Final Destination: Looks Could Kill Page 2

  "Oh, really?" As much as she wanted to project the appearance of jaded indifference, Sherry had to admit that she was excited by the prospect of spending twenty-four hours rubbing elbows with some of the most influential names in the fashion industry.

  "Oh, look. There's Shiraz.” Cabernet waved, trying to catch her fellow model's attention. "Shiraz, down here!"

  The African-American model leaned over the railing and shouted at the top of her lungs in order to be heard over the amplified music. "Hey, girlfriends. Get on up here. This party's off the hook. Come find me when you get on board - I'll be with the band. I know the bass player."

  "Doesn't she always?” Sherry stage-whispered.

  “Now, Sherry," Cabernet said in mock-admonishment. "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.”

  "If that was the case, mien Liebling," Gunter chuckled, "then practically everyone you know would be a mute. Myself included."

  "There you go, ma'am," the hospitality officer said with a smile as professional and as artificial as any Sherry could plaster onto her face. "Welcome aboard the Coral Clipper. You're very lucky to have caught us when you did. We were just about to cast off.”

  As Sherry ascended the gangway, her attention was snagged momentarily by the sound of powerful engines. She glanced in the direction of the sound, but was blinded by the late afternoon sun. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare and saw the cigarette boat she'd spotted earlier had moved closer in, sending up a rooster tail of salt sea spray in its wake.

  The crewman, who was stationed on the main deck gangway to greet and orientate the guests, saw her looking at the powerboat. "These weekend boaters think they own the waterways," he said shaking his head. "Once we clear the harbor it should be smooth sailing all the way down to Key West."

  "Could you tell me where I might find Ms Merlot?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the crewman replied. “Madame is on the sun deck. That's the top deck, near the bridge. Take the starboard gangway off the main deck.”

  Sherry gave the sailor a blank stare and did not budge.

  "That would be the right staircase, ma'am."

  "Oh, of course." Sherry turned to look at her friends. "Cabby? Brut? Coming with?”

  Cabernet shook her head. “I'd rather find my cabin and get situated first,” she said. “In my condition it pays to know where the nearest toilet is.”

  "Head, ma'am," the crewman interjected politely. “On board a ship it's called a head."

  "How apropos," Gunter said with a crooked smile. "Given the guest list."

  "Whatever," Sherry sighed. She could tell by the way Cabernet giggled and the look on the sailor's face that Gunter's comment was supposed to be funny, but she wasn't feeling up to pretending she appreciated his sense of humor. "How about you, Brut?"

  "Yeah, I'll go with you."

  As Sherry and Brut headed up the stairs leading to the upper decks, passing both guest and crew, they bumped into Chablis, who was dressed in a very low cut, cotton cappuccino-colored Marni cardigan that exposed her midriff; a sequined, leaf-print Bernado skirt and a pink coral Simon Alcantara necklace that dangled all the way to her belly button. She was in the company of a rangy, dark-haired man with a high-speed camera slung about his neck-no doubt yet another of her f-stop conquests. In all the years Sherry had known Chablis, she had yet to pay money for a portfolio.

  “There you are," Chablis said, pecking at the air alongside Sherry's left cheek. “Merlot was asking for you."

  "Is she still on the top deck?”

  “Yes, we just left her. We're going to take a few shots to commemorate the event, aren't we, baby?”

  "Huh? Oh, yeah. Right." Chablis's conquest of the moment was staring avidly at Sherry; studying her with the mixture of lust, fascination and clinical detachment common to every photographer she had ever met, regardless of their sexual orientation.

  “Come along,” Chablis snapped, grabbing her companion by the elbow and dragging him behind her down the promenade deck. “We're wasting perfectly good daylight."

  "She's going to eat him up and spit him out," Sherry said, shaking her head as she watched the couple disappear around a bulkhead.

  "Yeah, but he'll be loving every minute of it."

