by Lisa King
LISA KING
DEATH
IN A
WINE
DARK
SEA
Copyright © 2012 by Lisa King
All rights reserved. No part of this publication, or parts thereof, may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotes in a review, without the written permission of the publisher.
For information, address:
The Permanent Press
4170 Noyac Road
Sag Harbor, NY 11963
www.thepermanentpress.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
King, Lisa–
Death in a wine dark sea / Lisa King.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-57962-282-4
eISBN 1-57962-321-2
1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.I58335D43 2012
813'.6—dc23 2012013632
Printed in the United States of America.
For Cat Georges and Stephen Bright,
my best and dearest friends
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not exist without the love and support of my children, Lex, Anton, and Irina, and without the input of all my relatives and friends who read and critiqued the manuscript over the years and encouraged me to keep trying no matter how many rejections I collected. I am deeply indebted to my mother, Georgianne King; my siblings and their well-chosen spouses, Margaret King and Joe Guerin, Rob and Kris King, and Phil and Rita King; Mark Lupher; and friends Bill Tracy, Donna Morris, Curt Anderson, Liza Gross, Barry Bergman, Sue Horton, Stephanie Starr, Charli Ornett, Bruce Friedman, Eva Scholtz, Jennifer Blanchard, Kathy Morrisson, and the late Cliff Kaspar. If I’ve inadvertently left you off the list, put it down to long-term memory loss.
Special thanks to editor extraordinaire Catherine Knepper; my fabulous agent, Sally van Haitsma; and my indulgent publishers, Marty and Judy Shepard. Bon appétit!
CHAPTER 1
Martin Wingo stood at the window of his office on a renovated pier just a few feet above San Francisco Bay and contemplated the beauty of his near-fatal heart attack: He was fitter, calmer, and happier than ever before, and he still got to enjoy all the things he’d acquired in his previous life.
He hitched up his raw silk slacks and gave his newly flat stomach a self-satisfied pat. Not bad for fifty. He’d lost weight in the hospital and kept it off by hiring a new chef and putting a gym in his basement. His blond hair was thinning, but that was nothing new. If he took care of himself and stayed calm, he’d have a good twenty years left to enjoy his Italianate mansion in St. Francis Wood, the condo on Maui, his ninety-foot yacht, his red Porsche Carrera, the millions from the sale of Wingo-Johansen Development, and, best of all, Diane.
The Bay Bridge loomed above him, and he knew that by now late afternoon fog would obscure the Golden Gate to the northwest. In a few days he and Diane Shifflett would board his yacht, the Walrus, and be married beneath the famous bridge. Thoughts of her brought the familiar tightening in his groin that even his heart medication couldn’t diminish.
Jeffrey, the receptionist, knocked lightly and stuck his head into the office. “Mr. Wingo? There’s a girl here to see you.”
“Have Zeppo handle it.”
“Um, you fired him, remember?”
Martin shook off his reverie and faced Jeffrey, a plump young man in a short-sleeved shirt and tie. “I laid him off because his job ended. There’s a difference.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Won’t give her name. Asked for Zeppo first.”
Martin glanced at the boxes of papers and memorabilia on the floor and desk. He’d finished the sorting and packing, and he was curious—anyone asking for Zeppo was bound to be interesting. “All right, I’ll talk to her.”
In a moment Jeffrey returned with the mysterious caller. The first thing that struck Martin was her exquisite coloring—she had shoulder-length platinum blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Judging by her luminous, creamy skin, the hair was natural. Her breasts were small, her hips slim. In heavy makeup, high heels, tight blue miniskirt, and an off-the-shoulder sweater, she looked like a skinny little girl playing dress-up. She was lovely, but Martin had no taste for such underripe flesh. In spite of her obvious youth, her eyes were shrewd and knowing.
“Please have a seat,” he said when Jeffrey had gone. “What can I do for you?”
The girl sat down and crossed her bare legs, sullen and seductive. “That boy Zeppo said you pay for information.” She had a heavy accent Martin couldn’t place.
