Sammy draped a white towel around the neck of the half-full bottle and went away.
“To all the bastards.” Regina tipped her glass toward mine.
“Hear, hear,” Cynthia intoned. She arched her long neck back and took a hefty slug from her glass. The price of Moet being what it is, I figured her intake to be about a dollar-fifty per swallow.
“Where is Hillary now?” Regina asked.
“County morgue,” I said.
“All alone?” Regina seethed. She reached for the bottle. “That goddam fucking son of a bitch Randy.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“All his brains are in his prick. He all but abandoned Hilly. When Elizabeth caught him screwing his latest bimbo, she tossed him out. Literally. Dumped all his shit into the canal. The neighbors watched her do it. Then he took right off, left the country, and left Hilly behind.”
“Left her with her mother,” I said.
Cynthia sneered. “Elizabeth is not her mother. By my count, she’s wife number three.”
“Then where is her mother?”
“She died.” Regina turned to Cynthia. “Was it five or six years ago?”
Cynthia shrugged. “I’m not sure. Five or six years and two wives ago, anyway. It was a terrible shame. Hilly’s mother was such a lovely person. You can see her influence in Hilly.”
“Hold the phone,” Regina snapped, draining the bottle into her glass. “Hilly ended up a streetwalker. How lovely is that?”
Cynthia looked down her narrow nose. “You know what I mean. Mother and daughter were both gracious and well-spoken. They kept a bit to themselves, but they were very charming. If Hilly ended up on the streets I would look to Elizabeth before I placed blame on Hanna.”
“Why?” I asked.
Regina summoned me closer so she could whisper. “Because Elizabeth is a tramp. Any idiot could see right from the beginning what she wanted from Randy. Everyone except Randy.”
“And what did she want?”
“This.” Regina’s gesture swept the room. “And the Virginia Country Club membership, a house in Naples. For a little waitress who grew up in Northtown, she did all right for herself.”
“Nasty Reggie,” Cynthia reproved.
“But it’s true.” She sat back. “Randy must have a thing for waitresses. Look at his latest conquest. What’s her name? Lacy? Apparently he likes them young and deft at juggling hot dishes.”
“Richard likes Lacy.” Cynthia was beginning to slur her words. “He says Lacy’s awfully intelligent. More like Randy’s first wife than Elizabeth. She’s working on a teaching credential at State. And she’s good with Hilly. He thinks maybe Randy is beginning to pull himself back together.”
“Who is Richard?” I asked her.
“My husband,” Cynthia said as if any idiot should have known.
Listening to them, I was beginning to feel like a spectator at a tennis match. The wine and bouncing back and forth between them was making my head buzz.
“Wait a minute,” I said, holding up my hands. “Where can I find Elizabeth?”
“Haven’t seen her for a while. Have you, Cynthia?”
“No.”
“She still has the Naples house,” Regina said.
“I’d like the address,” I said. More than that, I wanted an introduction. I hoped Regina was up for a Sunday-afternoon social call. “I’m sure the police have already contacted Elizabeth. But I want to talk to her.”
“Why?” Cynthia challenged. “Seems ghoulish.”
“Research,” I said, perhaps defensively. Maybe she was right.
Regina had an impish smirk on her face. “You want to do the Nancy Drew thing. Snoop around. Get into some trouble.”
I laughed. “Exactly. Want to come with me?”
“Seriously?”
“Elizabeth will be more receptive to a chat if I’m introduced to her by someone she knows. Like you.”
“True.” Regina got to her feet. “Besides, she lives right on a canal. It’s a tricky place to find. Be easier if I just drove you. Cynthia, are you coming?”
“I pass.” Cynthia’s sleeping child was beginning to stir. “David needs lunch.”
Regina gave little David’s leg a pat. “Keep an eye out for my boys. I’ll call you later.”
“My car’s out front,” I said.
But she shook her head. “We’ll get there faster by water.”
On the way past the bar, Regina scooped up a second bottle of Moet and tucked it under her arm. At double-time march, she led me downstairs and out the back way to the ranks of moored boats.
When Greg Szal mentioned his Bayliner, I had assumed big. It wasn’t. It was a behemoth. There was enough gear on the fishing tower to go into the tuna business if his nose-job practice failed.
A craft that size would tear up the open water, but in narrow passages like the boat channel or the canals of Naples it would be a nuisance, a shark in a goldfish bowl. I was thinking it might be faster to swim to the Ramsdales’ than go through the bother of bringing the beast out when Regina ripped a tarp off a four-man Zodiak raft that was tied alongside.
“Give me a hand,” she said. We untied the raft and pushed it through the slip until we had cleared the Bayliner’s stern. Regina jumped in, heedless of her white linen slacks, and I followed, gracelessly, bouncing on the rubber bottom. I had just managed to get to my knees when she fired up the powerful outboard motor and blasted out into the channel, knocking me flat.
The bottle of Moet rolled against my leg. I grabbed it and slid into the bow. With my legs stretched out front, my back against the inflated side, I was thoroughly comfortable. Wind snapped through my hair, a fine sea spray chilled my face. I popped open the wine, let the foam spew over the side, then took a big swallow.
“Beautiful,” I shouted over the ratchety motor noise. I passed the bottle into Regina’s outstretched hand.
“Cheers,” she shouted back, and took a slug herself.
With practiced skill, Regina maneuvered the Zodiak through the channel and then cut into the wide bay instead of continuing out toward the open sea.
Both sides of the bay were lined with dense-packed houses, everything from tiny cottages to three-story confections of glass and wood. There was an East Coast feel about it alclass="underline" old money, restricted entree.
Regina powered up to pass a black-and-gold gondola that was being poled by a striped-shirted, opera-singing gondolier. His passengers were snuggled together drinking red wine. Very romantic. Regina raised our bottle to them and they waved back.
At the mouth of a narrow canal, Regina cut her motor to an idle. We glided into a shady canyon between rows of big houses. The cross streets that had been so confusing to me earlier were charming arched bridges from our perspective. The bridges trailed dusty green ivy and bright bougainvillea from either end. The air was rich with the smells of moss and salt water and star jasmine. The atmosphere was just short of exotic. A secret place discovered.
The houses we passed were magnificent. They faced the canal as they would a street, shamelessly flaunting their graces to passersby. Sunday strollers filled the walkway at the edge of the canal on both sides, festive in the weird clothes Southern Californians wear near water. Altogether it was like a Disneyland ride, a sort of Pirates of the Upper Middle Class. I was having fun.
Every house we passed had a small dock in front. And almost every dock had a boat of some sort, or evidence of a boat: lines, tarps, chains. Some of the docks were furnished with patio chairs and tables, here and there pots of geraniums or trailing succulents.
After the second bridge, Regina killed her motor and coasted to an empty dock. She tossed her line over the metal stanchion and pulled us in close. The house before us was an Italianate mansion with a pink marble terrace overlooking the water. Tall windows along the front must have filled the house with southern light.
It was a warm day. Had it been my house, at least some of the tall windows would have been open. That was my first reaction; a nice place, but stuffy.