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
'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.
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.
Her mother and Uncle Grif? No, it was utterly preposterous, to use one of The Queen's own phrases.
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?
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.
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
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.
'The client always comes first, Vic. Not the lawyer's personal needs.'
'You didn't want me there!'
'Don't change the subject. I thought you could handle one simple arraignment without the client firing us.'
'And won't return your calls.'
Steve was driving south on the Overseas Highway, headed to Key West and what was left of their case. Victoria had told him about Griffin bribing Stubbs but continuing to deny that he killed the 'greedy prick'- an expression they might want to fine-tune before getting to court.
The relationship between murder client and defense counsel was as delicate as that between two lovers. Had Victoria destroyed it?
'What the hell happened?' Steve demanded. 'I'm the one who breaks the china.
