Free Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen

middle-aged guy at the picnic table.
    And, sure enough, the helicopter buzzed away. They watched until it was a bright dot in the soft blue distance. Satisfied that he’d done his job, Strom stopped barking and curled up. A flock of perturbed gulls materialized overhead.
    “Thank you,” Joey Perrone said to Stranahan. “Does this mean I can stay?”
    “I must be nuts,” he said.

Six
    The call from the Coast Guard came at noon sharp.
    “I can’t believe you’re giving up!” Chaz said. His bags had been packed for an hour. “My wife’s out there in the water somewhere— what if she’s still alive?”
    “The odds are very slim. I’m sorry, Mr. Perrone.”
    Chaz checked out of the Marriott and drove home feeling relieved and emboldened. He had committed a flawless crime. Thirty-seven hours had passed since he’d heaved Joey overboard, and not so much as a single hair had been found. The ocean had done its job.
    Entering the house, Chaz experienced a wave of—what was it?— not remorse, but more of a carnal longing. The place smelled lightly of Joey’s favorite perfume, a scent that never failed to arouse him. It was much more subtle than the fruity slop that Ricca wore, Chaz thought. Maybe I can talk her into switching brands.
    He listened to a score of choked-up phone messages from friends of Joey who’d read about her disappearance in the paper. Chaz pondered his good fortune to have wed a woman with practically no family, extended or otherwise, to make a fuss. Chaz had never even met his wife’s only brother, and he wondered if the news of Joey’s death would dislodge the reclusive Corbett Wheeler from his beloved New Zealand.
    At first the sight of Joey’s clothes in the closet unsettled Chaz. He felt better after sweeping the hangers clean, and better still after expunging the bathroom of all her soaps, creams, scrubs, moisturizers, exfoliants, lotions and conditioners. Methodically he went around gathering his wife’s belongings and piling them on their king-sized bed. He took everything except one intriguing lace bra and a pair of panties, which looked as if they might fit Ricca if she dropped a few pounds. Also exempt from removal was Joey’s jewelry, worth at least ten or twelve grand.
    Chaz had no containers large enough to hold all his wife’s stuff, so he drove to the delivery bay of a nearby BrandsMart and scored some jumbo cardboard boxes. Upon returning, he saw a gray Ford sedan in his driveway, and Karl Rolvaag waiting on the front step.
    To avoid the appearance of embracing widowhood, another murderous spouse might have left the boxes in his car, out of the jaded detective’s sight. Chaz, however, was resolved not to let himself be intimidated or thrown off course.
    “Whatcha got there?” Rolvaag asked. “Is that one of those new Humvees?”
    Wordlessly, Chaz unlocked the front door and backed inside with the boxes. He went directly to the bedroom, the sallow cop following at a courteous distance.
    “I can’t stand to see all her things here. It’s just too damn painful,” Chaz said. He began tossing Joey’s dresses and blouses into a box that had once held a forty-inch Sanyo. “Everywhere I turn, there she is,” he went on somberly. “I can’t even bring myself to unpack her suitcase from the cruise.”
    Rolvaag looked on thoughtfully. “Everyone reacts different to a shock like this. Some people, they won’t touch anything in the house. They leave every single item exactly as it was before, and I mean everything—linens, dirty laundry. You’d be amazed. Won’t even throw out their loved one’s toothbrush—they keep it standing in a cup by the sink. Sometimes for years this goes on.”
    Chaz continued to fill the box. “Not me. All these things to remind me, I’d be too depressed to get out of bed.”
    “What’re you going to do with all of it?”
    “I haven’t decided. Give it to charity maybe.”
    The detective reached in and picked up a tortoiseshell hairbrush.