  “I thought I heard your voice." Chardonnay stuck her head out of the door to the forward saloon. She was wearing a brightly colored, silk ikat, Oscar de la Renta trench coat that hung open to reveal the Moschino black and white tropical print brasserie underneath, and a pair of white, super wide-leg, Jil Sanders pants. "Come on inside-the party's just getting started." Her high-beam smile abruptly dimmed as she caught sight of Sherry's boyfriend. “Hey, Brut.”

  "Hey, Chard. You, uh, you got something there." He pointed to his upper lip.

  Chardonnay blushed and quickly touched her own upper lip, wiping away the telltale trace of white powder under her right nostril.

  "Thanks. You two going to join me?"

  "We'll be back down after I talk to Merlot," Sherry promised.

  "Promise?” Chardonnay asked, running her lower lip out in a little girl pout.

  "Promise!" Sherry laughed in return.

  Brut shook his head and laughed as they resumed their climb up the gangway. “She is so horny for you."

  "Jealous?”

  "Hell, no! I'd be all for it, if I didn't already know she doesn't like to share.”

  “You're such a dog."

  "And I'll stay one until the day I die.”

  Coral Clipper's uppermost deck, known as the sun deck, housed the ship's bridge and the captain's quarters in the fore section, five luxury suites amidships and a large, open observation deck lined with chaises longues and deck chairs toward the aft. High ranking fashion industry executives stood gathered in clumps of three or more, chattering amongst themselves between sips from the cocktail glasses they snatched from the passing waiters. As Sherry passed by they all made a point to stop what they were doing to bid her hello. She tried not to let her delight in their attention show in her eyes as she breezed past.

  Merlot was standing at the railing, dressed in a formal-length black and white print Chanel dress with a satin belt and bows at the décolletage, with diamond Tiffany earrings and jeweled Oscar de la Renta slides. She was facing the rear of the ship, calmly puffing away on her ubiquitous cigarette holder. She was looking at the deck below, where the majority of the party guests were gathered.

  "Hi, Merlot-“

  "Hush.” The older woman held up a hand that glittered with jeweled Veruda rings.

  Sherry had come to know that tone of voice all too well over the years. It meant Merlot was busy judging someone. It could be over the choice of shoes, the color of nail polish, or the way they used their cocktail fork. But once her decisions concerning someone's style were made, it was as final as Solomon's.

  "I'm watching your little friend, Rose," Merlot said, the words coming out as slow and deceptively soft as a velvet python. She pointed toward the buffet table below. “See? There she is.”

  Sherry could easily spot Rose's trademark red hair amongst the throngs of blondes and brunettes. The young model was standing in front of the heavily laden buffet table, wearing a formfitting, floral print, silk chiffon, J Mendel dress and coral pink Louis Vuitton pumps and was nervously eyeing the spread provided for the guests. There was a tower of peeled cocktail shrimp, wheels of gouda and brie, as well as French pastries bursting with whipped cream, and a carving station where a smiling man dressed in chef's whites sliced off chunks of prime rib and pork loin. Although she was trying her best to look nonchalant, the redheaded model moved back and forth before the buffet like a captive lioness pacing off the confines of its cage.

  Rose came to an abrupt stop and picked up a plate. Merlot leaned forward, keen to catch the younger woman's slightest moment. Although she could not see them behind her sunglasses, Sherry knew that the former model's eyes had narrowed into gun slits. Rose turned th
e salad plate in her hand around and around, like it was the wheel to a bumper-car, then, after a moment's hesitation, returned it to the stack from which it came.

  “Very good," Merlot said with a pleased sigh, allowing her shoulders to relax. “She is learning the rules. You remember them, don't you, my dear?"

  Sherry nodded and answered without thinking. "Food is the enemy. Never eat in public."

  "That's right, my dear. Of course, drinking is altogether different.” Merlot held out her empty Martini glass to Carlo, who stood off to one side, watching her with an attentiveness that bordered on jittery. "Another drinky-drinky."

  "Si, signora."

  "Isn't it just marvelous, my darlings?” Merlot asked, gesturing to the merrymaking that surrounded her. "Every major house, every influential publication has sent a representative... and they're all interested in meeting you, my pretty." This she addressed to Sherry, giving emphasis with a jab of her cigarette holder. "Come, walk with me a moment, my darling.”

