The Beautiful and the Wicked (13 page)

A voracious vegan is a hard customer to please, but after she located some coconut-­milk ice cream, a jar of pickles, and hummus with pita, Josie stood at the counter, gulping it all down. “Okay,” Lila said. “Now that you're settled, I've got to go.” She had a lot more important things to do than watch Josie cram food into her stoned face.

“Noooo,” Josie pleaded. “You have to stay with me. I can't be here by myself.” She paused, giving Lila a long, concerned look. “You aren't going to tell my parents about the pot, are you?” She paused to devour an entire pickle. “Oh. My. God. That's soooo good.” She looked at Lila again. “I mean, hear me out, it's not for my sake. I don't give a good fuck. It's Asher that I worry about. I got the pot from him and I don't want him to get in any hot water.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Oh, goody!” Josie squealed. “I knew you were a keeper. But can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Lila said hesitantly, interested to see where this was going.

“Why are you working on this dumb yacht?”

“It's a job, I guess.”

“But doesn't it make you sick? All the wealth. All the bullshit. I mean don't
we
make you sick?”

“Seems pretty nice to me.”

An exasperated groan erupted from Josie's mouth. “No one gets it. Okay, like, I grew up around this wealth, so it's all I've known. But ever since I started at Wesleyan, I've seen a totally different side of life. A nonrich side, and it is sooo much better. It's like ­people only see what they want to see. They see the boats and the clothes and the planes and the jewels.”

“Well, those things are hard
not
to see.”

Josie continued talking. “But what no one seems to see is how miserable all this stuff makes ­people.”

“Like your parents?” Lila asked, though she immediately regretted the question, worried she had pushed too far. She knew saying the wrong thing on the yacht was much more dangerous than setting the breakfast table incorrectly. She was in a world full of unspoken rules, and breaking even the smallest one could cost her the entire mission.

Luckily, Josie was happy to talk shit about her parents. “Yes! Exactly!
Just
like them. My parents are the two most miserable ­people I've ever met. I mean, first off, my dad can barely stand my mom. If you really watch him, you'll notice he almost never looks or speaks to her. It took me years to realize it! And today's a perfect example: he's off on some new boat with everyone
except
my mom.”

“And you.”

“Yeah, me, too. But that was my choice. If he was actually nice to my mom even once, I think we'd all die of shock.”

“And where exactly is your mom today?” Lila was hoping the least Josie could do was shed some light on the mysterious disappearance of her number one suspect.

“Where do you think? A bit of shopping followed by yet another trip to Dr. Menzin's office for some fine tuning.”

“Dr. Menzin?”

“He's only
the
premiere plastic surgeon of South Beach. For my twenty-­first birthday, I'm thinking of having my nose and my chin done. Don't you think? It's like, thanks for the DNA, Dad! I mean, my mom's a famous model and I look like my goddamn father. As if life wasn't already disappointing enough.”

Lila remained silent. There was no right way to answer.

“But,” Josie continued as she shoveled some hummus into her mouth, “I don't know why
she
even bothers. It's not like my dad notices. When it comes to him, she might as well be invisible. I mean, what does he care if her she's got new cheek implants or whatever? I can't understand why they stay together.”

“Maybe it's for you?” Lila offered, not believing it at all, but despite herself, she felt bad for Josie.

“Ha. Highly unlikely. They're too selfish for that. I think my mom wants to turn the marriage around. And my dad tries just as hard to be as far away from her as possible. The fact that they're locked on this boat together for weeks will be interesting. It'll be a miracle if they both make it out alive.” Lila noticed that Josie had a large dollop of hummus hanging at the corner of her cheek.

“
Alive?
Really?”

A big snorting laugh burst out of Josie. “Omigod, no. Haven't you ever heard of, like, hyperbole?” she asked, clearly proud to use one of her SAT words. “I was
exaggerating,
you know?”

Just then the sound of an enormous crash rained down upon them from overhead followed by a riot of shouting voices.

“What the hell?” Josie said as she turned her bloodshot eyes up to the ceiling.

“Wait here. I'll go see what's happening.” Lila practically leaped out the door, pleased to finally have a reason to extract herself from this less than illuminating conversation. Josie shrugged and began searching the fridge for more food.

