe, but makeup perfect. Her mouth dropped open. Then, it formed the flirtatious smile she reserved, consciously or unconsciously, for attractive males and sometimes the unattractive.

  “Oh, Brent, good evening.” Mavis twittered.

  “Good evening.” Brent transformed from nervous to pasted-on-charm with alacrity. “Just picking up Veronica . . . for that drink as promised . . . remember?”

  I was confused. I didn’t remember planning a drink with him. But, I took his cue. After all, I was ready to go, I liked Brent, and, from his initial facial expression, it looked like something was wrong. Besides, I could dump Mavis, who was still in her robe.

  “Sure!” I grabbed my bag from the bed.

  “Wonderful.” Brent stepped aside as I made my way out the door.

  “See you at dinner, Brent.” Mavis purred.

  “Yes, of course.” Brent followed me out.

  “Have fun, you two.” Mavis called salaciously, rudely, and most of all, jealously.

  The door slammed on its too-quick and too-heavy automatic closing spring.

  * * *

  I had shut Mavis out—shutting her out of anything was rewarding to me—but exactly what was I shutting her out of? Since it obviously involved the Brent-and-Helga saga, I was sure it would be interesting, but either way, I had been rescued from Mavis.

  Brent sped down the hall and I followed. I didn’t care if Mavis believed the Helga-delusional accusation at the bar last night that I was having an affair with Brent. It was, on its face, an absurdity for anyone who knew Brent’s avaricious ways and my less-than-wealthy personal situation.

  “Hey, slow down,” I called.

  “Sorry.” Brent stopped.

  “Brent, did we make plans? I’m sorry I . . .”

  “I didn’t know what to do.” Brent glanced around to see that we were alone in the hall. He was upset and had turned off his auto-charm.

  “About what?”

  “I need help and I trust you. I’ve watched you. I know you’re discreet and not invested in rising to the top like the others.”

  “Thanks . . . I guess.” Whatever it was, it was not good—and it was also not good that Brent didn’t think I was interested in getting ahead in the authorial world. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s gone. She’s not anywhere.”

  “Who? Helga?”

  “Yes, and I can’t find her.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “I need help. Help from someone who will respect Helga’s privacy. And, I know you will . . . only you.”

  “I’m glad you have confidence in me, but I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t find my wife!”

  “What do you mean you can’t find her? This is a ship. It’s in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “Literally, I can’t find her. I’ve checked but . . .”

  “We should call security. . .”

  The minute the words came out of my mouth I stopped. I knew it was a ridiculous suggestion in light of the incompetence demonstrated thus far.

  “ . . . or not.”

  “I think not . . .” Brent said. “Not yet, anyway. The publicity. Her reputation. I can trust you to keep this quiet, can’t I?”

  “Of course.”

  “I knew you were not one of them . . .”

  “Them?”

  “The hungry and desperate writers bloated with ego, trying to claw their way to the top by bringing down Helga. They would love to dethrone her. And you wouldn’t. I can tell.”

  “Thanks.” I wondered if that was really a compliment, but it was better than what he had said before. “Thanks for trusting me.”

  “I’m worried something is really wrong.”

  “Brent, you have to settle down. When was the last time you checked your stateroom?”

  “An hour ago. I’ve been all around.”

  “Maybe she�
��s back.” I headed to the elevator. “Let’s start there.”

  As we waited for the elevator, I wished I hadn’t engendered so much trust in him. Enjoying a few murders amongst friends was one thing, but marital discord—or better put, spousal warfare, was entirely another. My husband and I had avoided it, both within our marriage and with friends, all our lives.

  “Where have you looked?” On the elevator, I was, again, on the way to where the wealthy ensconced themselves shipboard.

  “Everywhere. Literally. Well, everywhere I could think of, but there are so many places to go on this floating island. Besides when she gets . . . gets . . . well, this way . . .”

  “What way?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, if you want me to help you.”

  “Sometimes . . . no . . . often . . . Helga will throw fits and disappear for days.”

