Chris Rogers, Author

Making Waves by Roger Paulding

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Minutes after she passed out, he stashed her in the cabin closet. He sang about it being such a beautiful day while he washed her glass, then went further below, chopped a hole in the hull and abandoned ship.

Only little fishes to keep Mildred company, Fred thought as he swam to shore, grateful that those long boring laps in his home pool had finally paid off.

In a day or two, he'd report the craft stolen. Tell his insurance company that drug dealers must have absconded with it. Fred's plans didn't involve sharing his fortune or the European trip with Mildred. The woman he flew to Paris was young, sexy Berry. Once in Paris, Berry sent postcards to Mildred's friends. No message. Just scrawled on the bottom: "Having a good time."

Until Berry came along, Mildred had acted as if their marriage was made in heaven. Sometimes he thought she believed it. Well, it had been for about three months.

Anyone asking about her would be told she was abroad and would probably spread the word about how lucky the old gal was to have Fred X. No one would suspect Milly was dead.

The insurance company had a ninety-eight percent recovery rate on sunken craft, but Fred knew that. A week later, they discovered his boat. After sending a diver down to check out the damaged hull, they posted the craft for sale. Someone would purchase it at a ridiculously low price then pay a salvage company to bring it up and restore it. That was Fred X.'s opportunity to keep it out of the hands of the police, just in case.

He told his friends he might float the old wreck, but he would just never get around to it. Let it rest in the murky deeps. Maybe he'd drop a bevy of breeding barracuda into the bay to make sure not a tidbit of Mildred's wrinkled cadaver surfaced.

Fred X. looked again at the postcard he'd received in the morning mail. Paris postmark. "Dear Fred, wish you were here. Mildred." Perfect forgery. Except Berry had scratched through his wife's name and signed Berry. Dumb thing for her to do, but her brain wasn't the reason he kept her around.

Wearing a salt and pepper wig and dressed in matronly clothes, Berry had flown to Paris, traveling under Mildred's name. Once Fred joined her, he would stage Mildred's death. Somewhere that wouldn't require providing a body. Like if she skied off the Matterhorn. He could point to a mile-deep chasm and say between tears, "She's down there! What a brave sport she was! Determined to ski despite her arthritis!"

And if Berry got too sassy, he might see to it there really was a body down in the snow and ice, so far below not even a helicopter could recover it.

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