The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (3 page)

“She's right. What's your business in Africa, Rigby?”

“I'm a farmer and a professional hunter.”

“Mrs. Croxford, what did you do before this extremely lucky man shanghaied you to the Dark Continent?”

“I'm a doctor.”

“And where did you go to medical school?”

“Yale.”

“Do you have any children?”

“One daughter. She's also a doctor.”

“My God, beauty and intelligence. Like I said, Mr. Croxford, you're a lucky man. I'm afraid my academic credentials aren't as impressive.” Helen blushed as Max's visual frisk lingered on her a second too long. Turner walked over and stood next to the spiral stairway to the bridge. “If you're interested, I'll give you the grand tour after dinner,” he said, indicating he was speaking about his yacht with an expansive wave.

“We look forward to it,” Helen said, hooking her arm through her husband's elbow.

Turner always reverted to using his wealth to attract women and belittle men. Rigby and his wife's display of affection for each other irritated him. He attempted to hide his annoyance, but couldn't. “Of course, it's just another boat. You people look like real boaters. I wish I had the time.”

“It's not our boat. It's on loan from her brother,” said Rigby.

“Max, you seem to be doing okay,” Helen added, offering an olive branch to lessen the awkwardness.

“I'm doing all right. One step ahead of my creditors, as they say. Helen, I'm curious about your brother's boat. Those classic fifty-threes are hard to come by nowadays. Do you think he might have an interest in selling the old girl?” It was obvious his interest was disingenuous. Before Helen could answer, he turned away.

“Excuse me. Yes, Bob.” Turner turned to receive a message from a large bald man. Bob had a twisted nose. The folds of accordion skin on the back of his neck gave him the look of a Shar-Pei dog. His piggish eyes were not as repulsive as the way he enunciated his words with his lips extended like a goldfish. The steward handed a wine list to Rigby.

“Folks, I need to take an overseas call. Why don't you choose your wine? I won't be a minute. You all can get acquainted.”

Rigby waited until Max disappeared into the wheelhouse. “Christ, a wine list. I reckon we need to improve the service on our
classic
boat.” He used the wine list to block the sound. “What's with Bob? His head looks like a penis.”

“Do you have to be so gross?” Helen whispered to Rigby, trying not to smile. “Give me that wine list. You don't know anything about wine.”

“The amount of wine I've consumed makes me an expert. Although I must admit, Zimbabwean wine is probably better suited as a cleaning agent.”

Helen was uneasy about exposing her husband to the Dodges. She had gone to college with hundreds of men like Tucker Dodge. He's probably a stockbroker, or maybe a mergers and acquisitions lawyer on Wall Street, she thought. He had undoubtedly gone to a fancy prep school and would have followed in his father's footsteps by attending Yale or Harvard. His enunciation was too punctilious not to be Ivy League.

His wife came from a wealthy family, Helen figured. People like the Dodges don't get married, instead, they merge. She was Connecticut frumpy with thick ankles and heavy arms. She wore her hair in a bun. Her chinless face was blemished. Helen sized her up and realized that the Dodges' marriage wasn't a merger; it was an acquisition. Mrs. Dodge is the one with the money, she concluded.

Molly rummaged through her Chanel handbag. When she located the cigarette-holder she handed it to her husband without looking at him. He secured the cigarette, lit the end and handed it back to her. She accepted it without thanking him.

I knew it, Helen thought, congratulating herself.

Helen had gone to Yale on a scholarship. She looked at Rigby, and a warm contentment washed over her. God, I'm glad I married you, she thought. She glanced at Tucker and then at his wife. Helen, you're too damn cynical. At least give these people a chance, she continued thinking. What she heard next would confirm her first impression.

“It must be exciting living in Africa,” Molly directed at Helen.

“Yes, we like it very much.”

“A couple of years ago we went on a photographic safari in Kenya. We loved it. Didn't we, dear?” Tucker said, looking at his wife for confirmation. She nodded her approval. “It was absolutely marvelous,” Molly added.

“Mr. Croxford, I understand you're a professional hunter. I've never liked hunting. The cruelty seems so senseless,” Tucker said.

“I'm only working as a professional hunter until I can get back into farming.”

“Mr. Croxford, what's your take on Mugabe reclaiming the farms and giving them back to the rightful owners?” Tucker inquired, sucking on his cigar until it ignited. He blew out the match and held up his empty glass, looking for a refill.

“Rhodesia was the bread basket of Africa. Now the people are starving.”

“You don't look like you're starving,” Tucker stated.

“Actually, we were starving. That's why we've come to the Bahamas. It's a brilliant spot to fatten up,” Rigby said with a smile.

Tucker continued. “And you feel no guilt for what the white man's done to the Africans.” Tucker's face narrowed in contempt.

“Africa's complicated. You must live there to understand it.”

“Come now, Croxford, I find that hard to believe.”

Rigby's brow narrowed. He looked squarely at Tucker. “Ducky, I have no regrets about trying to maintain order in Africa. I lost a lot of my best mates in something called the Rhodesian Bush War. I fought next to some very brave men—it might interest you to know, some of them were black. I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in your opinions.” His acid tone had them squirming.

“The name's Tucker. Look, I apologize if I've said something to offend you. I'm just trying to understand your thinking.” He turned away from Rigby's glare and stood up. “I wonder what's keeping Max,” he mumbled, trying to quicken the clock-ticking silence.

