“And . . . that brings us to the motive?” Sean looked at me intently.
With perfect timing, Amy entered the bar.
“Motive?” I said. “The key just walked in. She is the last alive-and-kicking common denominator amongst the three dead men. Yes, Otto included.”
My friends all turned and zeroed in on Amy.
Amy stood in the foyer, a picture of yellow from head to toe. From her golden hair down to her lemon colored, sequined spaghetti strap blouse and raw silk pants. She balanced agilely with the ship movements in her open-toed gold high heels. She joined Heather at the bar with Heather.
Heather had attracted a bombastic older man who was using her as an audience and obvious ego stroke. But as soon as Amy got her glass of wine, both women took their drinks over to Esther’s table where they were welcomed with more chairs dragged over to accommodate both of the attractive women.
“Amy?” Elias looked back at me as did Sean, both speechless.
“I don’t understand.” Mary questioned.
“I have proof,” I said. “I think all three murders are linked and she could be the fourth, yet to come.”
“What?” Elias leaned forward. “But why?”
“You’ll see.” I reached for my evening bag. “I think she could need protection.”
Before I got the picture out or could explain, there was a commotion nearby. It was Helga. Although her words were inaudible to us, the now familiar look on her face left no room for interpretation. She was mad—mad as hell.
* * *
Helga stood and grabbed her black ostrich feather wrap from the back of her chair. Brent jumped up and put it over Helga’s shoulders before she charged out of the bar.
“Like hell,” Helga yelled. “You said there would be good weather all 5 days!”
Helga tottered out of the bar between tables.
“But I . . .”
Brent followed closely on Helga’s exit trail. His arms were poised, ready to catch her as she fought the movement of the ship in her spiked black heels and tight black sequined dress.
“You what?” Helga shouted back at Brent. “You liar! You didn’t even look at the weather.”
“I did! I did.”
They disappeared through the proscenium arch.
* * *
Sean shook his head. “I don’t know how he puts up with it. Money or no money.”
“I don’t either,” Elias agreed. “And now he is supposed to guarantee the weather? In the North Atlantic?”
“If he could do that, he wouldn’t need her pocketbook.” Mary turned her attention back to me. “What did you find out, Veronica?”
“Take a look at the group photo I found.”
I milked the moment just as I had on stage as an amateur, but excellent, actress. I slowly opened my evening bag, ceremoniously unfolded the photo, and placed it on the table.
Mary grabbed her drug store magnifying glasses, commonly called cheaters, from her purse. “That’s Otto there.”
“And, if I’m not mistaken,” Elias took out his glasses too and squinted. “Right there. A young Frederick and Mendel.”
“Right,” I said. “And look at the woman. It’s Amy with an engagement ring on her finger.”
“Wow, you’re right.” Mary removed her cheaters.
“They are connected. Could Amy really be in danger, too?” Elias wondered out loud. “But why? What is the connection?”
“I don’t know. That’s as far as I got. But there is a connection . . . a definite correlation. Don’t you think?”
“I do . . . but Elias is right,” Sean analyzed. “What is the common thread? I mean the others were famous, successful, and powerful. She’s not.”
“True enough,” Mary confirmed. “Amy’s an agent no one has heard of, in a small start-up agency. I think she could be in danger too!”
We all sat silently for a moment.
Then Elias put his glasses away and looked at us. “You know when things don’t make sense, it means a piece of the puzzle is missing. We need to dig deeper. That’s all.”
“Then we’d better keep an eye on Amy in the meantime,” Mary added. “She could be a target.”
“Should we warn her?” I asked.
“No,” Sean insisted. “Warn her of what? An unsubstantiated theory? We hold off on that . . . at least for now.”
“Sean is right,” Elias agreed. “At least for now. She just doesn’t fit the pattern. We’ll keep an eye on her . . . talk to her . . . see what we can learn.”
