Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Blood in the Water by Janice Law

Author of nearly a dozen mystery novels, historical novels, and many short stories, Janice Law is also an academic, and is therefore able to pursue fiction writing only in her spare time. Ms. Law’s work has included ventures into science fiction, but she always returns to the mystery field, where she continues to write about the series character she launched in 1975, Anna Peters. The following tale is a nonseries work with an ironic twist.

Vern Lanyon had always said that he knew only two things, boats and I babes. Though babes had sometimes created trouble, boats had done okay by him. He owned a nice yacht brokerage and a busy Connecticut marina which appreciated in value when the Pequots went shopping for shore-front property. Pretty soon Vern had a waterside condo, a really nice Bertram 54 dubbed Lively Lady, a Lexus in his garage, and lots of five-figure credit-card bills. The rise in his net wealth was so steep that Vern began to think himself rich enough for politics.

His mistake in this happy situation was venturing too far from his base of knowledge. Vern sank more money than he should have in a hedge fund and then some more into a “sure thing” currency speculation. The currency deal got killed when the Thais blocked conversion of the baht in the Asian financial crisis, and the hedge was hit when the market turned bullish against all reason.

One morning Vern woke up to find himself not just overextended and temporarily embarrassed, but in a major cash-flow crisis. To put it bluntly, he was broke. That’s when he thought of Sandy.

Not that he didn’t often think of Sandy, who was a genuine babe: tall, slim, and nicely assembled, with beautiful cornsilk hair and brown eyes. Smart girl, too, a legal secretary with a good firm, but a babe just the same. Sandy’s hobby was the theater, and seeing her perform planted the idea which blossomed out of Vern’s cash-flow nightmare.

Wakening to disaster, he remembered the play. The venue was nothing fancy, just a school auditorium with friends, family, senior citizens, and high-school drama students corralled to see The House of Bernardo Alba. Vern, personally, had gone prepared for the worst, but he agreed to attend because he liked Sandy. She was a big girl who looked good in cutoffs and a windbreaker; a woman who belonged up on deck in bright weather with her hair blowing round her face. Vern could almost get romantic about Sandy — or, at least, about the look of Sandy.

So, there he was, being a good guy and swelling the crowd, when she walked on stage: black lace, collar to her chin, skirt to the floor, talking fancy talk as this Spanish spinster, a Spanish virgin, for God’s sake. What was astonishing to Vern was that she was completely believable. Completely. She’d become someone else.

He was impressed at the time, but though he recognized an unsuspected talent, that’s all he saw. Protected by a good cash flow and a favorable position in the market, Vern had been safe from ideas. When calamity changed that, one thought blew up like a mushroom cloud. At first, of course, he dismissed it, put it aside, recognized the lunacy of it. But the idea lingered around the edges of his mind, teasing and pestering him with the hope of a solution, until one night he broached the subject to Sandy.

They were at the Oyster House, a marble, mahogany, and cellphones bistro with the best clam chowder south of Boston. The Lexus was gone, and the bank owned the condo, but as long as he had plastic, Vern intended to eat well. “I got a proposition for you,” he said.

She made a small, salacious joke and they both laughed.

“Not that kind of proposition.”

“Is there any other kind?” she asked. Sandy had acquired the cynical edge romantics get when they’re disappointed in love. She’d spent five of her prime years on an affair with a handsome Coast Guard officer who was married with three children.

“This proposition is all business,” Vern said.

“I thought this was a date.” She pursed her lips and her brown eyes darkened. Sandy was ready to be serious about someone. She wanted a house and a garden and small children. It troubled her sometimes that Vern might be her last really good chance.

“It is, it is a date. An important date.” Vern took her hand. Though he’d always believed that Sandy was more attached to him than he was to her, he would have to exert himself now. “Every date with you is important,” he said.

She watched him, bright-eyed, playful but alert. In his nervous state, Vern was picking up on all sorts of irritating and distracting vibrations. He was going to have to be careful.

“So,” she said.

“So, listen, you know my situation at the moment. ‘A vulnerable position in the market’ is how my broker puts it. Temporary, of course, strictly temporary, but worrisome at this moment, with the way things are between us.” He looked at her eyes and hoped that was the right note.

