Murder on the Riviera (14 page)
Read Murder on the Riviera Online
Authors: Anisa Claire West
Chapter 10
The helicopter’s propellers whirled around dizzyingly and deafeningly as the aircraft ascended. The taxi ride had just been the first leg of the journey. The pending helicopter ride would be followed by a boat trip to the Island of Vinova. Sandwiched between Herculea and the pilot, the Secret Keeper wore a courageous face. Herculea imagined that this was the most exciting thing to happen to the man in years. Living so reclusively in that cottage certainly hadn’t cracked his spirit. If anything, Herculea believed those seemingly endless years of solitude and suffering had all culminated on this day, on this earsplitting helicopter ride.
Kent, on the other hand, looked out the window anxiously, as the helicopter rose shakily above the treetops. The pilot seemed competent enough, but Kent had a fear of helicopters and other small aircrafts. He had heard too many stories on the news of disaster flights. Herculea seemed to decipher his thoughts as she placed her hand firmly on his forearm and gave him an impromptu kiss on the cheek. He didn’t bother trying to talk to her over the racket of the helicopter. Instead, he enjoyed this rare moment of non-verbal communication and rubbed the palm of her hand firmly against his.
Oxygen was scarce inside the overheated helicopter, and Herculea tried to ward off a wave of nausea. Mentally, she returned to her yoga practice, going through the series of relaxing poses in her head and trying to recapture some of the peace they had brought her. She began a round of breathing, inhaling into the belly, ribcage, and top of the lungs fully before expelling all the air slowly. Herculea repeated the breath several times, but could not stop the frenetic beating of her heart or the beads of sweat that formed on her brow. Herculea willed herself not to become sick.
The pilot shouted something incoherent in Portuguese and pointed out the window. Herculea blinked in the overwhelming sun and saw waves of seawater crash against the shoreline. Gratefully, she smiled at the pilot, knowing that the nauseating helicopter ride would be over in a matter of minutes and they would land on the beach.
Herculea’s stomach dipped and lurched as the pilot began the turbulent descent onto the empty shoreline. Wishing that she felt well enough to admire the stark beauty of this deserted Brazilian beach, Herculea instead focused on keeping a rein over her queasy stomach. The Secret Keeper, meanwhile, looked like a child riding a roller coaster for the first time. The expression on his face was pure glee. Kent remained stone-faced and pensive as he continued to rub Herculea’s hand.
The din from the helicopter was becoming intolerable to Herculea’s strained eardrums, which she thought might pop at any moment. The pilot let out a satisfied “whoop” as he steered the helicopter safely onto the sand. Herculea did not know why he looked so pleased with himself. The man had stopped dangerously close to the water. If he had landed just a few seconds sooner, they might have fatally plunged into the murky Atlantic Ocean. This fact did not escape Kent either. He gave the pilot a gruff handshake and tight smile while shoving a wad of cash into his hand.
Kent squirmed to maneuver his large body off the helicopter. As Herculea followed closely behind him, she overheard the pilot talking to the Secret Keeper in spitfire Portuguese. Although she couldn’t understand a word of their discussion, the pilot’s tone sounded as if he were giving instructions.
The Secret Keeper nodded amiably and gave the pilot a brief hug and slap on the back. Clearly, this was a day at the amusement park for him, even without an actual roller coaster.
“Are you ready to sail the sea?” He asked cheerfully, waving goodbye to the pilot as the helicopter took off.
“Not without a watercraft,” Kent retorted wryly.
“Of course not!” The Secret Keeper chuckled. “Of course there are no commercial boats that go to Vinova. So, we can pay a private yacht owner to take us there.”
“And how far are we right about now?” Kent queried.
“Not far at all according to my map.” Herculea unfolded the frayed and crumpled parchment. “Look how close the pilot brought us.”
She placed her finger over the tiny point in the sea where the Island of Vinova lay. It had looked so innocuous on the map. Exotic and exciting out there in the deep of the ocean. No one looking at the map would ever guess that it was a place so foreboding, concealing so many unorthodox secrets.
Kent examined the map with narrowed eyes. “By my measurement, the island is less than 200 miles away.” He frowned suddenly and added, “That means we’ll arrive in the dark. I don’t think that’s a wise idea.”
