The Deep Blue Alibi (19 page)

Still, any chance of putting Griffin on the stand just sank into the deep, blue sea. She couldn’t let him lie, and without knowing what the state had, she could never subject him to cross-examination.

“Anything else? Please, Uncle Grif. Don’t hold back.”

“There is something that’s been bothering me.”

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“That lot in Key Largo. The cash from the lobster pots. Those were from me. Bribes. Extortion. Whatever. But I didn’t lie to you about that forty thou in Stubbs’ hotel room. The money didn’t come from me.”

“Then where’d Stubbs get it?”

“Damned if I know.”

That made no sense, Victoria thought. But neither did lying about it. Two bribes are as bad as three. Without warning, the case had gotten even more complicated. Did the money trail lead to a third party? And if so, who? But could she trust anything Uncle Grif told her?

“The client who lies to his lawyer is like the husband who cheats on his wife. It seldom happens just once.”

Another of Steve’s laws. He would know what to do. Twisty, complicated cases were his forte. Probably because he preferred the serpentine path to the straight one.

“So, what now, Princess?”

Before she could answer, before she could even admit to herself that she wanted to ask Steve what to do next, there was a knock at the door.

“Room service.” A woman’s voice with a faint Spanish accent.

“We didn’t order,” Victoria said, walking toward the door.

“Suite Two-thirty-one,” the woman persisted. “Champagne and caviar for three.”

“You have the wrong room.” Victoria opened the suite’s double doors. A young woman in a pink uniform with a name tag reading
“Evelia”
stood there with a cart. A bottle of Cristal lounged in an ice bucket. Three place settings, two covered plates, and a slender vase of lilies as the centerpiece.

“I have the order ticket,” Evelia said. “Suite Two-thirty-one. See?”

Another woman breezed by them and into the room. “Of course it’s the right suite. Not bad … But I would have gotten the southeast corner, for the breeze.”

The woman walked with perfect posture. She was in her late fifties but could easily have passed for a refined and elegant forty. Her upswept hair, the same color as the Cristal, reminded Victoria of Princess Grace of Monaco. She wore a corded pink satin jacket, fitted at the waist, and a long matching skirt with a beaded hem. Covering her wrist—and half her forearm—was a John Hardy hammered-gold cuff bracelet. Altogether too formal a look for midday in Key West, but splendid for a sweeping entrance.

Splendid for The Queen.

“Grif, I hope you still like beluga,” Irene Lord cooed.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Griffin’s face froze somewhere between a smile and a stroke.

“Mother!” Victoria exclaimed. “I thought you were in Katmandu.”

“It was quite chilly, dear.” As if that explained it. Irene patted her hair. “But this damn humidity. I’ll never get used to it.”

“Mother, what are you doing here?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my only daughter and my oldest friend?”

“Irene, Irene,” Griffin sighed. “After all these years. All this time gone by.”

The poor guy looked like he was in a trance.

“Are you two just going to stand there?” Irene said, “or is somebody going to pour me champagne?”

Twenty-one

CAVIAR ON THE CARPET

“Irene, Irene,” Griffin gushed. “You haven’t changed in sixteen years.”

“You swine. I look
better
!” Irene laughed, the sound of church bells pealing. She lifted her chin, letting him take in her fine bone structure and the silken skin of her throat.

“How do you do it?” Griffin hugged her tightly.

“Nutrition. Exercise. And a few dents have been pounded out and repainted.”

Not to mention a few parts that were brand new, Victoria thought. Her mother’s boobs were teenagers and her butt a newborn babe.

“Mother, you still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

“Grif’s in trouble, so I came.”

Victoria wished she could cross-examine:
“Really? And when’s the last time you walked across the street to help someone, much less flew halfway round the world?”

Victoria loved her mother but could be coolly rational about her. As a child, there were times Victoria felt like one of The Queen’s matched snow-white poodles, Van Cleef and Arpel. At dinner parties, she’d be summoned from her room to perform for her mother’s guests. The gleaming baby-grand piano was a prop, Victoria a bit player in the melodrama that was her mother’s life.

“Something Chopin, Princess. Nocturne thirteen, perhaps.”

