Pearler

 

Vi wanted a pearl.

As Eric gunned the ‘cruiser along the open road north of Carnarvon, she decided that she'd indulge herself when they reached Broome. If the marriage survived that far.

Some keshi ear rings maybe, or a blister pearl ring. A strand was out of the question, of course, but her personal savings might just stretch to one cultured South Sea pearl set on a gold band. After fifteen weeks, six days and – Vi glanced at her watch – seven hours caravanning with Eric she deserved a treat.

            The lines etched in her weathered face deepened as her husband of 35 years slapped the radio console with the callused flat of his hand. She felt something small and hard, like the seed of a pearl itself, irritate the back of her throat as loud hillbilly music suddenly blared from twin speakers to fill the cab.

            ‘Think I'll buy myself a pearl pendant when we get to Broome,' she hollered above the strains of the banjo duel from Deliverance. She didn't glance at Eric. Didn't dare take her eyes off the road.  

            But he heard. Oh, he heard!

‘Ya think that's wise?' he shouted back, settling round-shouldered over the steering wheel as the ‘cruiser swallowed up the long road ahead of them. ‘Given the state of your neck?'

It was then that Vi knew.

She'd kill him.

*   *   *

‘Left hand down hard. Harder! Now BACK…'

Vi, one lean brown arm gesturing wildly, the other hugging a coconut to her chest, was directing Eric's attempt to reverse their de-luxe caravan into the bay they'd been allocated at Cable Beach.

He'd already clipped a coconut palm with the bull bar.

She'd known he'd find it hard, given his lack of height and his frozen left shoulder. But then it had been his idea to do all the driving.

‘Driving's a man's job,' he'd said with finality, ignoring her unblemished 38 year driving record, when she'd offered to take the wheel.

He'd been just as insistent about selling their Apollo Bay unit to finance their back to nature, once in a lifetime holiday.

And about needing a thirty-five foot caravan (with shower, toilet and optional extras as standard) to do it in style.

And about buying a top of the range Landcruiser with power assist trailer brakes to pull it.

A sigh escaped as the dust-caked vehicle kangaroo hopped. And stalled.

Then came Eric's frustrated bellow. ‘Chrissakes stand where I can see you, woman!'

Vi felt her cheeks flush crimson. And she knew it had nothing to do with the northern sun.

The flush deepened as she became aware of a small crowd gathering under a frangipani tree outside the communal laundry.

‘Let's skip the camel ride…' she heard one grating wit hoot, ‘…this is more entertaining.'

The ‘cruiser roared to life again. Eric ran it forwards, almost nudging the edge of the group of onlookers, then tortured the gears into reverse.

Vi's mouth felt suddenly dry. The hard little lump in her throat was back. It felt like a 20mm sphere of nacre.

She tried to speak.

‘Down HARD on the left, then back…'

But no sound came out.

She swallowed, and began again.

‘Down HARD on the left….'

Too late.

Vi winced as Eric's foot slipped off the brake. On to the accelerator.

There was a sickening squeal as tyres spun on slick, manicured grass. Then bit in. Hard!

The crowd gasped.

A split-second later Vi watched in horror as Eric rammed their executive dream home into the rear of a low-profile pop-top.

‘Jeee-sus,' she heard someone say in a voice strangely like her own.

Her legs seemed separate from her body as she ran to check that no-one was injured.

Eric, struggling his short bulk free of the steering wheel, was gawping like a stranded koi as she shot past with the coconut tucked under one arm.

 ‘You remember to pay that insurance renewal?' His tone was querulous. Like a small, corpulent child, anxious to defer blame.

Vi ignored him.

‘Belongs to the Smythe-Fitzwillies.' She recognised the grating chirrup of the hoot owl. ‘Or rather, did.' She could have done without that qualification. ‘They're down the beach. Waiting for sunset.'

‘Thanks,' she managed, digging her nails into her palms.