“Well, we really don’t have a choice, do we? We can’t sleep here on the beach,” Herculea said.
Kent glanced over his shoulder at the Secret Keeper who had removed his shoes and was dipping his bare feet in the ocean. It was hard to be angry at the old crone; the fellow had such a childlike innocence about him. Still, the old man’s presence grated on his nerves. If the Secret Keeper were back at his cottage, things would be much different. The idea of sleeping on the beach would not seem so outlandish if it were just he and Herculea, rather than the two of them plus this benevolent but bothersome old man.
Kent looked around him at the picturesque sand dunes and flocking sea gulls. It would be such a perfect setting to romance Herculea and finally show her, with his mouth and body, how he really felt. He sighed in frustration and looked back at Herculea, who was staring at him quizzically waiting for an answer.
“I suppose we can’t sleep here on the beach,” Kent finally admitted.
“Right. So, we have to find a yacht owner this afternoon and take our chances getting there after dark.” Herculea shrugged resolutely. “Actually, we might be safer than if we arrived in daylight,” she observed.
“How’s that now?” Kent clipped.
Herculea replied, “Because nobody will see us. We don’t even know if they have electricity on this island. It could be pitch black. And if it is, then we can get our bearings and hide if necessary.”
“Get our bearings and hide?” Kent repeated incredulously. “Do you hear yourself, Herculea?”
She shot him a stubborn and sullen look. “Yes, that’s what I said.”
Kent shook his head in exasperation. “And how do you figure we’ll get our bearings in the dead of night?”
“I don’t know, Kent!” Herculea cried, rapidly losing patience. “Nothing about this entire trip makes sense, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can help me rather than trying to sabotage me with your incessant logic!”
Kent couldn’t resist a chuckle. He knew very well that his logical mind was both gift and flaw. Perhaps this whole ludicrous experience would serve as a test for him. Was he incurably rigid, or could he manage to let go? Could he tap into his spontaneous and daring side---if such a side did indeed exist?
Without another lucid thought, he grabbed Herculea and thrust her against his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She stared up at him with those wild dark eyes and parted her lips in surprise. He took advantage of the vulnerable moment to press his lips against hers in a reckless, emotive kiss that bordered on savagery. To his delight, she relaxed against him and reciprocated the kiss with her own intoxicating brand of passion. Eagerly, she allowed him to slide his tongue into her mouth as he gripped her hips and moved them in circles against him.
Her body felt more fiery than the sunstar that blazed over them relentlessly, baking their flesh and elevating their temperatures to feverish levels. Herculea moaned femininely as his hands continued to work her hips in a globe-like motion while he plundered her mouth desperately. She could feel his hardness pressing into her hips as he lifted her slightly off the ground in his capable embrace.
She yelped in protest as he suddenly broke off the kiss. Herculea opened her eyes to behold Kent staring intensely at her swollen lips.
“Nothing logical about that,” he muttered hoarsely as his breathing came in ragged puffs.
Both speechless and breathless, Herculea merely nodded her assent. Her body felt shockingly hot and moist. She wanted more than anything for him to rip both their clothes off and make love to her on the burning sand. She didn’t care if the sand scorched their bodies or if the sun burned them to a crisp. All she wanted in this moment was to feel the weight of Kent’s strong torso bearing down on her own as he penetrated her and thrust away all their worries.
That kiss was nearly seven years in the making
, she thought. The chemistry she had sensed between them had not been imaginary. Every passionate look in his eyes, every soothing touch of his hand---everything had been real. She basked in that knowledge, not taking her eyes from the crystal blue orbs that sparkled even more brilliantly against the backdrop of the ocean. She could swim in those oceanic eyes, swim all the way across the Atlantic as the earth tilted on its axis and rendered her heart a glorious, helter-skelter mess.
Regaining a modicum of control over his breath and voice, Kent explained, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, Herculea. I’ve always wanted it to be the perfect time, the perfect place. In the middle of the San Francisco rain on New Year’s Eve. Ice skating in New York on winter break. At home in London on a Thames River cruise. But of all the times I’ve fantasized about kissing you, it never felt as good as that.”
Herculea loved the raw honesty and vulnerability that Kent evoked. “I’ve been wanting you too,” she admitted slowly. “I’ve been daydreaming about us since we left California.”
