He looked at his wife, chattering away giddily, endlessly, to anyone who would listen, about their quiet country life in South Hampton alternating with travel like this “scrumptuous cruise.” Social situations like this gave her a means of channeling her nervous energy. He concentrated on his Beef Wellington and did his best not to show how he felt, or what he was thinking.
Earlier, when he first arrived in the dining room, he’d spotted Dr. Swayze several tables away, seated between a shapely thirty-ish blonde and an older attractive redhead — the lucky bastard. Either woman would have suited Anthony just fine — they both looked like they had money — but if he had his choice he’d pick the redhead; it wasn’t so much that he had a penchant for older woman as they seemed to have a penchant for him.
It never occurred to him that perhaps younger women saw through his dated technique.
After being seated, however, Anthony never looked their way again, other than to make sure the doctor didn’t notice him perfidiously keeping his wife’s wine glass filled. Alcohol, in combination with her medication, made Mrs. Vane grow quiet... and depressed.
Thinking back, Anthony wasn’t exactly sure when he first decided to do away with Margaret. At some point, the scales had tipped: living with a neurotic woman, and having anything her money could buy, seemed far less attractive than just having anything her money could buy.
In the beginning, it was a daydream, a fantasy; but he had returned to the thought again and again, until it hardened into reality...
He had met Margaret just over ten years ago in Central Park, when he was in his early forties and insolvent, having run through the meager inheritance left him by his previous wife, who had been in her seventies and whose estate had largely gone to her grown children. Margaret was younger than the previous Mrs. Vane — she’d just turned sixty — and was the childless widow of a Manhattan real estate tycoon, who’d made his mint long before Donald Trump came on the scene.
At first, the future Mrs. Vane had been cautious about sharing her wealth with him, and even spoke of a prenuptial agreement; but soon Anthony’s talk of love and trust, plus his considerable sexual prowess, convinced her that there was more to life than money.
“Is anything the matter, dear?” he asked his wife sweetly. “You seem so quiet.”
Morosely, she shook her head.
Voices from the doctor’s table drifted to him, and Anthony caught snatches of conversation. It seemed the two women dining with the physician were mother and daughter — the mother widowed, the daughter divorced. He wondered idly if they might be interested in a threesome? Menage with a mother and daughter was on the short list of sexual adventures life had as yet denied him.
But it was the mother’s youthful voice and musical laughter that made the front of his black tux pants tingle. He wanted to look the redhead’s way, to catch a glimpse of her enticing smile, but instead he adjusted his linen napkin in his lap and forced himself to carry on a conversation with the stodgy banker from Boston seated next to him.
After the main course plates had been cleared, Anthony leaned toward his wife and said, “You don’t look at all well, my dear — you seem rather peaked. Why don’t we go for a stroll on deck?”
She peered at him, blue eyes touched by a filigree of red. “I don’t care to. Dessert is coming.”
He gave her a little smile. “Just thought you might like to catch a little air, sweetheart.”
The others at the table had stopped their conversation and were looking the couple’s way; but Margaret didn’t seem to notice.
Anthony leaned toward her and, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek, asked, “Then you won’t mind if I stretch my legs for a while?”
What to the other passengers might seem an innocent question to Margaret was a veiled threat. She knew, as well as her husband, that there were any number of lonely women on board the Fantasy, eager to meet a handsome stranger.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said abruptly, placing her napkin on the table. “I’ll get some air with you.”
Their fellow diners had noticed his wife’s dramatic mood swing — from belle of the ball to sullen wallflower — and this suited Anthony’s plans ideally.
As they exited the dining room, Anthony put a comforting arm around his wife, as if she were ailing. And when they passed the doctor’s table, Anthony maintained his concerned expression, his eyes fixed only upon his dearly beloved.
On the Upper Deck, he opened the heavy wood door inset with oval cut-glass and the burst of weather from the outside was almost enough to make Margaret turn back; the wind was strong, the night black, and a slight drizzle spat insolently in their faces.
“My hair!” she wailed, both hands flying to the sides of her head. She had spent two hours in the ship’s beauty shop that afternoon, a waste of time and money, in her husband’s opinion; her looks were gone, like his patience with her.
He ignored her plea, ushering her out on the narrow platform and over to the steel rail. The deck was deserted; everyone else was still in the dining room, gorging themselves on pastries and pies, and even the non-gluttons had been warded off by the weather.
Mr. Vane had planned on taking Mrs. Vane in his arms and kissing her one last time — he really was a romantic, and once had felt something akin to love for her, when she was still attractive. One last kiss, remembering some of the good times... But since nothing came to mind, he gathered her in his arms, like a bride about to be ushered over the threshold, and — her eyes wide, her mouth open, as she tried desperately to make this a romantic gesture — he hurled her unceremoniously over the rail.
He was surprised at how light she’d seemed in his arms, and how quickly she disappeared into the ocean, the black, white-capped waves reaching upward as if to catch her, then pulling her down and under.
She’d been too surprised to scream; or had she simply accepted her fate, would rather be dead than unloved by him? Anthony would never know, and would also never ponder the answer again.
He lingered only a second or two before turning toward the outer deck door to leave. The door was being partially held open by someone.
Hell!
It was the red-haired woman, the attractive older widow, who had stepped out onto the deck — her daughter was nowhere to be seen. How long she’d been there, Anthony didn’t know; but her expression of shock told him what she’d seen.
Everything.
He froze, horrified, not knowing what to do. And as voices trailed out to him from the open door, telling him others were on their way to the deck, he realized there wasn’t time for the woman named Cora Hazen to join his wife under the choppy sea.
“I... I...” He could only stammer as he took a few tentative steps toward her, his suave facade dropping like pants whose suspenders had snapped.
Cora Hazen let go of the door and plastered herself against the wall of the deck.
“Please keep quiet,” he said, gathering the shreds of his dignity about him. “I have money... A great deal of money.”
Her eyes seemed oddly blank, then came alive. “Money? Let me see!”
He quickly dug into his pants pocket and brought out a wad of cash that had been meant for the casino, later that night, and thrust it toward her.
“This is all I have on me... but I can get you more, much more...”
Her eyes were as wide as Margaret’s going over the side; but her face had taken on a child-like glee.
“I like money!” she said and snatched the cash from his hand.