Death Sets Sail_A Mystery

by Dale E. Manolakas

  ⌘

  Chapter 19

  The Clock Strikes Two

  “Get me a chair,” Brent called to Sean at the other end of the platform. “Hurry.”

  Mavis started up the steps to help.

  “We have her,” Brent rejected Mavis’s intrusion.

  Mavis reluctantly stood below, but close and poised to help.

  Sean brought a chair from the panel table. They helped Esther into it and then Brent spoke to Sean.

  “Dead?” Sean exclaimed loud enough for the microphone to pick up and resound through the room.

  The words dead, who, and when abundantly echoed in this milieu of mystery writers.

  “Dead? Who’s dead?” Heather gasped, looking from Elias to Amy to me.

  “We don’t know what’s going on. Just wait.” Elias put his arm around Heather’s shoulders, giving her a little squeeze. “Relax.”

  Elias’s answer was disingenuous. He knew it was Frederick and I did, too. Furthermore, this entire room full of mystery writers, with their well-honed deductive reasoning skills, knew it as well. Everyone in the room knew Frederick was dead because it was well past the time even a hung-over Frederick would have dared to keep his fellow writers waiting. Everyone knew, that is, but Heather. Her obtuseness convinced me yet again that she would never make a credible mystery writer. After all, Frederick was the panel leader, Brent was sent to rouse him, and Brent had returned alone. Who else could it be?

  Sean took the microphone. “Please be quiet. Sit down.”

  Some members sat. Others didn’t. Some were quiet, but most weren’t.

  Without saying a word, Amy walked away and sat at the back of the room, alone.

  “Coming?” Heather asked.

  “No, dear, go on.” Elias fobbed Heather off on Amy. “I’m sure she needs your support.”

  Heather joined Amy in the back row. Amy ignored Heather who chattered at her—now, I presumed, about Frederick.

  Esther stood. Brent and Sean reached for her arms to help her, but she waved them away. She went to the podium and Brent and Sean stood close behind her.

  Esther looked down, took a deep breath, and surveyed the room. Her stature as leader commanded silence this time. All obeyed. I knew not so much because they wanted to listen to Esther’s always self-important, slow cadenced speeches, but, instead, because they collectively knew it was the only way their suspicion of Frederick’s demise would be validated. And every mystery writer in that room, as well as the parasites who lived off those writers, wanted that validation.

  “I have some tragic news . . . Frederick Larsen, our friend and colleague, has passed away quietly in his sleep.”

  The room burst with the hackneyed utterances people exclaim when met with such news. Not that they aren’t sincere, but they are always generic and predictable. Rumbling through the audience of writers, colleagues, and hangers-on was a mixture of questions, answers, and speculations—sprinkled with comments about the Hollywood lifestyle, deadly heart attacks, morally reprehensible drunkenness, womanizing, overdoses, and death-by-hard-living scenarios.

  Sean leaned into the microphone. “Quiet, please. Let’s settle down.”

  The gaggle of mystery writers did not settle down nor were they quiet.

  Esther whispered to Brent. He immediately leaped from the platform and headed for the doors.

  “Let’s go.” Mary signaled Elias and me. “Hop to. We’ve got another body.”

  Mary fell in step behind Brent. Elias and I looked at each other in disbelief. Elias was genuinely startled and saddened at another mystery writer’s death. I, of course, was sad as well—but honestly I was more excited by my good fortune at having another mysterious death to notch on my writer’s biography. If I couldn’t list books, then listing numerous deaths I had solved would have to do.

  “Hurry,” Mary called back to us. “Foul play is afoot again. I know it!”

  Elias and I deposited our spent cups and followed our “general” leading us into the fray.

  As we left, Esther fought for control of the MWW members with Sean backing her up.

  I couldn’t help but think that Sean was too valuable an asset to leave behind in the trenches, but we had no choice.

  * * *

  We followed Brent and Mary out of the room and to the elevator.

  “Don’t worry,” Elias said, literally reading my mind. “We’ll fill Sean in later.”

