Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Especially not when they were sliding down the edge of the continent towards a fortune. The days took on a heavier warmth, losing the bright crispness of the north in languid humidity. The sea warmed up enough so that they could swim even out from shore, and they got in the habit of taking a dip every afternoon. Sometimes they saw dolphins and one day, off Fort Lauderdale, the black fin of a shark.

“Nothing to worry about,” Vern said. “They come for blood. Otherwise they’re really not that dangerous.”

Sandy got out of the water anyway, and lay sunbathing on deck, her eyes sweeping the water. When he was finished swimming, Vern sat beside her on the warm boards and talked about what he wanted to do, about the kind of boat he’d like to buy, about the possibility of starting a charter business in the islands. “I’m going to stick to what I know from now on.”

Sandy was noncommittal. She was already finding the endless, hot, blue-and-gold days oppressive, and she could not see herself crewing a boat or whipping up meals in a galley kitchen for the paying customers.

“I can’t go back,” Vern said. “You said so yourself. Not for a few years anyway. Got to get myself established in a new business in my new identity. That’s the key.”

“And what about me?”

“You’ve just got a big insurance settlement. What’s more natural than that you should invest your money? Buy into a company, say? It just needs to be something I understand, like boats. I understand boats just fine.”

“I was thinking on a personal level,” Sandy said. Her voice was quiet, uninflected. There were disquieting moments when Vern remembered how she’d looked on stage as that vindictive Spanish virgin and sensed that she was now giving a slightly imperfect performance.

He shrugged. “We get married, of course, if that’s what you want.” That was, Vern thought, the easiest way to divvy up the money.

“Or maybe a different life?” Sandy suggested.

“Sure, maybe a different life. We divide the money, you have a different life if you want.”

“Or if you want,” said Sandy, and they proceeded to quarrel without really saying what they thought — or maybe without really knowing what was in their minds. They were not, after all, the same people anymore.

That night, Sandy sat up on deck in the early dark for a long time. Later, preparing some vegetables in the galley, her knife slipped and she cut her hand. Blood mingled with the cubed carrots and celery, the garlic and tomatoes, and spotted the blond maple counter. Vern grabbed a dish towel. He was wrapping her hand up and putting pressure on the shallow, fast-bleeding wound when he realized that she hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved. She was watching the blood with the detached, concentrated expression of a surveillance camera.

“Hey,” said Vern, grabbing her shoulder. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

Sandy’s eyes came back into focus. “Sight of blood,” she said. “I’ve never done that before. Ouch, what a stupid thing to do.” She gave the old Sandy smile, and Vern got some Band-Aids and relaxed.

The weather held — Vern thought he had never seen such perfect conditions for cruising — and they reached Freeport on schedule. Sandy was sick of fish and wanted to find a butcher shop. Vern had in mind to do some banking; he wanted to transfer some money, to begin pulling down that big new account, but she said, “Let’s wait until we look at some boats, at something big.” There was a nervous, enthusiastic note in her voice. “Just like you wanted.”

And Vern, knowing that was safest, agreed. He worked around the boat, putting everything in order, while Sandy set off to find a steak. She returned two hours later, hot and tired, with a large package.

“You bought the whole cow?” asked Vern.

“A steak and a surprise,” said Sandy, and she packed everything away in the galley refrigerator.

The following day, heading toward Berry Island, they stopped in the channel to swim. They’d gotten fond of isolation, of the vast blue-green open water, of the great depths below. Vern liked to dive straight down as far as breath would take him, then rocket back up on the edge of fear. The water was very clear, and once in a while, they would see the white of a sail or a hull on the edge of the horizon.

Vern shook the brine out of his eyes and looked for Sandy far out from the boat — she was a strong swimmer. He saw only empty water and the gentle roll of the waves. He turned, isolation and a thousand little hints and feelings breeding alarm, to see her starting up the ladder of the boat.

He waved and she called back, “I’ve taken a cramp.”

“Need some help?”

“I’ll be fine as soon as I get out of the water.” She reached the deck and began massaging her left calf.