Then, on impulse, she raised the coconut. And hurled it at Eric.

It was spiralling through the air towards the back of his head when she heard the hoot owl snap at his wife. ‘I told you to bring the video camera!'

*   *   *

Howard and Marcia (‘call me Marce, I insist') Smythe-Fitzwillie were remarkably gracious, under the circumstances.

The circumstances being that the rear third of their tiny pop-top had been destroyed by Vi and Eric's reinforced back end.

‘By Jove, you did a jolly good job!' Howard flashed a dazzling, white smile and spun on equally dazzling canvas deck shoes to face Eric.

Vi watched as her husband shifted uneasily from one steel-capped boot to the other. His porcine neck appeared to be trying to swallow his head.

‘But no harm! No harm! We were planning to rid ourselves of the little devil anyway.' Silver haired Howard was clapping Eric on the back now. He spun to face Marcia and smiled ruefully. ‘So, what says you, Marce? Fancy a few nights in a suite.'

The word whooshed out of him. At which point Marcia snorted and wriggled on the spot as though trying to shed her clothes then and there. At the same time her dark-rimmed eyes widened, and her tongue began flicking in and out between her barely parted, pearl white teeth.

Howard appeared bemused. ‘Shall I take that as a ‘yes'?'

Vi, fortified by a double-strength gin and tonic, watched the couple's performance with detached amazement.

For a start, the Smythe-Fitzwillie's choice of clothing astounded her. Howard's tall, broad-shouldered physique was clothed in a loose fitting tee shirt and Bermuda shorts. Tall, tanned, fashionably thin Marcia with her frizz of dark hair was suited identically, but in a figure-hugging style. Both in a colour Vi could only describe as electric white.

‘They're dressed like a pair of yachties,' she remarked to Eric over a cup o'soup after the luminous Smythe-Fitzwillie's had left them their mobile telephone number and headed into town to find a suite. ‘How in heaven do they manage to look so pristine?' She was still coming to grips with the spectacular red pindan dirt that had given her one decent frock a burnt sienna tinge.

Eric was barely listening. He was grappling with a dilemma of his own.

‘They're obviously monied.' He sucked long and noisily on his soup. ‘What the blazes are they doing in a fourteen foot pop-top?'

He belched and shoved his dirty mug at Vi.

She grimaced, then found her lips twitching as Eric turned away from her.

A lump the size of a small coconut had risen on the back of his head.

*   *   *

Eric was anxious to visit the new reptile attraction. To see the crocs. It stood to reason, Vi told herself, given his obsession with Steve ‘The Crocodile Hunter' Irwin. Before that, it'd been Crocodile Dundee. And before him, the Leyland Brothers.

They walked the distance because Eric had insisted on putting the ‘cruiser in for a service, ‘to check the brakes.'

They'd judged their arrival to coincide with feeding time. Eric, resplendent in a khaki jacket, safari vest and matching trousers, could barely contain his excitement.

‘Weather warming up like this they'll be lively,' he grinned as he bounced along the footpath beside her. He threw a few air punches, rubbed his frozen shoulder and snarled. ‘Eat ya heart out, Stevie boy.'

Vi frowned. She felt the pearl seed form again at the back of her throat, but fought it.

Then she glanced across to a palm-sheltered grove on the opposite side of the street. What she saw made her irritation evaporate.

Pearl Emporium the sign read. It stood above a glass-fronted showroom surrounded by golden hibiscus and frangipani.

‘Look Eric,' she indicated across the street. Her hushed tone was reverent. ‘Pearl showroom. There.'

But shadow-boxing Eric barely heard. He was still wrestling the imaginary crocs swimming in his head.

‘Wassat?' he eventually acknowledged.

‘Nothing,' Vi replied, lengthening stride to increase the distance between them.

*   *   *

 The guide at the reptile park had a dead chicken on the end of a rope. The big crowd jostled for position outside the enclosure around the still, green water as he stood on an elevated platform and swung the carcase out.