“How are things between us?” Sandy asked. The thing with legal secretaries is that they’re inclined to cross the t’s and dot the i’s, especially ones like Sandy who’d had their hearts in pieces.

“Interesting and becoming serious,” Vern said. He thought he could say that safely, suspecting, as he did, that Sandy hadn’t quite gotten over the man she used to see. She’d mentioned him one night after a few too many margaritas. Sandy had gone on about how she wanted to make a “fresh start.”

Not that Vern had paid much attention. All he remembered was that it had been a heavy, serious affair and that the man was married. A classic babe situation was Vern’s diagnosis.

“We’re becoming serious, right?” he repeated.

“I’d like to think so,” said Sandy. “But I didn’t think you were ready to settle down.”

The very words “settle down” iced Vern’s stomach. “Sometimes you need a reversal to let you see what’s really important,” he said. “You know what I mean? You get too many toys, you don’t always see the essentials.”

Sandy inclined her head in agreement.

“The hell of it is, now that I see what I want in life, I’ve got this major cash-flow problem. Way things are going, I don’t look able to settle down, as it were, for another decade.”

Sandy took his hand sympathetically. “You’re a smart guy,” she said, “and I make a good living. Between the two of us...”

“Sandy, darling,” he kissed her hand, “I couldn’t do that to you. I’m under a whole landfill of debt.” He described his follies in the market, the horrors of selling short in a rising Dow, and then, when he had discouraged her pretty thoroughly, he presented his idea.

-“You see, at this point, I might be worth more dead than alive.”

“Vern!”

“Listen a minute. I’ve still got Lively Lady — haven’t been able to sell her for what I paid for her. If I were... well, say I was to be lost out in the Sound. With the insurance on the boat and my personal life policy — you hear what I’m saying? I’m seeing a kind of nest egg for us.” Emphasis on ‘us.’ “And risk free. I mean, I wouldn’t have to be anywhere near the water. Not if someone convincing was to put the alarm in to the Coast Guard. That’s the key, someone convincing. Someone like you who can really act up a storm.”

Sandy didn’t say anything for moment, but, of course, she knew the legal ramifications. Vern was just beginning to worry when she asked, “Who’s the beneficiary?”

“Why you, of course. It would have to be you.”

“How new’s the policy?”

“I don’t have it yet. I didn’t think I needed a big insurance policy. I wasn’t going to disappear at sea when I had everything going great, was I?”

In his irritation, Vern let his voice rise just a little.

Sandy shook her head with what seemed to be regret. “Too big a coincidence. It’s got fraud written all over it.”

She didn’t seem shocked, just practical. Vern could see the problems, but now that he’d actually voiced the idea, he hated to give it up. Before he could reconsider, he heard himself say, “It would be all right if we were engaged. If we were engaged, the policy would make plenty sense.”

“Are we engaged?” she asked.

Vern hesitated for a fraction of a second. He wasn’t eager to risk his freedom, but he could see from her eyes that nothing less would do. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes, yes, I mean it,” said Vern, who thought that he was becoming a pretty good actor, himself.

She smiled then, the big, open smile he liked so much. “Well, all right,” she said.

Vern kissed her hand.

“But I’ll need a ring. It won’t be plausible without a ring.”

“We need a major ring!” Vern did enjoy shopping. “We’ll hit Lux Bond and Green tomorrow. Maybe a party, too?”

“Yes,” she said, then, “No. No party. Not if you’re going to disappear. I’d feel that I was deceiving my family. You know.”

This tenderness of conscience made Vern uneasy. “But they’ll have to know. I mean, before we do it.”

“Oh, sure. Nearer the time I’ll tell them. It’s just that it will be hard. You’ll disappear and be lost, and they’ll feel bad and I’ll always have to be pretending. Acting.”

“You’re such a terrific actress,” Vern murmured.

When Sandy shrugged and looked sad, it passed through his mind that he had never met her family, the family who would grieve for his loss. He was marrying a woman unknown in certain essential aspects. But then Vern reminded himself that at this stage, their marriage itself was still hypothetical. Once they got hold of the money, things could change, might change, would have to change. “Sure, wait till we get the ring and have everything set.” He raised his glass. “To insurance,” he said, and immediately thought that he should have said, “To us.”