  “That would be hard to do on board a ship.”

  “Yeah, I figured that, but she missed her massage appointment. She wasn’t in the gym. I couldn’t check the woman’s steam room . . . you can go places I can’t.”

  “Did you check the library?” I asked.

  “Didn’t think of it.” Brent got his cabin key out. “I don’t know if a library would have entered her mind. But I did check the champagne bar and the casino.”

  “I see.”

  I hoped she’d just be in the stateroom and I could leave them to fight it out. I had seen her ire, especially her ire under the influence, and I didn’t want it directed towards me ever again.

  As we made our way down the halls, I wondered how this man could care so much after the humiliation I had witnessed in the last three days alone. In fact, I was through with her after the scene at the casino and the incident afterward at the bar where she named me as “the other woman”.

  * * *

  At the exclusive stateroom, several decks higher than Elias’s, Brent slid his magnetic card key in the slot. He straightened the do not disturb sign.

  “Helga keeps it up and then calls housekeeping when we go to dinner. She likes to be left alone.”

  “I see.” I could not have cared less about this horrible woman’s habits and hoped she had returned on her own.

  “Helga!” Brent went in. “Helga! Are you here?”

  “She’s not here?” I followed Brent in.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “She might be somewhere writing. She isn’t known as the mystery world’s most prolific author for nothing.” I hid my envy since my curiosity was now piqued and my passport into the intimate world of Helga-and-Brent depended on my non-competitive, amateur status.

  “Come in. I just want to check her bathroom before we scour the ship.”

  “That’s a good idea.’’

  I admired the magnificent soft white living room suite with vases of spring bouquets thick with yellow and pink roses. There was a sweeping view beyond the large balcony of the changeable Atlantic, now sparkling after the stormy night. The balcony had symmetrically arranged outdoor chaises and chairs dotted with neatly folded red and navy plaid blankets. There was a large bedroom off to the right beyond the well-stocked, and apparently well-used bar. The king-sized bed was unmade and Brent’s clothes were thrown on it. There was another closed door to the left behind.

  “That’s Helga’s room.” Brent responded to my gaze.

  I saw that the handle was hanging and broken.

  “I had to get in. I hadn’t seen her all day.”

  “Of course.” I hoped that Brent was being melodramatic.

  “At home after our late night brawls I usually just let her sleep it off in her room.”

  “Her bedroom?”

  “We have separate bedrooms at home, too. She keeps erratic hours writing. Sometimes all night. That’s what it takes to be her.”

  “I see.” I almost fit that requirement too, getting up at four every morning. If it were only more productive.

  “She usually crawls out of bed late, has lunch, and we make up. But today I jogged around the deck, went to the gym, steamed, lunched, and then caught Curtis’s financial seminars. When I got back to get ready for dinner, I knocked on her door. It was still locked and she didn’t answer. So I . . . Well, you see. I was worried.”

  Brent opened the door to check the bedroom. I was shocked at what I saw.

  * * *

  Helga’s bedroom was destroyed. Jewelry and clothes were thrown on the dressers, the bed, and the floor. The closet was open and full of sloppily-hung clothes. The bed was unmade, but I noticed it didn’t look like the pillows had been used. They were fluffy and pristine.

  “Did she sleep in here?”

  “Of course.” Brent followed my eyes to the pillows and added, “Unless she wrote all night.”

  The door to the en suite bathroom was open.

  “Not here,” I said.

  I looked into the bathroom. It was pristine and all the towels were unused and hanging untouched, except one lonely hand towel draped disheveled by itself over one towel bar. I looked around for other used towels, but there were none. I felt the shower. It was bone dry. Unused.

  I walked back into the bedroom. I joined Brent, who was looking out at the sea.

  “This room is a mess.” I said.

  “Yeah, but she does that when she throws a fit. Our maid at home hates it. But we both expect it. She’ll destroy anything if she feels like it.”

  “Uh-huh.” What else could I say to that?