            ‘Ooo-aaagh,' the cry went up from the crowd as a ten-meter male croc appeared from nowhere and launched itself out of the mire. Its big jaws snapped shut on the dead bird and yanked it back into the water.

‘How'd he do that?' an American tourist demanded.

‘It's all in the timing,' the guide replied. ‘Timing is everything.'

Eric turned to Vi. His beady eyes were glittering yellow with delight. ‘Grab a picture next time he comes up.'

Vi fidgeted in her holdall, eventually extracting an aged SLR camera.

‘Move to the left Eric, now back, back…'

Eric, for once willing to oblige, had his back hard-pressed against the mesh enclosure.

‘Oi!' It was the guide. His tanned face creased in a good-natured but warning smile. ‘Would you move back from the fence there please.' He was gesturing at Eric, waving him away. ‘These boys can get mighty stroppy if you get too near their territory.'

‘Thanks,' Vi mouthed at the guide. She flashed him a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Then, as nonchalantly as she could muster. ‘Many crocs still in the wild hereabouts?'

‘Shot a six metre male up the beach just a few months back,' the guide supplied. ‘It's the mangrove swamps further north you've gotta watch. Used to be full of crocs, even around here, until they were hunted out. But now they're protected they're moving back, reclaiming their territory.'

Vi managed to bite back the suggestion that she and Eric head north as soon as the ‘cruiser was back in action.

She knew she mustn't rush.

Mustn't panic.

Like the good looking young man said, timing was everything.

Any further thoughts were interrupted by a throaty greeting across the convalescent crocodile pens.

            ‘Well, hello-o!'

Eric was first to spot the Smythe-Fitzwillies.

‘It's Marce. And Howard. Cooooo-eeee!' he shouted in reply.

Marce wriggled her way through the crowd towards them. She was wearing a tight-fitting white strapless dress with a shirred bodice and looked, to Vi, like a brown snake struggling to shed its skin.

‘What utter luck!' Marce enthused. She air-kissed Vi, then stooped to peck a beaming Eric on his bald pate.

But then Howard was gripping Vi's hands tight in his big, warm, brown clamps.

‘We were only talking about you this morning.' His treacle brown eyes flitted from Vi to Eric. ‘We're joining a fishing charter up Dampier Creek day after tomorrow. There're some seats spare, if you two'd like to join us.'

Vi giggled. ‘This old bird's strictly terrestrial,' she lied. She'd been a keen sailor before her marriage. A day on the water held a lot of appeal.

But an Eric-free day held more. ‘Eric would adore to go, wouldn't you pet?

Eric needed no second bidding. His eyes were already trawling Marcia's cleavage.

‘Super! Utterly super!' Marcia clapped her hands together and flashed a dazzling smile.

It was then that Vi noticed.

Her pearl white teeth were false.

*   *   *

Eric was hell-bent on visiting the bird observatory. At dawn.

Vi sat resignedly in the passenger seat, clutching the thermos, as they sped out along the bitumen road through the hobby farm belt on the outskirts of town.

‘Siberian waders should be in if we're lucky.' Eric had his best binoculars around his neck and Gould's Pocket Guide to Passerines and Non-Passerines swelling his pocket. ‘We should see stilts, cormorants, pelicans, maybe a sea eagle…'

Vi found herself tuning out.

‘You've missed the bloody turn-off woman!' Eric turned to face her as he slung the ‘cruiser into the gravel and did a swift U-turn. His eyes glittered in the half-light, his face twisted in sarcasm. ‘Keep your mind on the road can't you; you're supposed to be navigating!'

They carried on in chilly silence, eventually finding the turn-off and heading out along red dirt towards the observatory.

Vi felt her buttocks contract as they hit the corrugations.

And Eric's dentures began to rattle.

In time with her own.