But Sandy smiled. “To the depths of the sea,” she replied.

The next day, Vern began to put his plans in motion. Fortunately, with running a marina and selling yachts, he had acquired useful contacts. Guys who pay cash for fast boats and sail them into the wee hours have esoteric knowledge: like where to get a new identity cheapest and the easiest way to leave the good old U.S. of A. and emerge with a new name and new papers in our friendly big neighbor to the north. Stuff like that.

In the busyness of these preparations, Vern buried the rest of his reservations and scruples. If it worried him once in a while to be relying so much on Sandy, well, he reminded himself that she adored him. Besides, he was going to be a new person, too, with new possibilities, no debts, and a very nice chunk of money. He told himself that he could make this scheme work, absolutely.

When everything was ready, Vern rehearsed the plans with Sandy, who listened without making any comment. When he was done, she remarked, “I’ve told my mother we’re engaged.”

“Good,” said Vern.

“She was pleased,” Sandy said, “after — you know.” She meant, of course, the Coast Guard officer, that mysterious married hunk whose name, occupation, and identity Vern had forgotten — if he’d ever known them.

“Sure. That’s great.” Considering her melancholy expression, Vern wondered if Sandy might rethink their marriage, though probably that was wishful thinking. “This will work. Everything will be fine.” He took her hand. “And listen, there’s a storm front coming in end of the week. Is that perfect?”

Sandy gave a little half-smile. “I guess,” she said.

The front arrived Thursday, right on schedule, and, at first, blew up such wind that Vern was worried the Sound would be too rough. It wouldn’t do to look suicidal with a million-dollar policy at stake. Eight hours later, the storm had begun to track east northeast, and the high winds lightened, leaving cloud and rough water behind. Vern called Sandy and alerted his friend Norm, who had a nice little boat shed up on a very small, quiet creek.

This boat shed was the ultimate destination of Lively Lady, and once she was safely moored, Vern took his phony papers and his newly dyed hair and got himself first to Montreal and hence to Quebec City. There he switched on the motel cable and watched a big green and yellow blob devour the East Coast.

Some poor sucker in a rain parka was doing a standup on the Rhode Island shore. Rain spotted the camera lens and sluiced down his face as he went on about gale-force winds and thirty-foot seas. The storm had changed track at the very last minute. Couldn’t have been better for Lively Lady’s disappearance, thought. Vern. Couldn’t have been better.

A couple of hours later, he tuned in again to the news that a fishing boat out of Nantucket had capsized, a surfer had drowned off Newport, and a private yacht was overdue out of Stonington. The seas were so brutal even the Coast Guard boats were having trouble. It would be no surprise at all if a boat like Lively Lady were lost forever.

This was absolutely perfect, and in his excitement Vern called Sandy early. He let the phone ring twice, hung up, called again, let it ring three times, hung up, and waited for her to go to the convenience store pay phone and call him back.

He went through this routine a dozen times over the next three days before he finally got the call. In the meantime, waiting dulled his excitement and sharpened a latent vein of anxiety.

“Vern?” She sounded tired and upset. “Vern?”

“Victor, darling. Please remember not to call me Vern.”

A silence. Ominous.

“Is everything okay? We couldn’t have asked for more from the storm. A boat can sink in a blow like that and never be found. Perfects, eh?”

“Ideal,” Sandy said, but her voice had a strange, flat, shocked quality as if all the electricity had gone out of the line.

“So what’s the problem? Insurance will be in your face, sure, but you’ve just got to be tough. They’re not going to have the ghost of a complaint.”

“It’s more than that,” Sandy said, and Vern could hear tears. “One of the rescue ships got into trouble. They lost a man and another was hurt. I was on the beach that afternoon. I was the one who told them you were out. It’s all so bad, Vern.”

“Well, shit, Sandy, that’s tough, but don’t take it personally. I mean, they’d have been out anyway, wouldn’t they? It’s their job to be out. Fishing boats, windsails, yachts, surfers. I’m sure it wasn’t just Lively Lady on the water.”

“You didn’t see the waves. I told them you were lost, and a lot of extra people went out, and now everyone’s angry,” she said. “The police say they’re going to look into your finances. They don’t really believe—”

“Listen,” said Vern firmly, “they’re paid to be suspicious.”

