The Beautiful and the Wicked (17 page)

Lila was surprised to spot the elusive Captain Nash sitting in the corner drinking whiskey. He was a weathered-­looking man, with skin that spoke of a lifetime of sun and salty air. He had a thick, silver beard and dark, prominent brows that sat heavily over his stern eyes. He didn't look like a guy who smiled very much. Since she'd been on the boat, she'd never seen him socialize with the crew or with the guests. Mostly he just stuck to his captain's quarters and the bridge. Even now, as fun and merriment swirled around him, he sat there solemnly, keeping his eyes trained on Lila.

“Why is he staring at me?” Lila whispered to Ben, who had just returned from grabbing her a drink.

“Aren't you used to men looking at you?”

“Not quite like that,” she said as she returned Nash's concentrated stare with a curious, questioning look of her own. “He's looking at me like I owe him money or something.”

“Don't worry. I think that's just what his face looks like,” Ben said, trying to reassure her.

She gave Nash a small wave, but he sat unmoved. Lila, uneasy under his gaze, faced away from him.

“So,” she said to Ben, “why are you here on the yacht when you could be sipping champagne with the rich and fabulous?”

“Oh, you know. It all gets pretty tiresome, right? When ­people have so much of everything, nothing seems to mean anything to them. Do you know what I mean?”

“More than you know.” In her undercover work hunting for the Star Island killer, Lila had assumed the identity of one of these multimillionaires and she'd learned that the most essential part of fitting in with the glitterati was to never act impressed by all the extraordinary things money could buy.

Ben continued, “Daniel Poe was the only one who wasn't boring me to tears. He put on quite a show tonight, stripping off all his clothes and dancing around the fire shouting, ‘The natives are restless. The natives are restless.' It was definitely worth the price of admission.”

“I would've liked to have seen that.”

“Trust me, you wouldn't. But the real pain in the ass was Jack. Everyone was having a good time, some more than others, except him. He bit my head off a few times over absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think I played this all wrong.”

“Played what wrong?” Lila asked. It seemed as if Jack's mood might have been contagious because, despite this being his second party of the night, Ben was agitated.

“Oh, you know, Jack's always said that I'm his man. That I'm the one who'll get him the America's Cup.
That's
why I'm here. The
only
reason I'm here.” Ben sighed. “Then he goes and treats me like I'm just some fly he can swat away when he's feeling shitty.”

“It seems like that's Jack's way. I wouldn't worry too much about it,” Lila said with total conviction. Soon enough, Jack would be dead and Ben would be without the sponsor he needed to race in the America's Cup, so why worry? But that's one of the things that time travel had taught Lila; the empty platitude about not sweating the small stuff wasn't just another tired old cliché. It was profound and true.

“You're right. It's just hard with Jack. It's like he's only in control when he makes everyone else feel out of control.”

“Yes!” Lila said, nodding her head, pleased with Ben's insight. “You're right. He's a control freak who likes operating in chaos.”

“Not a pretty picture.” Ben sighed.

“Not at all.” Lila looked back to see that Captain Nash had disappeared, and that Mudge had Sam pressed up against the kitchen counter with his tongue down her throat.

“But I can't complain. I'm in a tropical paradise having a drink with you. Life ain't so bad,” Ben said, looking down at Lila with a warm smile. She leaned into him despite herself, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

She turned her face toward his, about to say something, but when she noticed that his lips were inches away from hers, she forgot what it was. Then things became quiet as he leaned a fraction closer. Suddenly she pulled away, backing up and shaking her head as if she'd just awoken from a spell.

“I didn't mean to . . .” Ben started to apologize, but then he fell silent. He grabbed Lila's hand. “Why don't I walk you to your room?”

“Not tonight,” she said. She knew there was no point in putting either of them through an awkward moment in front of Lila's door. She'd made up her mind to keep things strictly friendly with Ben. It was better for everyone.

As she headed toward her room, silently congratulating herself for having the strength to walk away from a gorgeous and interested man, Lila saw Asher's door open slightly, and a very disheveled Josie Warren slip out into the hallway. She was still wearing the dress she was in earlier, but now its halter top was twisted and the skirt was rumpled, as was her hair. It was clear that she and Asher had just had a rather vigorous romp in his cabin.