“Yes. I concur. She may know something that even she doesn’t know she knows,” Mary said. “By the way, when I ran into Esther on the way here, she wasn’t happy about our activities and I didn’t even tell her the half of it.”
“Good. Don’t. Keep her out of the loop from now on,” Sean said. “I think she’s well meaning, but she’s not a complex thinker. You can tell by the drivel in her books.”
“Yeah,” Mary snickered. “And she hasn’t put one out in years.”
“Well, she’s busy being president.” I said.
“Sure,” Sean scoffed. “Not that busy. She’s hiding from the death of her muse.”
I drank a gulp of Chardonnay. Instead of being smug like my cohorts, I was appalled. Is this what happened to you if your muse deserted you? Are you dead to everyone? Do they mock you, even if you have had a good run? Maybe writing, which I always thought of as an intellectual haven where thinkers found refuge and collegiality, was actually as unkind and brutally competitive as any other profession.
“Anyway,” I interrupted the Esther-bashing, “we don’t say a word for now to anyone. Not Esther or Amy. Agreed?”
Everyone agreed.
“And none of us should approach Mavis again, either,” Mary said.
Once again, everyone agreed.
“Just remember, loose lips sink ships,” Elias added.
“And if Amy’s murdered, there will be no great regret, anyway,” Mary chuckled. “She’s a parasitic, judgmental agent who is on the ten percent ‘dole’, just like the rest of them.”
Elias laughed loudly and so did Sean.
I smiled because I was a part of the group, but thought, “No wonder Mary can write such gory torture mysteries. She has a real dark side.”
Deep down I knew that I would never get to editing and publishing without an agent pushing me. None of these veteran authors appreciated their agents. I identified with Esther, hiding behind being the MWW presidency like I continually hid behind any pretense I could conjure up.
The bar started to empty. It was time for our dinner seating.
“Let’s get going,” Elias said. “And keep your eyes on Amy.”
“Yes.” Sean stood. “The murderer got away with a heart attack and a sequel. So they’d never try another. Amy’s not a good profile for that type of death, anyway. We have to keep our eyes out for other things . . . unusual . . . out-of-place things.”
As I followed our quartet out of the bar, even with the ship’s rocking, I walked proudly and confidently. I had performed my mystery writer’s duty with skill and stellar results. I had pointed us in the right direction—Amy’s direction. But how were we going to protect her?
⌘
Chapter 23
Inquiry and Ignominy
During the parade into dinner, the ship continued to sway as the line of diners along the foyer worked its way toward the dining room. Some unescorted women passengers stayed near the wall, periodically reaching out for balance. Men in their flat and practical shoes chivalrously helped the women, both the attractive and the impractically high-heeled.
I saw Amy ahead. It was easy to spot her sparkly blond hair and her standout evening ensemble of yellow from head to toe.
“I’m going to stand with Amy,” I whispered to my friends.
“Good idea,” Mary rubber-stamped.
I worked my way up to Amy. What closer eye could I keep on her than being with her?
“Amy?”
<
br /> “Hi.” Amy donned her charming, dimpled smile. “A little rocky!”
“Yes.”
She was receptive to company and her hazel eyes were permeated with an animation I had not seen before. I surmised the cruise was doing her good. She actually seemed happy. After some obligatory small talk, Amy appeared unguarded enough for me to side-wind into the heart of our investigation.
“It’s a shame about Frederick. He seemed to be a very likeable person.”
“Yes.” Amy had no emotion and no tell. “But then, if you abuse your body it’s bound to give out.”
“You were engaged to him, so I guess you should know.”
I blatantly dropped the bomb and studied her reaction. If my theory had credibility, I was convinced her life was in danger too. But, if it was, she didn’t appear to know.
“Who told you that?”
“Common knowledge.”
Amy stopped and the line bulged behind.
“I doubt it. That was for an instant and so long ago. Who told you?”
“I forget.”
Right there and then, I decided not to mention the picture or warn her about anything. She might still know something she did not realize she knew that would point us in the right direction.
