Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

  As the boat broker was talking, Max suddenly turned as if he sensed her coming. She knew the feeling…mutual radar.

  She unlatched the gate and walked down the dock. “Good morning, Ronald.”

  The man turned and greeted her with a wave. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Peyton.”

  As she approached the boat, Max stepped up to the dock and held out his hand to help her on board.

  “Morning,” he said, the gleam in his eye making her dizzy even before she felt the slight pitch of the motor yacht. When she slipped her hand into his, the naturalness of the feeling rocked her.

  She turned her attention to the broker, releasing her hand from Max’s once she found her footing. “I didn’t expect you so soon, Ronald. I thought you said next week.”

  Ronald Mendoza gave her a bright salesman’s smile. “The buyers will be here then, but I wanted to get some paperwork done today.”

  “I still have to get some personal items,” she told him. She’d wanted Marta to clean out the boat, but the poor woman couldn’t even make it through the task of emptying her former boss’s closet, let alone his beloved boat. “Did you want us to run her around the Bay one more time?”

  “No need, Mrs. Peyton, but it would be nice to have her gassed up. But please, take the weekend,” Ronald said with a hint of sympathy in his voice. Then he lifted a nylon briefcase. “Here’s the bill of sale.”

  She glanced at Max and saw the sheen of perspiration above his lip. “Let me run up and get my keys, so we can work inside in the AC.”

  “I still have a key from the showings,” Ronald said, moving toward the cabin door to unlock it.

  As soon as she stepped inside, Cori remembered why she’d been on the boat only once in the last six months. The salon was drenched in William’s favorite colors of tan and cream and black, with two leather divans circling a coffee table, a plasma screen TV at one end, and burled wood shelving and storage units along the whole port side.

  Ronald spread his documents on the coffee table, and Max passed through the galley and disappeared into the forward stateroom. She’d never slept there, she thought guiltily. But then, William had never asked. He’d been very understanding about her seasickness.

  As Ronald chatted about the buyers from North Carolina, her gaze drifted around the cabin, taking in the details of William’s haven: the row of classical music CDs that he used to blare from the hidden speakers, the framed picture of her on one bookshelf.

  She gazed at the photo, taken on their honeymoon. She was sitting cross-legged in the sand on the French Riviera. She reached for the picture, but the frame had been anchored into place. Of course, nothing on the boat rolled around in the waves.

  Fiddling with the edges of the frame, she snapped it out of the clasps and lifted it from the shelf. A glimmer of gold tucked into a corner behind the frame caught her attention.

  She picked up a sculpture of a palm tree, not much bigger than her hand, its golden fronds extended as though they were caught in hurricane winds. Turning over the thick base, she ran a finger along the letter engraved in the middle: W. Words encircled the letters, an unbroken stream of lovelovelovelove. Like an eternity circle surrounding the letter W.

  What was this?

  “They expect the trip will take a few days, but by the time it’s over, they’ll know their new ship, don’t you think?” Ronald asked her.

  The sculpture weighed heavily in her hand. “Excuse me?”

  “The Hamilton family,” Ronald said. “They are planning to cruise back to North Carolina instead of having the boat transported.”

  “Oh.” Cori replaced the palm tree on the shelf. “I’m sorry…. I…I…” She smiled apologetically. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  He gave her an understanding nod. “We’re just about finished. All you have to do is sign three more papers and Peyton’s Place will officially belong to someone else.”

  She glanced once more at the sculpture, then took the pen.

  “The boat is in beautiful condition,” he said as he pointed to the red Xs where she needed to sign.

  “The divers come every week or two to get the barnacles off the bottom and run the air-conditioning,” she said absently. She’d spent only one afternoon on board Peyton’s Place after William died, the day that she and Breezy and Giff had taken it out to dispose of William’s ashes in Biscayne Bay. She’d been so sick, they’d even cut that excursion short.

  She pushed the signed paperwork across the table toward the broker.

  “That will do it,” he told her. “The Hamiltons will be here toward the end of next week.” He handed her the boat key he’d used. “And I won’t be needing this anymore.”

  She took it, and shook his hand. After a brief discussion of logistics, he was gone. She stood on the rear deck as he disembarked, her gaze drifting to the cabana where Marta had arranged for wood boards to cover the shattered glass.

  Max emerged from the salon, lowering his head to clear the threshold and nailing her with a look that sent her stomach spiraling downward in a familiar, helpless sensation. Definitely not seasickness.

  “Are you all done?” he asked.

  “I still have to clean out William’s belongings.”

  He studied her with that furrow in his brow, then his expression softened. “You okay?”

  She touched her stomach lightly. “If I can breathe open air. I prefer the deck to below.”

  “Why don’t you stay here and let me get whatever needs to go,” he offered, taking the keys from her hand.

  “I just might.” She gave him a quick smile of appreciation. “But I’ll have to go in at least one more time and look around, maybe get some storage boxes from the house. I have no idea how much stuff he has in the bureau and armoire. It could take five minutes or it could take two hours to unload it all.”

  On the way through the salon, she glanced at the palm tree sculpture, then looked away, a different kind of queasiness rolling through her as her mind raced for an explanation. Where would he get that?

