Death Sets Sail

by Dale E. Manolakas

  “And, now, I am so happy to present this token of recognition to the next generation of mystery writers—not to mention the prized publishing contract.”

  There was a wave of chuckles.

  “We all know that a nomination is noteworthy. So congratulations to all of them and best of luck in the future. And, of course, we wish the winner much success with his or her soon to be published book. Everyone here will support you and embrace you as one of us. Whether for good or for ill, you will be a member of this circle, this family made up of the well-known and the too well-known, the famous and the infamous, the friendly and the reclusive.”

  There was a smattering of laughter and Mary paused. I drank my wine and listened. She was a brilliant, unassuming woman.

  “The first nominee is Thomas Heitel, a Professor from Bakersfield State, for Death in the Farmlands, a mystery about a serial murderer raised in Bakersfield, California. Our second, Shanisa Moore, is a lawyer . . . turned ice cream parlor owner . . . turned author who has used arsenic as her vehicle for murder in a fresh new book called The Ice Cream Murders: Pistachio. It’s clear we have many flavors to go! A great hook for a series. Our third nominee is Thomas Coyne, M.D. who has used his medical knowledge in Global Mutants to create a unique virus that threatens mankind globally. And our fourth . . .”

  As Mary continued her illumination of the nominees, I was startled at the mundane, prosaic and derivative nature of the nominated mysteries. I knew mine were better. At least, they were more original and had more unique settings. My theatre mystery was set in the sordid small theatre world of Hollywood with stars and hopefuls intermingled. It was unique and well written. I needed to get serious. I really did. Again, I committed myself to avoiding the neighborhood coffee klatch and entering this category next time—two years from now.

  But then, when Mary announced the final nominee, I realized that not all of these unpublished authors were without originality and talent.

  “Our fifth and last nominee,” Mary read from her list.” Is Niall Littlemill for The Fatal Firth of Forth, a noir serial murder mystery set in his home city of Edinburgh, Scotland. The bodies are all found in the Firth of Forth near the Fourth Bridge, and traditional Scottish haggis is implicated. The murders are investigated by a tattooed, spike-haired, punk pub bartender and her regular customer, a retired Sergeant Major from the famous Black Watch.”

  “And the winner is,” Mary paused dramatically, opened envelope, took out the card, and stared at it.

  Her face lit up with a huge grin.

  From the audience a man shouted, “Well, who is it?”

  “Niall Littlemill for his mystery The Fatal Firth of Forth. It appears some evildoers did not get off Scot-free! And now that his novel will be published, I am sure the author is glad the victims were kilt.”

  There were friendly boos from the audience.

  “Just a harmless pun,” Mary chuckled. “Now, Elias Vlisides will have competition from another published author in his food-murder category.”

  The whole room burst with applause. It was strangely fitting that an author from the British Isles would be honored as we cruised toward that very destination.

  Up on the risers at the front of the room, Mary handed Niall the pen and quill trophy. He hugged Mary, whispered in her ear, turned, and then stepped up to the podium. My mouth dropped open. That was the man whose balcony Brent’s body had landed on. I looked at Sean and Sean looked back and shrugged.

  As the thundering applause waned, Mary rushed her large body down the steps, sensible shoes popping out prominently, and sat in her chair.

  Niall stood with his award in the spotlight and in his moment of triumph.

  “Thank you. This is such an honor.”

  Niall gazed alternately at the trophy and then out into the audience. The standing-o’s sat and a smattering of applause still popped through the room. All were poised for a heartfelt acceptance speech commensurate with the honor. Then—Niall’s eyes met mine. He recognized me, but couldn’t place me. I glanced at Sean. Seeing us both gave him context. He was startled and losing his words that had probably been rehearsed a million times alone.

  “Thank you . . .” He started haltingly.

  “Thank you . . . from the bottom of my heart. I feel a wee bit sheepish. I . . . I never . . . ah . . . thought . . . well that I would win! The other four nominated were grand. Cheers to my fellow competitors!”