“I barely even remember it.” Amy released me from her visual bullets and chuckled nervously. “Did Frederick tell you before he . . .”
Amy moved forward, freeing the line of diners from her disruptive bottleneck. All was in sync again with the objective of reaching the communal nightly dining ritual.
“I don’t think so.” I walked with her.
I was uneasy. I had been too frank, too forthcoming. I was not going to learn anything from her tonight. I changed the subject.
“Are you getting a lot out of the conference?”
Amy sized me up with a glance, regained her composure, and smiled. I wanted to withdraw, but we were fused at the hip until the dining room seating would separate us to our respective tables.
“Yes, of course. I’m looking for contacts, perhaps new clients.” Amy oozed with obvious superficial gaiety. “People are always ready to jump ship, so to speak, for a better deal.”
“Of course.”
I continued to agree with anything Amy said, obviously having absolutely no knowledge about agents or their representation.
“Authors need the best representation they can get,” I said. “A match is a match.”
“Are you getting what you wanted from the conference, too?”
“Yes, it’s great.” I was gratified that Amy at least continued a polite dialogue with me.
“Well, I’m pleased that I found an author this afternoon who didn’t have an agent and might be promising.” Amy didn’t miss a beat—her voice and demeanor had no signal, no tell, that anything was wrong. “You know, as I told you before, if you wanted to send me one of your books, I’d be happy to look at it.”
“Really?” I was again surprised and disarmed at her offer.
“Of course. I know how hard it is to break in. Seriously, send it to me.”
Amy reached in her small yellow cloth evening bag and handed me a card.
“Thank you.”
I began to think I had misread Amy’s guarded, if not hostile, reaction to my question about her engagement. No one could fake the equilibrium she displayed now. At least no person I knew, or any character I had written or read about in my literary life. I decided to take one for the team and probe one more time. Why not? She was being friendly again. Besides, we were near the stairs to the main dining room floor. I could leave her and depart to my separate table in a second.
“You didn’t have trouble getting your book published?”
“My book?” Amy looked at me, surprised, and paused. “My goodness, that thing. I’m surprised anyone has heard about it. It was a lifetime ago. I dabbled.”
Amy stepped ahead of me on the stairs, held onto the rail for balance as the ship swayed, and then turned back. “Send me something.”
“All right. I will.”
I watched Amy wind ahead of me to her table. I didn’t see why anyone would want to take her life. Maybe a jilted lover, or a person jealous of her relationships with Frederick, Mendel and Otto? Because I still trusted my instincts about the significance of the picture.
As I passed Amy at her table, she was unusually animated and greeted her dinner mates enthusiastically. I hoped Mary had the presence of mind to take advantage of Amy’s chattiness. There had to be a clue.
In point of fact, every sleuth knew listening and observing were the most important skills they possessed. I reiterated that over and over again in by mysteries. Perhaps too much. I would have to check that.
* * *
I made my way to my table.
“Veronica, tonight? The bar?” Curtis tapped my shoulder from behind.
I turned and tottered with the motion of the ship.
Curtis caught me by the shoulders and laughed. “Careful!”
I didn’t laugh. I smiled with pleasure at his moderated grip, calibrated to be gentle when with my smaller being. He was sensitive and aware and handsome. “Where did he come from?” I wondered to myself. How had I been lucky enough to cross his path?
“After dinner.” I was balanced and now de-shouldered by Curtis.
“By the way, great outfit.”
“Thanks.”
I knew that the premature use of the gala-night outfit had been worth it and, obviously, effective. It had achieved its purpose—my purpose.
“Until later.”
Curtis flashed a charming smile and made his way to his table of investors.
* * *
As I approached my table Elias stood and held my chair for me. “Last but not least!”
“Good evening.” I smiled.
