The Deep Blue Alibi

Forty

The sliding door to the balcony was open and the night breeze, moist and smelling of brine, swirled the drapes. Somewhere in the room, a mosquito buzzed.

On the pool deck below the window, a sheriff's deputy leaned against a palm tree. Another deputy sat on a chair outside her door. Victoria's personal bodyguards, courtesy of Sheriff Rask.

Victoria's feet ached and her head throbbed. Her black Prada pumps had been a half size too small when she bought them, and after a day waltzing back and forth in the courtroom, she felt like a victim of Chinese foot binding. The headache came from sitting at the defense table with her shoulders scrunched.

If Steve were here, he'd rub my shoulders. And my feet.

But she was alone in her suite at the Pier House, the sole soldier in a War Room filled with files, books, and the remains of room service conch chowder and Caesar salad. The adjoining suite was dark and quiet, her mother out to dinner with Uncle Grif. It was past midnight. Where were they? Parked at the beach in Uncle Grif's Bentley, listening to Barry White sing "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe" and French kissing in the moonlight. The thought made her cringe.

She was angry at both of them. Uncle Grif should be here, helping her prepare for court. Her mother should be here, just for emotional support. Instead, they were…

God, why does it bother me so much? They're entitled to their lives, aren't they?

She sipped a glass of Cabernet and tried to concentrate on the witness files spread in front of her. Tomorrow, the state would start moving the pieces on the chessboard. Six people on the boat, three exit stage left, one dives into the water, leaving the defendant and victim alone for the last cruise of the Force Majeure. The "death cruise," Waddle called it. A phrase he'd added to "greed and corruption, bribery and murder."

She knew the state's order of proof for its circumstantial case. Clive Fowles would set the scene-the cocktail party on the deck-then Leicester Robinson would describe an apparent argument between Griffin and Stubbs.

Victoria had not yet decided how aggressively to handle Robinson. She could object if Waddle tried to elicit his impressions of what was going on.

"Now, Mr. Robinson, would you say that the defendant appeared belligerent with Mr. Stubbs?"

"Objection. Leading and calls for a conclusion."

But you don't object to everything that's objectionable.

"Don't make the jury think you're hiding something."

Steve again. He'd know what to do, just like he'd know how to rub the kinks out of her neck. She missed him.

No, dammit. I don't need Steve. I don't need anyone.

Feeling like a gladiator. A sole practitioner of the art of legal warfare. She surveyed the files spread across the conference table. An uneasy feeling spread over her. She always prided herself on trial prep. Unlike Steve, she believed you won cases in research and investigation, organization and preparation. Master the details. Color code the exhibits. Cross-index the depos. Know the file forward and backward. Steve the Slasher was a big-picture guy. Give him a rough idea of the facts and he'd wing it in court. That's why they made a good team, he always told her. Their skills were so disparate that they made each other better.

"You two put the sin in synergy," a prosecutor once raged at them.

Not that I can't do this alone.

But right now, she could have used Steve's improvisational skills, especially since her preparation had been lacking. With everything going on-her mother's unexplained reappearance, Junior's advances, the break-in of her room, the split with Steve-she hadn't been operating on all cylinders.

Victoria heard the door open in the adjoining room, and in a moment, her mother peeked through the connecting door. "Princess, you're still up?"

"I'll be working most of the night." She tried to see around the door. "Are you alone?"

Irene came into the room. "Grif went straight to bed, if that's what you're asking. Poor man's so uptight he wouldn't be any use to me, anyway."

"Bummer. The guy's on trial for his life, and you're upset you're not going to get off tonight."

"You have it backwards. I thought giving Grif a little release would be good for him." Irene walked over and eased into a chair at the worktable. Her flowery silk chiffon dress was low-cut and form-fitting. How many women her age could get away with that? For a reason Victoria couldn't quite understand, the thought of her mother's youthfulness irritated her.

"Pour me a glass of wine, Princess. And maybe another one for you."

