Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  “Jeannie,” Zeppo said thoughtfully, “I know what’s going to happen after we’re not hiding out anymore. I probably won’t see you that often. I just want you to know how great this has been, being with you all the time.”

  “Why won’t you see me that often?”

  “Because you have a regular life. Friends, boyfriends . . .”

  “Don’t be so goddamn dumb,” she snapped. “I thought you were over this loser mentality.” She honked as the car in front of them nearly rolled back into the Jag.

  “I’m just being realistic.”

  Traffic was at a dead stop, so Jean turned in her seat. “What kind of a shallow slut do you think I am? Do you really believe I could spend a week like this with a man and then forget all about him?”

  “I don’t want to expect too much.”

  “Don’t be so pathetic!” she yelled. “I suppose you think this is the world’s longest sympathy fuck.” Two women in the car next to them looked over.

  “Jeannie, I’m sorry. I—”

  “Stop apologizing! I hate your gutless wimp act!”

  He grinned at her fondly. “You’re sure cute when you’re angry.”

  Jean glared at him, ready to explode, then burst out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “The traffic is making me cranky. When this is all over we’ll see as much of each other as we can, and when you go to Davis we’ll work something out. I’ve grown very attached to you. And where will I find another sex fiend like you?”

  She put the Jag in neutral and set the hand brake, and they made out feverishly until the car behind them honked. Jean managed to pull away and eased the car up a few feet. “OK,” she said, “I’ll drive, and you think about Dick Cheney in a thong.”

  The women in the next car smiled at them. The Jag inched along, Zeppo’s hand on her thigh. “It’s not working, Jeannie,” he said. “All I can think about is wanting you.”

  “If we ever get off this fucking bridge, I’ll pull over.”

  Up ahead on Park Presidio they could see flashing lights and impenetrable traffic, so Jean took Lombard Street, poking along but at least moving. She turned right on Divisadero and pulled into the first space she found, about three blocks up.

  She killed the engine, grabbed Zeppo by his curly hair, and kissed him long and deeply. He put his hands around her torso and brushed his thumbs against her nipples, filling her with a sharp, aching desire. “Zeppo,” she whispered, “I want you right now.”

  He seemed as desperate as she was. “Oh Jeannie . . . ouch!” He hit his knee on the gearshift knob. His hand under her skirt made her thrash against the car door. As they grappled, Zeppo banged his elbow on the dashboard and she bumped her knee on the steering wheel, making them both laugh and bringing them partway to their senses.

  “Too bad there’s no back seat,” Zeppo said.

  She pulled her skirt down. “It’s just as well there isn’t. We’d get arrested.”

  “If we go to Roman’s, we’ll have to sit around and be sociable until after dinner.”

  “I can’t wait until after dinner,” she said.

  He put his hands on her again. “Neither can I.”

  “It’s not safe to go to our apartments,” Jean said.

  “We could check into a motel. Wait a minute—you have anything against an outdoor screw?”

  “Brilliant idea.” Jean restarted the engine and drove into the Presidio, to the clearing where they’d confronted Felix.

  The air was cool and damp, and moonlight filtered through the incoming fog. Zeppo took a heavy blue cotton blanket from behind the seats and spread it on the thick grass near the car before pulling Jean into a hungry embrace. Off came their clothes, which they dropped on the damp ground. They lay down on the soft blanket, the scent of earth and greenery strong. Jean, greedy and impatient, pulled him close, but Zeppo wouldn’t be hurried. He teased her endlessly, doing all the things she liked best but denying her any release, until she could bear it no longer.

  “Zeppo, I can’t stand it,” she moaned.

  “What’s the magic word?”

  “Please,” she said. “Please.”

  He put on a condom, laced his fingers over the top of her head, and shoved into her all at once, making them both groan with relief. She closed her eyes and let go of everything but him, rocking her hips with his as he moved at just the right angle, just the right speed, until she climaxed again and again, clawing him and crying out. Only then did he let go, too, and he came with a long, rolling shudder, calling her name.

