On Tuesday morning, the manager of La Casa Blanca trundled them tenderly into the back of a shining new white Lincoln and personally drove them to the airport.
“Why is he being so nice?” Mary Bliss whispered.
“They’re afraid you’ll sue,” Katharine whispered back. “That piece-of-crap boat belonged to the hotel. One guest dead, another injured? Honey, they’re just waiting for your lawyer to call up and take them to the cleaners.”
Mary Bliss nodded. The ache in her head had started to subside. Her doctor spoke very good English, and he had assured her the dizziness and nausea, along with the headache, would soon be over.
She had managed to piece together most of what had happened on Saturday.
Dinky Davis had gotten drunk, and then nearly gotten them both killed. He’d deliberately steered the boat into a killer wave, and the engine had cut off just at the moment of impact. Probably, the doctor told her, she’d been hit in the back of the head by a piece of the boat, which had shattered like a child’s toy.
“You were lucky,” he’d told her, his voice somber. “And smart. To wear a life jacket. Your husband apparently was not so smart. And not so lucky.”
And that’s when she remembered. All the life jackets were in the bottom of the boat. Poor Dinky hadn’t bothered to put one on.
“My husband,” she’d said slowly. “He’s really gone, then. Have they found…anything?”
The doctor busied himself changing the bandage on her head. “A pair of flippers. Some empty beer cans. And the life jackets, of course. You have my sympathy.”
The Lincoln stopped in front of the airport. The manager stepped out, grabbed their bags, and led them inside to the departure gate. Katharine and Mary Bliss trailed along behind him.
He stepped up to the desk and whispered something to the ticket agent. Then he turned, bowed, kissed Mary Bliss’s hand, and walked rapidly away.
The agent waved Mary Bliss’s proffered ticket away. “Arrangements have been changed,” she said softly. “We have you seated on the next flight. Nonstop to Atlanta. And first class. We thought you might be more comfortable that way.”
“First class,” Katharine repeated happily. “I think we’ll be much more comfortable.”
The gate agent let Mary Bliss and Katharine board the plane before anybody else, and the flight attendant tucked them into their leather recliner seats and handed them the new issue of Vanity Fair and steaming hot coffee.
When she’d gone, Mary Bliss let out a long, troubled sigh. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Passengers trooped down the aisle past them, giving them the kind of resentful looks they’d always given people sitting in their current situation.
“First class,” Katharine said. “You were born for first class, Mary Bliss. And so was I, of course.” She put her mouth very near Mary Bliss’s ear. “You’re doing great with the grieving-widow thing. Very convincing. But I know you, Mary Bliss. And I can tell you’re having second thoughts.”
“That’s an understatement,” Mary Bliss said, sipping her coffee. “I am scared totally out of my mind. All the time I was in that clinica, I kept thinking, any minute now, somebody is going to step up and arrest me. And at the airport, same thing. I won’t feel safe until we land in Atlanta. If I’m going to jail, I just want to go to one with flush toilets and running water.”
“Stop that talk!” Katharine said. “Parker is dead. Things went even better than we planned. Except for your concussion. That means it was meant to be. God wants Parker dead. Why else would he have arranged that boat wreck like he did?”
Mary Bliss turned and looked at Katharine with amazement. “How can you say such a thing? Parker is not dead. We have no idea where he is, and whether he’ll show up again. And in the meantime, how can you be so callous about Dinky? The poor man. We suckered him into our plan, and now he’s dead. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? That somebody died because of our selfishness?”
“We don’t know he’s dead,” Katharine whispered. “And anyway, Dinky knew what he was getting himself into. He’s the one who got himself drunk. He’s the one who didn’t bother to wear a life jacket. And he’s the one who drove that boat like a maniac and nearly got you killed in the process. If something bad happened to him, it’s his own fault as far as I’m concerned.”
“You are awful,” Mary Bliss said. “You of all people. I mean, you slept with the man just the night before. Doesn’t that mean anything at all to you?”
Katharine opened Vanity Fair with a flourish. “Not that it’s any of your business, because it isn’t. But I do feel I should tell you that nothing happened between Dinky and me. Absolutely nothing.”
“But,” Mary Bliss sputtered. “You said…you knew why people called him Dinky. And I saw him too. He really was dinky.”
Katharine rolled her eyes. “Honestly. Look. I let him stay in the room with me because I thought, maybe, I should branch out a little, in the romance department, you know? I mean, Charlie and I are almost divorced. And he certainly hasn’t been faithful to me. So what was to stop me from having a little fun?”
“Your conscience?”
“Please,” Katharine said, guffawing. “Don’t confuse me with you. No. What stopped me was a matter of taste. You saw the man. He doesn’t even own a car. Dinky just wasn’t my type. Not to mention I have no intention of coming down with some nasty sexually transmitted disease. No. Not Katharine Weidman. Now, can we drop this subject?”
“No,” Mary Bliss said. “I think you’re a big liar. I think you didn’t sleep with Dinky because you’re still in love with Charlie.”
Katharine reached into the seat-back pocket in front of her and brought out a set of earphones, which she placed over her hair with a flourish. “We are not having this conversation.”
When the pilot made the announcement that they were entering their approach to Atlanta, Mary Bliss said a heartfelt prayer of thanks. She looked out the window at the city stretched out below. Tiny matchbox-sized cars sped down streets whose straightness and precision looked like a marvel from up above. Pincushion-sized trees dotted the landscape. It reminded her of her wealthy boy cousin’s model railroad layout that she had coveted as a child. Looking down now, Mary Bliss coveted Atlanta. Or, to be more precise, she coveted home.
“What’s this?” she asked, when the flight attendant arrived at her side with a shiny chrome contraption.
“It’s a wheelchair,” Katharine said before the young woman could answer. “And it’s the doctor’s orders, so don’t go giving her any sass about it.”
“I’m not an invalid,” Mary Bliss protested, but people were standing, and she was blocking the aisle, so she gave in out of politeness.
When they were off the plane, there was a courtesy golf cart waiting for them too. “Not a word!” Katharine warned. “Doctor’s orders. Besides, I’m whipped. You might not need to ride, but I do.”
There was one more surprise: Randy Bowden waited for them in the baggage pickup area. He carried a huge bouquet of yellow roses, and a look of profound grief.
“Mary Bliss,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw the cart approach. “You’re all right!”
She shot Katharine a look. “I’m fine,” she said wearily. “It’s just a little bitty concussion. I don’t know why everybody has to make such a fuss over me. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“But Katharine said,” he started to say.
“Never mind,” Mary Bliss said, patting his hand. “I’m so sorry to inconvenience you this way.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Josh is outside with the car. I’ll just grab your bags and we’ll go out and go home. I know you’ve had a bad time of it.”
“Thank you,” Mary Bliss said.
“You’re welcome,” Katharine said, mouthing the words.