The Deep Blue Alibi (23 page)

The cleaver smacked into a wooden support piling with a
thunk
and stuck there. Then Steve realized he hadn’t been the target. His photograph was tacked to the piling. A shot of him at the restaurant’s raw bar, his head thrown back as he tossed down an oyster. Someone had drawn a Salvadore Dali mustache on the photo, so it appeared he had inhaled a mouse into each nostril, stringy tails curling out. A black eye-patch, also the artist’s touch, gave him a sinister, piratical look. And now the meat cleaver split his forehead in two.

“If that’s the way you feel, I’m gonna pass on the mushroom-dusted snapper,” Steve told Delia.

Five minutes later, the three of them sat at a redwood picnic table on the wharf just outside the kitchen door. Victoria tried to calm down Delia with a sister-to-sister chat. Sure, Steve could be incredibly aggravating. Heaven knows, there had been many times she’d longed to brain him. “But he speaks highly of you, Ms. Bustamante, and we’re here on court business. So if you could just answer a few questions …” But before Victoria could start her interrogation, Delia launched her own.

“That bump on the bastard’s head, did you hit him with a frying pan?”

“I’ve been tempted to, but no.”

“Too bad. You sleeping with the
puerco
?”

“That ain’t kosher,” Steve said, “calling me a pig.”

“We’re law partners,” Victoria said, “and …”

Just how should I put it? Lovers-for-now?

“C’mon, Delia,” Steve broke in. “We’re here on business. Leave the personal baggage out of it.”

Delia loosened the clip that held her hair back and shook her head. Long, dark tresses cascaded over her bare shoulders. She turned to Steve with a look as sharp as the meat cleaver. “Is this tall, cold cerveza better in bed than I am?”

“Ah, Jeez,” Steve said. “Why not ask what’s better, stone crabs or filet mignon?”

“Because you said I was the best lover you ever had.”

“I think I said the ‘loudest lover.’ ”

“You said the best!
Tu eres el mejor amente que he tenido en toda mi vida.
”

“That was before I met Victoria.”

“So she is better!”

“I didn’t say that.”

You did to me, Victoria thought.

“Lighten up, Delia,” Steve continued. “Making love isn’t an Olympic contest. No judges give style points. It’s physical and chemical and emotional and the feelings come from deep inside.”

“What would you know of feelings?” Delia demanded.

“All I’m saying is that in the moment, everyone is the best lover with the one they’re with. In that moment, you can’t imagine ever being with anyone else. But things change. People move on.”

Delia looked at Victoria with sympathy.
“Ay,
he’ll break your heart, too,
chica.
”

“Delia, I didn’t break your heart.”

She pressed one hand to her ample bosom. “I gave you everything.”

“You gave me mango flan. And what’s with the theatrics?”

“Steve, why don’t you go for a walk and let us girls talk?” Victoria suggested.

“Delia, be honest,” Steve blasted ahead. “We just had fun. We never even said we loved each other.”

“When I made you bouillabaisse, was that not love?” Delia’s eyes glistened.

“You make bouillabaisse for parties of eight.”

“Not with sourdough croutons I bake myself.”

“Okay,” Victoria interposed. “Let’s agree on something: Steve’s an insensitive jerk.”

“No I’m not.”

“And look at you now,” Delia said, with disgust. “Ass-licking
lambioso
! Doing Griffin’s dirty work. Will you lie to the jury the way you lied to me?”

“I never lied to you,” Steve said. “Not once.”

“You said you could eat my grilled pork chops forever and ever.
Siempre y siempre.
”

“I could. Your chops are delicious. That shallot glaze, I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“So why did you leave me?”

“It was a long drive. We drifted apart.” He shrugged, as if searching for more. “I started eating sushi.”

“
Cabrón!
Bastard!”

Victoria wanted to steer the conversation out of Delia’s kitchen and as far from her bedroom as possible. “Ms. Bustamante, you’re a potential witness in a murder case, and we really need to find out what you know.”

A pelican landed on the dock nearby and stared at them over its pouch.

“I know nothing except that your client harpooned that man from Washington,” Delia fired back.

“Really,” Steve said. “You know what a good defense lawyer would say to that?”

Delia laughed without smiling. “How would you know?”

“A good lawyer would say you had a helluva lot more reason to kill Ben Stubbs than Griffin did. Put that in your bouillabaisse.”