  “Okay. But I wish he was with us.”

  “I do too.”

  We all filed into the elevator, and Brent pressed the button for Frederick’s floor. We started down.

  “What happened?” Elias asked Brent.

  “Don’t know. I went to get him. His breakfast tray was sitting outside, untouched. I got the steward. We went in and he was still in bed. We tried to wake him, but he was dead.”

  “Had rigor mortis set in?” I queried.

  After Mendel, I now knew how to set the time of death. Of course, I also knew I had to go back and rewrite all my mysteries to add that element to the clues. I was exasperated because, as I well knew, editing was not my forte. But then, mystery writing is a craft that must be learned. And, apparently, I never did the appropriate amount of research for time-of-death quandaries.

  “What?” Brent looked up quizzically at me.

  “Was he stiff?” Elias baby-talked for the non-mystery writer.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. He was. The steward was creeped out about that.”

  “Of course.” Elias stroked his mustache.

  “I can’t believe this.” Brent muttered as the elevator stopped. “Another one.”

  “Neither can I.” I knew from my as yet-unfulfilled crime writing career that two bodies in two nights here and another in New York was not the norm in any small group. “How? That’s the question.”

  “I don’t know. He looked like he was asleep. Like he died in his sleep,” Brent responded. “I don’t like this. Last night I was with a body, too. And I’m not one of you!”

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard.” Elias spoke for all of us.

  We followed single file out of the elevator and down the hall to the stateroom in silence. There was nothing more to say.

  None of us liked this.

  Brent least of all.

  * * *

  When we got to the room the doctor, again in his officer’s white dress uniform, was standing over the king size bed. The sheets were thrown back to Frederick’s waist.

  Brent was right. It looked like he had died in his sleep. There was a small defibrillator, opened and apparently used, on the nightstand. Next to it was an unwrapped bag to hand pump oxygen, apparently also used.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Witte said in his impeccably clear toff British. “I think we all may have met? Last night?”

  He was commendably stone cold sober—after all, it was morning. But, “may have” was an accurate assessment of the doctor’s recollections. I knew the doctor only vaguely remembered us from his inebriated condition the night before. We actually had not engaged in the formalities of introductions. Why would we have? Quite frankly, I for one never would have expected that another dead body would bring us together again. And, the doctor had not been concerned, or the least bit doubtful, about Mendel’s cause of death. But this morning’s event warranted introductions.

  “I’m Veronica Kennicott. And this is Elias Vlisides, Mary O’Connell, and Brent Hawthorne. We’re from the mystery writers group, Frederick is . . . was traveling with us.”

  I looked directly up at the doctor’s steely gray eyes as I asserted our cloak of authority for being there.

  “How do you do. Dr. Witte. Head doctor.”

  “Dr. Witless,” Mary mumbled under her breath to me.

  I suppressed a chuckle.

  “Hello.” Elias took the lead. “What happened here?”

  While Elias and Brent spoke to the doctor, I signaled Mary and we inspected Frederick’s body to see if it had the same indications that
were on Mendel’s body the night before.

  Dr. Witte explained to Elias and Brent what he had done to revive Frederick.

  “But nothing worked, gentlemen, as you can see. There are no marks or visible signs of any bruises. Nothing out of order really. Nothing to sort out. It looks like a simple heart attack. I’m sure of it this time.”

  “This time,” I whispered to Mary. “What does he mean by that? He as good as just admitted that he isn’t sure about Mendel’s cause of death.”

  “And that means this one too,” Mary replied. “Let’s look for a rash like Mendel’s?”

  I looked closer for a rash on Frederick’s neck and chest. Mary followed suit.

  “None,” Mary whispered.

  “But look at his eyes.” I studied his open, but now lifeless ice blue translucent eyes. “The pupils are just like Mendel’s . . . pinpoints.”

  “And the whites are yellowish.”

  “I see.” I leaned with Mary to look.