I was pleased with the array of friendly faces until I caught sight of Mavis. She was whispering to Helga while Helga pierced me with her evil eyes. I took my chair. I knew Mavis was getting even with me for not being her lackey.
As I settled in, I noted how roomy the table was. We were now eight—not nine—not ten. We were spread out, but as I soon learned, not enough to ignore Helga. She was in rare, particularly “Helga-esque” form.
“Anne, it’s your night for wine. You’ll have to get a white for me. I’m going to have the Chilean Sea Bass,” Helga ordained from across the table.
“Oh?” Anne peered up from her menu and over her cheaters. “Yes. That’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I don’t know much about ordering wine. Is white fine with everyone?”
There was a quiet, mutual acquiescence until Helga exposed her fangs.
“Hardly, dear. You English are true teetotalers. You might know a good ‘cuppa,’ as they say, but you know nothing about dining. We need a nice cab, too. Don’t we, Brent?”
“I don’t.” Brent looked sheepishly around the table.
“Yes, you do,” Helga insisted. “You’re having the sirloin tips.”
“But . . .” Brent protested, but was censored by Helga.
“Waiter.” Helga signaled with her left hand flashing a huge diamond ring and wrist bejeweled with a five-row sparkling tennis bracelet. “We’ll have two bottles of the 2012 JJ Prum Wehlener Sonnenuhr Riesling Auslese Goldkapsel and two of the 2009 Lindstrom Stags Leap District Cabernet Sauvignon. There, Anne. It’s done, since you don’t really know that much.”
Brent glanced shamefacedly at Anne.
“Thank you, Helga.” Anne escaped back into her menu for long enough to process the insults quietly and with grace.
There was an awkward silence amongst all of us. I certainly did not want to speak. I didn’t know whose head Helga would put on the chopping block next and I didn’t want it to be mine. Besides, I became fascinated watching Amy at her table—so animated and conversational. Strangely, Frederick’s death seemed to have lifted her spirits—or given her nervous energy. I didn’t know which.
“What are you ordering?” Elias brought me back
to our table’s milieu.
“Perhaps the rack of lamb.”
“Ah, me too. You know us Greeks and our lamb.”
“I do, actually. We . . . I have a neighbor who taught me that.” Whenever I thought of my home and the years I had with my husband, there engendered a “we of me,” a very pleasant but now long gone use of the word “we.”
As our dinner progressed it slipped further into a Helga-phantasmic nightmare.
Helga’s complaints escalated from the wine tasting through the appetizers and salads. Nothing was smooth enough, cold enough, or hot enough for her. Her wine glass was either filled too full or becoming too empty. We heard in detail about Brent’s guarantee the sailing would be smooth, how the storm and the swelling Atlantic were interfering with her writing, and how her seasickness patch must be defective.
I sympathized, ever so slightly, because I felt queasy myself from the ship’s rocking after finishing my onion soup.
Helga ordered a third bottle of the Riesling. Anne was unhappy. It was unfair, too expensive, and grossly impolite. Helga drank most of it with the exception of the portions she poured into Mavis’s glass. Somehow, they had become fast friends and engaged in several tête-a-têtes as the evening imploded in on itself.
* * *
By the time the waiter cleared the entrees, the dinner had degenerated into a pall. The rocking hadn’t gotten worse, but Helga insisted it had. Every time Brent spoke, she threw a barb at him. Finally, Brent gave up and sat silently drinking, or more aptly guzzling, a third bottle of the Cabernet, generously ordered by Helga on Anne’s dime. Sean resorted to the same behavior. He talked with no one.
Everyone else tried to enjoy his or her entrées and keep the conversation neutral in the face of Helga’s drunken menace. We chatted quietly, and carefully, walking on eggshells. Helga was like a spider waiting to pounce and we were in her web—the obligatory assigned dinner table.
“It seems like you are enjoying your Cabernet, dear,” Helga slurred at Brent as the waiter cleared the last dinner plate. “And why are we so quiet? Pouting?”
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 17