He smiled. “I’m no longer in the market. I’m retired.”
“You want this. It’s important.”
“What’s your name?”
“Oksana.”
“Where are you from, Oksana?”
“Kiev.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen. So you want to buy what I know?”
Martin thought about it. Even if he had no use for it, whatever she knew might be worth hearing. Why not? “I’ll pay you $100 now and a bonus if I like what you’re selling.”
Oksana pouted. “Zeppo said a lot more than that.”
“If you tell me something valuable, I’ll pay what it’s worth.”
“OK—$100 now.”
He went to the wall safe behind his desk—he’d have to empty that, too, before leaving. He opened it, took out a $100 bill, and handed it to Oksana. A quick search through the boxes turned up the DVD-cam that Zeppo had insisted he buy for this sort of interview. He set up a tripod and attached the camera, focusing on Oksana.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Recording our conversation.”
“Why?”
“Unless you have documentation or photos, I’ll need a record of what you say.”
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “OK.”
He switched on the camera. “Now then. What do you have to sell?”
TWENTY MINUTES later Martin looked out a side window and watched Oksana totter out of the Wingo-Johansen building, $5,000 in cash stuffed into her knockoff Prada handbag. A muscular boy with a shaved head and tattoos on his arms waited on the sidewalk. Oksana kissed him, and they hurried away along the Embarcadero hand in hand.
Martin popped the mini-DVD out of the camera and put it into a plastic sleeve. He felt a rush of excitement he hadn’t experienced in months. His mind simmered with possibilities. Diane would consider this breaking his word, but she didn’t have to know about it. He took a small cream-colored envelope out of the open safe and weighed it against the DVD in his other hand. After all, a man needed a retirement project, and now he had two.
CHAPTER 2
Jean Applequist loved having sex on boats but had never managed it on this particular vessel, even though she’d been aboard several times. The moment seemed perfect—she and Peter Brennan lay entwined on a white canvas deck chaise while the Walrus cruised in slow circles beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. But Peter was resisting, in spite of the gaudy sunset above them and her fervent efforts to persuade him.
“Let’s go find an empty stateroom,” she murmured, licking his ear.
“There’s no time. They’ll be cutting the cake soon.”
“We’ll make it quick. Don’t be such a coward.” She kissed him hard and slipped her hands inside his jacket and her knee between his legs.
“Stop it, Jean,” he groaned. He pushed her away and sat up. “I swear, you pick the most inappropriate moments sometimes.”
Jean gave up and lay back. “It’s your own fault. Have I told you how great you look in a tuxedo?”
Peter smiled. “Seve
ral times. I’ll have to start wearing one to work.” He sat at the foot of the chaise out of her reach, smoothing his dark hair and adjusting his clothes. Jean loved the way his big hazel eyes and deep dimples softened his rugged features.
She pulled a mirror from her bag to check the damage and raked fingers through her straight silver hair, short as a boy’s on one side and falling just below her chin on the other. She smiled at her reflection; she wasn’t a beauty like the bride, but the asymmetrical cut flattered her strong features and the color set off her cobalt eyes. Although her hair had gone gray a decade ago, the rest of her looked her age—a youthful thirty-two.
Peter stood and reached out a hand. “Come on, let’s go be sociable. I owe you one, OK?”
Jean led the way along the deck as the sunset faded and dark clouds moved in. She paused at the big window that looked into the salon. Inside, two dozen guests circled and chatted, the lights reflecting on the polished teak surfaces of the elegant room. A huge arrangement of yellow and white flowers adorned a table, surrounded by Champagne flutes and platters of hors d’oeuvres. Just out of sight a jazz trio played Gershwin.
Jean spotted the newlyweds near the buffet table, surrounded by well-wishers. Martin, in black tie and a boutonnière of yellow rosebuds, handed his bride a glass of Champagne. Although Jean had never understood Martin’s appeal, it was obvious why he wanted Diane—she was warm and vivacious, a true beauty, and tonight she looked especially lovely. Her pale yellow dress showed off her slender shape and smooth tan skin. Yellow roses adorned her long chestnut hair.
