"Then someone's up the creek."
"Paddle-less. Right. Does it look like Byrne skipped?"
"No. Just the opposite, but it's too early to be positive. I'm going down to Norfolk tomorrow."
"So you think he got tanked and took a midnight dip?"
"Looks that way. But his wife claims he wasn't much of a drinker."
"Yeah, and I'll bet she swears he wasn't screwing around either. If you ask me," she said, "I'll bet he skipped off with his secretary or girlfriend."
"Cherchez la femme," he muttered.
"That's right. 'Look for the woman.'"
"Fred already used that line. He agrees with you."
"Don't spoil the evening by bringing up that old bastard!"
Although Ethel and Fred had never met, that didn't stop them from developing a strong mutual dislike, fueled via telephone messages and third-party comments.
When he didn't comment, she asked, "Who owns the beach?"
"You mean where Byrne drowned?"
"Of course-where he allegedly drowned." There was annoyance in her voice.
"I haven't the foggiest idea."
"Did they have a lifeguard?"
"At midnight?"
"The city probably owns the beach and sovereign immunity makes that angle a waste of time. How about the motel? The newspaper says someone talked with Byrne-an employee. If Byrne was tanked, they should have stopped him. Sounds like a right of action to me."
"Why would they be responsible because Byrne acted like a jerk and decided to go for a midnight swim-drunk or sober?"
"Hey darling, you just muddy the waters by suing everyone in sight. Sooner or later you hit the guys with the bucks and somebody tosses you money so you'll go away. That's how the system works. Just thinking about it gets me all hot and tingly," she said, snuggling closer.
He responded, with just a hint of reluctance, thinking of the
5:00 alarm call, very few hours away.