  In the forward stateroom, the king-size bed, covered in a navy and gold silk spread, took up most of the room. A custom-made bureau and armoire filled one wall and another plasma screen TV took up another. She slid the top bureau drawer open, surprised to find it empty. As was the next, and the next, and the next.

  “That’s funny,” she said. “I know he kept clothes here.”

  But the bureau had been completely cleaned out.

  “Maybe your housekeeper beat you to the job.”

  “I doubt it,” Cori said. “She would have asked for instructions about his clothes and personal items.”

  She opened every single drawer, and they were all empty except for the second to last, where a quarter was lodged under the wood, along with some purplish dust.

  “What’s that?” Max asked, kneeling down to examine it. He ran a finger through it, then smelled. “It looks like…” He brushed some of the iridescent color on the back of his hand. “Eye shadow.”

  She laughed a little. “Not likely, unless William had a secret life of cross-dressing.”

  As Max continued to trail his finger over the seam in the back of the drawer, Cori turned to the armoire; it had been cleaned out as well.

  “I don’t get this,” she said, staring at the empty rod where William’s clothes would have hung. Had she done this already, in a grief-induced fog, and forgotten? “I did come down here, once. I thought I might find something, some clue. I know there were clothes in those drawers.”

  “Marta must have done it without telling you,” Max said. “I’ll check the head.”

  Cori stood in the middle of the stateroom, rubbing her arms against a sudden flurry of goose bumps on her arms. There was nothing on the dresser top, nothing…anywhere.

  She turned back to the galley and salon and headed toward the wall where numerous cubbyholes opened and closed for storage. But her whole being was drawn to that strange sculpture of a wind-whipped palm tree.


  “Cori?” Max stood in the doorway between the stateroom and the galley, an odd look on his face. In his hand, he held a leather case, which she recognized immediately as William’s toiletry kit. “Was this your husband’s?”

  “If it has the initials WGP on it, yes.”

  Max looked down at the side facing him, then tilted the case to show her the gold letters. “Could it have been Billy’s?”

  “No. Billy’s middle name is Hobart, his mother’s maiden name.”

  She reached for it, but Max drew it back. Looking up at him, she scowled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Are you certain it was his?”

  “Yes.” Apprehension twisted tighter, more from his tone of voice than the words. “Let me look, Max.”

  Slowly, he held the case toward her. “I found it under some folded towels in the cabinet. It could easily have been missed by whoever cleaned this place out.”

  Max had left the zipper open and she peeked in. A toothbrush, toothpaste, aftershave, a razor and a…box of condoms.

  “Oh.” The sound was out before she could catch herself. She looked up at Max.

  Why, oh God, why would he have the one personal item they had never, ever used?

  “Was there anything else in the bathroom?” she asked.

  “Not much besides towels and some cleaning supplies.”

  Wordlessly, she turned around. “I need to get out of here.” As she hustled through the salon, she paused long enough to grab the gold statue, then rushed through the sliding doors to gulp some air.

  Cori perched on the cushioned leather seat that ran around the stern, clutching something gold, staring straight ahead.

  Max watched her silently until she lifted her head and stared back at him, her eyes nearly as navy as the water behind her. “There has to be an explanation.”

  He’d returned the bag to the stateroom, but not before checking the expiration date on the condoms. They were good for another four years, which meant they’d been purchased—and several had been removed—within the last year.

  “There has to be a reason,” she insisted. “He found them. Or someone left them on board. Or…or there’s some other function for a condom. Like for fishing.”

  He wished he could think of one.

  “A gag gift?” she said weakly.

  “Cori—”

  She held up her hand to halt him. “Don’t give me sympathy. I don’t want sympathy. I want to figure this out.”

  “Did you know?”

  She cut him with a look. “Did I know what, Max?”

  He let out a breath. “That your husband had a need for condoms?”

  “I guess I didn’t know everything about William,” she said, toying with the small sculpture in her hand. She turned it over, and he could see it was a palm tree. “I’ve never seen this before, either.”

  He sat down next to her and took it. “Whoa. This is solid gold.” He flipped it over and studied the engraving. “A circle of love,” he said. “Around a W.”

  Yanking it from his hands, she stood up. “I’m going back in there. I want to see what else is left.”

  He gave her three minutes alone, then found her seated on the bed of the stateroom, the contents of the Dopp kit dumped in front of her. Holding a man’s razor, she looked up. “This is all his stuff. His shaving cream. His favorite toothpaste. His travel-size cologne.”

  Max leaned against the doorjamb. “Was it possible your husband was having an affair?”

  She picked up the condom box. “I’m not so stupid that I can sit here holding these and unequivocally say no. I’m just…I’m in shock.” She picked up the empty leather bag and slammed it against the bed.

  Then she swiped the spread, sending bottles, tubes, and a hairbrush flying. Her face contorted, her color high, she picked up the gold palm tree and whipped it across the room full force, where it crashed into the bureau, took a chunk of mahogany and fell on the floor with a thud. “Goddamn it!”