  Niall had a reprieve as the audience applauded the other nominees. Sean and I had disconcerted Niall, but when he saw Amy next to me, his eyes shined.

  “Maybe now I can get a meeting with Ms. Amy Miller . . . here in the front. Hello! I hear you do murder . . .

  Amy’s eyes popped wide. She gave our quartet the evil eye and looked up at Niall.

  “. . . with your deals, I mean,” Niall laughed. “I know you’re a stellar agent and perhaps we could share a blood pudding one day!”

  Amy nodded and raised her glass.

  “. . . and my thanks to the judges and all of you.”

  I sat dumbfounded.

  “Do murder!” Elias whispered to Mary as she sat. “An unconscious but apt public accusation.”

  “Yes.” Mary’s eyes sparkled. “Did you see that look? We had better be careful until she is taken into custody.”

  “Only a few hours more,” Sean said.

  “We’ll make it,” Mary said.

  I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t as sure.

  “What the hell did he whisper to you?” Sean asked Mary.

  “He just asked me “’What the hell do I bloody say now?’”

  “He seems to have figured that one out,” I said.

  “And, finally,” Niall gushed, “I want to thank Otto Stein, who so many years ago taught me how to write in his renowned writing program and helped me sow the seeds of this mystery and, hopefully, many more to come.”

  Niall basked in the limelight and, having succeeded, puffed advice. “Writing can be lonely. But having a class with a great teacher and other writers can inspire you. I am sure Ms. Miller does not remember me but for the blink of an eye, I was in the class, with her and her close friends, the late Frederic Larsen and Mendel Weitzman.”

  “Ah, a source!” I said to Mary.

  “Don’t let anyone distract you from your goals and don’t stray from your path. To be a writer is to be dedicated, focused, and to believe in yourself. Above all, you must believe in your own talent and future. I know that growing as a writer means growing as a person and being mature enough to filter through your lessons in life without letting anything or anyone get in the way of your creativity and craft.”

  Sean, like the class bully, was sizing up Niall and Amy as well. He was looking for vulnerability on Amy’s part and loose lips on Niall’s.

  “Bully on!” I thought.

  * * *

  I scanned the audience. They were spellbound. And why shouldn’t they be? Niall was almost as charismatic and funny as Mary, and this was his moment. He didn’t know the woman he had lauded and bantered about was a murderer of three men—nor did his appreciative audience. And that was the truth behind her smiles. No matter how justified in her mind, Amy was the brutal bludgeoner of Otto in New York and the lethal poisoner of Mendel and Frederick on the high seas.

  She was the murderer amongst us. Brent was not one of us, and though an abused husband, had been every bit as much a murderer.

  I scanned our table.

  Jody was obeying all of the award-etiquette rules and focused on Niall’s every word—he was where she wanted to be and never would.

  Mavis was properly attentive, but the vapid look in her eyes revealed that she was listening to nothing. She was blinded by jealousy. But to be fair, with her financial problems, I might be as well.

  Heather was bright-eyed and proud that an MWW award winner had mentioned her new friend.

  Elias and Sean were both stoic, like Buddha book ends. Their arms were folded on their ample bellies as the
y glared at Amy-the-man-killer, basking in reflected glory, and not appearing to have a care in the world.

  Agnes picked at her dessert, obviously bored because she was not talking about her own writing or being the center of attention.

  And I just listened to Mary hmmphing and grumping next to me as Amy maintained her charm and demeanor, giving no hint that anything Niall had said had disturbed her in any way.

  “They’ll get her smug ass in Southampton,” Mary whispered.

  Jody scowled at Mary for daring to whisper again while Niall had the floor.

  Sean ignored Jody’s reprimands and whispered to us, his fellow murderer chasers, “I’m going to get her tonight.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  ⌘

  Chapter 44

  A Whiff of Wickedness

  Niall finally began to bring his remarks to a close.

