"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 cabron'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.
"Adios, cabron," 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
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, Jose," 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.
"You told me Pinky Luber had some scary friends," Steve said. "Any of them ride Harleys?"
"You're digging in the wrong pea patch," Herbert said. "Pinky would never jeopardize a child."
"Meaning me, Uncle Steve. Not you." Bobby clicked the mouse, zoomed on a satellite photo. "Look, I got a shot of Pirates Cove. You can see the top deck of Gramps' houseboat."
For a moment, Steve wondered if Bobby could get a photo of the Pier House, peer into the windows of Victoria's room, look into the deepest corners of her heart. If technology couldn't do that, Steve wondered, how could he? But he didn't want to dwell on his personal life just now. "Dad, how come you keep sticking up for that scumbag Luber?"
"Ain't gonna talk about Pinky." Herbert handed Steve a drink. "This'll cure what ails you."
"A little honesty would be better than a mojito."
"Nothing's better than a mojito." Herbert peered over Bobby's shoulder at the monitor. "Well, look at that. There's the channel. Bobby, you think the shrimp will be running tonight?"
"Shrimp can't run, Gramps."
"Good, they'll be easier to catch. Turn that off and go fetch the nets and lanterns."
Changing the subject, Steve thought. A lifetime habit of his father's. Hit and run. First the crack about losing Victoria, then the evasion about Luber.
Just what is the old man hiding?
"Uncle Steve, you going shrimping with us?" Bobby asked.
"Nah," Herbert said, before Steve could respond. "Uncle Steve needs to rest."
To snoop or not to snoop.
That was the question facing Steve.
Along with the bigger question.
Why is Dad so protective of Pinky Luber, the guy whose perjury ruined his life?
The questions were coming faster than the answers. Mellowed out by rum and Demerol, Steve leaned back on a plastic chaise lounge on the stern deck, gazing at the calm water. An unseen bird trilled in a gumbo-limbo tree, sounding remarkably like a ringing cell phone. Herbert and Bobby had taken the Boston Whaler to Sugarloaf Key. Once they anchored near the bridge pilings, they'd be scooping up shrimp for hours.