  Mary grabbed a pen from her purse, got nose to nose with Frederick, and opened his mouth.

  “If you don’t mind,” Dr. Witte protested. “Let the body alone, ladies, or you’ll have to leave.”

  “Sorry, just need a peek.” Mary probed further.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “It’s bruised.”

  “And cut! Doctor, look at this.” Mary insisted. “Did you see this?”

  The doctor stepped over and took a long look. “He bit his tongue. What’s unusual about that in the throes of death?”

  Mary and I did double takes at each other. Then, Elias came over.

  “Doctor, don’t you think you should do some tests to see what happened to this man? I mean, you must have some facilities here. Mendel and Frederick could have died of the same thing. We could all be in danger.”

  Everyone stepped back from the body.

  “This could be ship-wide already!” I made my play to force the doctor into any action—beyond inaction. “If it is, we passengers have a right to know.”

  “Because he bit his tongue?” The doctor started for the door. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Wait, doctor,” I commanded.

  To my shock, he obeyed. The problem was, I had nothing else to say. All I knew was that someone should be looking into these deaths. I wished Sean were here with his NYPD-knowledge and lingo to influence the doctor. Then, my mind raced back to my third book, where my victim died suddenly in his sleep and the medical examiner did blood tests for poisons.

  “You should take some blood samples and test them.” I salvaged the moment. “Or, at least, preserve some samples.”

  Brent stepped up. “I agree. Can’t you do some tests to see what happened to this poor man and Mendel? I mean, two heart attacks in two days? Come on.”

  “I am concerned that we all could be in danger,” I insisted.

  “I concur,” Mary added. “I think any reasonable medical professional who is responsible for an entire ship of people should also be concerned.”

  We all knew the doctor was a corporate whore and his motivation was the well being of the Wessex Cruise Line—protecting it from bad publicity, e.g. mass death on board. This tack was obviously his only Achilles heel; the only way to light a fire under his company ass. It appeared one or two deaths were acceptable collateral damage in a five-day cruise.

  “I know Mr. Larsen is . . . was part of your little mystery writer’s club, but I can guarantee not one of you is a Sherlock Holmes. Just exactly what would I be looking for? Tell me that,” Dr. Witte replied. “Look at it from my point of view. Of these hundreds of people, passengers and crew, there is no one else even ill.”

  “They may not be now,” Brent interjected. “But . . .”

  “And these men fit the exact profile for a heart attack!” The doctor ignored Brent. “It happens more often than you think on cruises with all the overdrinking and carousing. These aging coots, usually Americans, start acting like teenagers . . . their bodies give out. Talk to security. They’ll tell you. Bloody hell, just read obituaries . . . listen to the news! Vacation deaths are high up there on the list, especially for this type of man.”

  “This is not . . .” Elias began, but the doctor cut him off as he had Brent.

  “Now, I have my duties to attend to. I am sorry, but enough is enough! When we deposit the bodies on land, then you can do as you see fit.”

  “But perhaps . . .” Mary protested.

  “Stop,” Elias said. “He’s made up his mind.”

  “If he has one,” Brent murmured.

  “I’d watch it, sir.” The doctor was red-faced and offended. “The man lying there had a reputation for partying and drugs. I am not remiss in any assumptions I make under these circumstances. Besides, it is Ms. Nussbaum I confer with . . . not you.”

  “Should I deposit the body in the infirmary, sir?”

  “No, take it directly to refrigeration. The unit where we put the other one. It’s marked.”

  “Aye, sir.” The steward knew the protocol all too well.

  “You people rejoin your group now.” The doctor walked to the door and held it open. “And for your information, Ms. Nussbaum wanted Wessex to protect Mr. Weitzman from any bad publicity. She is sure he had a heart attack. And I am convinced, once I speak with her, she will feel the same about Mr. Larsen . . . Academy Award winner or not.”

  We left as we were told, chastised and stripped of any authority.

