Beg for Mercy by Ilona Andrews

Author:Ilona Andrews
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Horror & Ghost Stories
Published: 2007-06-07T07:00:00+00:00

The Balboa Bay Club is not the oldest nor the most exclusive of Newport Beach’s private yacht clubs, but it is the most expensive. If you look up nouveau riche in the dictionary, you will see pictures of a number of its members, as well as a few shots of the seldom-away-from-the-dock trophy yachts that line its piers. But for every pretender, there was at least one or two legitimate sailors in the club, and the competition in the semi-annual Newport Harbor Friendship Regatta, which the clubs took turns hosting, was fierce.

I had shown up at Hilda’s door with an assortment of pants, some battered deck shoes and my one good pair of sandals, which showed little wear and tear, because they were horribly uncomfortable—but were too expensive to throw out. Hilda and I are about the same number of inches in circumference, but I’m a good six inches taller and couldn’t possibly borrow her slacks, nor squeeze into her tiny shoes.

After a careful perusal of my pants, she decided the khaki slacks were the least offensive, and she actually clucked with approval over the torturous sandals. One of her guest bedrooms was essentially a giant walk-in closet, and I stared in amazement at the racks of clothes, many of which still had tags.

She started sorting through a selection of sweaters that seemed to be on a nautical theme. The sailors I knew never wore anything with gold braid or appliqués of sailboats, but Hilda assured me that the Bay Club was different. Her own culotte set had enough gold braid on it to make an admiral jealous, and the matching gold sandals had spiked heels that would never be allowed on a boat deck.

We finally agreed on a relatively simple twinset with only a little red-and-gold braid on the neck and sleeves, and some kind of coat of arms on the cardigan pocket. St. John, the label read. The price tag, which she removed without a second glance, said $885.00, and that didn’t include the matching shell. I decided to avoid red wine and anything with tomato sauce.

An hour and a half later we were seated on the much-coveted balcony rail seats, drinking club sodas with lime and checking out the few men who had arrived. Hilda had been torn between making an entrance and arriving early to stake out the best seats in the house, and I had voted for the latter. If I had to stand for hours in these shoes, I was probably going to kill someone.

“Isn’t this where you met Dominic?” I asked when I thought we had been there long enough so the question would not seem suspicious. I would not press Hilda, at least not outside the hypnotherapy room. She was my client and, strange as it seemed, my friend. It shouldn’t be necessary, anyway. She loved to gossip.

“Yes, but he’s not a member.” Hilda had been happy to tell me that her initial enrollment fee had been fifty thousand dollars, and that was fifteen years ago.

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