So Lush, So Deadly

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Raphael Petrocelli, at the wheel of Nefertiti III, a forty-four-foot fiberglass motor yacht, did his best to ignore the noises coming up from below. It was apparently quite a party. Dotty De Rham, the owner’s wife, was high as a kite on gin. She referred to what she drank as martinis, but Petrocelli-captain, navigator, odd-job man-had carried enough of those drinks to know that they had only two ingredients, ice cubes and Beefeater.

You couldn’t call her subdued at the best of times, but after a dozen so-called martinis she was as unpredictable as a drop of fat on a hot skillet. Anything she took it into her head to do she did. Petrocelli himself was sipping a weak gin and tonic in self-defense. He knew very well that this was not a good idea. It was against his principles to drink with a fifty-thousand-dollar boat in his charge. But after all. He had a straight southerly heading, the night was clear with a three-quarter moon, and the Atlantic was as still as it ever gets. What could happen?

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