Alpine For You Part 24

"Interesting composition," Tilly said as she inspected the Polaroid through the magnifying gla.s.s that hung around her neck. "Who is that man lying on top of Emily?"

"Our driver. He pa.s.sed out and crashed us into the pond. Then he fell on top of her. We thought for sure he was dead. Then his cell phone rang, and he answered it. He would've laid right there talkin', too, if Emily hadn't done somethin'." Nana handed Tilly a second photograph. "This one's of Emily kneein' the driver in his privates." And a third. "This is the driver curled up in pain after Emily kneed 'im. And you can see there, he's still talkin' on his cell phone. That was pretty impressive."

"What caused him to pa.s.s out?" asked Tilly. "Seizure?"

"Sloshed," said Nana. She handed Tilly a final photo. "This is the policeman who dragged Emily outta the pond and gave her a written warnin' for swimmin' in an unauthorized area."

Tilly, who made ordinary mortals quake with her legendary bluntness and direct stares, stabbed a long finger at the policeman's photo. "Did you get his name? We should march right down to the Garda Station and file a complaint. This situation was not not Emily's fault. She was treated unfairly." She turned to me. "And if I were you, I'd sue the carriage company for damages. Look at you. You look like one of the contestants on Emily's fault. She was treated unfairly." She turned to me. "And if I were you, I'd sue the carriage company for damages. Look at you. You look like one of the contestants on Survivor." Survivor."

I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilt-framed mirror decorating the lobby wall. Ehhh. Ehhh. My dark brown hair was a wild, dripping mop of corkscrew curls. Mascara circled my eyes. My new rayon blouse and skirt clung to my five-foot-five-inch frame in a series of wet, misshapen folds. I didn't look as good as a My dark brown hair was a wild, dripping mop of corkscrew curls. Mascara circled my eyes. My new rayon blouse and skirt clung to my five-foot-five-inch frame in a series of wet, misshapen folds. I didn't look as good as a Survivor Survivor contestant. I looked more like Alice Cooper meets Xena, Warrior Princess. contestant. I looked more like Alice Cooper meets Xena, Warrior Princess.

Nana regarded Tilly with a twinkle in her eye. "You watch Survivor?" Survivor?"

"Reality television, Marion. Anthropology for the ma.s.ses. I think of it as a modern version of Margaret Mead's Coming of Age in Samoa Coming of Age in Samoa without the monographic a.n.a.lysis." without the monographic a.n.a.lysis."

"I think of it as Days of Our Lives Days of Our Lives without the script." without the script."

Tilly looked pensive. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but in a sense, you're perfectly right. That's a very astute observation. Do you have a favorite contestant?"

I'd been concerned that Tilly and Nana wouldn't be compatible as roommates. Tilly had a Ph.D. Nana had an eighth-grade education. Tilly was five-foot-eleven, built like a beanpole, and carried a fancy walking stick. Nana was four-foot-ten, built like a fire hydrant, and carried a really big handbag. Tilly had never married. Nana had been married to the same man for over fifty years. Survivor Survivor was the only thing they had in common, but, come to think of it, that was probably a lot more than most was the only thing they had in common, but, come to think of it, that was probably a lot more than most married married couples had in common. Heck, they'd probably become fast friends. couples had in common. Heck, they'd probably become fast friends.

I waved my arm to catch the notice of a desk clerk. My appearance was making me nervous. I needed to change my clothes before someone issued me a written warning for shedding water in an unauthorized area. "The key to room 410, please? And I'm in something of a hurry."

Bernice Zwerg shuffled up to us at the front desk and looked me up and down. "Is this a new look for you, or did you find another body of water to fall into?" Bernice had the body of a rubber chicken, a dowager's hump that made her clothes hang funny, and a voice that screamed of eight packs of Marlboros a day before she finally kicked the habit. She'd accompanied us on our earlier tour to Switzerland, so we had history.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "I was a victim of circ.u.mstance."

She flashed me a tight little smile that said she'd heard that one before. "I thought you'd want to know that the other bus just arrived from the airport."

Since our flight from Des Moines had arrived so early, the tour company had bused us the short distance to our hotel rather than make us wait at the airport for the other flights to arrive. We were expecting a contingent of people from the East Coast and a few stragglers from the Continent to add their numbers to the twenty Iowans I was escorting.

"I heard a bunch of people from New York will be joining us," Bernice continued with a sour look. "They'll probably be loud. And pushy."

Which meant Bernice would fit in with them just fine.

"What have you got there?" Bernice asked, s.n.a.t.c.hing the photos from Tilly's hands. She flipped through them quickly. "Looks like Emily having s.e.x with a dead guy in some pond."

"He wasn't dead," Nana objected. "Emily would never engage in necrophilia, would you, dear?"

I shook my head, remembering those occasions when making love to Jack had been like having s.e.x with a corpse. But we'd been married, so in my case, the necrophilia was legitimate.

"How come you don't have a digital camera?" Bernice asked Nana, handing the photos back. "Polaroids are old technology."

"I'm waitin' for the price to come down," Nana said in a no-nonsense tone. She might be a millionaire, but her Midwestern frugality still reared its ugly head from time to time.