“Steve, be quiet,” Victoria ordered. Apparently, the painkillers were wearing off.

“If I were going to kill anyone, it would have been Griffin, not his government flunky,” Delia said. “Griffin’s the one who’s going to destroy the reef and pollute the coastline. It’s his casino that will steal grocery money from hardworking people.”

“It’s all perfectly legal. Griffin was getting the permits and licenses.”

“A license to steal!”

“You were on Griffin’s boat before it left the dock that day,” Victoria persisted.

“He fed me cheap champagne and soggy hors d’oeuvres. Then he tried to bribe me with a job at his hotel. A hundred thousand a year to do nothing except shut up. I told Griffin what he could do with his job and left the boat.”

“Where did you go?”

“You mean, do I have an alibi?” Delia smiled slyly. “My lover met me at my home. We devoured each other all day. At midnight, we ate four dozen oysters and drank two pitchers of sangria, then made love the rest of the night.”

“Obviously, she’s not talking about me,” Steve said to Victoria.

“We’ll need his name and address,” Victoria told Delia, “so we can interview him.”

“If he’s not too exhausted,” Steve added.

“He is the greatest lover I’ve ever known.” Delia fanned herself with one hand. “Sometimes I faint with ecstasy.”

“He’s probably putting roofies in your sangria,” Steve suggested.

Victoria shot her partner a
shut up
look and said: “Delia, do you know anyone who would have killed Ben Stubbs and tried to pin it on Hal Griffin?”

“No.”

Victoria slid a leaflet across the table. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

“Of course. The Keys Alert flier about Oceania. I wrote it.”

“Any idea who would have tossed these flyers all over the bridge at Spanish Harbor Channel?”

“None of my friends. That would be littering.”

“How about somebody on a motorcycle who ran me off the road last night?” Steve asked.

Delia shrugged and seemed puzzled.

“My nephew was with me. He could have been killed.”

“Bobby?” Delia said. “If you had half his humanity, Solomon, you’d be
un santo.
A saint. No one I know would threaten Bobby. Or you, no matter how rotten you are.”

Victoria took inventory of Delia Bustamante and immediately came to two conclusions. One: the woman seemed to be telling the truth. And two: She was still in love with Steve.

Just what is this effect he has on women?

“Hullo, luv!” A man came out the restaurant’s kitchen door onto the wharf. He looked familiar, Victoria thought, and the British accent clinched it.

Clive Fowles.

Uncle Grif’s seaplane pilot, boat captain, and dive master. Fowles wore a blue short-sleeve shirt with epaulets and chino safari shorts. His fair skin, which probably never took on a true tan, was scorched pink.

“Well, bugger me! It’s the barristers. You all right, Solomon? They’re talking about you on the radio.”

“I’m fine, Fowles.”

Delia leapt from the table and threw her arms around the oyster-eating Brit, squashing her breasts against his chest, kissing him on the lips a little longer than necessary, purring like a kitten. Victoria figured she was putting on a show for Steve.

“Ms. Lord, I see you’ve met my bird,” Fowles said. “I know Mr. Solomon’s already acquainted.” He said it with a trim smile and no rancor.

“Mr. Fowles,” Victoria said, “we’d like to come see you tomorrow and take a statement.”

“Outfitting a new boat for Mr. G tomorrow. Day after’s fine though.”

Delia was still draped over him like a leopard on an antelope. “If you’ll excuse us,” she purred, “I have to cook something
very
special for my man.”

“Hang on a sec before you grease the pans,” Steve said. “Fowles, does Griffin know about your love of Cuban food?”

“You mean Delia, mate?” Fowles shrugged. “I don’t ask Mr. G who he shags and he doesn’t ask me.”

“What the
cabrón
‘s really asking,” Delia said, “is whether I got you to frame Griffin for murder.”

The Englishman barked a laugh. “You’re good in bed, darling, but no one’s
that
good.” He turned to Steve, his eyes losing the laughter. “You take me for a sodding idiot, Solomon? Mr. G’s been good to me. Bought me my own boat. Treats me with respect.”

Steve gave him the Solomon stare. Accompanied by silence, it was intended to make a witness keep talking. Instead, Fowles laughed again. “What’s up, mate? Got a touch of the sunstroke?”

