J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

“You killed him?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I shot him. It was quick.” She made a gun barrel of her index finger, firing it at me. The recoil was minimal.

I scrambled up on the wall beside her, so that our faces were level. I liked it better that way. I didn’t have to raise my voice to be heard above the surf. Was she drunk? I could smell alcohol on her person, even downwind. “Was that you shooting at us at the beach?”

“Yes.”

“But I had your gun. I took it away from you on the boat.”

Her smile was wan. “I had a collection to choose from. Dean kept six or eight. He was very paranoid about burglars. The one I used on Wendell was a little semiautomatic with a suppressor. The shot didn’t even make as much noise as a hardcover book falling on the floor.”

“When did you do it?”

“That same night, Thursday. He walked home from the beach. I had my car. I got home first, so I was there to meet him when he got in. He was exhausted and his feet hurt. I made him a vodka tonic and took it out to him on the deck. He took a long swallow. I put the gun against his neck and fired. He barely jumped, and I was quick enough to keep the drink from spilling. I dragged him down the dock to the dinghy and hauled him in. I covered him with a tarp and putt-putted out of the Keys. I took my time about it so I wouldn’t attract attention.”

“Then what?”

“Once I was out about a quarter mile, I weighted his body down with an old twenty-five-horsepower motor I was getting rid of anyway. I kissed him on the mouth. He was already cold and he tasted like salt. I heaved him overboard and he sank.”

“Along with the gun.”

“Yes. After that I shifted into high gear and jammed it from Perdido up to Santa Teresa, where I eased into the marina, attached the dinghy to the Lord, and motored it out to sea. I brought the boat down along the coast and hauled the sails up. I got back in the dinghy and puttered into the Keys again while the Lord headed out into the ocean.”

“But why, Renata? What did Wendell ever do to you?”

She turned her head, staring out at the horizon. When she looked back, I saw that she was smiling slightly. “I lived and traveled with the man for five years,” she said. “I provided him money, a passport, shelter, support. And how does he repay me? By going back to his family …by being so ashamed of me, he wouldn’t even admit my existence to his grown sons. He had a midlife crisis. That’s all I was. Once it was over he was going back to his wife. I couldn’t lose him to her. It was too humiliating.”

“But Dana wasn’t ever going to take him back.”

“She would have. They all do. They say they won’t, but when it comes right down to it, they can’t resist. I’m not sure I blame them. They’re just so bloody grateful when hubby finally comes crawling back. It doesn’t matter what he’s done. Just so he shows up again and says he loves her.” The smile had faded, and she was starting to cry.

“Why the tears? He wasn’t worth it.”

“I miss him. I didn’t think I would, but I do.” She pulled the belt on her coat and let it slip off her shoulders. She was naked underneath, slim and white, shivering. Like an arrow of flesh.

“Renata, don’t!”

I saw her turn and propel herself into the boiling ocean. I pulled my shoes off. I yanked my jeans down and pulled the sweatshirt over my head. It was cold. I was already soaked with spray, but for a moment I hesitated. Below me, out about ten yards now, I could see Renata swimming, slender white arms cutting through the water methodically. I didn’t want to go into the water at all. It looked deep and cold and black and bitter. I flew forward, feeling birdlike, wondering if there was any chance of staying airborne forever.

I hit the water. It was stunning, and I gasped and then heard myself sing aloud with the surprise. The cold took my breath away. The weight of the water forced my lungs to labor. I caught my breath and started moving. Salt stung my eyes, but I could see the white of Renata’s hands, face bobbing through the water a few yards in front of me. I’m an adequate swimmer, but not a strong one by any means. To swim for any length of time, I’m usually forced to shift from stroke to stroke—the crawl, the sidestroke, the breast-stroke, rest. The ocean was buoyant, nearly playful by nature, a big liquid death, cold as torture, unforgiving.

“Renata, wait!”

She looked back, apparently surprised that I had braved the water. Almost as a courtesy, she seemed to slow down a bit, allowing me to catch up with her before she started off again. I was already winded from exertion. She seemed tired, too, and maybe that’s why she consented to the rest. For a moment we bobbed together, water lifting us up and down like some kind of bizarre attraction at an amusement park.