The Groaning Board

halfheartedly in a breeze that was like hot
breath.
    “Which one is it?” Smith demanded.
    “Let’s see, Laura Lee said the boat
sleeps six and is called Bread Pudding. Straight down, first right,
boat’s on the left.” Wetzon, following the directions, called, “Down here,
Smith.”
    “Hi, there,” someone cried as another
and another arrangement lit up the sky. Baby’s breath, on fire.
    “Hi, yourself,” Wetzon responded,
then looked back for her lagging partner, who, as usual, had insisted on
wearing high heels. As if she needed the height. And those heels would
certainly destroy a deck, so who would let her on board?
    “Here we are, Smith.” The Bread
Pudding was like the other boats, full of people on deck, conversation
flowing like the rippling water in New York Bay.
    “Well, really,” Smith said suddenly,
outraged. She’d come up behind Wetzon, arms akimbo.
    “Now what?”
    “Would you take a swim in the Hudson?”
    “What are you talking about? I’m not
interested in swimming. Let’s go.” Wetzon raised her voice. “Hello, Bread
Pudding!”
    “ Bread
Pudding! ” A woman’s voice. “Do you believe it?
Why not Crème Brûlée?” The boats rocked gently against their moorings
and the dock, with soft, sweet chungs.
    Why indeed not, Wetzon thought, much
preferring the latter to the former.
    “Look at her if you don’t believe
me,” Smith was insisting. “Get out of there! You’ll get all kinds of diseases.”
Smith leaned over, yelling down at the water.
    She’s taken leave of her senses at
long last, Wetzon was certain, as she peered over Smith’s shoulder. What she saw
made her jerk back, almost losing her balance. Good God, there really was
someone in the water—a woman, in fact. She wore a long white dress and was
wrapped in garlands of flowers.
    “Oh, poor Ophelia,” Wetzon murmured.
    And then the entire sky erupted, showering
multicolored stars down on them.
    The woman in the water wasn’t
swimming. She was floating. Face down.

Chapter Forty-One

     
     
     
    “Ohmygod,
ohmygod, ohmygod!” Smith’s howl rose into the night and was swallowed whole by the shriek and whistle of
fireworks.
    Holding tight to each other, they
were like some totem of grief, shock, horror, one atop the other. Wetzon wanted
to scream, Help! Call 911, but nothing whatever came out of her mouth.
    An immense magenta poinsettia
exploded in the sky. When the spray died, only the laughter and the clink of
glasses could be heard. Their eyes drawn to the water below, Smith and Wetzon
saw that what they’d hoped they’d imagined was real: the body spread like a float,
butting and butting gently against the pilings.
    And nearby the Bread Pudding rocked at its mooring, making hazy the silhouettes of the people on her deck.
    “Leslie?” A silhouette digitized.
Bill Veeder stood on the bow, or whatever it was called. Someone came up behind
him.
    “Bill,” Wetzon croaked, arms waving.
“Bill, quick, in the water. Call 911. In the water. Please. Someone’s floating
in the water. Down there.” She knew she wasn’t making any sense.
    “She’s drowned herself,” Smith
shrieked. “Do something.”
    Obviously puzzled, Veeder bounded to
the dock, peered down into the black water. He snapped back, dropped his
jacket, kicked off his Dock-Siders. His shoulder holster with gun somehow found
its way into Wetzon’s hand.
    He was in midair when the person behind
him thrust his gun and harness at Wetzon too and followed Veeder into the Bay,
porkpie hat flying. “Call 911, Les.”
    “Help! Somebody call 911,” Smith
screamed. “We’re drowning!”
    What happened next would surely have
been fodder for farces, were it not for the sodden body that Silvestri and Bill
Veeder hauled up on the pier. Micklynn, a water goddess, lay huge and regal
entwined in a water-soaked flowered shawl which Wetzon had mistaken for vines.
And all the while a glorious, vibrant accompaniment of blossoms and diadems
bloomed and collapsed overhead. Hummers spun and screamed in the sky. Mourning
Micklynn.
    Soon enough came the wailing of
sirens. Wetzon in her Laura Ashley sundress dropped a gun into each of the deep
patch pockets, more fodder for farces.
    She picked up Bill’s jacket and shoes
and eased her way around the rubberneckers spilling out of surrounding boats
and crowding onto the dock.
    She knelt near the water goddess.
Micklynn’s hand was cold and lifeless. Blue. Wetzon floated above herself, out
of body. It was