*   *   *

Vi woke with an unfamiliar sense of calm the day of the fishing charter. Eric – and his extensive collection of tackle – had been gone since daylight. One whole day of freedom stretched ahead of her.

She was at the Pearl Emporium as it opened. But she paused to savour the creamy sweet scent of frangipani before pushing open the door.

Row upon row of glass cabinets stretched before her, each bearing artfully displayed examples of lustrous pearls.

Their brilliance made Vi catch her breath. She turned, uncertain where to start.

‘Like some help?' a young female assistant looked up from a tray of ear-rings at the business end of the showroom.

‘I'm fine, for now. Thanks.' Vi smiled. The girl had a halo of soft, golden curls, like a Botticelli angel.

‘If you do need any help, just ask.' The girl returned the smile and bent her head again to her tray.

Vi spent a blissful hour admiring the displays. There were white and silver South Sea pearls along with rare and exotic colours such as champagne, rose, cognac and peach.

It was on her third lap that she paused in front of a piece of jewellery that stood out from the rest. She beckoned to the assistant. ‘Perhaps you can tell me a little more about this…'

For all her youth, the girl proved a knowledgeable guide.

‘It's the lustre that's important,' she told Vi, bringing out the champagne coloured teardop set on a shining gold band. ‘If a pearl has good lustre, any number of tiny flaws and marks will go unnoticed.'

‘A bit like people I expect,' Vi laughed, fingering the exquisite gem. ‘Or a marriage,' she added, somewhat ruefully.

The girl summoned a sympathetic smile, then continued.

‘See.' She turned the tear-shaped gem in her hand and held it to the light.

Vi had to put on her reading glasses to see the tiny flaw the girl indicated. It seemed insignificant weighed against the pale gold beauty of the pearl.

The Botticelli angel smiled knowingly as she held out the piece of jewellery. ‘Perhaps you'd like to try it on?'

Vi had to undo the top three buttons of her sensible shirt with its high collar to try on the pendant. It sat against the creped folds of her neck, glowing as though it possessed a secret, inner life.

She reached one hand up and fingered the cool, smooth surface. The jewel seemed to pulse and glow, like a living thing, potent and beautiful.

Vi caught her reflection in the mirror and suddenly coloured.

‘You must think me ridiculous.' She fumbled with the pendant. ‘A silly old woman, my age.' The catch refused to budge.

‘Not at all,' the girl wisely replied. ‘You obviously have a keen eye for beauty. And as I said, if a pearl's lustre is good…'

‘How much?' Vi countered.

The girl told her.

It was $500 more than she'd budgeted.

On a piece of jewellery, when it came down to it.

A frippary.

A silly indulgence.

What on earth would Eric say?

An image of Eric on his $400 fishing charter with his expensive collection of hooks, lines and sinkers suddenly flashed before her.

‘My husband will kill me. But I'll take it,' she said, whipping her Visa card from her holdall and slapping it on the counter in front of the startled assistant. ‘I'll take it. And I'll wear it!'

The girl smiled as she completed the transaction.

‘You've made an excellent choice,' she said sagely, then added a little more wistfully. ‘I've had my eye on that one myself.'

*   *   *

The pearl, safely hidden beneath the sensible high collar that was the trademark of all Vi's equally sensible shirts, pulsed against the folds of her throat as she left the showroom.

She felt liberated. Wild! It was the first impulsive thing she'd done in months. No, years!

Hell, she admitted to herself – decades.

She walked along the footpath, some distance behind a string of camels padding home from their morning session along the beach. Behind the string ran an attendant with a dustpan and brush, conscientiously stooping to clean up camel dung from the walkway.

Vi smiled and felt her pearl resting under her cotton shirt as she watched him. She felt like a million dollars!

She glanced at her watch. Five hours of freedom left.

*   *   *

Vi caught the bus to Chinatown and wandered through shanty alleys where corrugated white buildings housed pearls and antiques –  side by side with tie-dyed surf gear.