When Josie spotted Lila, the young heiress didn't bat an eye. She just slunk by, wearing a devilish grin on her face, with the telltale scent of Asher's coconut oil trailing behind her.

 

CHAPTER 14

E
VERYONE RETURNED TO
the yacht the following evening and waved a fond farewell to their opulent stopover at Parrot Cay. The next destination on their island-­hopping extravaganza would be Turks and Caicos, one of the Caribbean's most star-­studded, luxurious hot spots.

The time off the boat seemed to do each of the guests a world of good. That night, as they gathered around the dining table for a dinner of raw oysters and roasted bone marrow with sea urchin, there was a lightness of mood and a quickness to smile that took Lila by surprise. After all, just two days ago, everyone had been at one another's throats.

Even Jack seemed to be in a good mood. He flopped down at the head of the table with a satisfied sigh, picked up his mouth-­blown lead crystal wineglass that Lila had just filled with vintage Barolo, and made a toast. “Paul, we've been friends and business associates for the last two decades and I know what a good and generous man you can be. But the hospitality you extended over the last two days to me, my family, and my guests was unparalleled. I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say thank you.”

A chorus of thanks was accompanied by the sound of expensive crystal glasses clinking in a friendly “cheers.” Paul Mason beamed at the group, drinking in their attention and adulation. His cheerful cheeks were as pink as his Bermuda shorts.

But while all the guests were joyful and relaxed, Daniel Poe seemed giddy. He was looking quite grand and ridiculous that night—­part Elton John, part Batman villain. Despite the late-­August Caribbean heat, he was wearing a three-­piece paisley suit and a little bowler hat perched high atop his head, set at a jaunty angle. His eyes were largely obscured by his thick, square black eyeglass frames, and a large, crooked-­toothed smile was spread across his thin face. He was shivering ever so slightly. His fingers, several of which were heavy with silver-­and-­diamond skull rings, drummed excitedly on the table. He hadn't touched his food, but gulped the $500 per bottle wine down as if it were lager. Lila couldn't even begin to guess what combination of drugs he was on.

“I feel inspired right now. So inspired,” Poe said in his throaty, working-­class English accent. “I've been overwhelmed by the beauty of things. I see, for the first time, the divine beauty of the mystery and the unity of all of us here together.” He slowly stood up from his seat and wobbled slightly as he found his feet.

Everyone else looked at one another nervously.

“Are the natives restless again?” Josie asked, with a roll of her eyes.

“Good Christ, my man,” Jack said amicably. “What are you on?”

“My usual recipe for success,” Poe said. “Plus an extra dash of lysergic acid.”

“What the hell is that?” Jack asked, bewildered.

“It's LSD, Dad,” Josie said, giggling into her napkin.

Jack shook his head. He watched Daniel Poe begin to slowly bend his long, emaciated limbs with a newfound joy, as if he'd never before inhabited his body. “I'll never understand the artistic temperament,” Jack said with a fatherly frown. “And I count myself a lucky man for that.”

“Don't be such a square,” Josie said dismissively. “Everyone drops acid at Wesleyan. It's, like, the only way to see beyond our lies.”

“Oh, shut up, Josie,” Elise said as she drained her glass of wine.

“Yeah,” Paul Mason said, with a playful mockery. “Just a lifetime of dropping acid and you, too, can sell your paintings for five million a pop. I wish someone told me
that
recipe for success at Yale.”

“I think I should excuse myself,” said an unsmiling Clarence Baines, brusquely getting up from the table. “Mrs. Baines and I will go to our room now. Jack, please have one of your girls serve us our dinner there. Elise, excuse us.”

“Please, Clarence,” Elise said. “You mustn't go.” Elise disliked when ­people made a spectacle of themselves, hence Daniel Poe's very public acid trip was not appreciated. But she wouldn't stand for Baines jumping ship on dinner. That was just bad manners.

“You know my position on drugs, Jack,” Baines said to his friend. “I know that you keep, let's call it,
eclectic
company, but I won't break bread with someone who holds all my values in contempt.”

“Please, don't go because of me,” Poe said dreamily. “I'm feeling kingly, gallant, magical, electric.” He began to bounce on the tips of his toes like a Southern Baptist preacher on the verge of speaking in tongues. “I fall on my sword for you, Senator Baines. I will be happy to leave you fine folks to your dinner.”