“Now that’s a happy couple,” Peter said.
Jean snorted. “As far as he’s concerned, Diane’s just another piece of his estate. He once told her the Walrus was his second-favorite possession.”
“I’m sure he was kidding.” He cocked his head. “You aren’t going to make a scene, are you?”
“Of course not. I’ll put on a happy face for Diane.” She gave him a big false grin.
In the salon, Jean observed how Diane looked up at Martin, her smile incandescent, her green eyes glittering. She recalled the ceremony on the bow of the ship: the way Diane’s face had glowed with contentment, the heartfelt “I do’s,” the impassioned kiss. Jean grudgingly allowed that Martin probably did love her in his own selfish way.
Diane was one of her closest friends, so she’d just have to accept the inevitable as gracefully as she could. Jean resolved to try her damnedest to get along with Martin. That meant no more goading him into losing his temper, no more snide remarks, no more wicked jokes at his expense. It wouldn’t be easy—self-control wasn’t her strong suit.
The early spring breeze sharpened, the air grew cooler, and Jean felt a smattering of raindrops. Peter held the salon door for her. “Let’s get out of the rain,” he said.
The room smelled of roses and good food. Jean eyed the buffet, her stomach growling. There were definitely advantages to hanging out with rich people. Her love of the high life and perennial inability to afford it had led her to take a job at a wine magazine instead of a mainstream news publication.
They made their way to where Martin and Diane held court. Peter pulled Martin aside. “The storm’s arriving early,” Peter told him. “It’s starting to rain and blow.”
Martin nodded. “Tell Captain Loach to head back a little before we planned. It won’t do to have seasick wedding guests.”
“No problem.” Peter went out the door.
It annoyed Jean when Peter jumped at Martin’s commands. Peter had been Martin’s personal attorney for years and they were supposedly friends, but Martin still treated him like an errand boy.
Martin extricated Diane from the crowd of guests. “We’re heading back a bit early,” he told her. “Let’s cut the cake soon.”
Diane squeezed his arm. “Oh, good,” she said. “The sooner we get to the dock, the sooner the honeymoon starts.” She bustled off in a scented cloud of Je Reviens to talk to the servers, leaving Jean and Martin alone.
Jean knew he preferred small, dark, delicate women like Diane, but that never stopped him from staring at her as if she were for sale, as he was doing now. She thought she looked great, even if Peter didn’t find her irresistible. In flats she was taller than Martin, nearly Peter’s height, and the fitted pewter satin suit that she’d copied from a Calvin Klein made the most of her hourglass figure. But that was no excuse for Martin to ogle her so blatantly.
“That was a pretty spectacular sunset,” she said. “What did it cost you?”
“The Almighty threw that in for free. I must be living right.”
She laughed. “Apparently He’s easier to fool than I am. ‘Man has heart attack, man changes life’—what a cliché. It’s only a matter of time before you revert.” Jean realized she wasn’t doing a very good job of making nice.
Martin gave her a tolerant smile. “All I can do is prove you wrong.”
Jean felt the boat’s engines change gear—they’d begun the trip back to the St. Francis Yacht Club.
Martin looked around the room. “I’d better collect the rest of the guests,” he said. “Tell Diane I’ll be right back.”
Jean watched Martin make his way through the crowd. People smiled at him, shook his hand, slapped his back. This was an easy gathering of friends—Martin had no close relatives left, and Diane hadn’t spoken to her mother in years. The only person who could be construed as family was Frank Johansen, Martin’s former business partner and Diane’s foster father.
Near the door, Jean saw Martin waylaid by Jay Zeppetello, a very tall, very skinny young man with curly red hair and an ill-fitting rented tuxedo. He punched Martin’s arm. “Congratulations, boss,” Jean overheard him say. “Just remember what Shane said: ‘You can’t break the mold.’ Once a gunslinger, always a gunslinger.”