“Damn it, why can’t we be speaking these words under different circumstances?” Kent ground his teeth in frustration.
Herculea raised a soft hand to caress his face. “This is the perfect time. This is an adventure.” She grinned. “How many other women would you ride on a helicopter with to storm the island of an immortal Silver Goddess and search for a Golden Orca?!”
Kent pressed her hand to his lips and returned her grin. “Just you, Herculea. Just you.” He pulled Herculea back into his embrace, but just as he leaned in to kiss her, the drone of another aircraft startled them both.
They looked into the sky and saw a luxury private jet swooping in for landing shockingly close to where they stood. The wind picked up strength from the approaching jet, whipping Herculea’s hair and nearly lifting her off her feet. The jet landed a moment later, and out walked Pedro, donning dark sunglasses and a matching European suit. Herculea gasped in shock as Kent stood stiffly, rage fueling his body forward to confront Pedro.
“Kent, stay here!” Herculea urged, but Kent had already advanced on Pedro.
The two men stood face to face, both wearing masks of wrath, as Herculea stood in the background holding her breath. She would not allow Kent to fight Pedro. She wanted to fight him herself! Lunging towards the insolent man, Herculea let out a shrill battle cry.
Lowering his sunglasses slightly and looking down at her arrogantly from his nose, Pedro laughed mockingly. “You are not a warrior, so don’t try to beat me. I am invincible. And I have all the time in the world to win.”
*****
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THE FRENCH MAID MURDER
Prologue
Newport, Rhode Island
The Milton Mansion
“Follow me. The dead body is this way,” Roberta Milton the mansion matriarch instructed nonchalantly.
Trailing the flawlessly coiffed redhead down an ornate marble floored hallway, I tried to brace myself for the grotesque sight awaiting me. Even though I had been with the police force for a decade, I invariably became unraveled when dealing with death. And this case would be my nerve-wracking début as co-lead investigator. Gulping in a deep breath, I wore a mask of indifference as the lady of the house led me into a spacious den. Distastefully, I glanced around at the hunting prize heads proudly hung on the walls. Emotionlessly, as though she were a docent giving a tour of an art museum, Roberta Milton pointed to a body curled up on the floor next to a vacuum cleaner.
“There she is. Poor Fifi,” Roberta mused, dotting invisible tears from her hazel eyes.
Clad in a French maid uniform complete with a lacy white apron, black high heel shoes, and an upswept chignon, the victim appeared no older than 40 or so. I bowed my head sadly, willing myself to stay professional and not let my soft heart melt into a puddle at the victim’s feet. A summer breeze swayed in from the veranda, turning my attention to the magnificent ocean views outside the mansion. The Milton family was like a dynasty in Newport, famous for their wealth inherited from a successful wine making business. Their opulent oceanfront estate was located a short walking distance from the historical Breakers mansion where the Vanderbilts had resided during the Gilded Age. It seemed incongruous for such a tragedy to befall the Miltons’ perfect snow globe world.
“Fifi LeChou was pronounced dead 10 minutes ago,” a burly paramedic announced gravely. “Right before you got here, Detective Langford. We couldn’t revive her.”
I nodded curtly, visually inspecting the body and finding no signs of blood or trauma. “When did you find her?” I asked Lady Milton.
“Right before I called the ambulance of course,” she replied with a hint of defensiveness.
“Was she dead when you found her?” I continued.
“Dead as a doornail,” Lady Milton sighed as I flinched at the crass metaphor.
“How do you know that she was dead?” I challenged.
“Because she wasn’t moving!” Lady Milton replied as though I were a complete moron.
“Did you touch her?” I probed.
“Heavens no!” She shivered violently.
“How do you think she died?” I quizzed her.
“Well, it looks like she was electrocuted by the vacuum cleaner. The thing must have short circuited somehow,” Lady Milton theorized, pointing to the vacuum hose that the corpse was strategically gripping.
“Yes, that is what it
looks
like,” I said meaningfully. “But there are other possible explanations for how she died.”
“Such as?” Lady Milton asked haughtily.
“Such as
murder
,” I stated emphatically as Lady Milton’s eyes became glassy with fear and her breath shallow as salt water washed upon the shore…