“That's mighty gentlemanly of you, son,” Clarence Baines said as he and his wife returned to their seats and Daniel Poe exited the dining room with a curious backward slinking motion.

But just before he was out of sight completely, he bounded back toward the table. “That's it!” he exclaimed. “I know just what I'll do. I have a surprise for you all. At the exact stroke of midnight tonight, I'd like you all to join me on the main deck. I will unveil the masterpiece I have created in honor of our great host's fiftieth birthday. I just can't keep it under wraps a moment longer. Until then!” Poe said with a deep bow, and sprinted down the hall.

Three hours later, everyone congregated on the main deck, ready for the great viewing that would hopefully meet all Daniel Poe's psychedelic desires. A six-­foot statue stood in the middle of the floor, covered in a red silk sheet. It was the very special sculpture Poe made in Jack's honor, which had been delivered to the yacht days earlier and been stashed since then until the final moment of its great unveiling.

Poe had asked that Sam and Lila have champagne ready for everyone, so as ­people filed in, the two stewardesses handed out flutes of Veuve Clicquot. He'd also asked that they wear black masks over their eyes and nothing else, but to that request, they sweetly said no. It was a rare treat when Sam and Lila could refuse a guest's request. They both quietly cherished the moment.

“Gather round, children of light,” Poe said, waving everyone toward him. In honor of this grand unveiling, he had changed from his paisley suit into one of Elise Warren's floor-­length, low-­cut Bob Mackie sequined gowns, which showed off his pale skin, dark chest hair, and jutting collarbone. Lila saw that his pupils were extremely dilated, which confirmed what she already knew. He was having some pretty profound hallucinations.

“Daniel,” Elise said flatly. “You're wearing my dress.”

He looked at her, confused. Then, peering down at himself, he understood what he'd done and began to laugh. “Yes, darling. Apologies for not asking, but I needed to shine tonight and nothing in my closet did the trick.”

“I think you look ravishing,” Josie said, taking pleasure in seeing her mom unhappy.

“Thank you, my little lamb.” Poe began to light a very large smudge stick, which he waved in the air as he danced around the still-­cloaked statue. “I must purify the aura of this space. I must welcome in birth and death. Creation and destruction.” The hallucinating art star circled the statue over and over again. Jack and Paul looked at each other in total exhaustion. Clarence Baines, needless to say, had declined Poe's invitation, but his wife, who fancied herself an experienced and sophisticated art connoisseur (though no one else would have agreed), was paying rapt attention to this whole bizarre performance. Thiago and Esperanza looked on with a combination of mild curiosity and boredom. They were part of a very arty aristo-­boho jet-­set group that would consider the spectacle of a raving man in a $5,000 evening gown part of just another typical night.

“It's getting late,” Jack said to Poe, hoping to hurry him along. More than anything, Jack seemed anxious to see what the artist had created.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Daniel murmured, as if getting pulled out of a trance. He stopped his circling and blinked at everyone on the deck as if seeing them for the first time. He steadied himself and stood squarely next to the statue. “This moment means a lot to me. Not only does this work celebrate my dear patron Jack Warren, but it is the culmination of my twenty years as an artist. And,” he said as he pulled the sheet off the statue, “here it is.”

Lila heard someone gasp, but after that there was nothing but a very uncomfortable silence. Standing before them, with a red silk sheet pooled at its base, was a six-­foot-­long and one-­foot-­wide golden penis, with a stream of ejaculate made out of diamonds shooting out from the top.

Josie began to snort and giggle. Elise stared blankly at the penis while holding her champagne glass toward Lila for a refill. Paul Mason was frozen, with his eyes on Jack, waiting for a cue from him on how to react. Thiago and Esperanza smiled slyly at each other, knowing that this would be a story they'd be dining out on for years to come. The artist didn't look at his patron or the other guests. He was staring reverentially at his creation, running his hand up and down the cool, golden shaft.

Charity Baines, the only one brave enough, or dumb enough, to speak, said, “Well, how interesting.” She was following the rule that all good southern girls are taught by their mothers: when you don't like something, just say it's interesting.

What Daniel Poe didn't see, but what everyone else did, was that Jack Warren was extremely unhappy. Livid, in fact. He tossed his champagne down his throat and then smashed the empty flute to the deck. The violent crash finally ripped Poe's attention away from the giant gold phallus.

