Bile splashed against the rear of my throat. I’d hated her for years and thought endlessly about killing her. It was time to finally do it.
Chapter 2
Barnet Wines and Spirits was spread over three Waterside Shops storefronts. It was an unusual place for a liquor store, representing a gamble to offset the astronomical rent with sales of boutique wines and an entrée into serving the thriving charity scene in Naples. No expense was spared in building out the store’s space. In a bid to rank with the philanthropic set, it featured a cave for private tastings and small events, along with luxurious retail space that looked like a world-class collector’s cellar.
John Barnet closed the door to his office and sorted through the mail. A solid quarter of the stack were past-due notices, reinforcing the fact he’d placed his chips on the wrong horse. He pulled two of the oldest out and wrote checks dated a week ahead. Confident he’d find a way out, he pulled his six-foot six-inch frame out of his chair and headed to the bathroom to freshen up for his meeting.
Barnet was running a tiny comb through his Van Dyke when Marilyn knocked on the door. Wearing a white skirt and red blouse and dripping with jewelry, she immediately lifted Barnet’s spirits.
“Mrs. Boggs. It’s so nice to see you again.”
He closed the door behind her and caressed her face. Pushing her pixie hair back, he hungrily kissed her. Marilyn returned the affection but pulled away when Barnet ran his hand up her skirt.
“Don’t be such a bad boy, Johnny. This isn’t the place.”
Barnet smiled. “We still on tonight?”
Marilyn silently nodded and pouted her lips.
“I just got in a wonderful grower Champagne. It’s highly allocated, but I know you’ll love it. Nobody outside of New York’s got it.”
“Sounds special.”
Barnet took her hand. “Not as special as you. I can’t wait to see you later.”
“Let’s make it at the penthouse. I’m going to be downtown for a Leukemia Foundation meeting. Did you know I’m chairing the ball this year?”
“Very nice. Is it going to be at the Ritz again?”
She nodded.
“You know they don’t allow outside beverage vendors.”
“It’s only one event, John.”
“I know, but it is not fair. Besides, they serve second-rate plonk, and at crazy prices to boot. You know better than me, if you want folks to open their wallets you have to run a top-shelf event. I could put together something unique for you, maybe a nice mix of older Bordeaux and Napa cult wines that’ll have people talking about the event a month later.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll speak with them.”
“You think they’ll agree?”
She smiled. “Are you doubting me, Johnny?”
“Not in a zillion years, darling.”
She looked at her watch. “I have a facial at two, so let’s go over the St. Matthew House event.”
“Sure.”
Barnet pulled a file out and sat next to Marilyn, who said, “I hope you remembered that the majority of attendees aren’t, shall we say, as sophisticated as usual.”
“You forget I’ve been doing this for a while? Not to worry, I put together a nice selection, nothing over the top, that suits the crowd. Even the cheese selections are upper midrange.”
“Sounds perfect. You’ve got the mimosa bar, right?”
“Yep. Though I think it would be a nice idea to add a tray of chocolates to every table.”
“But the package from the Hyatt includes dessert.”
“They’re just going to give you a cheesy sheet cake. Having premium chocolates is a nice touch that they’ll remember.” He snapped his fingers. “It just hit me; what about giving every attendee a little box, nothing big, say a selection of four chocolates?”
“I like it, but I don’t want to give the impression that we’re spending too much money on the affair.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll have the boxes printed with something like, ‘Courtesy of the Boggs Foundation,’ or something like that.”
“I like that idea. How much do you think it will run?”
“Asking prices? What, are you on a budget all of a sudden?”
“Of course not, just curious.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll work it out for you.”
“Thanks, Johnny. I’ve got to get moving.”
“By any chance did you bring a check with you? I don’t want to give my people the impression I’m not following company procedure.”
Nodding, Marilyn pulled a matching Hermes checkbook out of her pocketbook. “How much you need?”
“Uh, let’s make it an even fifteen thousand.”
Marilyn’s perfume was still in the air when he summoned his store manager into his office.
“What’s up, John?”
Barnet held out Marilyn’s check. “Run this right over to the bank.”
“No problem.”
Bridgette took the check but didn’t leave.
Barnet said, “That’s all I needed.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s personal, but I don’t have a brother or anyone to ask about it.”
“It’s okay, what’s going on?”
“Well, there’s this guy, Gary, and he won’t leave me alone. He’s always coming by my place and he makes me uncomfortable.”
“Were you involved with this guy?”
“No, never. He creeps me out. He’s like stalking me. And I don’t know what to do about it. What should I do?”
Barnet leaned back in his chair. “Back in L.A., we had this preacher type guy who used to hang around in front of my Cienega Boulevard store. He’d try to tell the winos to stop drinking and just kept interfering with the customers. I told him to stop, but he’d be there rain or shine, and it started to hurt sales.”
“Wow, what did you do?”
“He’d park in Randy’s Donuts lot, and one night I waited in the dark for him and he never came back again.”
“What’d you tell him to get him to stop?”
“There wasn’t much talking, but I hear he spent a couple of weeks in ICU.”