  Sherry glanced at Brut then fell in step alongside the older woman.

  “I envy you, Sherry. You are a very beautiful girl, Sherry. I am not telling you anything new. You have known that since you were in pigtails. But that is not what I envy. You are on the threshold of a new life, a new career. Everything you have worked for in the past has led you to this moment. You are about to embark on an adventure that only one in a thousand of the girls who step onto the catwalks ever gets to make. After this weekend, nothing will ever be the same for you, my dear. That is what I envy-that wonderful adventure that will be your life. Enjoy it, my dear. Savor it. Make the best of it, whatever it may bring. Because it does not last forever.”

  Sherry turned to look at Merlot, who was staring out at the open water. In the years since she had first signed on with the agency, they had rarely spoker about anything besides assignments, clothes, cosmetics and the usual idle gossip. Still, she had always felt a bond with the former fashion model, one far closer and tighter than she'd ever known with her biological mother. And it had never felt stronger than at that moment.

  "Merlot... I don't know what to say," she said around the lump in her throat.

  "Then don't," the older woman said, turning her head slightly in order to favor her prize pupil with a smile. “Tell me, what do you think of the ship? Isn't she wonderful?”

  "Oh, yes. It's marvelous. But how in the world were you able to afford it?”

  "An old flame of mine owns the cruise line it belongs to. He owed me a solid and I called it in. Viola. That is what I like about millionaire playboys. They can afford to be old-fashioned gallants. Mark my words, my dear-you would be wise to make a hobby of collecting such men. Granted, they're not as exciting as rock stars or as handsome as models, but they are far more appreciative of a beautiful woman's attentions."

  “What a wicked thing to say," Sherry said, giggling into her palm.

  Merlot shrugged and gave a half laugh. "You may think I'm being silly, or wicked, but I'm merely giving you advice. You're never too young to think about what you will do once you no longer can work in front of the cameras. Nothing lasts forever-especially looks. But that is still a long time from now. Run along with your young man and have some fun. Pay no mind to an old woman who's had a little too much sun and not enough drinky-drinky. Speaking of which," she said, looking about with a scowl on her face. “Where the hell is Carlo with my appletini?"

  ***

  Horace Fischer had wanted a cigarette boat ever since he was a college student and saw them on Miami Vice. The idea of having that kind of power and speed at his fingertips, pushing him across the water at speeds of up to a hundred miles an hour had always fascinated him.

  So, when he had finally made partner at the firm, he had bought the forty-two footer as a present to himself. And why the hell not? When he was on dry land no one paid him any attention. Even though he made five times the average American's annual salary, he wasn't much to look at. Just another paunchy white guy with thinning hair and middle age spread dressed in Dockers and a polo shirt. But when he was on the water, people on the shore stopped what they were doing to look at him. The guys all envied him while the chicks wondered if he was married. At least that's what he liked to think they thought. That's why he'd named his boat LookSea.

  He could tell there were women on the cruise ship leaving the dock. He'd glimpsed them earlier, frolicking on the sun deck and promenades in their sundresses and bikinis. Maybe he could get some of them to look his way if he came in close. Maybe even some of them would wave. For a brief moment he could pretend he was an international playboy, one accustomed to having beautiful women accompanying him everywhere he went.

  Horace glanced over at the ship, in case there were bathing beauties lining the starboard rail. To his surprise and delight, he could see a stunning blonde number perched atop one of the bulwarks, waving in his direction. Even though he was close enough to be experiencing chop from the outgoing ocean liner, he decided to swing back around so he could make sure she was a hottie. As he brought his boat about, he lifted one hand to return his admirer's wave.

  It was at that exact moment that the manatee surfaced in front of LookSea.

  The manatee was a large, grayish-brown aquatic mammal with a body that tapered down to a wide, flat, paddle-like tail and had two front flippers. The creatures averaged about ten feet in length and could weigh upwards of a thousand pounds. Despite looking like a toothless walrus, manatees had a long history of being mistaken for the mermaids of legend by horny, near-sighted sailors.

