Chapter 7

 

New York, March 1984

 

The March wind blowing in from the ocean played havoc in the coastal waters driving the sand from the beaches, Unhampered now by the influx of summer tourists, Ocean City, New Jersey catered to the peace of her small number of permanent residents. Darkness was creeping over the island when the small yacht sped away from shore into the restless sea. Deprived of a proper crew, the lone man at the wheel cursed as the wind buffeted the vessel and the high waves attempted to impede their course. Never thrilled with sailing, he handled the small yacht like a novice. He had no idea where they were bound.

When Shelia Connors remained missing for days, eluding the family’s special investigators, he’d taken the trip down from New York City alone. Not really expecting her to have driven to the summerhouse, knowing she hated the place. Still, it seemed worth the bother to check. Finding her hadn’t left him overjoyed. Shelia was a wretched disaster. She smelled—and not just from the whiskey that was forcing its way through every pore. She stunk of unwashed body odor and soiled clothing.

He’d made the mistake of yelling at her, “Christ! Shell! Go take a shower. You stink like you’ve been in that outfit for a week.”

She hadn’t given him a chance to do so much as place a phone call. Shrieking like some certified lunatic, Shelia raced towards the boathouse. He had no choice but to stay with her. She was determined on going out alone. He couldn’t let her. What if the Coast Guard decided to board the fucking boat? Damn she was getting impossible.

An indistinct sliver of moon was sparse with its light and the stars seemed dim in the cold blackness. He shivered and pulled his jacket collar tighter against his neck.

“Stop! Stop!” He heard Shelia below deck screaming at some phantom in her head.

“Damn!” He swore and locked the wheel in place before he went to send the anchor into the water.

Turning he watched her stagger up from the forward cabin. She nearly missed several steps and finally on the last one before the deck she went to her knees. Fucking lush, he thought to himself, but he went to her aid and helped her recover her precarious footing.

Shelia slapped at him and cursed in her drunken slur. “Get your damn hands off me. Just leave me be. I don’t need your help,” she said as she fell heavily against him.

“Come on.” He half dragged her to the side of the yacht where he rather roughly shoved her into a chaise lounge. “You keep up this drinking,” he warned. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Fat chance.” Shelia sniffled. “Can you believe that bastard…a divorce? Who in hell does he think he is? Pop will finish him good this time. He’ll be lucky to find a bed in Harlem when the Connors’ are through with him. Get me a scotch plea…se…” Her voice was a sickening whine. “Be a luv…”

“You’ve had enough.” He continued to shiver from the chilly wind. “And Jim’s had enough of you turning yourself into a frigging lush. Everybody is getting damn sick of you, Shell.”

But he went below and returned with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and a glass. He slapped them down on the small table beside the drunken female. He stood back and watched her fumble with the cap and splash the whiskey as she overfilled the glass. The liquid soaked the front of her blouse emphasizing prior stains.

“Why bother with a glass, Shell, just suck on the bottle,” was accompanied by a cruel sneer as he stood appraising the human piece of wreckage. Her daily over indulgence had placed its mark in the pudgy look of her face. Her eyes were red stained holes in dark circles standing out in her fairness. Deprivation from fresh air and sunlight had changed her complexion to a pasty shade that reminded him of raw pizza dough. When had she stopped looking human? he wondered. She’d been such a beautiful girl, friendly, outgoing, and smiling all the time. Once everybody had loved Shelia Connors—now she’d added the Beechen to the end and they hid from her.

He remembered how James Beechen had stood in the old man’s study and begged. He couldn’t take it. Things had been bad before, James admitted. “I’ve tried my best. You know that Raymond, but since Andrea’s murder my wife has reverted back to the alcoholic. She is drunk from morning to night. I can’t bring her out in public and I’m afraid to leave her alone. I just can’t cope anymore. I’m leaving for London within the hour,” James had said. “She’s your daughter, Raymond, and this is your problem.”

He groaned as he continued to watch the woman’s pathetic movements as she attempted to locate her mouth with the wiggling glass.

Sure, but where in hell do you hide a well-known woman who is bound to make a public spectacle of herself? The old man wouldn’t hear about locking her away in a sanitarium. Wouldn’t be smart anyway, he thought. Some low paid working slob would line his pockets by selling the knowledge to the tabloids.

“Why?” Shelia started to sniffle. “Why was Andy cut up like that? Killing her was cruel enough but—”

“A drug crazed sicko. You have to put it out of your mind.”

“No! No! No!” Shelia threw her head side to side as she howled. “I know why she was murdered. Oh God, I know, I know, Andrea told me years ago…And that bastard! That bastard wasn’t a horny kid.”

“Stop the nonsense! Shelia. Andrea’s death was no conspiracy. The murderer was a drug addict she took home herself and the sick bastard decided to have a little fun.”

She wasn’t following his words. “I know about them…” The sentence blurred into sobs. “Andy told me—told me everything. I couldn’t allow myself to believe her. Oh Christ! I’m gonna puke.” She tried to struggle up.

Quickly he was at her side and pulled her to the edge of the safety railing. As she leaned out over the water her greasy strings of hair fell to the sides exposing an unwashed neck. It galled him to see what a slob she’d become.

She’s been trying to kill herself for years. Why should everyone suffer because of her? She’s so numb she’ll feel nothing. She wants to die…why not help her?

He stepped back and gripped the whiskey bottle. His hand was the only part of him not shivering. Don’t let her look up. Oh God, if she looks up at me I won’t be able to—

She turned her face towards him and gagged his name. The smell of her vomit assaulted his nostrils.

“I’m sorry, Shell, so sorry but there’s no other way.” He closed his eyes as he smashed the bottle down on her head. Booze and broken glass showered his arm. He shoved her over the side even as tears filled his eyes. He couldn’t watch but he listened for the splash as her body hit the water. Loud sobs sprang from his throat; he sunk to his knees clutching his stomach while a violent trembling overtook him.