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

Vern ducked under the surface, the sudden cold of the lower water washing away his anxiety. There’s nothing wrong with Sandy, he reminded himself before he struck out for the horizon with his flashy crawl. Vern was fast, but not good for any distance. He was ready to turn back when he heard the rumble of the motor, and the pleasant frisson of the deep turned into something else.

He shouted to Sandy, then swam briskly toward the hull. Sandy was standing at the helm in her floppy hat, her eyes hidden by the brim and by her sunglasses. She could be anyone, Vern thought, but he was an optimist, so he called again and waved to the woman who adored him. The boat hung suspended in the emerald water with nothing wrong at all except for the sound of the motor. Vern swam into the shadow of the hull. She had lifted the ladder, but he could perhaps scramble up the side.

“Sandy!”

She looked down at him, her face blank, indifferent, her voice steady and uninflected. “I did for you. And what did it get me?”

Vern was indignant. “It got you well over a million dollars!”

“He was killed,” Sandy cried, her voice turning hoarse and strange, a stranger’s voice, carrying a stranger’s inexplicable passions.

“Who?” demanded Vern. “Who are you talking about?” In his present distress, he had forgotten Sandy’s former lover. Vern’s only thought was that she’d had a breakdown, taken some sort of fit.

“The only man I ever, ever loved.”

“You’re going to marry me. I thought you loved me,” Vern protested, but Sandy ignored him.

“How was I to know he’d be on that cutter?” A wail of grief and desolation. “How was I to know? Of all the boats, out of all the Coast Guard bases! How was I to guess?”

“Christ, Sandy, you couldn’t know,” said Vern, who was wondering how any of this was his fault. If she couldn’t keep track of what’s his name, how was he, Vern, supposed to? The whole situation was bizarre, nonsensical, and he was tired of treading water. But when he tried to reach the stem, Sandy eased the boat away and brought it around again. Sandy could handle the Hatteras very nicely.

“I wouldn’t have done it except for you,” she said. “It was not the sort of thing I’d ever have thought of. The seas were terrible, but I insisted they go, because my fiancé was out. My fiancé,” she added bitterly, “who wants the money and the single life. Don’t deny it!”

In the water and beginning to gasp for breath, Vern thought it best to remain silent, though a preference for the bachelor life is hardly a capital offense.

“They were hit by a huge wave. He was slammed against the rail and hurt and swept overboard.”

“No one’s fault,” Vern gasped. “No one’s fault.” And then he asked her to let him come aboard. She needed help, he said. She’d had a bad shock, how bad he hadn’t realized. He should have realized. She should have told him. But now he knew, and they could work something out.

Sandy shook her head. “I loved him,” she said. “I wanted to get away from him, but I loved him. You didn’t know I was still seeing him, did you? I was, I was. But after a while all I wanted was to start fresh.”

Vern pleaded with her and tried to distract her as he paddled about. The water felt cool, almost cold, in the shadow of the hull. Above him, Sandy didn’t answer; she held her head stiffly, as if she was wearing an old-fashioned, high-collared dress.

At last, Vern risked everything. “Listen,” he said, “there are yachts passing all the time. When I get picked up, Sandy, and I will get picked up, what will you say?”

In response, she lifted a dark red plastic bag like a lumpy balloon. Before he could cry out, Vern saw the flash of the boat knife. Liquid spurted onto the water, making soft, red fans.

“I’ll tell them sharks came while we were swimming,” said Sandy. Her voice had gone dead, dead and uninflected, as if Vern was of no concern to her. “I know how to act. I know what to say. I’ve had practice with a dead fiancé.”

She threw the plastic bag into the water and put the motor into gear. Vern shouted once, twice. Then he began splashing after her, churning through the wake, exerting all his strength, because, though he’d never catch up, he could already see the fins.

Summer Parole by Katherine H. Brooks

What hostile frame of mind embraces
 This row of sulky little faces,
Resembling so a prison lineup,
 that no suggested sport will shine up?

Like listless cons, who hate restrictions
 that counteract their own convictions,
They find no purpose left, attractive,
 to keep their grubby fingers active.