"Serve yourself. I've already had my limit."

"You seem so tense, dear."

"Really? I guess trying a murder case will do that."

Irene unhooked the ankle straps and kicked off her metallic-gold wedge espadrilles. "Does this damn humidity make your feet swell? It does mine."

"Next time you go in for repairs, have your ankles liposuctioned."

"Have I done something wrong, Princess?"

"You mean lately?"

"Oh, Jesus, you have become so tiresome. How long since you've gotten laid?"

"I don't remember you being so crude."

"Nor you so much a prude. On second thought, yes, I do." Irene got up and closed the balcony door. "It's like a steam bath in here. What's the A/C set at?"

"Aren't you too old for hot flashes, Mother?"

"You've gotten bitchier since you dumped that insufferable Solomon." She barefooted back to the table and poured herself a glass of wine. "As for your catty remark, I'm barely middle-aged."

"Only if you live to be a hundred sixteen."

"I know what ails you, Princess, and I have a suggestion. Go out with Junior. He's gaga over you, and I'll bet he's fabulous in bed."

"I have things on my mind. Why don't you service both the Griffins?"

"If I were your age, don't think I wouldn't give Junior a ride. You saw his tool, didn't you?"

"Mother, why don't you go take a cold shower?"

"Not that size always equates with performance. I remember a Spaniard I met in Monaco. Mucho grande. Like a salchicon sausage."

"I'm not having this conversation."

"But a real dud in the sack. Then there was this Frenchman who wasn't carrying much more than a cornichon, but oooh-la-la."

"You're doing this just to aggravate me, aren't you?"

"And you're bitchy because I'm happy."

"That's ridiculous."

"But I am happy, darling." She managed to sigh and smile at the same time. "Grif and me, connecting after all these years."

"Reconnecting, you mean."

"That again? I told you the truth. We never had an affair."

"But Father thought you did. Is that it?"

"No, dammit. Don't you see what's happening? You've been angry with your father all these years. But you can't yell at him, so you take it out on me."

Victoria was quiet a moment. She swatted futilely at the damn mosquito, now buzzing around her ears. "I am angry at him. That part's true."

"Understandable, dear."

"You know what drives me crazy?"

"The suicide note thing?"

"I've asked myself a thousand times. Why couldn't he write something? 'I'm sorry, Princess. Forgive me. I love you.' "

Irene reached out and gripped her arm. "He did love you, dear. He loved you very much."

"A little note. Is that too goddamn much to ask?"

Irene's voice was little more than a whisper. "He wrote a note."

"What?"

"He said he loved you very much."

"You're making this up. Lying to make me feel better."

"Nonsense. I only lie to make myself feel better." She sipped the Cabernet, made a face. "Your taste in wine is really abysmal."

"Jesus, Mother. Was there really a note?"

"Your father wrote that he loved you more than he could express and his biggest regret was that he'd never know the woman you would become."

Suddenly, her mother was right: The room had gotten very warm. "All these years! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I had my reasons." For the first time Victoria could remember, The Queen almost looked her age.

"Why? What else did it say? Did Dad accuse you of having an affair with Uncle Grif? Why not just admit it, after all this time?"

"There was no affair."

"Then why did you destroy the note?"

"Who said I destroyed it? It's in my safe-deposit box. I thought someday you'd be old enough-mature enough-to read it. Apparently, that day has not yet come."

Irene stood, smoothed her dress, and glided to her room, carrying her shoes. Without looking back or saying good night, she closed the door between the suites and slid the bolt shut.

Two hours later, Victoria lay in bed, listening to the palm fronds slap against the balcony wall. She longed to talk to Steve, but it was too late to call him. No matter the problems between them, he was the closest person in the world to her. At this moment, at this awful, heart-aching moment, she had never felt so alone.

She heard the buzzing again, the damned mosquito. Now where was it?

Ouch. She felt the sting on the side of her neck.