Murder On Vacation

Victoria lifted her glass and took a slow sip. The champagne was warm. Richard had complained about it twice, which meant the staff had probably been warned not to bring him another bottle until he had finished the first. A sensible policy. She wondered if it applied to husbands.

“Then why,” Richard said, leaning forward, “does it taste like something poured at an airport lounge?”

Mateo glanced at Victoria. It was a brief look, but she caught the question in it.

Is he always like this?

Victoria gave him the faintest sympathetic smile.

Only when awake.

Richard’s hand struck the table. The glasses jumped. A nearby woman lowered her sunglasses.

“I paid for a month here,” he said. “A month. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means you have excellent taste in accommodations,” Victoria said.

Richard turned toward her. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t. I’m still deciding whether to finish my drink.”

Mateo’s mouth twitched before he controlled it. Richard saw that, naturally. Richard saw every expression that failed to flatter him.

“You think this is funny?”

“Not particularly. The trumpet player is funnier.”

The band stumbled into the chorus. Somewhere behind them, a child shrieked with delight as he jumped into the pool. Water slapped tile. A server passed carrying a tray of pink cocktails, their sugared rims sparkling like tiny accusations.

Richard’s face reddened beneath his Panama hat.

For twenty-three years, Victoria had watched that color rise. It was one of the marriage’s few reliable pleasures, though it had become less satisfying lately. Anger had made Richard puffy around the eyes and soft beneath the chin. His hair, once thick and silver, had retreated so far that his hat had become less an accessory than a legal necessity.

He pointed at Mateo.

“Take this away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And bring me what I ordered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this time, try not to make me wait until sunset.”

Mateo reached for the bottle.

Richard caught his wrist.

The terrace quieted by degrees. The trumpet stopped. Even the pool seemed to pause, blue and glittering beneath the sun.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Richard said.

Mateo’s eyes lifted. They were dark, steady, and much calmer than Victoria felt she would have been at his age.

“I’m looking at you, sir.”

“Then perhaps you’ll remember the face of the man paying your salary.”

Victoria set down her glass.

“Richard.”

He released Mateo. “What?”

“You’re holding up the bottle.”

Mateo withdrew his hand and stepped back. A blush climbed his neck, not from embarrassment but fury. Victoria recognized the distinction. Richard did not. He was accustomed to believing that every emotion in the world revolved around him.

“Go,” Richard snapped.

Mateo left with the bottle.

Richard settled into his chair, satisfied. He adjusted his cuff and glanced around the terrace, checking whether the audience had appreciated the performance. Several people had returned to their books. One elderly man had not. He watched Richard with the solemn interest of someone witnessing a minor crime and considering whether it was worth reporting.

Victoria looked toward the resort buildings.

The Coral Meridian rose in pale tiers above the beach, all shaded balconies, polished stone, and glass doors that reflected the sea. Their suite occupied the top floor of the east wing. Richard had chosen it because the resort’s brochure described the balcony as “private.” He had interpreted that to mean large enough for a hot tub and distant enough from other guests that he could conduct business calls without anyone overhearing him.

Victoria had interpreted it differently.

Private meant useful.

She had spent months thinking about Richard’s death. Not in the vague, theatrical way people said they wanted someone dead after a bad dinner or an especially irritating conversation. She had considered it while signing checks, while listening to him lie about his affairs, while sitting beside him at charity dinners as he told strangers she was “decorative but harmless.”

She had considered it in bed, with Richard snoring beside her like a machine designed to punish sleep.

Now they had four weeks on an island. Four weeks in a place where nobody knew her, where the staff changed shifts, where the sea could swallow a mistake and the resort could turn tragedy into a tasteful inconvenience.

She needed to know the terrain.

The pool terrace offered several possibilities and no certainty. There were three exits: the glass doors into the lobby, the path toward the beach, and a narrow service corridor marked STAFF ONLY behind the bar. Security cameras covered the main entrance and the pool gates, though one palm blocked the camera’s view of the far end of the terrace. She had noticed that within fifteen minutes of arriving.

Richard had noticed the champagne list.

The problem was that every unfamiliar place had its own habits. Doors locked at particular hours. Staff appeared from hidden passages. Guests remembered faces when they had nothing better to do. A resort that promised privacy also sold observation as part of the experience. Everyone watched everyone else while pretending to admire the ocean.

Victoria needed time. She needed routine. She needed Richard to remain exactly as careless as he had always been.

He reached for her hand.

She allowed him to take it.

His fingers were damp and surprisingly cold.

“This is going to be good for us,” he said.

Victoria turned her head slowly. “The champagne?”

“The vacation.”

