“I’ll have a fuzzy navel,” said Dick Teig.
“You already have a fuzzy navel,” sniped Helen. “Bring him a diet pop. He’s trying to lose weight. Or better yet, a glass of water. None of that fancy brand-name stuff either. Tap is good.”
Nana scooted to the edge of her chair, all aflutter. “We just overheard Rob talkin’ to that fella what’s got the oxygen strapped to his back, dear. They’re doin’ an autopsy on that poor girl what fell off the cliff, and as soon as the results come back, Rob’ll make an announcement.” She clucked woefully. “Here she’s gone, and I don’t even recollect if I ever seen her yet. Anyone know what she looked like?”
“Long, platinum blonde hair,” offered Dick Teig in a dreamy voice. “Blue eyes. Full lips. Creamy skin. Jeans so tight—” He stopped abruptly.
“Anything else?” Helen asked with a calm that was far more frightening than her ire.
“I was just repeating what Stolee told me. Honest to God, Helen. I have no idea what those three blondes look like.”
Dick Stolee’s jaw dropped like a faulty erector set. “I did not tell him anything! Don’t listen to him, Grace. The only blonde I’ve seen on this trip is Lucille.”
“My hair is not blonde,” balked Lucille. She primped the stylish layers. “It’s called Seashell.”
“Looks pink,” said George.
“Cancel that order of tap water!” Helen called out to the barmaid.
“I think the pink is quite becoming,” Alice enthused. “It suits your complexion much better than the old color.”
“What was the old color?” asked Osmond.
“I would have called it melon,” said Tilly.
“Honeydew or musk?” asked Dick Teig.
“My hair was never melon,” huffed Lucille. “It was peach.” She elevated her chin at a jaunty angle. “Peach Margarita to be exact.”
“It was apricot,” groused Bernice. “You looked like a toy poodle.”
Boos. Hissing. Razzberries.
“Yah, yah, you people need to upgrade your shtick.” Bernice pooh-poohed the furor with a wave of her hand. “And I don’t know what the rest of you jokers have been looking at, but there’s no way you could have missed the gal who stepped off the cliff. Peroxide blonde? Hair extensions? Fake eyelashes? Fake cheekbones? Fake tan? Does any of this ring a bell? Capped teeth? Double-D implants? Blood-stained top? Saddlebags? Fat ankl—”
“Hold it!” I held up my hand. “Blood-stained top?”
She shook her head in disgust. “Considering how much you morons miss, I don’t know why you even bother going on vacation. When we got off the bus in Étretat, she had fresh blood all the way down that dopey-looking top of hers.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocketbook and tapped the screen. “See?” She flashed a picture of a headless torso in a clingy snakeskin top that was smudged with blood.
I blinked in surprise. She certainly hadn’t been blood-stained at breakfast, but if she’d been sloppy … I narrowed my gaze. “Are you sure that’s blood and not tomato-based horseradish sauce?”
“It was blood,” droned Jackie. “She had a nosebleed on the way to Étretat. You didn’t hear her? Lucky you. I was sitting behind her, so I couldn’t escape. She made such a fuss, I’m surprised all of upper Normandy didn’t hear her.”
Margi perked up in her chair, brightening like a light on a timer. “Was she prone to nosebleeds?”