She found her way down to Streeters Jetty and walked tall out over the mud flats as mist rolled across the mangroves. She imagined sail-driven luggers riding the tide in to ply their trade.

At Town Beach she spent twenty minutes watching tiny hermit crabs slowly eat their way through a beached fish. The quick movers in the colony scuttled for safety as she scooped a handful to study their myriad colours in a dozen different types of shell.

She felt the pulse at her throat quicken as she read a sign erected on the foreshore.WARNING! it read. A CROCODILE HAS BEEN SIGHTED IN THIS AREA. PLEASE TAKE CARE.

At the shell museum she studied beautiful but deadly cone shells in glass cabinets.

‘How do these things work?' she inquired of an English tourist engrossed in a thick copy of Australia's Fatal Fauna.

‘They shoot out a spear, lovey.' The woman was only too happy to supply every detail. ‘And inject their prey with a neurotoxin. Lethal, they are.' Her eyes grew wide. ‘And there's no antivene.'

‘Deadly.' Vi smiled.

‘But what isn't deadly in your country lovey, that's what I want to know.' The woman was obviously an expert. ‘You've got your sharks, and your crocodiles, your sea snakes and your stingers, your blue-ringed octopus, your box jellyfish…….' She appeared to be enjoying her appreciative audience. ‘Not to mention your tides! Specially ‘round here.'

Vi maintained her composure while the woman drew breath.

‘Tell me more about the tides,' she prompted.

‘Well just north of here the tide comes in faster than a man can run. Be nasty to be caught in that lovey wouldn't it?' The woman laughed. ‘At our age.'

A mental picture of Eric jogging in steel-capped slow motion flashed before Vi's eyes.

The woman was still laughing. A laugh sharp as broken glass.

*   *   *

Vi caught the bus to a hotel overlooking Roebuck Bay and sipped a cool white wine with lunch of chilli mussels and pasta. It was a rare treat. Eric couldn't eat chilli, so she didn't. It burnt his lips.

Turning to take a quick glance at her fellow patrons, she thought she saw a familiar figure.

But it couldn't be.

She craned her neck, and squinted. ‘That you, Howard?'

Howard Smythe-Fitzwillie blanched under his tan. But he recovered quickly, winked and raised one finger to his lips.

‘Mum's the word,' he implored, slipping into the seat beside Vi.

The move made her sit bolt upright.

‘Explain?'

Howard forced a guilty grin. ‘Truth is I hate all the blood and gore that goes with fishing. So I pleaded a migraine.' He leaned closer, and lowered his voice.  ‘Besides, it's nice to have some space sometimes. Travelling with Marce can get a little intense.'

After a long, late, lazy lunch, Vi made her way to the Hovercraft terminal and got the last window seat on a sunset champagne flight across the bay. She settled back as the craft slowed for a pod of leaping dolphins, then screamed with excitement as it accelerated and spun out across the flats.

*   *   *

‘You're late!'

Eric had neglected to take his key. He'd been back since mid-afternoon. He was perched forlornly on the step of the caravan, his empty fishing bucket beside him.

‘Fish for dinner?' Vi looked pointedly at the empty bucket.

‘Only if you're buying.' Eric looked more downcast than ever. ‘Had a threadfin salmon. Hooked him!' He stretched his arms wide, then slumped and shook his head. ‘Line snapped just as I was about to reel the bastard in.'

Eric's paunchy face sagged like a deflated balloon.

‘And I had to fork out for Marce's share of the trip.' He smiled ruefully. ‘Forgot her cheque book.'

‘What about Howard?' Vi was pleased how normal her question seemed.

‘Had a migraine, poor bugger.' Eric stood up and followed her inside. ‘Do you know that bloke's a woman specialist.'

Vi paused. ‘Explain?'

Eric was packing away his knives. ‘He's a period doctor.'

Vi thought for a moment. ‘Do you mean a periodontist?'