  Jean lay utterly spent, Zeppo still inside her, his weight welcome on her. “Oh Zeppo,” she breathed, “you fuck like an angel.” She heard a rustling noise nearby and opened her eyes. Hugh Rivenbark stepped from the bushes holding a black automatic.

  CHAPTER 38

  Jean gasped, and she and Zeppo disentangled and sat up.

  “That was quite a performance,” Hugh said. “There’s nothing else like the mindless, athletic couplings of youth.” He gave a nasty chuckle. “Martin was right about you, Jean. You’ll fuck anything, won’t you?”

  “Almost anything, old man.” She pulled the blanket around herself, her feelings of outrage and violation making her more furious than afraid. She was sick to death of hearing Zeppo belittled by everyone she encountered, even the rapists and murderers. “Weren’t you paying attention? I can’t believe you’ve ever done that much for a woman in your whole miserable life.”

  “Come now, the least you can do is thank me for letting you finish.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point with impotent perverts like you? Now that you’ve had your jollies, what do you want?” Hugh wore surgical gloves, and Jean realized with horror that his gun had a silencer on it. Probably got it from one of his colorful characters. “How’d you find us, anyway?”

  “Diane was thoughtful enough to call and tell me where she’s staying, and happened to mention you’d gone to Sausalito and would return for dinner. I merely had to wait for your rather ostentatious car to come back across the bridge. Now put your clothes on. We’re going to your apartment, Zeppo. I don’t wish to continue our discussion in public.”

  Jean glanced at Zeppo, who looked pale and frightened. They gathered their damp clothes and put them on.

  “How’ll we get there?” Zeppo asked, tying his shoes. “We won’t all fit in my car.”

  “We’ll use mine.” Hugh went to the Jag and opened the front door, never taking his eyes from Jean and Zeppo. He set Jean’s purse on the passenger seat and rooted through it with one hand. “Nothing dangerous. Here, take it.” He grabbed the garage door opener clipped to the sun visor and dropped it in his pocket, then stood behind Zeppo and frisked him. He turned off and pocketed Zeppo’s cell phone. “Now walk back out to the road. And remember, if either of you escapes, I’ll shoot the other one.”

  Hugh’s silver Nissan sedan was parked on the shoulder about fifty yards from the mouth of the gravel road. He gave the keys to Zeppo and sat in the back seat with Jean. She knew they should try to escape while they were still in public, but the silenced gun prodding her ribs terrified her into compliance.

  Zeppo drove to his building without a word and pulled into the garage. In a few moments they were in his apartment. Hugh ordered Jean to sit on the bed and put Zeppo in the computer chair.

  He stood in the middle of the small room, gun in hand. “Good,” he said. “I prefer to conduct our business in private. I’ll take that thumb drive now, Zeppo.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Where is it?”

  Zeppo shook his head. “No way I’m telling you. You’ll kill us if I hand it over.”

  Hugh pointed the gun at Jean. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot Jean in a non-vital area. I’ll keep shooting her until I have the thumb drive.”

  Zeppo looked at Jean. “OK, I lied. There is no thumb drive.”

  Hugh smiled. “Just as I thought. You wanted to try a little blackmail, in the manner of our departed fr
iend Martin, but with nothing for collateral. You’re both fools.”

  “You going to kill us for being fools?” Jean said. “Is that why you tried to kill Martin?”

  “That was impulsive, an act of rage. I confronted him on the aft deck and he told me he found the manuscript years ago. I demanded to know what he wanted from me. He said he didn’t want anything. All those years he knew I didn’t write it. He laughed at my anger.”

  “I suppose trying to run us down was impulsive, too,” Jean said.

  Hugh looked at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  Jean met Zeppo’s eyes. She knew what he was thinking—that it must have been Setrakian in the Jeep and the Taurus, and that Hugh was threatening them now only because Zeppo had called and given him a reason. Shit.

  “Never mind,” Zeppo said. “Wrong psycho.”

  Jean returned her attention to Hugh. His admission that he’d pushed Martin overboard scared her as much as the silencer. The only reason he’d be so frank is that he really was going to kill them. She’d have to keep him talking until they could find a way out of this—not a difficult task, given his love for the sound of his own voice.