  “Best I conclude, before ye all are completely scunnered, though I may already be a wee bit late for that. I mourn the recent loss of the wonderful members of our family and valuable MWW members along with you. Especially the marvelous Otto Stein who, as I mentioned before, was my teacher, mentor, a great man, and a great friend.”

  Amy’s pasted on pleasant face did not change or even twitch.

  “But all our recently and untimely departed colleagues would want us to look forward and not back. That is what I have learned to do on this cruise where we are commemorating them. Thank you again, everyone.”

  There was loud, uninhibited applause as Niall returned to his seat. The audience applause of adoration and expectation for the new, upcoming writer, someone who now had a publishing contract, and maybe an agent in Amy Miller. They all knew that such notables as Helga, Mendel, Frederick, and Mary had gotten this award in past years and were prepared to embrace Niall into the fold instantaneously.

  I couldn’t stay next to Amy any longer. Already, I had given her too many opportunities to get to me, and had made a fool of myself in the process. I was going in search of Curtis at the bar, our regular meeting place. I was sure if we had seen each other at dinner, we would have made arrangements again for the last night of our voyage.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I whispered to Mary.

  “No. That’s what she wants—to get us separated and vulnerable.”

  “But . . .”

  “Stay . . . please. If Curtis wants to be with you tonight, he will wait.” Mary smiled. “He’s not worth your life.”

  “Perceptive . . . and right, but I don’t have to like this.” My mind screamed at me that another night with Curtis was worth my life—I ignored it and stayed.

  “Neither do I . . . but it’s almost over.”

  Esther relieved my immediate concerns. She nodded at Amy to come up begin the presentation of Otto’s posthumous lifetime achievement award by introducing Sean, the presenter.

  Amy rose and looked at our table triumphantly, especially after Niall’s public choice of her as an agent. She strode to the podium followed by the eyes of the audience members, especially the males.

  Over the loudspeaker, Amy did a more than creditable job waxing effusive about how deserving Otto was of the award. Indeed, she went on at length, bathed in the limelight, and, in the process, made a good portion of Sean’s planned award speech duplicative.

  “Well, she’s shortening my speech!” Sean said. “Good.”

  “Shh,” Jody hissed.

  “I’ve had just about enough of her shushing.” Sean frowned and shook his head.

  Amy continued. “Otto, as you know, lost his life in that terrible burglary at his home in New York before this cruise. He gave so much to this profession and mentored so many great writers that his death is a great loss to us all. Mendel Weitzman was going to present the award posthumously, but unfortunately, as most of you already know, Mendel had a heart attack here on board the Queen Anne. We mourn his death as well. But Sean O’Flarity has graciously consented to do the honors this evening in Mendel’s stead. And appropriately so. As you know, Sean is an internationally famous best-selling detective author and has lived a lifetime in Otto’s beloved New York. Sean needs no further introduction to any writer here or any mystery loving reader worldwide. Sean?”

  We “conspirators” knew that Amy was baiting Sean and us, gloating in the belief she had bested this seasoned detective and all of us.

  Applause rose as Sean straightened his cummerbund and scooted his chair back.

  “Here we go,” Sean whispered to us. “Maybe Amy will be afraid after this!”

  “What is he going to do?” I asked.

  We all looked at each other as Sean went up to the podium.

  “After what?” Elias whispered. “We didn’t authorize any assault from the podium. Is it wise?”

  “Lord above,” Mary murmured. “What could he do in front of all these people?”

  Spotlights overshooting the stage washed our table. Amy was clapping at the podium along with all the others. The charade was more than I could bear. I wanted to flee to Curtis and be with him, but I couldn’t.

  Amy returned to sit with us, like a black widow hovering at the edge of her web. A web spun for us, the only ones who knew what she had done. Amy knew that she had won, as she had planned and hoped. She now had gotten a last victorious moment, if an unexpected one, through Niall’s speech and her own, before her three dead men were interred. She was dancing on their graves. She had revenge, admiration, acknowledgment and, she thought, immunity from murder.