“I’m retired, Zeppo,” Martin said. “Believe it.” A cool gust of wind assailed the guests near the door as he stepped out on deck.
Jean felt a hand on each side of her hips and a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. “Let’s get some Champagne,” Peter said.
She turned. “You talked me into it.”
At the buffet table Jean snagged a glass of bubbly and took a whiff, then a sip. She detected almonds and a pleasant yeastiness on the nose. On the palate it was somewhat closed, with more acidity than fruit. It needed another five years in the bottle.
“As you see, Martin remains in character,” she told Peter. “He’s not serving the best Champagne, just the most expensive, and he’s serving it too young.” She grinned. “But I’ll shut up—I’ve sworn not to rag on him anymore. If Diane were any happier she’d self-combust.”
“I’m glad you’ve decided to behave. Hey, I finally got to meet Hugh Rivenbark. I worshipped his books as an undergraduate. Interesting old guy.”
“Too bad his books aren’t interesting anymore.” Jean picked up a plate and worked her way along the buffet table, taking crab canapés, stuffed mushrooms, grilled asparagus, boned quail, huge strawberries with stems. She wasn’t big on cake.
“If you’ve written a masterpiece and won a Pulitzer Prize, I guess you can coast.” Peter looked at her plate. “Is that crab?”
She offered him a taste. They stood close together, eating and watching Diane fuss around the elaborate white and yellow cake. When she was satisfied, she came over to them.
“Where did Martin go?” she said. “We’re all set.”
Jean swallowed a large bite of crab. “He’s rounding people up.”
Frank Johansen joined them, gazing warmly at Diane. He was a big, heavy man in his late fifties who looked thoroughly uncomfortable in formal wear. He spoke with the same Midwestern twang that Jean had worked hard to lose. She noticed with amusement that he had pale dog hair on the sleeves and pants of his tux—he owned a golden retriever. “Ready to cut the cake, sweetheart?” he asked.
“If we can find the groom,” Diane said.
“We’ll get him,” Peter said. “Jean, you take port a
nd I’ll take starboard.” They went out their respective doors.
The rain fell harder now, making Jean shiver. She walked toward the bow, thinking Martin might have gone that way, glancing into staterooms as she passed. There were plenty of cozy places where she and Peter could have had some fun.
Jean got to the bridge without meeting a soul, and Captain Loach, a short, sunburned man in a white uniform, told her he hadn’t seen Martin since sunset. She went back toward the stern, pausing near the salon to admire the Golden Gate above her and the distant rain-blurred city. The wind died down for a moment, and in the brief quiet she heard an odd scraping noise from the aft deck.
“Martin?” she called. No answer. Jean turned to check it out, and heard a strangled cry and a loud splash. She ran the rest of the way.
The aft deck was empty, but a few yards off the stern Martin’s blond head bobbed in the choppy sea.
“Martin!” Jean yelled, leaning over the rail, reaching out as far as she could, knowing she had no chance of saving him—the ship was moving too fast. Soon he’d be out of range of the running lights. Martin looked back at her, struggling to stay afloat in the ship’s wake, shock and terror on his face.
Jean looked around frantically—a life preserver hung nearby. She unhooked it and heaved it as far as she could in Martin’s direction. He started toward it, swimming stiffly in the cold rough water, his jacket constricting his movements. A black wave and a sharp drumming downpour hid him from view.
“Hang on!” Jean shouted as the Walrus motored farther and farther from its owner. “I’ll get help!” She caught another glimpse of him in the trough of a wave, still striving to reach the life preserver, and then the darkness swallowed him.
CHAPTER 3
Jean raced to the salon and threw open the door. “Martin’s overboard!” she yelled above the party noise. “Tell the captain!” A stunned silence greeted her announcement, and then she heard an agonized cry that could only be Diane, followed by exclamations and shouted questions.