‘Yeah.' He cursed as he nicked his thumb and sucked on it. ‘Something to do with oral bejesus or some such.'

Eric's florid complexion flushed deeper.

He'd not been comfortable discussing matters sexual with Vi. 

Not for a long time.

Vi smiled. So Howard was a periodontist. That at least explained the unnaturally white condition of the Smythe-Fitzwillie's teeth.

*   *   *

They ordered fish and chips at a little outdoor café on the wharf. Eric sucked noisily on the neck of a stubbie while the meal was prepared. Vi sipped chilled white wine.

She'd changed into her one good frock – again with a sensible, high collar, against the heat. And how glad she was of the choice now.

She played one hand across her throat and secretly fingered her pearl as Eric, ignoring her, trailed his eyes around the couples seated at the tables around them.

He grimaced as one couple, with a brace of noisy youngsters, battled to distribute garlic bread with any sort of order.

But then Eric had never had much patience with children.

‘What do you want with a pack of brats, woman?'  That was how he'd announced to her that he'd decided they didn't want children. Vi remembered the moment well. It was the first time she'd felt the tight swelling in her throat, the gnawing pain that buying today's pearl seemed to have assuaged.

Then, as it happened, he'd been unable to father a child anyway.

His long-standing run of casual affairs was proof enough of that.

Eric loved getting back to nature. Bird watching was his passion! And not just the feathered kind.

Vi's irritation with Eric had grown over the years. Layer upon layer.

Like nacre slowly swelling into a cool, hard core.

Like pearl.

Except this creation wasn't beautiful.

It was ugly.

Vi winced as Eric belched.

Damned ugly!

            She took another sip of wine, and began to plot. Stone fish. Cone shells. Crocs. Tides. Sharks. Snakes. Stingers.

            She took a bigger sip. Then a gulp. The list was endless. She'd send Eric back to nature, allright.

But timing was everything.

She'd have to be careful.

            And then, as it happened, the matter was taken entirely out of her hands.

            ‘Oh jolly Jove! Not again!' It was Howard, wending his way through the tables, with Marce shuffling her high heels behind him. ‘We were just getting a take-away, and spotted you.'

            He stooped to kiss Vi, and pumped the hand Eric offered.

            ‘Got your head back on?' Eric didn't stand up.

            ‘My? Oh!' Howard tapped his temple. ‘Yes, thanks to a panadeine forte and a good lie down.'

            Vi watched Howard's face. No trace of guilt.

            She turned her attention to Marcia, who was unusually quiet.

            Like a time bomb.

            ‘So, the fish were too slick,' she said, by way of conversation.

            ‘Yes,' Marcia fluttered her eyelash extensions. ‘But at least I got back in time to do a little serious shopping.'

            She raised her glittering, ring-encrusted hand and dragged it across the vast expanse of tanned, bare skin revealed by her strapless dress.

            Vi's gaze distractedly followed the hand.

Then she let out an involuntary cry.

            Against Marcia's bronzed throat glowed a luminous white oval.            

‘You bought yourself a pearl!' Vi gasped.

            She drained the last of her wine, dragged out her reading glasses, and made a pretence of admiring the gem.

            The pendant was uncannily similar to her own.

            Except that Marcia's pearl was white.

It was flawless.

            And it was bigger.

            Much bigger.

*   *   *

Walkers found the remains of a woman's body tied to a pylon under a disused jetty.

Hermit crabs had rendered the corpse unrecognisable. But the coroner estimated she'd been there at least three days.

The body was naked.  

Except for a champagne pearl pendant on a gold band.

Tight around the neck.

Which was just as well, because it proved impossible to identify the corpse from dental records.

The skull was missing its upper and lower dentures.

*   *   *

The police picked up Eric at a roadblock not far from Tunnel Creek.

‘We're concerned about the whereabouts of your wife, Mr Geeson,' the burly sergeant said.