  “What about Esther?” she taunted. “Was that impulse or cold blood? Did you push her or rig the stairs? You killed your own wife, after what she did for you, to save your precious ego.” She noticed Zeppo rolling the chair back ever so slightly toward the computer table.

  Hugh’s smug expression turned ugly. “Don’t you speak her name, you meddling whore. I chose between love for a woman and self-love. I’ve lived with my decision for thirty years.” Jean saw real pain in his eyes. “I’d give anything to make that choice again. But I can’t, and if the truth gets out now, she’ll have died for nothing.”

  Hugh took a breath and collected himself. “Peter Brennan is free on bail. I think this is the perfect time for him to kill you both in a jealous rage. Take off your clothes. We’ll make it look as if he caught you in flagrante delicto.”

  “That’ll never work,” Jean said contemptuously. “Why would he be jealous enough to kill us if he’s hot for Diane?”

  “Diane’s about money—you’re about sex. There are different impulses involved. Peter can service his rich widow and still hate losing you to a younger man. I’ll say you confided in me that Peter threatened you.”

  “This isn’t one of your piss-poor novels. What if he’s got an alibi?”

  “Diane is his alibi, which means he has none at all. They’re being very secretive, so no one else knows where they are.”

  “The police know,” Jean countered.

  “The police won’t watch him twenty-four hours a day, and by the time they find your bodies they won’t be able to tell exactly when you died.”

  “You underestimate Diane,” Jean said. “She has a lot of powerful friends.”

  “Those are all Martin’s friends. They’ll drop her fast if she’s connected to his murder, or if her lover is. In the end, she’s just a delectable bit of trailer trash who got lucky.” He motioned with the gun. “Now get undressed,” he said sharply. Zeppo took off his shirt and dropped it on the floor, but remained seated.

  Jean was really frightened now and felt the beginnings of panic. Hugh had no reason to let them live. She had to do something fast. Time to use her distraction factor.

  Jean stood, slipped off her shoes, and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. “There are still plenty of things wrong with your scenario,” she said. She took off the blouse, unzipped her skirt, and slid it down. “What if the police are watching Peter 24/7? What if they already know he doesn’t have your gun?” She unhooked her bra and shrugged it off, then stepped out of her panties, watching Hugh closely. In spite of the situation, Jean could tell she was getting to him.

  She walked over to the dresser, searching for a weapon. Everything was neatly put away. She thought of her own apartment, and wished Zeppo left scissors and kitchen knives and blunt instruments lying around the way she did. “Face it, Hugh—there are too many ways your plan could go wrong.” The bottle of Marcassin Chardonnay stood on the dinette table near the bathroom door.

  Hugh followed her with his eyes. “Very impressive—a pornographer’s dream. Now go sit on the bed.”

  “In a minute. I have to pee. You don’t want me to get a bladder infection, do you?” She walked toward the bathroom.

  “Do it now,” Hugh commanded. “Sit on the bed.”

  “You want to shoot me there? It’s better theater, right? Well, I’ll be damned if I’ll make this easy for you.” She moved past him toward the bottle.

  “Do as I say or I’ll kill you where you stand.” Hugh turned away from Zeppo and raised the gun. Zeppo seized the glass lobster paperweight from the desk and threw it, striking Hugh on the temple hard enough to make him stagger. Jean lunged for the bottle. Zeppo dove toward him as Hugh fired at him, and Jean brought the bottle down on the back of Hugh’s head. He sank to his hands and knees, still gripping the gun. She stood over him and hit him again and he fell insensible to the floor. She kicked the gun away with her bare foot.

  Jean put the bottle on the floor and ran to Zeppo’s side. He lay near the corduroy chair, conscious but dazed. He was hit high in the left shoulder and blood was oozing out, too much blood. Jean grabbed the sheet off the bed and pressed it to the wound.

  “Oh Zeppo, come on. Come on, talk to me.”

  He looked at her. “Jeannie. Tell me that’s not your blood.”

  She glanced down and saw blood on her hands, her arms, her breasts. “No, it’s all yours.” She put his right hand on the sheet and told him to hold it tightly. “I have to call 911.”