  But, notwithstanding that, Mary was right. Until Southampton, the game was afoot, as the unassailable and impeccable Sherlock Holmes aptly would have put it.

  Sean began the presentation speech that Mendel had originally been slated to give.

  * * *

  “I am honored to present this lifetime achievement award to Otto Stein. It is just tragic that I have to do it posthumously.”

  Sean took a folded sheet from his breast pocket, opened it on the podium, put on his glasses, and began to read.

  “I have had the good fortune to have had two careers. One as a NYPD homicide detective for over thirty years and the other with you as a mystery writer. You have accepted me into your fold and the public has faithfully bought my books, one after another. Otto only had one career, molding and helping young writers to succeed. But he did it superlatively. He did this in the face of great personal sacrifices—including never marrying. Instead, he devoted every waking moment to establishing, improving, and promoting his writing program. He did so until it slowly became the premier and world-renowned launching vehicle for accomplished and award-winning writers in every genre, including books, magazines, film and television. He then nurtured and promoted his graduates’ careers with great pride. He kept his program relevant to the changing publishing platforms over the years by including the new indie world which we have all embraced.”

  Sean proceeded to read a condensed version of Otto’s biography, glancing around the audience over his glasses. He skipped the substance Amy had usurped. Then he listed the monumental writers Otto had mentored in his writing program.

  Then, unexpectedly, Sean paused. He studied the tiring audience. He peered over his reading glasses, slowly removed them, and looked straight at Amy. He folded his speech and put it back into his jacket pocket.

  “Oh, no,” Mary whispered.

  Sean spoke extemporaneously.

  “Otto was not a perfect man. He may not even have been a nice man . . . at times. But then, who is perfect? Who is always nice? I put it to you that the answer is . . . none of us. Otherwise, we could not so realistically weave into our manuscripts the dark side of humanity, and so readily rationalize the crimes and murders we commit on paper. We are here to celebrate Otto Stein’s leadership and contributions to the writing world. Yes, the entire writing world. There are those who believe that mystery writers, like us, are at the bottom of the barrel of that world—aside from romance writers, of course.”
/>   There was a chuckle and smattering of applause, and one jeer. Obviously, one romance writer had stowed away masquerading as a mystery writer amongst us. The jeer was met with another smattering of chuckles.

  “But not Otto,” Sean’s voice rose and he scanned the audience to discipline its unruliness. “Otto made it his mission to help writers of all genres. He helped make the MWW a worldwide and respected institution. And what did he get in return? Bludgeoned to death.”

  Sean paused and zeroed in on Amy again. He did not take his eyes off her.

  “I submit to you that no man who has helped so many deserves to die in a pool of his own blood. I also submit to you that Otto’s killer is amongst us tonight.”

  The audience sat, stunned into silence. Amy scooted her chair to run—but then hesitated and looked nervously around the room. She realized all eyes were on Sean and not her. She remained in her seat and glared back at Sean—her eyes narrowed and her jaw set defiantly.

  The mystery writers began to murmur and then rumble. They needed Sean’s next words. So did we. Was he going to name Amy? My cohorts and I looked at each other in expectation, fear, surprise, and, yes, pride.

  “Can he name her with no proof?” Mary whispered to me.

  “Apparently he can do anything he wants.”

  “Has he just sealed our death warrants?” Mary panicked.

  “He has a plan.” I whispered. “He’d better.”

  “He does, doesn’t he, Elias?” Mary asked.

  Elias shrugged his shoulders.

  At that moment, I really believed Sean was nuts. He had gone off the reservation, but I was the one sitting next to Amy and her Prolixin—he wasn’t. I had already barely escaped being pitched over my balcony this evening. I wasn’t up to being poisoned, too!

  Sean continued. “His ultimate killer was his trust in and love for all of us here tonight . . . his trust in opening his door that night . . . and his love of his profession and for each and every one of you, as writers. His door was, unfortunately, always open.”