“Just thinking about the curious case of Clive Fowles. The day we meet, you offer to take us diving. You do a fish census every year. You take students on dive trips. You love that reef. Maybe you love Delia, too. She hates Griffin, hates what he’s planning, and I can only imagine what she whispers across the pillow. She’s your alibi, and you’re hers. Which is like Bonnie vouching for Clyde. You’re what trial lawyers call a ‘reasonable alternative scenario.’ You know what that is, Fowles?”

“Sure, mate. A bleeding fall guy. Now bugger off and we’ll talk day after tomorrow. I’m hungry, and not just for fried snapper.”

Delia giggled and snuggled Fowles’ neck. If either of them were worried about just being accused of murder, they didn’t show it.

Victoria got to her feet. “See you, Mr. Fowles. Nice meeting you, Delia.”

With Delia clutching Fowles’ arm, the pair headed toward the kitchen door.

“Good night, lovebirds,” Steve said.

“Adiós, cabrón,”
Delia retorted. “Are you man enough to admit you’re dying for another taste?”

“Don’t talk dirty, Delia.”

“I’m talking about my mango flan.”

“Your flame’s too hot,” Steve called out. “You always curdle the cream.”

Minutes later, Steve and Victoria walked silently along the docks, seabirds squawking above their heads.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “Besides Delia’s culinary specialties.”

“You.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what’s been bothering you.”

“You noticed. So what’s your reasonable alternative scenario about me?”

Testing him. He’d been so clueless about Delia’s feelings for him. Were his instincts better with her?

“You’ve been unhappy for a while,” Steve said. “But I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I didn’t see it.”

“Getting warmer. Keep going.”

“You’re reassessing everything in your life. Including me.”

“Burning hot,” she said. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Work on our relationship before you throw a meat cleaver at me. Or worse, before you walk away without throwing it.”

“Three-alarm fire,” Victoria said. Wondering if it was possible for the flame of a relationship to burn just right. Hot enough to cook, without curdling the cream.

Twenty-seven

TO SNOOP OR NOT

TO SNOOP

Standing in the galley of his houseboat, Herbert Solomon crushed fresh mint leaves while he peppered Steve with questions. “Did you know Billy Wahoo’s been talking about you on the radio?”

“Billy Wahoo’s a moron.”

“A caller asked why you didn’t get eaten by sharks when you went into the channel, and Billy said it had to be professional courtesy.”

“A moron who needs new material.”

It was the day after the visit to Havana Viejo and Steve’s brain trust—his father and his nephew—were dispensing their opinions. As he talked, Herbert used a handpress to squeeze a stalk of sugarcane, dribbling sweet
guarapo
into a glass filled with ice cubes. “Billy asked his listeners if they thought you had an accident or if someone was out to get you because of Griffin’s case.”

“Yeah?”

“Majority think you’re just another lousy driver from Miami.” Herbert poured a healthy portion of rum into the glass, added some fresh lime juice, a splash of club soda, and mint leaves. “So did that Cuban gal have something to do with attacking you?”

“No way,” Steve said.

“No way, José,” Bobby agreed.

“Delia’s emotional but she wouldn’t resort to violence.”

Herbert tasted his concoction, nodded his approval. “What’s Victoria think?”

“She says any number of women would like to run me off the road.”

“That why she didn’t stay here last night?”

“Vic sleeps better in the hotel.”

“Uh-huh. How long’s it been?”

“What?”

“Since you two humped?”

“Jeez, Dad. There’s a child present.”

“Steve humps Victoria,” Bobby said. “Wanna see what I can do with that?”

“Don’t do it, Bobby. No dirty anagrams today.”

“HIS STUMP OVERACTIVE!” Bobby rearranging the letters almost as fast as Steve told him not to.

“He wishes.” Herbert took a pull on his drink and turned to Steve. “When ah was your age, your mom and ah did it every day. Some men sneak out for nooners with their mistresses. Ah’d go home for lunch and have a quickie with mah wife.”

“If it’s okay with you, Dad, I’d rather not picture you and Mom in the bedroom.”

“Wasn’t time for the bedroom. We’d do it standing up in the kitchen.” Herbert polished off the mojito. “Son, you be careful you don’t lose that gal.”

Sitting at the galley table, working on his laptop computer, Bobby pretended not to listen. He had found a website with live satellite photos of the Florida Keys and was looking for nude beaches. Steve was sprawled on a love seat. His headache had gone from a roaring avalanche to a dull thud. Overhead, a paddle fan stirred the moist air.