Page 56 of Cause Of Death

“So, Edgar’s signed off on it? He’s not going to stop at completely ruining her reputation thanks to the divorce?” Henley shrugs at Kimberly’s nod, his own smile wry. “Well, if it keeps Kieran’s name clear of the gossip-mongers and will make things easier for him and Edgar to move on with their lives then I’m all for it. No marshmallows, though. I don’t think marshmallows tainted with charred flesh and diesel will taste very nice.”

Kimberly simply rolls her eyes before disappearing back into the kitchen, Henley’s and my chuckles following her out of the room.

“Well, this weekend should be an experience. Good thing Darla no longer has Edgar bankrolling her security, otherwise we’d have to figure out how to get them out of the way without incurring any collateral damage,” I muse, my chair silent on its bearings as I turn back to the staff schedule.

“Does she evenhaveany security, now that Edgar has washed his hand of her?” Henley asks, tilting his head to one side as he considers the woman’s change in circumstance.

“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’, “Edgar told her she was lucky he was allowing her to leave with her nine-piece luggage set. He said, and I quote, that he ‘had to talk the family down from dumping her on the street with a single garbage bag of clothes.’ He even watched as she packed her bags to ensure she didn’t take any of the heirloom jewelry with her. He told me later, ‘it was one of the most satisfying and cathartic experiences he’s undergone,’ because she had to choose items that would not only last, but that would be worth money if she decided to sell them. Her tears as he threw out the majority of the cosmetics and perfumes she had to leave behind were just ‘icing on the cake’. Honestly,” I sigh and lean back into the soft leather of my office chair, “as cruel as some may find Edgar’s dismissal of Darla, it’s entirely justified. The woman hid her true nature from him for years, cheated on him for most of their marriage, and then what she put Kieran through on top? There’s a special level of Hell reserved just for her.”

I spend the next few minutes happily imagining all the things in store for Darla once she shuffles off this mortal coil. A foam stress ball bouncing off my forehead soon rouses me from my reverie, and I dryly chuckle at Henley’s raised eyebrow as I get back to work.

Salt-lacedair caresses my cheek and ruffles through my hair as the inflatable quietly slows to bob at the rear of theRoyal Queen, the hundred-and-forty-foot yacht Edgar had gifted Darla for her fiftieth birthday several years ago. While it’s still technically counted among the Prince family fleet, Darla is using it as her primary residence while she and Edgar “sort out” their marital issues. At least, that’s what she’s been telling anyone who will listen to her. Little does the harpy know that those issues will be permanently resolved tonight.

The lights of Harbor Point twinkle abeam to port, while the ones over on Belvedere Island glimmer off the starboard bow. TheRoyal Queenis silent and dark, partly due to the late—or should I say, early—hour, and partly due to the fact that there is rarelyanycrew on board overnight if Darla is at home, unless they’re anchored too far from shore.

From what we’ve learned from Disa these past few days while she’s been Wisping around on board, is that there’s no love lost between the deposed matriarch and her staff. Despite Edgar no longer bankrolling a security team for Darla, the staff on board theRoyal Queenare still employed by him and he’s paying a hefty price for the privilege. Darla’s already cycled through three crews over the past two months, and it’s getting hard to find staff willing to spend more than a week in her presence.In fact, Edgar has had to offer all eight of the current crew a significant bonus if they can hold out for just a little longer. Six figures for a six-week sentence. It must stick in Darla’s craw to know that the only reason she hasn’t been fully abandoned is because of thevery thing she holds in the highest regard yet now has none of to her name—filthy, dirty lucre.

Despite the original plan, only Henley and myself step on board, the others are all spending the evening back in the city. Leslie has “proof” at the ready that Henley and I are down in Los Angeles on business, as well as evidence of Disa being up in Seattle at a week-long pastry-chef course. Steve, Leslie, Kimberly, and Kieran are all taking Edgar out to dinner in an attempt to “cheer him up” because of the divorce. I’m sure they’ll provide plenty of fodder for the paparazzi and tabloids.

Kieran was enraged when Edgar asked him to miss the fiery festivities, and it was only Kimberly’s promise that she’d have Henley and me fitted with body cams with their own internal memory to record his mother’s end that calmed him down. Even so, we’ve made sure there’s nothing that can be used to identify any of us. Henley and I are both wearing padded gear to bulk out our builds in disguise—although really, the man’s a walking mountain already, so it makes him look as large as a continent—as well as nitrile gloves underneath lightweight tactical gloves. Ski masks cover our faces and hair, and we’re even wearing tinted safety goggles over our eyes. I’m carrying a rucksack with the exact same items for Disa, while Henley carries the more volatile cargo—several bottles ofPolmos Spirytus Rektyfikowany, pre-soaked lengths of cotton wicks, and a packet of luxury cigarettes that are supposed to taste like chocolate.

