Paul Levine - The Deep Blue Alibi

"I knew you'd say that. That's why I brought Nelson's note."

Irene tried to hand her the envelope, but Victoria backed off as if it were on fire. "It's probably a forgery. I wouldn't put it past you."

"I don't wear faux pearls, I don't use paper plates, and I don't forge suicide notes. It's time you knew the truth. Your father was having an affair with Phyllis."

"Phyllis Griffin?"

"It wasn't Phyllis Diller. Yes, Phyllis Griffin. They were sneaking around those last few months."

"Now I know you're lying."

Uncle Grif's wife, Junior's mother. The idea was preposterous.

"When I found out, I told your father I wanted a divorce. He begged me to forgive him, but I wouldn't. He got all psychological. Said he didn't love Phyllis. It was the pressure of the business, the Grand Jury investigation, maybe even animosity toward Grif for getting them into legal trouble. Nelson offered to get counseling, anything to save the marriage. I told him to go to hell. Said I'd divorce him and take you away. My pride was wounded, and I wouldn't give him another chance. So I am guilty, dear. Guilty of being rigid and unforgiving. Guilty of being so self-directed I couldn't see how damaged your father was. He committed suicide the night after our blowup."

Victoria felt the slightest puff of a breeze. The boats groaned in their moorings, the air heavy with putrid fish. "Give it to me."

The note was handwritten on Griffin-Lord Construction Co. stationery.

Dearest Irene,

I cannot express the depths of my love for you

and Victoria, but it's all become too much to bear.

I fear the business will go under, and I don't see a way out. I have wronged you deeply, and nothing

I can ever say or do will make that right. My

biggest regret is that I will not live to see the

woman Victoria is destined to become. I beg both

of you to forgive me.

Nelson

Overhead, a seabird caw ed. Victoria was aware of the sound of diesel engines kicking up, water boiling at the stern of a fishing boat.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Irene said. "I wanted you to remember your father differently. And maybe part of me was humiliated."

"Why?" Suddenly, everything had changed. Her mother was a victim in the marriage, not its villain. "Dad's the one who cheated, the one who took the coward's way out."

"Nelson felt he needed someone else. Not something for me to be proud of. And all these years, I've wondered. If I'd handled it differently, would he still be alive?"

"You can't blame yourself."

"I've told myself that, too. But I'm the only one who could have saved him. And I didn't." She took the note back, tore it up, and tossed the pieces off the dock, where they fluttered in the breeze like wings of herons.

Victoria needed to clear her mind. At the corner of Southard and Duval, she stepped off the curb and into the path of a pink taxi. The driver squealed to a stop, banged the horn, and cursed in Creole.

Victoria tried to fathom the depths of her feelings. Her mother, who could be so shallow and superficial, had now gone the other direction. She shouldered moral complicity in her husband's death. But what did she expect of herself? What superhuman powers of understanding and compassion did she think she lacked?

"Oh, Nelson darling, don't be depressed. I forgive you for screwing my best friend."

No, the betrayal and shameful abandonment were all her father's.

And the note I so longed for?

Now that she'd seen it, now that she'd held in her hands the last item he'd touched before the swan dive off the condo roof …the note made no difference.

You regret not seeing me grow up? Damn you! You could have been here.

Now that she knew what had happened, the truth had not set her free. No peace came with the knowledge, just one pain replacing another. What was it Steve said his father had told him? Something about being careful when turning over rocks. There'll be snakes, not flowers, underneath.

In this moment, more than any other, she wished Steve were here. As she passed under the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn-the last place she had seen him- she pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. There was no answer, but she listened to the entire leave-your-number message just so she could hear his voice.

Dammit, Steve. Where are you?

A very loud woman shouted something at Steve.

He couldn't see her because his eyes were glued shut. At least, that's the way they felt. He forced his eyes open, a salty crust cracking along his lashes.

Ouch. He was staring into a broiling sun. Suddenly aware of noxious fumes. Burning fuel, melting plastic.

"Wave your arm if you can hear me!"

That voice again. Amplified. Authoritative.

If I'm dead, then God could be a woman. But then, that sun is hot as hell, and who's to say the devil's not a chick? Now, just where is my arm?

Steve managed to wave, water pouring down his wet-suit sleeve into his face. His mask was gone. So was one of his fins. He was floating, lifting and falling with every swell. The top-of-the-line buoyancy compensator -thank you, Stubbs- was rigged to float an unconscious man on his back.

Fowles. Where are you?

"Just stay calm, sir. We'll get you in a minute."

Steve lifted his head out of the water. It weighed about the same as that giant jewfish.

Maybe heaven is a giant spa, and I'm in the Jacuzzi.

Maybe that's where the good Jews go. The others are made into gefilte fish.

Bobbing in the water, smaller than a cutter, was a boat. He recognized the red, white, and blue diagonal stripes. Coast Guard. Most beautiful boat he'd ever seen. A woman in uniform stood at the bow rail, a bullhorn in her hand. Most beautiful woman, too, though he couldn't make out a single feature. He gave her the thumbs-up sign.

"That's it, sir! Don't try to swim over."

Swim? Going back to sleep is more like it. What time's my massage?

He was aware of the putt-putt of a small yellow inflatable craft coming to his side. Two men in uniforms leaned over, barking instructions. They seemed very young and pimply but their voices were strong. Best he could understand, he was to do nothing. They'd get him aboard. He tried to say something, but his throat was raw with salt water, and he vomited all over the guardsmen as they hauled him into the inflatable.

"Another man," Steve croaked. "Scuba gear. Where is he?"

"Just relax now, sir."

They seemed extremely competent for twelve-yearolds, Steve thought, hazily.

The inflatable headed toward the boat, dodging pieces of fiberglass and aluminum, the remnants of the Cigarette. Fuel burned, black and orange, on the surface. Bouncing in the waves nearby, without its rider, the rusty old chariot. The bow charred black, but seemingly indestructible.

As they neared the boat, Steve saw another inflatable in the water. Two more Coast Guardsmen. A lifeless body, a man in jeans and a bloodied T-shirt, lay facedown in the craft.

Conchy Conklin? Who else could it be?

With a net, the guardsmen were fishing something out of the water. What was it?

An arm! From the elbow down, an arm in a torn wet suit.

Fowles.

God, he'd done it. He'd sacrificed himself. He'd destroyed his own personal Tirpitz and saved Steve's life. How do you repay a debt like that?

You don't. Maybe you make a vow to be a better man, but the debt goes unpaid.

As a young guardsman helped Steve up the ladder of the larger craft, he had the vague notion that he'd lost something. The mask, of course. And one fin. And. .