Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries) by A.W. Hartoin

stubble scratching.
    “Did you hear what Mauro and I were talking about before I went in?”
    “Yes.”  
    “Did you see anyone messing with Lucia’s equipment?”  
    “No one touched it.”  
    Lucia called over. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t have an attack.”  
    “Why’s that?” I asked.  
    “I forgot my inhaler.” She paused and rooted around again. “And my wallet. I don’t know where my head is.”  
    “Seriously?” I glanced at Alex and he raised an eyebrow at me.  
    “I could’ve sworn I put them in here, but I must’ve left it in the room,” she said. “Do you want some chocolate?”  
    Lucia, Alex, and I shared a Bissinger’s milk chocolate bar. Lucia chatted away how crazy it was that both her regs failed while Alex and I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to say. Hey, Lucia, maybe somebody’s trying to kill you. The missing inhaler didn’t make things any better. I leaned on the edge of the boat. It would be so easy to get the inhaler out of her bag and drop it over the side, never to be seen again. We were all so busy getting our equipment squared away, the whole bag could’ve been tossed over and no one would’ve been the wiser.  
    Twenty minutes later, everyone surfaced and got in the boat. There was little discussion about Lucia’s regs. She was fine and everyone seemed to accept the failures as the price of doing business, everyone except me, Alex, and Mauro. Mostly the talk was of the five sea turtles everyone saw. Lucia apologized to me a thousand times for making me miss it. I couldn’t have cared less. If someone was really trying to kill the niece of Calpurnia Fibonacci it was bad. Very bad.

    Back at the dive shop, the manager, a grizzled old diver that went by the name of Spitball, took apart Lucia’s regs. It was just Spitball, Mauro, and me in the equipment room standing over a small table made from driftwood.  
    “Well, that’s a new one,” said Spitball.  
    “What’s wrong with them?” I asked.  
    Spitball held up reg number one. “The first stage spring failed.” Then he picked up the spare. “The diaphragm’s gone.”
    “So they were tampered with.”  
    “Not necessarily. The spring could’ve failed with age.”
    He was blowing me off. Freak accidents are easier to believe than murder attempts, I guess.
    “What about the diaphragm? Where’d that go?”  
    Mauro took the reg from Spitball. “It could disintegrate under the right conditions.”  
    “What conditions are those?”  
    “No servicing for years. It could happen. But all our equipment is checked daily,” said Mauro. “I did the work myself.”  
    “Someone could’ve switched the regs, right? All our bundles were sitting on the bench while we were at lunch. Anyone could’ve come in and done it,” I said.  
    “Marcella was here,” said Spitball.  
    “All the time? Every minute?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. He didn’t believe me. I hate that.
    “Does the diver want to continue in the class?”  
    “Yes,” I said. “She doesn’t suspect anything.”  
    “It could be a freak accident.”  
    “Or not.”  
    Mauro set down the reg. “I will test her equipment before each dive. There will be no repeat.”  
    I threw my beach bag over my shoulder. “I’m guessing you won’t have to worry about it.”  
    “Why not?”
    “He’d have to be an idiot to try the same thing again.”
    “Who are you really?” asked Spitball.  
    “Just another tourist.”
    “Right. We get tourists that look exactly like Marilyn Monroe, who think someone’s trying to murder another guest all the time.” Spitball looked down at the regs, not seeing what I saw.  
    “The world is weird,” I said.  
    “And so are you, I think.”  
    “Speaking of weird, why are you called Spitball?” I asked.
    “Call sign. I did three tours in Vietnam in an F4.”  
    “My grandpa did three tours in a helicopter.”  
    “What battalion?”  
    “I have no