Kyle complained he couldn’t find his shaving lotion.
“I don’t know, honey,” Regina said. “Maybe you set the bottle on deck and it got knocked over.”
“You know I always put everything back in its place.” He looked for his other pair of boat shoes that morning also. Regina watched him search and wonder at himself. He put on his damp shoes.
It was a cloudy, gusty day, winds reaching over twenty-five knots, according to Kyle’s calculations. He put three reefs in the main and hooked up the storm jib that was hardly bigger than a hanky. They were on a run like before, only faster. It was an exhilarating ride. Regina watched the clouds blow away in front of them as they flew. Kyle was quiet for once, maybe enjoying himself. Suddenly the sun came out full and hot on their backs and faces.
“Regina, get my visor from the locker above the chart table.”
She went down and started rummaging, knowing it was gone. She noticed she was whistling as she stepped back on deck.
“I can’t find it, honey. Did you put it back last time?”
“Yes, I certainly did. I don’t understand it.” He paused to think.
“Yes, dear.”
“Regina, I’m going to give you the tiller for thirty seconds while I look. You just aren’t seeing it.” He put his finger under her chin to bring her head up. “Remember what we learned the last time-about handling the tiller on a run?”
She nodded and smiled. “I know exactly what to do,” she said.
Kyle stepped down the companionway and she swung the tiller hard to port, bracing herself. The boom slammed across with a crack like lightning. She thought the whole mast was going to topple, but it held.
She heard the roar of Kyle’s obscenity from below. She looked down and saw him flopped across the settee. His eyes were glazed and his face was comic with anger. She wondered if he’d hit his head.
“You jibed!” he yelled. “You fucking jibed again!”
Regina smiled. A lunatic grin strained at her cheeks. She held the tiller alee, then brought it back amidships, and trimmed the sheets for a broad reach.
“What are you doing?” Kyle screamed. “Trying for a knockdown?”
“I was thinking I might, but I hate to get everything wet. Remember the time you did it?”
Kyle’s eyes widened and he started to choke.
“Regina, get me those pills. Please. The Dilantin-on the shelf by the binoculars. I can’t get up.”
Regina put her hands on her hips. “Please, you said? You’ve fallen and you can’t get up?”
Regina trimmed the sails and tied the tiller so the Spring Fling would hove to. She reached the shelf inside the cabin without leaving the cockpit. “Here they are, sweetheart,” she said. “What should I do now? See, Kyle, I’m asking-like you always tell me to do.”
She heard a gurgle. He was lying flat on his back staring through the hatch at her.
She held up the pills. The bottle flipped from her hand and flew portside. She couldn’t distinguish a splash, with the wind and slapping waves, but they were gone. “Oops. The pills are with your aftershave and your dry shoes.”
She listened to the noises coming from his throat. She thought he was listening.
“I’d need to put on my snorkeling gear. I could also look for your nail clippers and favourite underwear-but I’m afraid they’re long gone. Maybe you’d like to go in after them?”
Kyle started shaking violently, his arms and legs hyperextending, drool running down his neck. Regina went up to release the jib and pull it down.
She returned and glanced into the cabin to see Kyle’s head lolling on the back of the settee. His eyes were wide open. His body was slumped partly onto the sole.
She slipped down the companionway and felt the side of his neck for a pulse. There wasn’t any; neither was there the sickening odour of his aftershave.
She turned on the VHF and picked up the mike. Channel sixteen came on automatically. She pressed the button and yelled hysterically. “Mayday! Mayday! This is the Spring Fling. Need assistance immediately.” She let up on the button and waited. No response. She tried again. “Mayday! Mayday!”
This time she got an answer. It was a sailboat west of Carter, from where she had come. She told them in a frantic voice that the captain was unconscious and she was an inexperienced mate. They responded that they would keep trying for the Bahamian Air Rescue. She told them she’d get her position from the GPS. She thanked them, her voice shaking.
Regina turned the boat into the wind, went forward and dropped the main, then returned to the cockpit and started the engine in neutral. She got out the GPS, locked in the satellites, noted her position, and got the waypoint for Carter on the route to West End. She adjusted her compass course and pushed the throttle forward until she had 2,000 rpm’s, as recommended. The engine was tuned perfectly, as Kyle always kept it. This was surely emergency use.
She knew the Rescue team would be there in no time to take Kyle’s body. She was on her way to Rodney, taking her chance, a big one, leaving her wealthy, conservative life behind. But without Kyle, Rodney didn’t matter so much. She didn’t need to think of his hand on her hair or his living room glowing in the sunset.
She went back forward, rolled the sail, and secured the ties with square knots. She knew it wouldn’t be neat enough for Kyle. She glanced down at his body, staring wide-eyed from the settee, silent for once. She hooked the GPS to the autopilot-no need for more steering practice-and went below. She pulled out the sail cover and tied it down one last time, over Kyle’s dead body.
Stepping back on deck she saw that the Dilantin bottle had caught at the port gunwale and was rolling along the deck.
She opened the bottle and took one pill to Kyle. “Here, I found them. They weren’t in their place.” She peeled the sail cover from his face, opened his teeth, and put a tablet on his bloody tongue. She closed his jaw. A tear dropped from her eye to Kyle’s cheek, but she felt no regret.
She took a beer from the fridge and went back to the cockpit and stretched out across a cushion. The engine soothed her with its loud rhythm. Regina relaxed, confident in her ability to safely make the two-day run to West End.
Joan Hess
It is not uncommon to encounter Joan Hess and immediately think she’s mad at somebody about something. This is a formidable-looking woman who isn’t about to take any nonsense, you bet. Of course, after a couple of seconds, it is entirely likely that she’ll have a great smile on her face, and she’s guaranteed to put one on anybody within earshot. She is, and there can be no argument about this, one of the funniest people on the planet.
The story that follows is not comic, but many of her novels are, and she has developed a large and appreciative readership. With more than twenty books to her credit in a relatively brief time, she has still managed to find the energy to join and be active in a large number of mystery organisations, including Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, American Crime Writers’ League, and the Arkansas Mystery Writers Alliance; perhaps coincidentally, she lives in Arkansas.