Silence.

“Of course you’re upset. Of course you are.” And thank God for that, Vern thought. Upset was good. Plausible, believable. As long as Sandy didn’t go overboard on the guilt thing. “If you weren’t upset, it would look pretty funny, wouldn’t it?” Vern went on in this vein as the silence got longer and longer. “They can’t touch you,” he said. “Keep your mouth shut and they can’t touch you. There’s not the slightest proof. You want us to get married, don’t you? You want us to get the money?”

Finally Sandy stopped sniffling and agreed to these propositions. Vern hung up feeling only semi-nervous, but it was late August, four full months, before Sandy called again. By that time, Vern was working at a marina along the St. Lawrence and beginning to worry about getting himself to a warm-water port. Then one night the phone rang, and when he lifted the receiver, he heard the sound of traffic in the background. Instantly, he could smell the exhaust from the Clam Shack and diesel fuel and late-summer heat on tarmac: the convenience store parking lot, Sandy on the phone, insurance.

“We’ve done it, haven’t we?” asked Vern.

“Yes,” said Sandy.

“We’ve really done it!” he exclaimed and whooped over the line like an Apache. On the other end, Sandy was quiet, but Vern did not notice.

“I need to see you,” she said when he had congratulated her, exclaimed about their good fortune, credited his own brilliance. There were things to straighten out, Sandy said, fiscal manipulations and complications, a new account in the Bahamas, other details. She was precise and organized, all business. Vern would be best not to return to the States, certainly not to Connecticut. Especially not by boat. Sandy was very explicit about that. “Don’t even think about it,” she said.

In his euphoria, all this was minor stuff. “Hey,” Vern said, “I’ve got to take a boat down to Nassau next week, and I’m supposed to pick up another crewman. How about it? A little holiday for you. Fly to Quebec, we sail to the islands. It’s an easy trip. Get our cash and we’re on our way permanently, baby.”

Sandy said something about her job.

“This is a new life,” Vern said. “After all that’s happened, you need to get away, to make a fresh start. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Sandy, but her voice was odd. “Yes, I wanted to make a fresh start.” She began to cry.

“I know it’s been tough,” said Vern. “It’s been tough for me, too.” He’d been lonely in Quebec, he told her. He couldn’t wait to see her.

She arrived by plane a week later, thinner and paler than he remembered, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She had five thousand dollars in cash with her, which was helpful, and from the way Vern felt himself relax when she stepped through the doors at the gate, he realized he had been half afraid she might not come. She could have cashed that big check and lost his phone number. She could have, but, fortunately, there she was. Gorgeous as ever in a white summer dress and a red jacket, still in love with him, and set to make a fresh start as his wife. Vern put the latter thought aside and swept her into his arms.

There was a moment’s awkwardness, then she laughed at his hair — bleached blond — and his full beard and his French sailor’s shirt.

“You wouldn’t have recognized me, would you?” he asked when he put on the wire-rimmed aviator glasses he’d affected.

“Not at first glance,” she admitted.

“So there’s nothing to worry about. Vern Lanyon’s dead, gone, and forgotten.”

Sandy nodded, agreeable to the death of Vern Lanyon, to the trip, to everything he suggested. Vern felt how foolish he’d been to worry. And really, who wouldn’t like the boat, a big, handsome Hatteras, beautifully fitted, that was being run down to its new owner in the islands? Vern had everything prepared in anticipation of her arrival, and they left at dawn the next morning, cruising into the cool, golden light of the seaway. All down the Canadian coast, they slept on board, remaining on the water except to put in for gas and food.

Vern was a touch nervous when they reached the States, but in the mass of late-summer yachtsmen, no one gave them a second glance. Just the same, Vern was pleased with his preparations, with the success of his disguise, with the foresight which had obtained papers for Sandy, too. “It’s your ultimate role,” he joked. “A completely new life.”

“For how long?” she asked.

“Long as you like,” he said.

“And then take on another life, maybe,” she said. “When we’re tired of this one.”