  Not one person spoke as we walked down the long hall, or as we waited for the elevator to go back to our meeting room. I felt my mind churning and thinking of any way to fight the powers that had taken control—self-serving control or, more accurately, in my view, cover-up control. I also intuited the power of the more schooled minds walking down the hall with me. There was not one of us, to a person—to a mystery writing soul—who would take this lying down. The minds that walked with me were churning and grinding as hard as mine. The weighty silence spoke for itself.

  Finally, at the elevator door, our collective presence reached critical mass. Elias turned to our little band.

  “This doesn’t make sense. I propose . . .”

  Elias stopped when an elderly couple rounded the corner and stood with us.

  “Good morning.” the man said with his impeccable schooled British diction.

  His wife followed suit. We responded as the elevator opened.

  “Is the lift going down?” The lovely white haired woman asked.

  “Yes, it is. Are you?”

  She smiled. “Somewhat against my will. We are taking in the promenade deck.”

  “It’ll do us good. The fresh air.”

  “A little too fresh perhaps, dear?”

  We packed into the elevator. We all exuded charm and sociability, chuckling and commiserating with the man’s leadership and the woman’s reticence. But, our abundant side-glances demonstrated only to each other that we were chomping at the bit to analyze and compare Mendel and Frederick’s deaths.

  Two floors down the British man led the charge for the couple exiting the elevator. “Bundle up, dear. Off we go.”

  “Good day.” The woman stood straight and followed her man out to the overcast day and cold salty air.

  We were alone. Finally.

  * * *

  As the elevator door closed, everyone spoke at once, but Elias took the floor with his booming Greek voice.

  “Yes, we all agree. There is something wrong here. Mary, I stopped you arguing with the dear doctor because it’s clear we’re on our own.”

  “I know. I took the hint.”

  Brent added, “It’s obvious Esther sealed the deal with Wessex, the corporate masters, behind the scenes to cover up anything amiss.”

  “Yeah,” Elias smirked. “Anyone can die shipboard and the powers-that-be will close ranks to keep the ship afloat!”

  “Well put.” I was angry. “And the doctor . . . I use the term very loosely . . . will cover up anything that does not suit the corporate guideline
s . . . stated or otherwise.”

  “And, imagine him saying not one of us is a Sherlock Holmes! That takes a lot of nerve,” Mary said. “I fancy myself cut from the same cloth.”

  “That goes without saying.” Elias grinned.

  “That doctor is an ass basing his diagnosis on tabloid stories. I mean I’ve been in those tabloids and nothing they printed was true about me,” Brent added. “Not ninety percent of it, anyway.”

  “Besides,” Mary insisted. “Two heart attacks don’t compute.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It’s easier for Esther than to believe Mendel and Frederick overdosed on drugs. And, giving her the benefit of the doubt, she may be trying to do them a favor.”

  “It would keep the MWW free of scandal as well,” Mary added

  “That’s generous of both of you.” Brent led the way off the elevator at our conference room floor. “I think she just doesn’t want any bad publicity for the MWW awards.”

  “That, too.” Mary said.

  “But we can make her change her mind,” I said. “Remember, last night Frederick and Brent literally had to drag Mendel to his room.”

  “Yes,” Brent stopped and so did we. “I should have realized something was wrong. He wasn’t a typical drunk . . . he never covered up by trying to act sober. I mean, I’ve been there. All drunks do that.”

  “And,” I added. “He tried to talk, but he couldn’t control his tongue . . . it was spastic. He was afraid.”

  “He had a rash and his pupils were tiny, like Frederick’s,” Mary noted. “And remember Frederick’s tongue, he could have bitten it because it was spastic!”

  “Yes,” Elias agreed.

  “I feel so bad,” I said. “I should have put two and two together at the time. There was something really wrong with Mendel.”

  “We put him to bed to die,” Mary said. “Poor man.”

  “Horrible!” Elias stroked his moustache nervously. “The doctor has written these deaths off as heart attacks to please Wessex, and Esther’s buying into the whitewash for her own reasons. Maybe nudged by her little shadow Mavis.”