Drownings off the coast of Southwest England are not unusual. Tragic, of course, for all concerned, but hardly rare. The usual safety warnings about fog and tides and winds and waves generated by low pressure systems go unheeded, and people sally forth, thinking the dramatic storms are so beautiful, and the surges are such a lark, and the warnings don’t apply to them because they’ve lived near the sea all their lives and they know what they’re doing.
In winter, the danger is more obvious, with blustery El Niño–spawned winds and waves that breach the crumbling sea walls of quaint old resorts like Monkslip-super-Mare. The freezing wind alone keeps most sensible souls indoors, warming their hands by the fireplace as they wait out the worst of it. Cliff falls are not uncommon as nearby bluffs endure a ruthless daily pummeling, and water-soaked headlands erode under the relentless pounding of waves. The damp permeates every aspect of life and death: even funerals are postponed as the ground becomes too soggy for gravediggers to dig. Those people sitting by their fires start to talk about moving to the center of England, where surely they would be spared all this.
Even in the spring, when Monkslip-super-Marians start to emerge from their candy-colored cottages, the warm air can be deceiving, for the water still is freezing, and deadly.
Still, the death of Margot Browne was something, well, special. That it received the sort of international media attention it did was due partly to the fame of its victim, and partly to the glamorous party of people surrounding the victim just before her death, all of them feasting and laughing and also, it would appear, plotting and feuding. The victim, fifty-eight at the time she died, was an actress, once a goodish if flamboyant one, now more famous for having once been famous than actually being famous. And now really, really famous for having been found floating dead in the harbor of Monkslip-super-Mare under mysterious circumstances.
If only she could have seen the headlines, mused her former paramour as he sipped his morning coffee. Himself renowned as a director of blockbuster movies that even he found appalling, Romero Farnier as a young man had dreamed of fame, but fame of the immortal kind, fame such as the Coen brothers or David Lynch or Alfred Hitchcock could claim. Or François Truffaut, his idol. He even allowed himself to dream of directing a Shakespearean play. Why not, now? He and Branagh were good friends.
But, no. Instead he found himself directing tiresome actors in imbecilic movies that were more about special effects than about good old-fashioned storytelling, and fending off requests from the studios to do more of the same. He had long since gotten used to the riches his potboiler movies brought in; he was well off, if a bit overextended. Now he hungered for the real thing: FAME.
For Romero Farnier wanted to live forever. He was sixty, and he figured he had twenty-five good years left to him. But when was his ship finally going to come in?
He turned to where the news report of Margot’s demise continued on page five, but his mind wandered. He was bored, and anyone of his acquaintance could tell you that Romero Farnier when bored was a force to be reckoned with, if avoiding him altogether were not possible. He was at heart an excitement junkie and he knew it, so the death of Margot Browne should at the very least have livened things up for him. It probably would have done so, had he not found himself, his crew, and all the guests aboard his yacht on the night in question grounded until further notice while the police conducted their inquiries into Margot’s death.
Even though they were grounded in luxurious accommodations in the Grand Imperial, one of the legendary Victorian hotels fronting the coast, Romero had things to do and people to meet. The delay was just galling. He could have kicked up a fuss, and if too many days passed he would do just that, but for now it was best to put on a face of amiable good will and heartfelt desire to cooperate to the fullest with the authorities, and so he had advised his crew and passengers.
Margot always did have a gift for complicating his life. It looked to be a gift that carried over into the grave, from beyond the grave. Damn her.
Damn Margot Browne and all her petty little problems and her screwed-up life to hell.
She had always been like this, even as an effervescent, sparkly, up-and-coming young actress of stunning beauty. In life, and now in death, Margot was just a pain.