“How dare you!” Jack shouted, almost shaking with rage. His hands were clenched into fists and the veins in his forehead popped out. “Do you think I'm a fool?”

“What?” Poe said, totally confused.

“I give you ten million dollars to make something in honor of my birthday and you give me this?”

“You don't like it?” Poe asked innocently. He looked lovingly at the statue, confused as to how anyone could fail to adore and admire such a thing.

“No, you fucking idiot. I love it. I think it's wonderful that, in my honor, and with my millions, you've made a big gold dildo with diamond cum. Yes, that's just what I was dreaming of.”

“Are you being serious?” Poe asked. His face was contorted from his extreme state of confusion. He was obviously way too high to comprehend sarcasm.

“Fuck me,” Jack exploded with frustration. “No, Daniel. No, I'm
not
being fucking serious.”

“Oh, no! You don't understand. Please let me explain.” Poe, bewildered, hallucinating, shuffled toward Jack. The ball gown made it impossible for him to take anything but tiny little steps. He was in no state to calm a pissed-­off billionaire. Lila really felt for the guy. He launched into a nervous spiel about how this statue harkened back to the Roman fertility god Priapus and was intended as a celebration of Jack's masculinity, virility, wealth, and status. But Jack wasn't having it.

“I know what you're
really
saying,” Jack said. “You're saying you think I'm a dick. A giant, gilded dick! Well, I won't be insulted on my own fucking boat by some drug addict who calls himself an artist.”

Jack rushed toward the statue, placed his hands on it, and with all his strength, pushed it over until it crashed to the floor.

“Noooooo!” Poe screamed. “You'll ruin it!”

“Paul! Thiago! Get over here now! I want you to help me lift this thing.” The two men joined Jack. When he was in this kind of rage, no one would refuse him anything lest he bite their heads off. With Thiago holding the tip of the penis, Paul on the shaft, and Jack on the base, they all groaned as they tried to lift it up, but it was too heavy.

“Sam!” Jack shouted at the terrified stewardess. “Go get Ben, Asher, and Pedro. Fast.”

Within a minute there were six men hoisting the statue, while Poe began to whimper and wail. “Please, Jack. Don't destroy it.” Then he became enraged. “No!” he shouted over and over again with more and more anger cracking his voice. “I'll give you all your money back. Just don't do this.”

But there was no reasoning with Jack. He ordered all the men, groaning under the weight of the statue, to walk to the railing and throw it into the ocean. Poe's screams were too loud for Jack to hear the satisfying splash of it hitting the water.

“That will teach you,” Jack said, jabbing a finger in Poe's face, “not to ever, ever fuck with me.”

Poe ran to the side of the boat, bending over the railing to see where his beloved masterpiece had gone as he howled in despair.

Needless to say, the good mood that existed over dinner had evaporated completely. Lila looked around at all the blank faces and the champagne flute smashed into shards by the large dent in the deck left by the toppled statue. It was a disaster. Everyone seemed afraid to breathe out of fear of Jack's wrath. Only Thiago, who had managed to somehow surreptitiously wrench the diamond arc of semen off the statue before assisting in tossing it into its watery grave, was smiling.

Within a ­couple minutes all the guests had returned to their cabins, even Daniel. But that wasn't the end of the drama. Throughout the night, there were crashes, slashes, screams, pounding, and a steady stream of cursing coming out of Poe's cabin. Smash went the flat screen. Crash went the mirrors. Slash went the pillows. And on and on. An entire rock band couldn't inflict the damage he did to his room that night.

Around 3:00
A.M.
, Lila and Sam finally were able to return to their tiny, underwater closet and stretch out on their bunk beds. But even though she was bone-­tired, Lila couldn't fall asleep. A thought kept tugging at her mind. She kept seeing Daniel Poe's anguished, tear-­soaked face. He had seemed utterly destroyed. It was like Jack had thrown Poe's
child
into the vast, churning ocean.

What if Poe's anger turned deadly? The man was unstable enough that it was a distinct possibility that he could be Jack's killer. Her profound exhaustion, mixed with the realization that there might be yet one
more
person with a motive to kill Jack, made Lila feel lower than low.