Victoria’s proficiency as a pianist, her posture and manners, even her well-groomed looks all reflected on The Queen, whose friends
oohed
and
cooed
at the precocious child.

“White wine only, darlings.”
Her mother’s voice flooding back.

With carpets and sofas as white as Van Cleef and Arpel’s fluffy pelts, The Queen refused to serve red wine. No wonder, as a rebellious teenager, Victoria was drawn to Chianti, Campari, and Singapore Slings with grenadine. No wonder she had desperately yearned for a
normal
mother. Home-baked cookies, PTA meetings, maybe even a career other than the full-time job of appearing regal. Now, fully grown, Victoria wished they had a closer, warmer relationship. But her mother was an air-kisser, not a hugger. And just how do you embrace a woman who’s deathly afraid of smearing her makeup?

“All these years,” Griffin murmured, yet again.

“Forgive me, Grif,” Irene said. “I should have returned your letters and calls, but after Nelson died …”

“I know. I know.” They released each other to arm’s length, Griffin keeping one hand on Irene’s back. It looked as if they were going to fox-trot. “But you should have let me help you.”

“It just didn’t seem right, Grif. I needed the money, that’s for sure. But …”

The Queen let it hang there, and Victoria tried to remember the days after her father’s death. Her mother had gone from society hostess—what’s that corny old phrase, “the hostess with the mostest”—to a social pariah. There’d been whispers among the La Gorce Country Club set. Irene Lord’s profligate spending had driven the family into debt. Nelson had cut corners in the business. They sank into the quicksand of legal problems, tax problems, money problems.

How much of it was true?

The Queen refused to talk about it.

Uncle Grif and her mother still stared into each other’s eyes. Victoria was starting to feel like the uninvited guest at another couple’s party, a couple she didn’t know all that well. Whatever memories were unspooling, she was not privy to them.

“I’m so sorry about Phyllis,” Irene offered. “And forgive me for waiting all this time to say so.”

“Thank you, Irene. She always thought so highly of you.”

They reminisced a few minutes more before sitting down to guzzle champagne and slather caviar, eggs, and onion onto tiny wafers. Irene had signed the check to the room, meaning Victoria would have to pay.

At a lull in the conversation, Irene lowered her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t really kill that fellow, did you, Grif?”

“Of course not. And The Princess is going to prove it. She’s outstanding, Irene. Smart like her father, beautiful like her mother.”

“I hope she’s not in over her head.”

“Mother. I’ve handled murder cases.”

“For riffraff, maybe,” Irene said. “But Grif’s family. He should have the best.”

“Not to worry,” Griffin said. “Victoria’s terrific. Her partner, too.”

“Solomon?” Irene wrinkled her nose, which had been expensively sculpted upward, like the prow of a fine yacht. “I suppose he’s effective in his own déclassé way.” She took another sip of champagne, then said, “How’s Junior doing? Victoria tells me he’s turned into a real hunk.”

“Mo-ther,” Victoria said in her chiding tone. No surprise that her mother changed the subject from Steve to the only boy—well, man now—considered good enough for her little darling. Oh, how The Queen adored Junior, or at least the memory of him. As for Steve, a few months ago Irene had told Victoria that three things gave her indigestion: raw onions, men in lime velour sweatsuits, and thoughts of her marrying Steve.

“Junior never cared much about making a buck,” Griffin said. “But lately, he’s taken an interest in the business. Been riding me hard, telling me I spend too much money, take too many risks.”

Irene cocked her head and rolled a pearl earring between thumb and index finger. “I remember years ago the six of us were at the Surf Club for dinner. Junior must have been about ten and Victoria eight, and they were feeding each other stone crabs with little cocktail forks. And one of us, I think it was Nelson, said wouldn’t it be great if the kids got together someday.” She paused, relishing the memory. “I think we all were hoping for a Griffin-Lord wedding.”

“Plans,” Griffin said. “If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that man’s hopes are just God’s toys.”

Irene sighed. “Don’t I know it, Grif.”