Vern decided she was teasing and passed the remark off with a smile. But she’d suggested a possibility. Oh, Sandy was fine. Easy to take, good with the boat. There’s nothing wrong with Sandy, Vern told himself a couple of times a day. Of course, she was quieter than before. She didn’t make the little dirty jokes she used to make. And she liked to sit on deck at night, staring at the white wake of the boat.

There were other things, too, if Vern had troubled himself to count them up, like the day they stopped at Cape May, and Sandy disappeared for twelve hours. Just disappeared without even her wallet and seemed surprised when he questioned her, when he was concerned. She’d gone for a walk, she said, and perhaps she had, because Vern saw no sign of Coast Guard boats or police. Only his nervousness had magnified her absence, which was an odd thing, sure, but not quite enough to make a reasonable man worry.

Especially not when they were sliding down the edge of the continent towards a fortune. The days took on a heavier warmth, losing the bright crispness of the north in languid humidity. The sea warmed up enough so that they could swim even out from shore, and they got in the habit of taking a dip every afternoon. Sometimes they saw dolphins and one day, off Fort Lauderdale, the black fin of a shark.

“Nothing to worry about,” Vern said. “They come for blood. Otherwise they’re really not that dangerous.”

Sandy got out of the water anyway, and lay sunbathing on deck, her eyes sweeping the water. When he was finished swimming, Vern sat beside her on the warm boards and talked about what he wanted to do, about the kind of boat he’d like to buy, about the possibility of starting a charter business in the islands. “I’m going to stick to what I know from now on.”

Sandy was noncommittal. She was already finding the endless, hot, blue-and-gold days oppressive, and she could not see herself crewing a boat or whipping up meals in a galley kitchen for the paying customers.

“I can’t go back,” Vern said. “You said so yourself. Not for a few years anyway. Got to get myself established in a new business in my new identity. That’s the key.”

“And what about me?”

“You’ve just got a big insurance settlement. What’s more natural than that you should invest your money? Buy into a company, say? It just needs to be something I understand, like boats. I understand boats just fine.”

“I was thinking on a personal level,” Sandy said. Her voice was quiet, uninflected. There were disquieting moments when Vern remembered how she’d looked on stage as that vindictive Spanish virgin and sensed that she was now giving a slightly imperfect performance.

He shrugged. “We get married, of course, if that’s what you want.” That was, Vern thought, the easiest way to divvy up the money.

“Or maybe a different life?” Sandy suggested.

“Sure, maybe a different life. We divide the money, you have a different life if you want.”

“Or if you want,” said Sandy, and they proceeded to quarrel without really saying what they thought — or maybe without really knowing what was in their minds. They were not, after all, the same people anymore.

That night, Sandy sat up on deck in the early dark for a long time. Later, preparing some vegetables in the galley, her knife slipped and she cut her hand. Blood mingled with the cubed carrots and celery, the garlic and tomatoes, and spotted the blond maple counter. Vern grabbed a dish towel. He was wrapping her hand up and putting pressure on the shallow, fast-bleeding wound when he realized that she hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved. She was watching the blood with the detached, concentrated expression of a surveillance camera.

“Hey,” said Vern, grabbing her shoulder. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

Sandy’s eyes came back into focus. “Sight of blood,” she said. “I’ve never done that before. Ouch, what a stupid thing to do.” She gave the old Sandy smile, and Vern got some Band-Aids and relaxed.

The weather held — Vern thought he had never seen such perfect conditions for cruising — and they reached Freeport on schedule. Sandy was sick of fish and wanted to find a butcher shop. Vern had in mind to do some banking; he wanted to transfer some money, to begin pulling down that big new account, but she said, “Let’s wait until we look at some boats, at something big.” There was a nervous, enthusiastic note in her voice. “Just like you wanted.”

And Vern, knowing that was safest, agreed. He worked around the boat, putting everything in order, while Sandy set off to find a steak. She returned two hours later, hot and tired, with a large package.

“You bought the whole cow?” asked Vern.

“A steak and a surprise,” said Sandy, and she packed everything away in the galley refrigerator.

The following day, heading toward Berry Island, they stopped in the channel to swim. They’d gotten fond of isolation, of the vast blue-green open water, of the great depths below. Vern liked to dive straight down as far as breath would take him, then rocket back up on the edge of fear. The water was very clear, and once in a while, they would see the white of a sail or a hull on the edge of the horizon.

