Chapter Five
Juliette’s first thought was to wonder if anyone else had the combination to the safe in Warren’s room.
Her second thought was somewhere in the neighborhood of “Oh, shit.” And it wasn’t until a much belated third thought that it occurred to her to wonder if Warren might actually need help.
Luckily not everyone else on board was as goal-oriented as she was, as Clayton Westminster was sprinting past her and leaping onto the stage.
“Mr. Ellingham? Mr. Ellingham!” he called, his voice barely audible through the wireless microphone still trapped under Warren’s body. He rolled Warren over, checking his pulse and his airway.
“Is there anyone who can help?” cried June Piedmont, gone ashy and shaken from the opposite side of the stage.
She gripped her husband’s arm for dear life.
“A medic, or a lifeguard? Does he need a glass of water? Who has smelling salts? Tell the captain to set course back for the docks immediately!”
“I think he’s had a heart attack,” Clayton said. “I’ll start compressions, someone bring the defibrillator!”
“A defibrillator!” June echoed, her voice shrill. “Bring the man a defibrillator! Is there someone with one of those? Oh god, Robert, I’m feeling faint.”
“Calm down, Junie, calm down,” Robert said, an edge to his voice.
“What can we do?” asked Kennedy, appearing beside Juliette with Veeta close behind.
Juliette looked to where Clayton had begun compressions on Warren while the band members sang an a cappella version of “Stayin’ Alive” because they’d heard it was the correct tempo to perform CPR.
But Warren’s body was far too still, his legs splayed out.
Warren’s body. She’d already started thinking of him in abstract terms. This wasn’t good.
“Doctor,” Juliette croaked, turning toward the audience. “There’s got to be a doctor among all these country clubbers. Is anyone here a doctor?”
“A doctor, yes!” June Piedmont called, fanning herself. “Where is George? Did George come tonight?”
“I’m here,” called a man toward the back. He jerked his thumb at another man standing beside him. “And so is Stanley. But I’m a gynecologist.”
“And I’m a podiatrist,” the other man said apologetically.
“Any … regular doctors?” Juliette called out. “Preferably of the heart, but we’ll take any other body parts that aren’t vaginas or feet.”
The crowd remained unhelpfully silent, and Juliette gave a sigh.
“Fine, the fetish doctors win it,” she said. “Foot doctor, you’re up.”
The man pushed his way toward the stage as one of the boat crew brought out the defibrillator.
The country club podiatrist removed the small plastic covering, pulling out two floppy plastic rectangles with cords attached to the machine and pulling Warren’s shirt open to apply the paddles under his arm and high up on his chest. He pushed the power button on the front, sweeping his hands out dramatically.
“No one touch the body,” he declared authoritatively. “You could be shocked along with him if you do.”
Juliette could see the very same warning in bold red letters on the front of the machine from where she was standing, but she would let the podiatrist have his moment if it meant reviving Warren.
Because the longer this scene went on, the more horrifyingly real it became.
Juliette needed Warren to be okay, and the longer he lay there motionless, the less likely that became.
This was so much worse than she could have imagined.
The machine gave several dramatic beeps, and the entire party held its breath as the boat headed back for land at full speed.
The beeping stopped, and a robotic feminine voice came through the speakers on the machine.
“Low battery. Recharge and replace paddles.”
“What does that mean?” June Piedmont cried out. “Oh, Robert, what do we do??”
She swooned into her husband’s arms and he gave a shout, the gynecologist swiftly coming to her aid. The country club set were really dropping like flies. They took her to a nearby couch, the staff rushing in with ice water and cool towels to bring the hysterical woman back to earth.
“This machine wasn’t properly serviced,” said Clayton, glaring accusatorily at the steward who brought it.
“I … I don’t know what happened,” said the steward, sensing a lawsuit on his hands. “It should have been included in the last round of inspections. I only do what the captain tells me.”
“Then get the captain in here,” Clayton demanded.
Juliette had to admire a man who took charge of a situation, even if this one was already well out of hand.
And still Warren simply lay there, face contorted, hand in a claw where it had been holding the microphone.
Streaks of black marred the inside of his palm.
“The captain is busy getting us to land,” said the steward, backing up a few feet. “We’ve already radioed for emergency services. They should be waiting at the dock.”
“That’s time that Mr. Ellingham doesn’t have!
” Clayton shouted, looking increasingly frazzled.
Juliette could hardly hold it against him, considering she was feeling a bit like coming apart at the seams at the idea of Warren being gone.
He’d been so alive just moments ago—not just alive, lively, vibrant, electric.
She’d been to plenty of funerals in her time, but those were for distant family relatives who had passed peacefully in their sleep.
She’d never had to witness death in real time, and the experience was not sitting well with her.
Of course, it was going even worse for Warren.
“What about the helipad?” someone asked. “Can’t they fly in the medical chopper and land on that?”
“I’m afraid the helipad was converted into a dance floor as requested,” the steward said with a wince.
“Who the hell ordered the helipad be converted to a dance floor?” someone shouted.
“We didn’t realize we would need it!” June Piedmont cried from the couch. “Brad suggested it!”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get sued into oblivion,” someone muttered loudly.
Juliette would have been of the same mind, if she hadn’t made the mistake of looking out the windows.
It had been hard to tell when it was mostly black outside, but now that they were drawing closer to land the dots of light from the mainland bobbed and weaved like fireflies darting through the trees.
She’d been so focused on Warren that she’d hardly noticed the rough tilt and slide of the floor, but now it was the only thing her body could notice.
Box breathing, count back from four …
Juliette liked Warren. It was distressing to see him laid out like the hardest-working extra in a Law & Order episode, but he couldn’t have finished his announcement before he keeled over?
Heaven forbid he could have prepped a press release for the evening.
Or, at the very least, handed her the manuscript up in the suite.
Shit. The manuscript. Puking would have to wait.
Juliette stumbled away from Veeta and Kennedy, pushing through the rapt crowd as Clayton continued berating the yacht staff while June Piedmont shrieked orders at no one in particular from her prone position on the couch.
They would be at the docks within minutes, if the fast-approaching lights of the mainland were any indication.
Juliette needed to get her hands on the manuscript before the medical professionals showed up and started asking questions.
Questions that Juliette had been asking herself.
Questions like: How does a man with no history of heart conditions and a recent clean bill of health from his doctor keel over dead in the middle of the most important speech of her life?
Why did he have black marks on his hand where he’d held the microphone?
Where had that weasel son of his slithered off to right before his dear old dad dropped dead?
And how the hell did the defibrillator wind up out of battery?
Juliette reached the EMPLOYEES ONLY hallway just as a man coming from the opposite end barreled past her, ripping the velvet rope clean off the wall in his wake.
He wore a plain white button-down shirt and black slacks, nothing that distinguished who he was or why he was running.
He carried a duffel bag, hugging it against his side for dear life.
“What the hell?” Juliette demanded.
The man didn’t say anything, just hustled off in the direction of the galley. Now that Juliette thought about it, he was wearing the same thing as all the other waiters on the yacht.
“What was that?” Juliette wondered out loud.
But then she looked back down the hall, her gut churning with a sick combination of vertigo and dread as she realized which door he had just exited.
Warren’s suite. She charged down the hall and swung the door open, but someone had left the sliding glass doors on the opposite side of the room open, and the room was a complete wreck.
Papers strewn everywhere, chairs tumbled over, glass shattered on the thick carpeting.
Juliette gingerly made her way around the worst of it, mindful of her bare feet, as she headed for the safe.
But it was clear before she reached the cabinet that someone had beaten her to it. The safe door swung open at a wide angle, the inside completely empty. The manuscript was gone.