  Her voice cracked as she fell forward, and Max rushed to her.

  “Cori,” he whispered as he folded her in his arms and she melted into his chest with a gut-wrenching sob. “Shhh.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” She was shaking so hard he could practically feel the blood boiling in her veins. “It’s not okay.”

  He had no idea what to say, so he just held her, stroked her hair and let her cry, thinking of the son of a bitch who had Cori Cooper in his bed and wanted someone else. He kissed her hair and made small circles with his hand on her back until she stopped crying.

  “I thought he was impotent,” she murmured.

  He pulled back to look at her. “What?”

  “That’s what really hurts,” she admitted. “He…we…didn’t. Anymore.” She closed her eyes, color rising to her cheeks. “We stopped making love a few years ago. Our marriage turned platonic. Not bad, not troubled. Just not sexual.”

  “I thought you said…” Max forced himself to think like an investigator and not a former lover. “Didn’t you say it was your fault you couldn’t get pregnant?”

  “It wasn’t his,” she said. “Not in the beginning. We figured it was me, although none of the preliminary tests showed why. Then, after we started formal infertility treatment, William just lost interest. It was too clinical for him. And, no, before you ask, he wouldn’t take anything so that was out of the question.”

  “Whoever he was sleeping with probably killed him, Cori, or had him killed. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded slowly, her look still far away. “How could I be so blind? I should have come down here more often, but I always get so seasick. I never thought that when he went overnight…or for a weekend. Oh, God.” Her voice cracked again.

  “You can’t beat yourself up,” he told her. “You have to think about who it could have been. Who might have seen them. Where they could have gone.”

  She nodded, wiping some makeup from under her eyes. “Where do we start?”

  He stood up. “Right here. In the water. We’re going to take this thing to every gas station, every marina, and every possible place in Biscayne Bay where he could have taken this boat, and I’m going to do what I do best.”

  “Get people to talk.”

  “Yep. You can ride in the bow so you don’t get sick.”

  “Too late for that,” she said bitterly, picking up a remnant from William’s Dopp kit.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  W hen he was straight and sober, Billy Peyton could do just about anything. But when he was high, he could do anything better. At least, that’s what it felt like.

  Right now he was moderately stoned, but after he got his car back, he’d go deep. He’d go as far away as he could get.

  “Just wait here,” he said to the woman who’d driven him to Cori’s house. Violet? Lily? Some flower, he vaguely recalled. It had been loud in the Ocean Drive club where he’d met her an hour ago, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to her when she approached. She was a little on the chunky side, and definitely on the desperate side, but she’d said the magic words…Star Island…and Billy moved in with his usual finesse.

  It would have been better if she lived on the Island, not worked there, but she got right past the guards and that was all that mattered.

  “Are you going to call in?” she asked. “I mean, isn’t it kind of late to surprise your mother?”

  He loved the whole “I’m going to surprise my mom and be the first to say happy birthday” story he’d given her. It was so freaking clever and he knew this girl would have never have given him access to the Island to take a car.

  “Nah, it’ll be great. I’ll go up first and surprise her, then I’ll let you in, ’kay?”

  She looked a little wary, so he leaned closer. Yes, Billy Peyton could do just about anything, and convincing this chick that he liked her was way too easy. “I have a room in this house,” he said, low and
sexy. “Wait for me, so you can come up for a little while.” He needed her not to leave until he had the Gallardo.

  Her lips twitched and for a second, he thought she was going to laugh at him. But she smiled, revealing straight, white teeth that nudged her over from fat to kind of cute. He dropped his gaze to her chest and momentarily considered fucking her, but then common sense took over.

  He had a rock of gold dust at home and he’d rather fuck his head up than her.

  All he had to do was get his car, drive out—the gate opened automatically from the inside—and tell…Daisy? Rose?…. to follow him to Coconut Grove. He could lose her before he hit Biscayne Boulevard.

  “Stay here, babe,” he said, leaning closer like he was going to kiss her, and letting some hair fall over his eye. He’d used his looks before to get what he wanted with women, usually sex or drugs. All he needed from her was a ride. “I’ll be five minutes, all right?”

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “ ’kay.”

  He slipped out and jogged to a specific place in the side wall, well out of range of her rear view. If she saw him jump the fence, she might get spooked and go get the Island guards.

  Once in the shadows, Billy found the piece of stucco that pointed out and formed a foothold. If Cori had that bodyguard around much longer, there’d be dogs and cameras and armed freaking guards. But until then, Billy knew every way there was to sneak into the house.

  He ripped his shirt on the wall and scraped his palms, wiping his hands over his mouth and tasting a drop of blood. Stumbling on a tree root, he managed not to make any noise as he checked out the house and headed toward the driveway. He patted his pocket to make sure he still had his spare key.

  Some lights were on and he couldn’t see the back rooms, but she might still be awake. Then he heard voices, low and serious, from a patio on the side.

  He froze for a moment, squinting into the shadows. Powered by the hit of pot he’d had at the club, he tiptoed along the wall, well hidden by the shrubs. He heard the voices again and paused. He dared a few more steps, propelled by curiosity.