Chapter 3
Barnet had been to the Fifth Avenue penthouse a couple of dozen times. He parked below the building, putting his white Porsche next to Marilyn’s baby-blue Bentley. The garage was nicer than his first place in Los Angeles, but, as the elevator door shut, he couldn’t help thinking that the prices these places commanded were ridiculous. He checked his hair in the chrome doors’ reflection just before the doors opened into her spacious apartment.
Greeted by Simon and Garfunkel crooning at full volume, Barnet made a beeline to the kitchen’s audio console and lowered it. As usual, Marilyn was never ready on time. He knew she used every opportunity to prove she was better than the rest of the world. She had it too damn easy, he thought. Never worked a day in her life. Marilyn was spoon-fed all right, and it was a platinum one, not silver.
She didn’t understand how lucky she was, Barnet thought, surveying the penthouse of seven thousand square feet that was a 180 from Keewaydin Island. The designer here used an edgy combination of Miami, New York, and Los Angeles styling that made you feel like you didn’t know where you were. Barnet liked the feel of the place and loved that he could head downstairs and roam along Fifth when he hit his limit of Marilyn.
He took a glass ice bucket from a sleek cabinet in the bar, put the Champagne in and filled it with ice. Grabbing a bottle of Aubert Chardonnay out of the cooler, he reminded himself that the weekly rendezvous was vital to keeping things together. Noting the wine was from the Ritchie vineyard, Barnet pulled the cork. After a deep sniff and a sip, he poured a healthy glass.
A light buzz is what he needed to get through the night. Sipping his wine, he circled the room, appreciating the contemporary art that graced its walls. He wondered how much they were worth, marveling at how perfectly they fit the place. He tipped bac
k the remains of a second glass as Marilyn made her entrance.
“Starting without me?”
Barnet put an arm around her and kissed her.
“Let me pop the Champagne. This is something special. You’re gonna like it.”
“What is it?”
As he took the foil and cage off the cork, he said, “Le Mont Benoit Extra Brut. It’s what is known as a grower Champagne. Emmanuel Brochet is the producer and the grower, and their Champagnes are made only with grapes from his vineyard. Most Champagnes, like Moet and even Dom Perignon, buy grapes from across the region and blend them. They also blend Champagnes from different vintages to make a Champagne that fits the style they’re known for. The growers don’t do that; they make Champagnes that represent the property and the weather of that year.”
“They’re more expensive?”
He popped the cork, saying, “Sometimes, and they should be. I mean, if the weather is bad, they have it all on the line. It’s risky, and I like that commitment. Here, try some.”
“It’s good.”
“Can you tell how fresh it is? It’s amazing.”
“I think so.”
“Brochet is a genius, and the place is totally organic.”
“That’s good. Maybe we should get a winery.”
“That’d be nice, but you can’t do it in Florida.”
“Why not?”
“The climate. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”
“Gemma made rosemary chicken and grilled vegetables for us.”
***
After dinner Barnet pulled the cork out of a Biondi Santi Brunello and poured a glass.
“You want some?”
“Not now, I can’t keep up with you.”
“It’s one I procured for you.” He held up the glass. “And it’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I gotta say, I just love the artwork here. Especially that pink one.”
“That’s by a German artist. I can’t remember his name. I think it’s Richter or something.”
“Where’d you find that?”
“Gideon picked it up at a Sotheby’s auction.”
“Real nice one. Did he get the others as well?”
“Yeah, all of them. He’s really into his art.”
“He did an amazing job. I wouldn’t have bought any of them, if I had the money to spend on art, but they work so well here.”
“It’s the only thing he’s good at these days.”
“Well, he got it right.”
“Gideon said he wants a divorce.”
“So? Why not?”
“The trust will reduce my benefits if I divorce.”
“Wow. So, Daddy’s still calling the shots while the grass grows over him.”
“I know it’s crazy, but what can I do? I want to get away from him, but it’s going to cost me.”
“Maybe Gideon could disappear.”
“What? What are you saying, John?”
“Just that. If he were to disappear, you’d be free from him and you wouldn’t take the hit. That’s a nice solution, don’t you think?”
Chapter 4
Gideon Brighthouse
The more I thought about it, the more the idea grew, like a weed. I had to find a plausible way to kill Marilyn, one that wouldn’t implicate me. There, I said it, and it didn’t feel bad. It really wasn’t my fault; she’s the one who’s forcing me. I don’t really have a choice.
If there was another way out of this marriage that allowed me to stay on the island, I’d grab it in a heartbeat. It’s not the money, it’s really not. Naturally, people would think that, but they’d be wrong. Most people don’t understand what someone like me has to endure. The panic is crippling. Nothing gets through. You could shoot a gun next to my ear and I’d still hear nothing but the blood pounding in my head. I can only imagine what they say when it overwhelms me.
Whatever method I decide on, it can’t be violent, nothing like shooting her, unless I can set it up to look like a robbery. She has massive amounts of jewelry and was careless, make that stupid, about it. Bottom line was she lost things all the time, or maybe her boyfriend stole some of her things when they got together. Except for a piece or two her daddy got her, Marilyn didn’t care if something got lost or was stolen; she’d just replace it.
