Chris Rogers, Author

Making Waves by Roger Paulding

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"Get out there. Bid on the darned boat," Fred X. Keefer hammered his desk top. "Pay any amount. Be sure no one outbids you!"

Sam Dooley, loyal bean counter, saluted his boss and scurried out of the office, his "Yessir," hanging in the air like a piece of dry jerky.

Fred X. needed that yacht. Mildred's body was on it. The boat was his wife's tomb. The way he'd master-minded this scheme, a closet was the only coffin she'd ever enjoy.

Three weeks earlier, he and Mildred had gone out to the three-mile marker for a little fishing. Milly mostly lounged on the deck, sunning in a bikini that cut into her plump thighs. "Bring me another gin and T," she ordered as Fred X. tossed the anchor into the placid water, the sea calm and lonely as an old widow.

"Right away, hon."

"Tell me, Freddie." Mildred's words slurred on her tongue. "How old was that bimbo—twenty?"

Fred X. gave her drink an extra flourish with the swizzle stick and handed it over.

" Berry’s history, Sweety." He pulled an airline ticket from his shirt pocket. "Look here, first class, Houston to Paris, just for you. You'll go ahead, and as soon as my deal with AQT is completed, I'll join you for our second honeymoon."

Mildred giggled. "Freddie-boy, you really know how to treat a girl nice."

She patted his abs and praised him for keeping himself in shape. She was a little jealous of his ability to do so. No matter how much she swam, and he insisted she accompany him in the pool every morning, doing those long boring laps, she couldn't get rid of the nasty cellulite on her legs. Went with being forty, her friends assured her. Nothing could be done about it.

A few swallows later, Fred looked at her drink. "Need me to freshen it up a little?"

"I know what you're up to, Freddie-boy." Mildred intentionally mangled her words. "You just want to dret me grunk so you can have your way with me."

" And why not? I don't know a prettier girl anywhere."

Paris with Mildred? he asked himself. With that tired stuff of hers? What a laugh.

He carried her drink downstairs. After mixing it, he slipped a non-detectable mickey into the tonic. He methodically swished it, waited for the drops to blend, then carried it back to the upper deck, singing about his funny valentine.

"Let me just fix myself up a little," Mildred slurred. She hefted her bulk from the chair and staggered toward the head, her drink splashing as she went. "Feel a dittle lizzy."

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