The cacophony continued as Lila walked up to the main deck, where she found several men in brown polyester delivery uniforms standing around a giant wooden crate gesticulating wildly while yelling over each other. The crate was about eight feet long with its “This End Up” arrow very much pointing down. The men were arguing about the best way to right it.

“Excuse me,” Lila said. The men ignored her as two of them crouched at one end of the box and, with great strain, began to lift it up. “Can I help with something?” She tried once more, but no one looked at her. Frustrated, she hollered, “STOP! Can someone
please
tell me what's going on?”

The men were finally silenced. A squat, muscular guy with a heavy, dark unibrow turned to Lila. “Yeah. Sorry about all the noise. We got a package here for, um . . .” He paused to check his paperwork. “For Daniel Poe. He around?”

“No, but I can sign for it.”

“Sure. Whatever works for you.” It was clear he wanted to be rid of this delivery as soon as possible. “But be careful. It's heavy. You sure you don't want my guys to put it somewhere?”

“It'll be fine. Thanks.”

Now that the business at hand was done, the deliveryman seemed to instantly relax. “Pretty classy boat you got here,” he said as he took in the undeniable excess and grandeur of
The
Rising Tide
. “How much would one of these set you back?”

Lila said, “Around five hundred million bucks.”

Each of the delivery men let out a howl or whistle of some kind.

“Yeah,” Lila said, “exactly.”

As they were leaving, she saw a black Cadillac Escalade pull up to the end of the dock. After several minutes of idling, the driver got out to escort a very wobbly Elise Warren back to the yacht. Lila saw Mrs. Slaughter rush up from the lower level to greet her. But before the chief stewardess left the yacht, she turned back to Lila. “Listen to me,” she said with great solemnity. “Straightaway go and get four ounces of tequila on the rocks, with a good squeeze of lime, ten ice-­cold cucumber slices, and grab a packet of gauze from the first-­aid kit and go soak it in the chamomile tea that I left in the galley fridge. Can you remember all that?”

Lila nodded.

“Fine. Do it now. Bring everything to Mrs. Warren's room and make sure not to uncover any of the mirrors or open up any of the curtains. Do precisely as I say. Now go!”

And off Lila went to gather this small collection of items for the teetering mistress of the ship. A clink of ice cubes in the glass, a squeeze of lime, four ounces of tequila precisely measured, cucumbers—­cold and cut in a variety of thicknesses—­and the gauze soaked in the chamomile concoction chilling in the fridge. With everything arranged artfully on a lacquered serving tray, Lila made her way to Elise Warren's room.

When she opened the door to the master suite, she saw Mrs. Slaughter struggling to help Elise take off her jacket. The enormous room's blackout curtains were drawn, and all mirrored surfaces were covered with silk scarves, giving the place a dark, cavelike feel. There were two large humidifiers by the bed pouring water vapor into the air.

Elise Warren, still wearing large sunglasses and a now slightly askew silk head scarf, was muttering loudly and incoherently as Mrs. Slaughter tried to keep her upright.

“Nicky,” Edna said sharply. “I need your assistance.”

Lila rushed to her side. “You hold her here, right under the armpits, to keep her steady while I get her ready for bed.”

Doing as she was told, Lila slipped her hands under the little bolero jacket that Elise was wearing over the Oscar de la Renta dress that Lila had pressed yesterday. Elise's skinny arms hung limply at her sides. Lila could feel her rib cage through the dress's thin fabric.

“Good,” Mrs. Slaughter said, now standing behind Elise, “hold her just like that.”

Though Elise was a hundred pounds max, Lila had to struggle to keep her deadweight upright. She looked into the woman's face. Her eyes, of course, were hidden behind dark lenses, but her mouth was hanging slightly open.

“What's wrong with her?” Lila whispered to Mrs. Slaughter, who shot her a stern look and said nothing.

Together they managed to get the tiny jacket off, and then Mrs. Slaughter unzipped the dress, which fell stiffly to the floor as Elise woozily swayed above it. They laid her down on her bed, and when Mrs. Slaughter removed the head scarf and sunglasses, Lila was barely able to suppress a gasp. The swollen, red, and raw-­faced woman that lay before them was no closer to the beautiful Elise Warren than a steak is to a cow.