“Ah.”

“A month away from the city. No phones unless we want them. No interruptions. We can relax.”

“You can relax,” she said. “I’m already doing all the work.”

Richard smiled as if she had made a joke for his benefit. “You’ve been tense.”

“Have I?”

“You’re always tense now.”

Perhaps because you keep touching me, she thought.

Instead, she squeezed his hand. His wedding ring pressed into her palm.

“I’m sure I’ll loosen up.”

“That’s the spirit.” He leaned closer. “I booked the couples’ massage for tomorrow.”

Victoria looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You like massages.”

“I like having a spine.”

He laughed, pleased with himself. “There she is.”

There she was, indeed. Sixty years old, beautiful enough to be underestimated and experienced enough to know the value of allowing it. Her long brown hair fell over one shoulder, streaked with gold by the sun and by a colorist who charged more per hour than Mateo probably earned in a week. She wore a white bikini beneath a linen cover-up, diamond studs in her ears, and a wedding ring large enough to signal distress from an aircraft.

Richard had bought the ring after his second affair became public. He called it an apology. Victoria called it a down payment.

He lifted her hand and kissed the ring.

“To us,” he said.

“To us.”

A shadow fell across the table.

Mateo had returned with another bottle. He placed it carefully beside Richard’s glass.

“Your reserve bottle, sir.”

Richard inspected the label. “About time.”

Mateo said nothing.

Richard poured. The liquid foamed over the rim and ran across the table.

“For God’s sake,” Richard said. “Can’t anyone here do a simple thing correctly?”

Mateo looked at the spill, then at Richard.

“I can bring a cloth.”

“Bring someone competent.”

Victoria picked up her napkin and dabbed at the table. “That may be difficult. Competence is in short supply today.”

Richard’s eyes sharpened. “Whose side are you on?”

“Mine.”

The answer escaped before she could decorate it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The band had started again, softer now. A breeze lifted the corner of Victoria’s cover-up and carried the sharp scent of chlorine across the terrace. Richard’s grip tightened around his glass.

Then he smiled.

It was the smile he wore when he intended to punish her privately.

“Come upstairs,” he said.

“I’m enjoying the view.”

“You’ve enjoyed it long enough.”

“Have I?”

“Victoria.”

There it was: the warning, wrapped in her name.

She looked past him toward the ocean. A catamaran sailed beyond the reef, white against the blue. On the beach, two resort employees dragged lounge chairs into a precise line. One of them paused to check a watch. The other glanced toward the terrace before continuing.

Shift change, Victoria thought.

At four, perhaps. Or every hour.

The service corridor door opened behind the bar. A woman in a navy uniform emerged carrying folded towels. She disappeared through the lobby doors without looking at the guests.

Victoria watched the door close.

Richard stood.

She remained seated. “I’ll come up later.”

“Now.”

His voice was low enough that only she could hear it.

That was the trouble with Richard. He believed lowering his voice made him discreet. It only made the threat more intimate.

Victoria gathered her sunglasses and rose with a smile.

“Of course.”

He placed a hand at the small of her back and steered her toward the lobby. To anyone watching, they were a wealthy couple returning to their suite after a pleasant afternoon. Richard’s hand looked affectionate. Victoria’s smile looked genuine.

At the glass doors, she glanced back once.

The pool terrace spread behind her in sunlight: the blind spot beneath the palm, the service door, the cameras, the bar, the elevators beyond the lobby. A beautiful little machine with hidden gears.

Richard ushered her inside.

In the elevator, he said nothing. The doors closed, sealing them into mirrored silence. Victoria saw herself reflected on every side: white bikini, gold-streaked hair, diamonds, composed mouth. Beside her stood Richard, red-faced and breathing heavily, his reflection multiplied until it seemed the elevator was full of him.

He reached for her wrist.

She looked down at his hand.

“Not here,” she said.

“Don’t embarrass me.”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “I’m not the one who grabbed the waiter.”

The elevator climbed.

Richard’s fingers tightened, then released her. “You’ve become very clever.”

“No. You’ve become very predictable.”

The doors opened on their floor.

He walked out first.

Victoria followed, carrying her sunglasses in one hand and the decision in the other.

Richard Sterling had no idea this was going to be his last vacation. Victoria intended to make sure of it.

But the island was not a blank page. It had cameras, schedules, locked doors, witnesses, and staff who remembered faces. Before Richard died, she would have to learn the resort as thoroughly as she had once learned him.

That, she thought as Richard unlocked their suite, was the only inconvenient part.

And inconvenience, unlike murder, could usually be managed.

End of chapter one. 27 more chapters and about 63,037 words in the full book.