  She stumbled to the phone and brought it back with her. His eyes were closed and the sheet had fallen off his wound. “Zeppo!”

  He opened his eyes. “Did you hit him with the wine bottle?”

  “Yeah. I hope I killed him.”

  “I saw you were going for it. We’re still a good team, huh?” His eyes closed again as he fell unconscious.

  The 911 operator answered on the fifth ring. “A man’s been shot,” Jean said, her voice unsteady. “I need an ambulance right away.” She gave Zeppo’s address.

  “Where’s the shooter?” asked the calm woman at the other end.

  “He’s unconscious.” She looked over at Hugh and saw blood seeping through his white hair. “You’d better send an ambulance for him, too.”

  The operator instructed Jean to keep Zeppo warm and apply pressure directly to the wound. Jean covered him with his comforter and did her best to staunch the bleeding. After what seemed like an eternity but was only three minutes by the bedside clock, she heard sirens.

  Jean stood, realizing she was still naked. She looked around and spotted Zeppo’s cell phone, which had fallen out of Hugh’s pocket. She might need it later. She dropped it into her purse, where Martin’s watch nestled next to her wallet. Shit. How would she explain that? She grabbed a thick book from the nearest shelf and laid the watch inside. She dressed hurriedly, her bloody hands leaving streaks on her clothes. As she slipped on her shoes, the buzzer rang.

  Jean opened the door. The stoop was crowded with blue uniforms, and outside she saw an ambulance, fire engine, and squad car, lights rotating.

  “There.” Jean pointed to where Zeppo lay. Two young men knelt next to him, uncovering him and talking in low tones as they worked. Jean was aware of movement all around her, but could only focus on Zeppo.

  A policeman with dark hair and a mustache touched her arm as she leaned over to see better. “Miss, step back and let them work,” he said. “Are you injured?” His nametag said “Gary Blumberg.”

  “No, I’m OK.” Jean backed up and stood close to the wall, trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

  Two fire department paramedics worked on Hugh. “What happened to him?” one of them asked.

  “I hit him with a wine bottle, twice. That one.” Jean pointed to the Chardonnay, which stood near the brown corduroy chair. She a
nxiously watched the men near Zeppo.

  “You hit him?” Officer Blumberg asked.

  “Yes. He’d just shot my friend and I didn’t want him to shoot me. Can I get my purse? I’m going with him.” Her voice sounded shaky, so she took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Kim,” Blumberg called. “Give me a hand here. She wants to go to the hospital.”

  Another officer, a bony young woman with short blond hair, came out of the kitchen and turned to her partner. “There’s a garage next door. I can question her there.”

  “I’ll check it.” Blumberg went out the door.

  She approached Jean. Her tag said “Kimberly Snyder.” “What’s your name, miss?” Her voice was soft and soothing.

  “Jean Applequist.”

  “Well, Jean, we have to wait until the crime scene technicians get here. We’ll take you to the hospital as soon as we can. Meanwhile you can tell me what happened.”

  Jean realized Officer Snyder was trying to calm her down, that the police thought she was getting hysterical. Maybe she was. She watched the paramedics put an IV in Zeppo’s hand, a big bandage on his shoulder, and an oxygen mask over his face. They lifted him onto a gurney and rolled him out the door. Soon the other paramedics wheeled Hugh out, his neck in a brace, an oxygen mask over his face as well. Jean was disappointed that he was still breathing.

  She turned her attention back to Officer Snyder. “Now Jean,” the woman said as if to a child, “we’re going to bag your hands until the technicians get here, OK? So we can test for gunshot residue and eliminate you as the shooter.”

  Snyder put plastic bags over her bloody hands, securing them at the wrists. Jean took another deep breath and tried to loosen the knot of fear in her stomach. She realized the whole process was out of her control, and that if she wanted to be taken to Zeppo she’d have to calm down and cooperate. What should she say? Her story had to be consistent with the facts, but not too revealing.

  Blumberg stuck his head into the apartment. “I’ll ride along in the ambulance,” he told Snyder. “See you there.” He went out the door.