Vern shook the brine out of his eyes and looked for Sandy far out from the boat — she was a strong swimmer. He saw only empty water and the gentle roll of the waves. He turned, isolation and a thousand little hints and feelings breeding alarm, to see her starting up the ladder of the boat.

He waved and she called back, “I’ve taken a cramp.”

“Need some help?”

“I’ll be fine as soon as I get out of the water.” She reached the deck and began massaging her left calf.

Vern ducked under the surface, the sudden cold of the lower water washing away his anxiety. There’s nothing wrong with Sandy, he reminded himself before he struck out for the horizon with his flashy crawl. Vern was fast, but not good for any distance. He was ready to turn back when he heard the rumble of the motor, and the pleasant frisson of the deep turned into something else.

He shouted to Sandy, then swam briskly toward the hull. Sandy was standing at the helm in her floppy hat, her eyes hidden by the brim and by her sunglasses. She could be anyone, Vern thought, but he was an optimist, so he called again and waved to the woman who adored him. The boat hung suspended in the emerald water with nothing wrong at all except for the sound of the motor. Vern swam into the shadow of the hull. She had lifted the ladder, but he could perhaps scramble up the side.

“Sandy!”

She looked down at him, her face blank, indifferent, her voice steady and uninflected. “I did for you. And what did it get me?”

Vern was indignant. “It got you well over a million dollars!”

“He was killed,” Sandy cried, her voice turning hoarse and strange, a stranger’s voice, carrying a stranger’s inexplicable passions.

“Who?” demanded Vern. “Who are you talking about?” In his present distress, he had forgotten Sandy’s former lover. Vern’s only thought was that she’d had a breakdown, taken some sort of fit.

“The only man I ever, ever loved.”

“You’re going to marry me. I thought you loved me,” Vern protested, but Sandy ignored him.

“How was I to know he’d be on that cutter?” A wail of grief and desolation. “How was I to know? Of all the boats, out of all the Coast Guard bases! How was I to guess?”

“Christ, Sandy, you couldn’t know,” said Vern, who was wondering how any of this was his fault. If she couldn’t keep track of what’s his name, how was he, Vern, supposed to? The whole situation was bizarre, nonsensical, and he was tired of treading water. But when he tried to reach the stem, Sandy eased the boat away and brought it around again. Sandy could handle the Hatteras very nicely.

“I wouldn’t have done it except for you,” she said. “It was not the sort of thing I’d ever have thought of. The seas were terrible, but I insisted they go, because my fiancé was out. My fiancé,” she added bitterly, “who wants the money and the single life. Don’t deny it!”

In the water and beginning to gasp for breath, Vern thought it best to remain silent, though a preference for the bachelor life is hardly a capital offense.

“They were hit by a huge wave. He was slammed against the rail and hurt and swept overboard.”

“No one’s fault,” Vern gasped. “No one’s fault.” And then he asked her to let him come aboard. She needed help, he said. She’d had a bad shock, how bad he hadn’t realized. He should have realized. She should have told him. But now he knew, and they could work something out.

Sandy shook her head. “I loved him,” she said. “I wanted to get away from him, but I loved him. You didn’t know I was still seeing him, did you? I was, I was. But after a while all I wanted was to start fresh.”

Vern pleaded with her and tried to distract her as he paddled about. The water felt cool, almost cold, in the shadow of the hull. Above him, Sandy didn’t answer; she held her head stiffly, as if she was wearing an old-fashioned, high-collared dress.

At last, Vern risked everything. “Listen,” he said, “there are yachts passing all the time. When I get picked up, Sandy, and I will get picked up, what will you say?”

In response, she lifted a dark red plastic bag like a lumpy balloon. Before he could cry out, Vern saw the flash of the boat knife. Liquid spurted onto the water, making soft, red fans.

“I’ll tell them sharks came while we were swimming,” said Sandy. Her voice had gone dead, dead and uninflected, as if Vern was of no concern to her. “I know how to act. I know what to say. I’ve had practice with a dead fiancé.”

She threw the plastic bag into the water and put the motor into gear. Vern shouted once, twice. Then he began splashing after her, churning through the wake, exerting all his strength, because, though he’d never catch up, he could already see the fins.