Leslie spent several hours with me both last night and this morning, teaching me how to tie a range of knots and twists that can be done one-handed. Kieran appreciated being our living mannequin, and we rewarded him for his exemplary behavior afterward. The boyloveshaving his ass eaten out, and it makes an excellent incentive. I’m not sure if those skills will be required, but it’s better safe than sorry.

The rope-tying skills, that is. There isn’t enough money in the entire world to entice me to go near Darla’s ass.

A light breeze infused with the scent of vanilla ruffles through my hair, and I smirk as an opaque figure forms in front of Henley and me. Double checking that I’ve got everything I need, I step forward, placing each foot with silent care. While there’s nobody close enough to disrupt us, I still don’t want Darla to make such a racket that someone decides to come and investigate.

Henley and I follow the cloudy shape of Disa as she glides through the super-yacht, leading us below deck and to the master bedroom. All of the others are empty, stripped of anything that isn’t bolted down, and I grimly chuckle under my breath at the state of disrepair of the boat. Every time Darla so much as glances at one of these empty rooms, it’s a brutal reminder of all that she’s lost.

We finally reach Darla’s lair, and my nose wrinkles with distaste at the smell wafting through the open doorway. Stale sweat, alcohol, cheap perfume, old cigarettes, marijuana smoke, and dried sex all assault my nose, and I scan the room with contempt. Darla’s nine-piece luggage set is strewn around the room, each case open and spilling a mess of clothing over the floor. Several bottles of cheap perfume keep a single amphora company, that one bottle coming in at over seventeen hundred dollars brand new. I should know, I was with Kieran when he bought it for Darla last Christmas.

The floor is littered with empty bottles of alcohol, the variety and quality such that Darla’s clearly made good use of the liquor Edgar had stored in the ship’s wet bar. It’ll just give credence to the presence of the Polish vodka in Henley’s bag, as will the cigarettes.

However, none of this compares to the sight awaiting us in the center of the room.

The master bed is covered in crumpled and stained bedding, a disgusting mix of food, alcohol, cigarette ash, as well as bodily fluids coating several toys—and is that humanshitsmeared over the sheets?—drawing my gaze until it reaches the person passed out amidst it all.

Darla Prince.

And she’s stark naked.

I choke back the bile rising in my throat as Henley and I work silently together, setting the room up until we’re satisfied that it’s staged to both Leslie and Disa’s specifications. I slip from the bedroom, leaving Henley to keep an eye on Darla as I head to the galley.

Dear God, those poor fucking staff!

The galley looks like a bomb has gone off. Food is spread out over the counter tops, with dirty dishes and broken glass sitting in the bottom of the sink. The stove top is littered with charred chunks of… well, I have no clue what it once was, but it’s nothing but blackened carbon now. A pot with some kind of congealing glop rests crookedly on top of the gas burner, looking as though it was knocked over and never righted. While I have no doubt that the experts won’t knowexactlyhow the galley was left after Darla made use of it, I’m also positive that the crew will be able to give their own suppositions as to what happened based on what looks to be past experience.

Darla, while drunk and stoned out of her mind, decided to make something to eat, but she forgot to ignite the gas. She then stumbled back to her room, food forgotten, leaving the galley to fill with the noxious fumes.

I mean, it’s not far from what we have planned for her at any rate, just with a few other details added in. Details such as Darla deciding to play around with ropes while trying to get off. Darla, drunk out of her mind, dropping her bottle of vodka on the bed and soaking the entire thing in highly flammable liquid. Darla,choking herself while smoking to elevate her high, and then passing out with a lit cigarette.

I twist the knobs to the burner on, listening for the hiss of gas before exiting the galley. My footsteps are silent as I make my way back to Henley and Disa, who is now back to her gorgeous, tangible self, every inch of her soft skin and luscious curves on display. I offer her the bag full of clothing, but she shakes her head.

“Not until we’re back on the inflatable, there’s no point. Is it done?” she murmurs softly, and I nod.

We carefully arrange Darla on the bed, ensuring that the remaining lengths of cotton wick rest on the alcohol-soaked patch next to her, before tightening the cord around her neck and fastening it to the lampshade bolted to wall beside the bed. Darla doesn’t struggle or wake, not even as she takes her last, rattling breath. Both her bladder and bowel void as her life leaves her body, and we make quick work of pouring more vodka over the bed and floor.

“Okay, the both of you should head back to the inflatable and get it ready for departure. Leave the cigarettes and matches. I’ll count to one hundred, that should give you enough time to drift a little, and then I’ll finish up here and join you. Go. Now.”

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