  While Horace Fischer was indeed horny and very possibly near-sighted, he certainly had no trouble identifying the obstacle directly ahead of him as a manatee.

  Like all recreational boaters in Florida, Horace was well aware that hitting the slow-moving sea mammal with his boat would not only kill the poor, endangered creature, but also result in a substantial fine. Barely able to control his boat even under the best of conditions, Horace quickly corrected his course.

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the manatee, startled by the noise of the twin five hundred and fifty horsepower, stern-mounted engines, quietly sink below the harbor's surface. Heaving a sigh of relief at having narrowly avoided a two thousand dollar fine, he turned his head back around to be greeted by the sight of the Coral Clipper rushing toward him. He screamed and instinctively raised his arms to shield his head and face, but it didn't really do much good as they collided at ninety miles an hour.

  The ten thousand pound cigarette boat, engines still revving, struck the Coral Clipper's starboard side as if it was an armor-piercing shell, punching a gaping hole just below the larger vessel's waterline.

  ***

  Chablis was seated atop the starboard railing on the promenade deck of the Coral Clipper, waving at the middle-aged jerk in a speedboat that had been buzzing the bay for most of the afternoon. It was Sergei's idea, really. Or was it Serge? She had trouble keeping them straight sometimes. In any case, it was his idea, not hers. She thought it was old hat, but went along with it. It was all grist for her portfolio. As she brushed the hair from her eyes, she glanced back in the direction of the open water and was surprised to find that the cigarette boat was no longer anywhere to be seen.

  Suddenly there was a huge noise, like a sonic boom, and the ship shook as if it had suddenly run aground. Chablis gave a tiny, almost girlish scream as she toppled backward off her perch. Sergei (or was it Serge?) dropped his camera and lunged forward, but was too late to catch her.

  As Chablis fell she had the presence of mind to take a deep breath to prepare herself for the water. However, she had not foreseen striking her head against the railing of the deck below during her tumble. She struck the water with the grace of a hundred pound bag of potatoes, but with nowhere near the buoyancy. She floated face down for about five seconds before sinking like a stone below the surface.

  ***

  Shiraz was having a very good time, flaunting
her exquisitely toned body as she flirted with the bassist on the raised platform next to the swimming pool. She was dressed in a Jean Paul Gaultier sea-blue and green chiffon top and stretch tiered skirt, which made her look like an exotic gypsy flamenco dancer. She moved forward, placing herself directly in front of one of the six foot high bass speakers mounted in front of the stage, undulating to the throbbing fusion of funk and salsa that was the band's trademark.

  All of a sudden there was a sound like a clap of thunder and the entire ship jerked violently, causing the tether that secured the two hundred pound amplifier to give way, allowing it to shoot forward on its casters as if fired from a cannon. The runaway speaker slammed into Shiraz with the force of a motorcycle, taking her along for the ride as it hurtled across the deck and into the open swimming pool.

  By the time she realized what had happened, she was on the bottom, pinned underneath the bulk of the speaker, the chlorinated water burning her eyes and sinuses. She screamed for help, but all that reached the surface seven feet above her head was a stream of bubbles.

  ***

  Chardonnay took the long glass tube offered her by an up-and-coming Milan designer who specialized in women's handbags and other leather accessories, and leaned over the silver serving tray covered with lines of finely chopped cocaine.

  As she placed the end of the tube to her right nostril there was a deafening crash and the entire ship shook, sending her head to whiplash forward. There was a brief, searing-hot moment of pain as the coke straw penetrated first her sinus cavity, then continued into her brain. Chardonnay dropped across the tabletop as blood and spinal fluid oozed its way down the tube, diluting the cocaine into pinkish-white goo.

  ***

  Merlot had been inside her stateroom, changing from her afternoon into her early evening wear, when the LookSea rammed the Coral Clipper. The impact threw her against a bulkhead hard enough to bruise a rib, but she was otherwise unharmed. Slipping on her shoes, she stepped out of her cabin and back onto the sun deck.