Careful to stay silent, Lila watched as Mrs. Slaughter expertly wrung out the gauze, then placed it on Elise's face and applied two cucumber slices to the swollen slits hiding her eyes. She took several bottles of prescription pills out of Elise's Céline handbag and set them on the bedside table. She opened the one labeled
OxyContin,
and propping her mistress's head up in the crook of her arm, she placed the pill on her tongue and then coaxed Elise to swallow it down with a tiny sip of water.

After Lila got over the surprise of seeing Elise Warren in such a debilitated condition, she was even more shocked by the tender care Mrs. Slaughter exhibited. Had she not been there to witness it, she could have never guessed that this hard-hearted hard-­ass of a boss could offer such a sweet and maternal touch. This went above and beyond the duty of a chief stewardess. This was an act of love.

When Lila and the chief stewardess finally left the darkened bedroom, Lila could tell that Mrs. Slaughter was incredibly upset.

“Barbarians,” she whispered to herself bitterly. “Butchers. Why a woman like Elise Warren thinks she has to do
that
to herself, I'll never understand.” Lila couldn't be sure, but she thought Mrs. Slaughter might have actual tears in her eyes. “Well, it's not a world I want to have any part in, I'll say that much.”

“You really care about her, don't you?” Lila asked, looking thoughtfully at Mrs. Slaughter.

To Lila's dismay, that brief glance, that small reach for a connection with her boss, pushed things one step too far. She watched as Mrs. Slaughter returned to her steely self. The iron curtain that she kept over her heart had once again been lowered.

“That's quite enough of all of that, Miss Collins. Thinking we are on familiar terms would be a mistake.”

“I understand.”

“I should hope you do. Now, in exactly two hours you must come back here with fresh gauze, more cucumber, and another drink. But this time, in addition, bring her some warm bone-­marrow broth. I'd do it myself, but my presence has been requested elsewhere by Mr. Warren,” she said with a curl to her lips, as if saying Jack's name left a bad taste in her mouth.

As instructed, exactly two hours later, Lila entered the dark and silent room with a tray stocked with new supplies.

Elise was half-­propped up in bed. She wore dark sunglasses over her bandaged face, making her look like the Invisible Man.

“Edna,” she called, her voice slurred by pills. “Is that you?”

“No, Mrs. Warren. It's Nicky. Mrs. Slaughter asked me to bring you some things.”

“Oh, Edna.” Elise sighed, then emitted a teary whimper. “I'm in so much pain. Can you give me another pill?”

“It's Nicky, and yes. Do you know what pill you need to take?” Lila looked at the various bottles on the side table. OxyContin. Percocet. Zoloft. Senokot. Valium. Neurontin. Klonopin.

“Where's Jack?”

“He's still out sailing.”

“Yes, of course. Always without me. Now, about that pill.” She tried to sit up farther, but even the simplest shift seemed to result in a great jolt of pain. A miserable groan escaped her lips. “Can you give me two Percocet, Edna? My angel.” She held out her hand toward Lila, who obediently tapped two ten-­milligram pills into her shaking hand.

“That's my girl,” Elise said. “Always on my side, right, Edna? Mr. Warren's got nobody as good as you, does he? He doesn't have anything that he didn't buy. And soon he won't have anything at all. Right, Edna? Now, here, help me with these pills, will you, dear?”

“What do you mean, ‘he won't have anything'? Is something going to happen to your husband?” Lila asked. She was hoping that, in her drugged state, Elise would be out of it enough to confess to the crime. It wouldn't be enough to convict her of the murder when Lila returned to 2019, but it would be a damn fine place to start. “Elise?” she said, but there was no answer. “Elise?” Lila lightly shoved the woman's shoulder, trying to revive her, but the drugs had taken hold of her body. She was dead to the world.

Lila sat there for quite a while, staring at the pathetic shell that was Elise Warren. She felt alternating waves of pity and bottomless contempt for the woman she blamed for her sister's ruined life.