He liked the Fishes

He liked the Fishes

At the front of our Beneteau, my wife lounges across the teak deck. If she knew what I knew about Fabian, she wouldn’t have come. She’s kept her figure. She stretches her lean tanned legs against the stanchions. Great looking, but no class – Fabian was the hired help.

I have the Rohypnol tablets hidden in my toiletry bag. Goodness knows why Tony had them. I didn’t ask. I would drug her and then weigh her down with the new anchor. There would be a scandal. Questions will be asked, but what could they prove?

There was no rush; I planned to do the deed after Paxos. A spot of sailing first; then maybe some fishing. To be fair, she had it coming.

******

My husband weighs more than I expected. He is dead weight, literally. He’s a slob. It is hard to manoeuvre him to the edge of the boat. It should have been easy, but no, I had to winch him up the staircase. Who would believe I could use a winch – I can’t sail, can I?

I tie my husband’s body to the new anchor and then heave him over the side. The current drags him behind. Then I lift the anchor over the edge and it takes my husband to the bottom. Deep ultramarine. He liked the fishes; he is with them now.

I will raise the alarm tomorrow; it will give me a chance to destroy the evidence. Deck scrubbed, barbiturates over the side and then I’ll motor away from the area. I’ll make a distress call. SOS, my husband is missing, and I can’t sail. Could someone rescue me?

They’ll search the boat. But they won’t find anything. Will they?