I actually met him at one of those clubs I’d bought back in the sixties, the one in Miami. When I first invested in it, it was called “The Palma Palace,” and then in the seventies, it was just “Palma” for several years. By 1985, it had become “Paloma,” and it was making a rather staggering amount of money. （Lucky for you, I sold it in 1989 for a mint. Two years later, I believe there was some mess with drugs and maybe a murder? I don’t remember. Perhaps you now understand why I wouldn’t be all that interested in murders I did not commit.）
So, there I was at the Paloma, dancing in a Halston dress, the music so loud it drowned out any rational thinking, which must be why I found myself dancing with a man who was little more than a boy, really. Twenty-six, but he seemed even younger with his long red hair and his bright smile.
Roddy was always the husband that didn’t make sense. Duke was an obvious choice at the time, Hugh was a logical second husband, and anyone could see Andrew and I were mad for each other. So why did I marry a spoiled brat who said “irregardless” and thought Tiffany lamps had all belonged to someone named Tiffany?
For one, he was a good time. At least at first. Roddy had one goal in life, and it was to have as much fun as possible. There was no past with Roddy, no future, only the present, only now, now, now, and, with a past like mine, can you blame me for wanting a taste of that?
For another, Roddy was filthy fucking rich, darling. Yes, yes, I am, too, but remember, at this point in my life, I was giving serious thought to leaving all things McTavish behind me. Roddy’s money—or really, his father’s money—would allow me to do that.
As for why he married me, well …
I could flatter myself here. I did still look very good at forty-five, my figure unchanged, my hair just as dark and lustrous. I was exciting and good in bed （sorry, darling）， and I suspect there was a little dark glamour clinging to me with that trail of dead husbands, and that was definitely the sort of thing Roddy would have been drawn to.
But again, we’re being honest here. While the above attributes probably didn’t hurt, the real draw was the eight-figure trust fund Roddy could access once he was married.
One flight to Los Angeles, a short cruise down to Mexico, and I became Mrs. Roddy Kenmore. It was the first of my marriages to make national news, do you know that? A little feature in People magazine, me in that off-the-shoulder white dress with the floppy sun hat （it was the eighties, darling, don’t roll your eyes）， Roddy in a white suit with a shirt unbuttoned to his navel and all that red hair blowing in the breeze.
Did I think we’d be happy? Did I think it could last?
I’m not sure I was thinking at all, honestly. I know Roddy wasn’t. It’s hard to think of much when you’re coked out of your mind every waking hour.
I’d known he enjoyed the occasional sniff recreationally. Everyone he hung around with did. What I hadn’t known was how finally having access to all that money would make Roddy decide that every single dollar of it should go straight up his goddamn nose.
Christ, it was irritating. A nonstop party sounds all fine and good until you’re faced with the reality of it. The sweaty nights, the late mornings—afternoons, really—waking up with strange people still in the living room, the constant headache at the base of my skull from too little sleep and too much noise.
Now, you’re reading this and thinking, “Yes, that all sounds annoying, but surely this one you could’ve divorced.”
That’s fair. I could have, yes. It would have been a hassle, and the money would’ve been a nightmare, but you’re right that I did not have to kill Roddy Kenmore.
I wanted to.
Why? I still wonder myself. I think there was a part of me that felt that after killing Andrew, it would be disloyal to let Roddy live. How could I kill the man I’d loved so much and then just divorce someone who hadn’t meant anything to me?
What can I say? It made sense at the time.
So. A midnight sail. My idea, whispered in Roddy’s ear at dinner on Avalon.
Wouldn’t it be nice, just the two of us?
For all his faults, Roddy really was a beautiful boy, and I can still remember the sleepy smile he’d given me there tucked into our red leather booth, the flickering votive on the table playing along his freckles.
Just the two of us and Captain Bart, he’d replied, and I’d looked over at the bar where the man who actually did the sailing on the Rude Roddy was pushing his sun-bleached hair out of his face and attempting to buy a deeply uninterested brunette a drink.