82 Desire

evidently sobered by the tale of two men in a dinghy. Keith gave them his location, and they were assured the Coast Guard was on its way.
    Steve said, “Let’s get closer.”
    Skip said, “No.”
    Keith paid no attention. Through some mysterious process, the two guys had bonded and decided to defy her. He pulled the cigarette close to the sailboat, and they saw the lights were on.
    Keith said, “Let’s talk to them.” He picked up his radio, and Skip ardently wished she hadn’t involved civilians. Predictably, there was no response. So much , she thought, for the element of surprise.
    Keith said, “They could have the radio turned off.” He took a breath and hollered, “ On Y va ! Anyone aboard?”
    There was no answer.
    “Let’s go aboard.”
    “No! We wait for the Coast Guard.”
    The two guys looked at each other and shrugged. Keith said, “I’m going. You going?”
    Steve said, “I’m going.”
    There was no choice. Skip said, “Wait a minute! Hold it, I’m armed, I’m going first.”
    She clambered down the companionway, saw no one in the salon, and went through to the stateroom. A man and a woman were on the berth, fully dressed.
    “Hello!” she said, and got no response. “Russell. Russell Fortier!”
    Nothing. She went closer, noticing no movement of chests and feeling suddenly sleepy.
    A voice behind her said, “Shit! Carbon monoxide.” And Keith flung open a window. “Let’s get them out of here.”
    Behind her, Steve had started to open more windows. Skip gulped air and then grabbed the woman. She didn’t seem to be breathing at all.
    Keith helped her, while Steve got the man. They were starting CPR when the Coast Guard arrived.
    ***
    Beau Cavignac. Dead. Ray couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Russell Fortier’s disappearance was one thing, but this!
    First Allred, now Beau. And Russell was gone—the murderer or the also-murdered?
    For the first time, it occurred to Ray to go to the police. These things had to be connected, and they had to be about the Skinners. Maybe he could bust the whole thing open that way. But what way would that be?
    Uh-uh. No, he thought. Cille and I have come this far by ourselves. We’ve got to keep going.
    What he wanted was proof that the Skinners existed and that United Oil had systematically defrauded him—something he could take to court. He didn’t trust the police to get it—and if they did get it, he didn’t trust them not to lose it.
    Anyway, their agenda was different. They were trying to solve a couple of murders, not personally avenge Ray Boudreaux. Only two people in the world had that goal, and thank God Cille was in it with him.
    The thing he needed was the Skinners’ disk, and, so far as he knew, Beau Cavignac was the only Skinner besides Russell Fortier—certainly the only one whose name he knew. So maybe Beau had it. Maybe he’d been killed for it.
    With infinite attention to detail, Ray read Beau’s obituary, carefully noting the time of the funeral. He’d always heard funerals were excellent times for break-ins.
    He cased the house ahead of time, finding, to his surprise, that it wasn’t the requisite Uptown double-gallery mansion. Instead, it was a brand-new replica of a gorgeous old house on the North Shore. Clear across Lake Pontchartrain, where Beau had probably fled to be safe from crime.
    Lots of people were coming and going, as you might expect after a death. Maybe I should send them some food , he thought, wondering if a delivery could get him into the house. But he couldn’t think of anything big and bulky enough to preclude whoever answered the door from simply taking it with a “thank-you.”
    Trays of things, maybe. Finger sandwiches or something. He and Cille together, balancing a bunch of trays.
    But he didn’t want to involve her in this—in fact, didn’t even want her to know about it.
    Ronnie? No. With luck, the boy’s life of crime was over.
    Maybe not trays. Liquor was good—a case of something heavy. That would have to be carried in. He wasn’t sure people sent liquor after a death, but then it was coming from an imaginary person—propriety hardly mattered.
    He found himself a pair of overalls at a thrift store, jammed a cap down over his eyes, and procured a case of Chardonnay from a place where he still had a charge account.
    When he rang the Cavignacs’ bell, the maid asked him to bring the goodies around to the back, just as he’d hoped she would.
    “You can just put it on the