  “That always means a big tip for the maid.”

  “This kind of thing is not unusual?”

  “Well . . .” Brent started toward the living room. “I mean she doesn’t do it that often. That’s not exactly true . . . often enough. We should go . . . find her.”

  “Is it usually after you argue?”

  “Argue?”

  “I saw you in the casino last night.”

  “Oh, that. Believe me, that was not an argument. That was a spat.”

  “Ah.” I kept looking around for any clue to help us find her.

  “She throws things around a lot . . . even after she argues with her agent or editor or publicist. I guess it happens more often than not. Let’s go.”

  Brent started for the living room again, but I did not follow. Instead, I looked at the balcony off Helga’s bedroom and the gray sea beyond. I noted the blankets on the chaises were lumped in a pile and the chaises and chairs were not symmetrically arranged like the living room balcony.

  “It looks like she was out on the balcony.”

  “I don’t think so. It was storming last night.” Brent looked at me and then out onto the balcony.

  “Yes, the blankets have been used and the chaises rearranged.” I started toward the sliding glass balcony door and Brent followed.

  The door wasn’t locked. I slid it open and walked out to the rail.

  The bedroom balcony was separated from the living room balcony and also from the neighboring cabin by a solid white metal privacy walls. I looked out onto the post-storm cold, sun spattered Atlantic sea. Brent stood next to me and looked out himself.

  We were amidships and there was a straight drop down to the white foam below where the ship cut through the sea.

  “Helga hates neighbors, so she picked this stateroom. At least no neighbors underneath.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “I think you’re right. She must have been out here.” Brent watched me look down to the foamy sea. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stepped back. To me it was like standing on a cliff in an earthquake. I remembered my jogging incident on the promenade deck.

  Brent stepped forward. He looked carefully over the rail coming to his hip height. The rails were made for average people; not for a man his size with his center of gravity so high.

  “She couldn’t have . . .”

  “Fallen?” I completed Brent’s thought.

  “It was storming.”

  “No.” I went ba
ck into Helga’s bedroom. “Don’t be silly. We’ll find her. She’s probably in the sauna or getting a facial. Let’s go.”

  “It’s a beautiful view. I feel sorry for the folks with just a porthole. Thanks for the help.”

  Helga’s closed laptop was on the desk. “Did she write this morning?”

  “I assume. She always does. Why?”

  “Just thinking. May I open it?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s off. Can you power it up? I’d like to see when she last worked.”

  “No she’d kill me if I touched it. Besides she has it password protected.”

  “Ah . . . Of course.”

  For the first time, I actually began to wonder where Helga was myself. She was eccentric enough to be anywhere doing anything. A hook-up crossed my mind. She wasn’t unattractive and could be charming when she wanted to be. Then, I immediately came to my senses. I didn’t care about this tremendously rich couple and their machinations or sexual appetites. I just wanted to leave and see if Curtis was at the bar before I had to meet with my cohorts.

  “Maybe we should just wait and see if she shows up at dinner. She could have come and dressed while you were running around the ship. Did you check her evening clothes?”

  “No. How could I tell? She has so many, and they’re such a mess.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Let’s go. I’m sure she’ll show up at dinner. She enjoys it so much.”

  “At our expense,” I thought.

  “Now that I’ve talked to you I feel a little silly.” Brent was sheepish.

  “We have a plan then.”

  “Right.” Brent said. “But I owe you a cocktail and we can check out the bar.”

  “Great!”

  Brent did a very agile 180-degree turn from being the distressed husband to acting the charming host. I wondered if it was my reassurances, or the fact that Brent was just ready for his cocktail hour. He, most assuredly, had forgotten about turning the ship upside down to find his adoring wife.

  We left for the bar and even though Brent was actually a nice guy, I determined that I would divorce myself from any future Brent-and-Helga dramas. I didn’t care if she came to dinner or not. I had other plans for the night. I had been abused by her enough and had been sucked into their rich-person spectacles more often and more deeply than I could handle.