‘What's there to be concerned about!' Eric snapped. ‘The cow left me in Broome.'

‘I think you'd better come with us.' Two constables had already extracted Eric from the ‘cruiser and were frogmarching him towards a paddy wagon. ‘A body's been found.'

The sergeant paused.

‘I regret to have to inform you that the tentative identification puts it as being your good wife.'

He cleared his throat before continuing.

‘Eric Winston Geeson, I am arresting you for the murder of Virginia Jean Geeson. You have the right to remain silent……'

*   *   *

Jessamine Harcourt, chief assistant at the Pearl Emporium, was a pivotal witness at Eric's trial.

‘Yes, I distinctly remember that pearl.' Her serious eyes grew round as she accepted a forensic bag containing the pearl she'd sold Vi. ‘I remember it particularly, because I'd been saving to buy it myself.'

She peered more closely. ‘Yes. It had an almost imperceptible flaw across the lower left back.'

A member of the prosecuting team rushed forwards and handed the judge and jurors copies of a blown-up photograph. The tiny imperfection was clearly visible.

‘I pointed it out to the customer, and I told her if a pearl has good lustre then small flaws like this go unnoticed.' Miss Harcourt went on. ‘She made some remark about it being a bit like people. Or marriage.'

The prosecuting lawyer let the observation settle on the jury before prompting. ‘Is there anything else about the buyer that you particularly remember.'

‘Well, there was one r-remark…' Jessamine Harcourt stammered. ‘But I don't know if….'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, like I said I'd almost saved enough to buy this pearl see, when the lady came in.' The girl dabbed at her eyes with a pink tissue, and took a long, sobbing breath. ‘Lovely she was, sort of unaffected. I was tempted to try to persuade her to buy something else, but she seemed so set.'

There was a short silence while the girl regained her composure. She blew her nose, then turned to face the judge.

‘I shall never, never forget what she said when she decided to buy. My husband will kill me, she said.' The principal witness tilted her chin at the jury, and repeated, clearly and slowly. ‘My husband will kill me.'

‘Hrrmmph, er, Miss Er….' The judge scrabbled for a piece of paper. ‘Miss Harcourt. Thank you. Your evidence has been most…..er…..enlightening.'

But Jess Harcourt hadn't finished. Not quite.

 ‘I was just wondering, Your Highness, after the trial, does evidence like this go into the police auction?'

*   *   *

Howard and Vi, who by then had assumed the identities Charles and Ginny Chadwick, were sailing off Lombok when they heard about Eric's arrest.

The move north had seemed sensible, as had the name changes, given the string of fraud convictions that had been about to catch up with Howard Smythe-Fitzwillie, not his real name.

And Vi had always fancied doing something a little more adventurous than her mother had managed with the perilous Virginia.

She sipped on a lime juice and watched Charles capably scale the mast. He moved with the fluid grace of a natural sailor, a grace she'd identified at their first meeting.

The offer to crew this clipper into international waters had come just at the right time.

But then Vi always knew that timing was everything.

And Howard – or Charles - was one clever cookie. Even if the nearest he'd ever come to being a periodontist was a short stint as a technician in a denture clinic.

After all, it had been his idea to remove Marcia's dentures after tying her to that pylon. On a rapidly rising spring tide.

And Vi's to swap pearls.

They'd both agreed that there was absolutely nothing to be gained by leaving one shred of traceable evidence at the scene.

Nor in wasting the spoils.

‘Ahoy, there! Fancy helping trim the mainsail?'

Vi tilted her gaze skywards as Howard called down to her.

‘Coming,' she squinted into the eye of the sun.

She began climbing the mast towards him.

He watched her face split in a familiar, reptilian grin.

That matched the dazzling – if ostentatious – white pearl, throbbing against the rapidly rising pulse in her sun-bronzed throat.

© Cheryl Rogers 2003

Special commendation Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2004

Short-listed Australian Women's Weekly short story comp. 2004