What if it looked like a drug-crazed addict had broken in? They’re everywhere, but they’d need a boat to get here. What if it happened in town? But how would I accomplish that? Forget that idea. I picked up the da Vinci biography I had been reading.
A huge formation of gray clouds rushed in from the south, darkening things as the wind picked up. I kept reading until I felt a drop and headed inside the pool house as the sky opened up. The TV was blaring nonsense from one of those ridiculous reality court shows and I flicked the remote, landing on an episode of American Crime Story.
I stood, book in hand, watching as a husband said he’d gotten away with killing his wife. The guy looked like an average Joe and spoke like he’d barely finished high school. The show shifted to an image of a smoldering site, the sole hint it had been a house being the brick chimney was still standing. I inched closer to the screen as an actor reenacted the crime.
The actress playing the wife left the house during the afternoon, and her estranged husband slipped in and went to the den where she watched television each night. He explained that the lamp he was standing before went on automatically each night at eleven as a security light. He removed the bulb from the lamp, pocketed it, and replaced it with one of a dramatically higher wattage. The narrator explained that the lamp was rated for a maximum 100 watts, and that the husband had replaced it with a 200-watt bulb.
Bulb replaced, the husband took a couple of tissues from the bathroom and laid them over the new bulb, ensuring that if the inappropriate bulb didn’t cause a fire that the heat would ignite the tissues as his wife slept. I couldn’t believe it when the narrator mentioned that nearly thirty thousand homes per year were damaged by electrical fires. Tens of thousands of fires would provide a lot of coverage.
As the husband exited the home, the show cut to an interview with a forensics expert who speculated it was the tissues that had caught fire, doubting the overload was responsible for the blaze that killed the wife. The expert said the heat had made it impossible to determine the cause, and had the husband not confessed, it would have been attributed to an accidental fire. It was then that a blood rush coursed through me. I took a couple of deep breaths and sat down.
Closing my eyes, I recalled what the lighting looked like around midnight at Serenity House. The porch lights glowed from dusk to dawn, but they were LEDs, I was sure. Since Marilyn hated the color of LEDs, I knew all the lamps and art lighting were incandescent. Damn, the art! I couldn’t turn all those wonderful pieces to piles of ashes. Even with insurance you just couldn’t replace them. I couldn’t do it. An electrical fire was out. I’d have to find another way.
After showering, I searched Netflix for American Crime Story and started going through the first season. There were no spousal killings, and most of the cases involved distancing the killer from suspicion by hiding the body. I did pick up one tip, and that was to make it look like someone in particular did it.
I headed to the guesthouse, where I’d been living for over two years now, to get some dinner. The humidity was high as the evening sun soaked up the remains of the rain. Most people can’t stand the humidity, but it never bothered me. I liked the way it loosened me up. Passing the pool, I noticed the water level was high from the downpour. The idea of drowning Marilyn cascaded through my head.
Doing it in the pool would be tough—too many people on the property during the day. She rarely went in the pool at night, but every now and then she went into the gulf and did her yoga on a wakeboard. The boards were hard enough to knock you out if you hit it right, but the gulf was calm. It’d have to look like she’d fallen off and hit her head on a rock or something to make it plausi
ble. I’d double-check in the morning, but I didn’t know of anything off the beach that would fit logically.
The stress of trying to decide how to kill her without implicating myself was getting to me. I wanted Marilyn to know I was the one killing her. Ideas were circling in my head and I needed to shut things down. I wasn’t supposed to be mixing alcohol with my meds, but I needed something and poured myself a tumbler of cognac. It burned going down, but the spreading warmth was relaxing. Grabbing the bottle, I sat in a recliner and put the TV on, trying to force Marilyn out of my head.
***
“Sir, sir, is everything all right?”
I struggled to open my eyes. Shell, the housekeeper, was shaking my shoulder. “Uh, yeah, I must’ve fell asleep.”
Shell helped me sit up. “Are you sure, sir?”
“I’m okay.”
“I know it’s none of my business, sir, but you can’t keep drinking with them medicines you’re taking.”
Shell stood up and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The cocktail table was overthrown and there was glass everywhere. A John-Richard lamp was laying in pieces by the sliders. Holding my breath, I checked the walls, exhaling when it appeared all the artwork was undamaged, unlike the last time. The smell of cognac steered my eyes to the shattered bottle of Courvoisier scattered across the fireplace hearth.
“Don’t get up Mr. Brighthouse. Wait till I get you some shoes.”
What had happened? This was the third time in two months I had blacked out, leaving a trail of destruction and no recollection of my violent behavior.
Chapter 5
Barnet sat at his desk watching camera feeds of the floor of his store. The intermittent, drip-like foot traffic troubled him. Dragging himself off his chair, he walked out of his office and began circling the empty store. Forcing a smile at the four sales associates who were chatting, he made himself a promise to cut staff down to two as summer approached.
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