"Room 410," the desk clerk said, handing me my key.

"I'm going up to change, so I'll see you later," I said to Nana.

Bernice gave us a squinty look. "What? You two aren't rooming together?"

"Escorts get rooms by themselves," said Nana, "so I'm roomin' with Tilly."

"Tilly?" Bernice sucked in her cheeks. "When I asked you to room with me, you said you already had a roommate, so I a.s.sumed it was Emily. You never said you were rooming with Tilly. I'm I'm supposed to be your best friend, Marion. What's the matter? I'm not good enough for you anymore?" supposed to be your best friend, Marion. What's the matter? I'm not good enough for you anymore?"

"Tilly asked me first."

"Oh, I get it. It's on account of the mashed peas, isn't it?"

Back in December, Nana had slipped on some mashed peas on the floor of the senior center and bruised her tail-bone. She'd had to sit on an inflatable doughnut during the entire holiday season, which didn't work out too well during Midnight Ma.s.s, when my nephew punched a hole in it with his Moses action figure with authentic scale-model staff. All Nana could say was that we were lucky David hadn't brought his GI Joe. Joe carried his own grenade launcher.

"I don't blame you for that at all, Bernice, but you were were the person in charge a cleanin' the floor after the Christmas luncheon. And you didn't do it." the person in charge a cleanin' the floor after the Christmas luncheon. And you didn't do it."

"Couldn't be helped. I had to leave early to catch the bus to the casino. But you know about the pea situation. Every time we have a luncheon for the Lo-vision people, they leave mashed peas all over the place. How come you don't serve a vegetable they can see? see? You're on the food committee. You ever think about serving broccoli spears?" You're on the food committee. You ever think about serving broccoli spears?"

Hmm. My guess was, Bernice was going to be the first one voted off the island.

Thinking it might be best if the ladies mediated this themselves, I waved to Nana and slipped away. As I headed to the elevator, I looked toward the lobby, to find a troupe of people muscling their way through the front door behind a willowy blonde who was all legs and teeth. Ashley Overlock. Our tour guide. She'd introduced herself to us at the airport in a voice that dripped Southern charm, then sent us on our way, but the men were still suffering palpitations from the initial meeting.

I shook my head. Men were so blind. Couldn't they see all her phony reconstruction? I ticked off the list. Bleached blond hair. Collagen-injected lips. Capped teeth. Silicone-enhanced b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Acrylic nails, or maybe they were silk wraps. I couldn't tell from this distance. Her legs started at her neck and were definitely her own, but wearing those spike heels was bound to give her varicose veins. In a few years she'd be forced to wear support hose under that six-inch miniskirt of hers, then we'd see how many heads she turned. Of course, there was one benefit to the support hose. She wouldn't have to shave her legs so often.

The commotion in the lobby continued as every male with traceable testosterone found an excuse to mill around Ashley. Scarlett O'Hara at the barbecue. Geesch. The scene made me grateful I wasn't one of the beautiful people. The ogling. The gawking. The fawning. How did she stand it?

"Y'all need to proceed to the front desk to pick up your room keys," I heard her call out. "No, I don't need a.s.sistance. Y'all just take care of yourselves. Yes, I already have plans for dinner. No, you don't need to know my room number. The front desk is right through there. Just keep moving."

I pressed the elevator b.u.t.ton again and sidled up to a plant, hoping to camouflage myself as a potted palm while the tour guests swarmed the front desk area. A full five minutes later, the door opened and I scooted inside the car, followed by a woman who announced, "Fourth floor," as if I were the elevator operator. And she didn't say please. She obviously wasn't from the Midwest. My guess was...New Jersey.

The doors glided shut. The elevator hummed to life. "Are you on your way to a costume party?" she asked as she lounged against the handrail. It didn't help my mood any that she was a gorgeous brunette with the most exquisitely applied makeup I'd ever seen. Razor-thin eyeliner above and below the eyes. Lips perfectly outlined and stained. Foundation and blush that made her complexion appear luminous. I knew only two groups of people with the expertise to apply makeup so precisely: makeup artists and Texans. I revised my first opinion. Okay, she was from New Jersey by way of Dallas.

"I don't always look like this," I said. "My mascara ran."

"It's a shade too dark for you anyway. Brown would be better. Have you ever had your colors done? My guess is, you're an autumn."

This was handy. Take an elevator ride. Get an instant color a.n.a.lysis. I wondered if this was part of the tour package.

She smiled. I smiled. I lowered my gaze to the floor. Whoa! She had the biggest feet I'd ever seen, but great shoes. She must have to order out of the catalog.

"Emily?" she said suddenly.

I checked to see if I was wearing a name tag. Nope. How did she know my name? I exchanged glances with her, thinking she looked vaguely familiar, but unable to identify her. "I'm Emily, but I'm afraid I don't know who you are."

"Emily!" She rushed at me, smothering my face with kisses and enveloping me in her arms. "It's me! You don't recognize me, do you. It's Jack! Well, Jackie now."

I tried not to look as confused as I felt.

"Jack Potter!" the woman burbled. "Remember? Your ex-husband."