Victoria decided to intervene before the discussion turned to her kindergarten report cards, her childhood measles, or her first menstrual period. “Mother, Uncle Grif and I were working on trial prep, so I wonder if you—”

“Go right ahead, dear. I won’t interfere.” Irene hoisted her flute and finished off the champagne a trifle too quickly. Pouring herself another, she said: “So, have the two of you been talking about
moi
?”

“Mother, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Since when, dear?”

“You have to leave,” Victoria said. “We’re discussing the case. You’re not covered by the attorney-client privilege, and anything Uncle Grif says—”

“Oh, fiddles! Grif, tell my daughter she can’t evict me.”

“Now, I-rene,” Griffin said with mock exasperation.

“Don’t you ‘Now, Irene’ me.”

They both laughed again, and Irene’s eyes glistened with pleasure. The way they spoke to each other reminded Victoria of something, but what was it? She tried to dig up a memory but couldn’t.

Just what was her mother doing, anyway? She seemed almost flirtatious. But then, flirting was second nature to her. There’d been many men in The Queen’s life the past fifteen years, one rich widower or recently divorced tycoon after another. Much like her hammered gold bracelet, Irene was a most presentable trinket. The Queen’s modus operandi, Victoria knew, was to show as little interest as possible, which only fueled men’s ardor. She clearly enjoyed the fawning attention, the travel, the perks of private jets and five-star hotels.

When Victoria once asked why she didn’t marry any of the suitors, her mother dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand.
“Heaven knows, I’ve been asked, but I’ve had the one great love of my life.”

Meaning Victoria’s father, of course. Or so Victoria always thought. But just now, another suspicion was nibbling away, like a mouse in the larder.

Those pealing laughs.

Those glistening eyes.

The tenderness between them.

Her mother and Uncle Grif? No, it was utterly preposterous, to use one of The Queen’s own phrases.

Or was it?

Uncle Grif was the one who’d christened them The Queen and The Princess. He had always been around, always been attentive to their needs. That day she got lost at Disney World—she couldn’t have been more than six or seven—it was Uncle Grif, not her father, who found her. And what about that bank account in the Caymans?
Queen Investment, Ltd.
Why not
Phyllis Investments
? Why not his own wife’s name? Did the covert account reveal a surreptitious relationship?

“Now, I-rene.”

“Don’t you ‘Now, Irene’ me.”

It came back to her then. That’s the exchange she remembered between her mother and father. Or was it? Had it been Uncle Grif all along? Was she confusing the two men? And was her mother doing the same?

The two couples had been so close. Until her father’s suicide. Logic told Victoria that her mother would have needed Uncle Grif even more in those awful days. So, with such a powerful emotional bond between them, why did The Queen cut him out of her life?

There could only be one reason.

Guilt.

Oh, God, no.

Victoria strained to keep her voice under control. “Mother, you can stay if you’ll answer one question.”

“Anything to help.” Irene neatly knifed a layer of caviar onto a wafer.

“When Dad committed suicide, were you and Uncle Grif having an affair?”

Irene’s hand trembled and she dropped the caviar-laden wafer, facedown, onto the carpet.

“Oh, Jesus,” Griffin gasped.

Irene forced a smile as brittle as an icicle. “What an astonishingly rude question.”

“Dad found out, didn’t he?” Victoria’s question caught in her throat. “Is that why he killed himself?”

Griffin squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with his knuckles.

Irene dabbed a linen napkin at the corner of her mouth, a dainty motion. “My goodness. For poor Grif’s sake, I hope you’re a better lawyer than a gossip, dear.”

Twenty-two

TALK, HUG, KISS, SCREW

On the Caddy’s radio, Roadkill Bill Jabanoski was singing “I Wanna Get Drunk, I Wanna Get Laid, and Monday Morning Seems Like Two Years Away.” Even though it was one of Steve’s favorite Key West songs, he turned down the volume as he shouted into his cell phone. “What kind of lawyer are you!”

In the passenger seat, Bobby fidgeted, first covering his ears with his hands, then putting a finger to his lips. Unless he was a third base coach signaling a hit-andrun, he wanted Steve to quiet down.

“Don’t raise your voice to me,”
Victoria responded at the other end of the line. Sounding so calm, it aggravated Steve even more. Why couldn’t she see past her own family problems?