“This is a time to come together,” said the Mormon. “Offer each other our mutual support. The healing can only really begin when we let go of the anger.”
“Shit on a stick,” said the old salt, and pushed himself out of his chair.
“It’s so important to us that our guests feel supported!” said the woman.
“Can you just tell us what happened to Nancy?” said Chip, becoming impatient. “That’s what we want to know. What the hell happened to Nancy?”
“We understand she had asthma,” said the woman. “There was, maybe, a breathing issue while she was in the bath, with the asthma, and then the bathwater, that situation in the bath, and so eventually, what we’re surmising, is what happened was, unfortunately, that.”
“What?” asked Steve, under his breath.
“What?” asked Janeane, loudly.
“Bathtub asthma drowning?” said Chip. “Is that even a thing?”
“In that scenario,” I said directly to the Mormonish woman, summoning my resentment, “she had an asthma attack while she was in the bath, is that what you’re saying? But then, instead of reaching for her inhaler, which she always kept close, she just, as an alternative solution, did a face plunge? Just stuck her face right under the bathwater to cleverly fix her major breathing problem?”
“Unorthodox,” conceded Steve.
“We don’t have the official forensic report at this time, yet,” said the woman.
“Bathtub asthma drowning?” repeated Chip.
“So then according to you,” said Janeane, her voice rising unsteadily, wobble-screeching, “no one came in? Snuck in with shadows disguising him and crept up behind while she relaxed in the soft bubbles, maybe with earphones in? Some peaceful music playing, like Zamfir flute? And then this guy never grabbed her and forced her under by the head? Burst in, strong and hulking, and murdered this poor, naked woman, meanwhile his dick raping?”
“Oh. My.”
“Rape-rape! Rape-rape! Rape-rape!”
Janeane’s brow was furrowed as she said that, her face red; one of her hands was clenched into a fist, her arm moving in a curious rigid, pumping motion.
“Oh dear,” said the Mormon woman.
“You know what, let’s head back to our cabana, why don’t we,” said Steve soothingly, his hand on her upper arm, rubbing, trying to slow the arm down. It was a raping arm. That much was clear. People were really embarrassed. “We’re maybe ruffling a few feathers here. And we’re all so tired, aren’t we? So exhausted. What a stressful day it’s been. Let me help you, honey.”
Chip felt bad for both of them, plain to see, and I felt restless, so in solidarity we followed them, filing toward the door. I figured the Mormonish woman wasn’t going to say much anyway. There was no point to her. At least from our POV, the woman had no reason for being. Sheerly from an outside perspective. I’ve noticed that can happen pretty easily: you look at a person from just about every side there is—except for from the inside, obviously—and there just doesn’t seem to be a good reason for them.
It’s frowned upon to say so, but if we’re being honest, come on—please. There are currently billions of humans. Even allowing for some repetition, are there billions of reasons for being?
“Before you go, though, would you sign in? Please? We really need to get everyone’s full contact info, emails, cell phone—”
She was cut off as we retreated.
OUTSIDE THE DOME, the golf cart wasn’t there. Those massive red flowers bulged under the building’s outdoor lights; our fairy-tale coach had turned into a butternut squash.
“Jesus!” shrilled Janeane, and stood still. “Now we’re supposed to walk? Across the whole grounds in the dark?”
Steve talked her down, holding her wrists gently.
“We’re perfectly secure,” he said. “Take a deep breath. In, out. That’s it. Good. In, out. In, out. You, are, safe, here. Now breathe again. Pranayama.”
“We can go back and ask the name-tag chick,” said Chip. “Or, hey, I’ll just run up and get a cart. You guys wait here, I’ll go get it. I need the exercise. It’s no problem.”
“No! No! We can’t split up!” cried Janeane, interrupting her breathing. “Disemboweling!”
“Sorry, she means that’s what’ll happen next,” explained Steve over her shoulder, still holding and patting her. “Like in the slasher movies.”
“OK, listen, I’ll call up to the front desk, then,” said Chip. “They’ll send a driver down, I’m sure. It’s no big deal.”
Chip’s a master of smartphone usage; he’d set up a Listserv for the dive group, which he used to communicate with everyone. He’d been messaging the Bay Areans, the foot fetishist, the divers and spearfishers all day.
Once he’d made the call, while we were waiting for the golf cart, the two of us left Steve to work his Freudian/yoga magic. We stepped back from the others, under the overhang of a big old tree with feathery leaves.
“Maybe she watched too many of those slasher movies,” said Chip quietly. “Maybe she saw it happen one too many times—where everyone gets picked off one by one.”
Hatcheted, I thought, and then de-limbed. Their arms and legs tossed here and there like rice after a wedding.
“I was thinking this was a single-murder scenario,” I said to him. “Hoping, at least. And then they solve it. But—you really think it might be more of a slasher deal?”
Chip cocked his head, considering.
“Wait! Think before you answer, Chip. It just occurred to me: if it turns out this is a slasher movie, and we act all dismissive—if for example you look too smug right now and shrug your shoulders, disdainful and smirking—then for certain we’ll be the next to turn up all murdered.”
“OK. So, for the record, I’m considering carefully. No one’s dismissing the slasher possibility out of hand,” said Chip. He looked around respectfully, reassuring the hidden camera. “But, having considered, I think it’s fairly unlikely, on balance. It’s not really a slasher format. Because Nancy, Nancy was great, I mean—”
He looked a little choked up for a second so I drew near and laid my cheek against his chest.
“—Nancy, man. I still can’t—believe . . .”
We