Turner looked over the shoulder of his secretary. He read the following email to himself.

To: Maxwell Turner

From: Rutherford, London School of Medicine

Forensic Science Department.

RE: Postmortem pathology

Dear Mr. Turner: DNA samples taken from the human body parts retrieved from the stomach of a crocodile killed on Lake Albert, Uganda, inconclusive because of the high level of corrosive digestive acids. More tests are required. Sorry to put you through this ordeal.

Kindest regards,

Dr. Malcolm Rutherford

“Is everyone getting to know each other?” Turner asked, walking back into the salon. “If you folks will follow me, I think they're ready to serve us dinner.”

As soon as everyone was seated, Max Turner insisted they hold hands and bow their heads. “Let us pray,” he started. “These six things the Lord hates. Yes, my friends, they are an abomination to Him: a proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that are swift in running to evil, and a false witness who speaks lies.” They thought Max had finished his sermon, but he was just getting warmed up. Just when the atmosphere seemed almost suicidal, the Amen came. Relieved, they all smiled, except Helen, who frowned at her husband who had been fidgeting like a schoolboy in church. Max caught them winking at each other.

They dined on rack of lamb. Helen deferred to Max's wine selection, a 1998 Chateau Petrus. The dinner chitchat was limited to Max's grilling the Croxfords about Africa. Tucker and his wife were still licking the verbal wounds inflicted by Rigby and seemed unwilling to participate in the conversation.

After dinner, the group retired to the back deck. The men smoked Cuban cigars and sipped cognac. When the wind lulled—the clouds dissipated leaving a star studded sky. Occasionally, a distant streak of heat lighting gave form to the coconut trees on the shoreline.

“Mr. Dodge, what's your line of work?” Rigby asked, trying to repair his earlier damage.

“I'm an attorney. I represent Max.”

“I'm confused. Max, I thought you were a lawyer.”

“You can never have enough attorneys around,” answered Max.

“Says who?”

“Rigby, for God's sake,” his wife interjected.

“It's all right, Dr. Croxford. Rigby, did my prayer make you nervous?”

“I wouldn't say it made me nervous.”

“Oh really? Don't you think Voltaire said it best when he wrote, ‘I die adoring God, loving my friends and not hating my enemies'?” Max asked, looking at Rigby.

The wine had thickened his recollection of clever answers. He glanced at his wife, looking for help. Helen countered with,

“Let's not forget Lucretius, who wrote, ‘How many evils have flowed from religion?'”

“Folks,” said Max, “I think I may have gotten in over my head. It's not often you meet such
au courant
people in the Bahamas.” Turner continued his cross-examination. “Rigby, are you a religious man?”

“I'd say I'm more of a spiritual man. I've seen so much injustice in my life. And I'm embarrassed to admit I've been a participant, although an unwilling participant, in so much violence, I guess I'm afraid to think about Godly matters. Turning to less lofty subjects, I must tell you, Max, you're an absolutely brilliant host. I reckon that wine was the best I ever tasted,” Rigby slurred.

“At a thousand bucks, it ought to be.”

“You're kidding. It's hard to imagine paying a thousand dollars for a case of wine. No wonder it was good. Say, how many bottles are in a case?”

“Rigby Croxford, you're a breath of fresh air.” said Max.

“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” Helen said, grabbing her husband's arm. “I better get him home.”

Max shook hands with Rigby. “Fair enough, but I need a promise from your husband.”

“And what might that be?” asked Helen.

“I've always dreamed of hunting in Africa. Tonight, I met the only professional hunter I'd ever consider hiring. Dr. Croxford, that man is your husband.”

“I'm flattered, but I'm booked for the next two hunting seasons.” Rigby spoke so quickly his excuse sounded lame. “Max, I'd be happy to recommend another PH.”

Turner acted like he didn't hear. “Let's talk about this tomorrow. We're going to pull anchor in the afternoon. It's time we returned your lagoon.”

They turned and stared at a woman standing in the companionway. She wore a silky nightgown outlining the sensual curve of her hips and accentuating the line of her breasts. She was the type of woman who could tongue-tie men and pucker the noses of older women. “I'm sorry. I didn't know we had guests,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. Her voice sounded weak.

“Sweetheart, you shouldn't have gotten out of bed. Ashlyn, I'd like you to meet the Croxfords. You know the Dodges. Ashlyn's my daughter-in-law.”

“I'm pleased to meet y'all. I haven't been feeling well. I think it's motion sickness. I'm worn thin as summer cotton. I think I better go back below. Goodnight.” She turned and disappeared down the hallway. The smell of her perfume lingered for a few seconds. The way Turner looked at his daughter-in-law puzzled Helen, but she dismissed her thought. When Turner realized Helen was watching him, he looked uncomfortable. Turner should have offered more information about his daughter-in-law, but he didn't.

“Folks, this has been the highlight of our cruise. I can't tell you when I've had a more enjoyable evening.”

“It was wonderful,” concurred Helen.

“Rigby, I need a favor.”

“After that, how could I say no?”

“How about coming onboard for lunch tomorrow? I'd like to pick your brain. I was serious when I said I wanted to do an African hunt. Let's say we make it around noon.” Max knew his compliments would make his invitation unavoidable.

“See you tomorrow,” Rigby answered.

***

Later that night, in the privacy of their stateroom, Helen quizzed her husband. “Did you find that woman attractive?”