“There have been firecrackers going off most of the night. I ran over after I heard the splash. When I saw it was Toby in the water and there was no one else around to help, I dove in. Once we got close to the ladder, one of the homeless guys tried to help us out.”
“Where is he?”
I glanced around. Tony was gone.
“When we first got to the square, they were talking over there.” I pointed to the now-empty bench where the men had been drinking.
“We’ve had a number of noise-related complaints tonight, especially from the folks over at the Truman Annex and the Westin hotel,” said the cop. “We’ve tracked down two groups of kids who were shooting off illegal fireworks.” He paused and squinted at Toby, shivering, wide-eyed in a wet heap. “Would you say this popping sounded similar to a firecracker, or different?”
“Like a gunshot—I thought that’s what I heard.” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “I know what fireworks sound like. This was different.”
While the cops went over Toby’s story again, I put in a quick call to Connie. “I’m not coming after all. It’s a long story but I’m soaking wet and absolutely freezing.” Now that the adrenaline had ebbed away, I could feel how chilled I was.
“Wet T-shirt contest?” she yelled over the background noise of the bar. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Ha-ha, so funny,” I said. “One of the other TV show judges fell in the water off Mallory Square and I had to help her out.”
“You went in that water? Do you need a ride home?” she asked, suddenly all business and concern. “We can swing up and get your scooter tomorrow. Where are you?”
“Behind the Waterfront Playhouse,” I said, feeling suddenly relieved—the idea of a cold, wet scooter ride held zero appeal. “My former roommate is on the way over—she would be happy to give you a ride,” I told Toby once I’d hung up.
“We’re going to keep Ms. Davidson here until the paramedics can check her out,” said the cop in a firm voice. “Then we’ll take her home.”
“I’ll see you on the set tomorrow,” Toby told me, as if none of this had happened. “Eleven, right? And thank you for coming in after me. I can’t imagine what I would have done…” Her chin quivered and her lips trembled as her words trailed off.
The truth was, she probably would have been swept off to sea and drowned.
Four little judges, judging for TV. One swinging from the mast, and then there were three. Three little judges, tasting wine and roux. One couldn’t swim, and then there were two….
10
Mise en place (meez en PLASS) comes from restaurant kitchens, where a brigade of helpers spends the day getting everything ready for the dinner rush. It comes from a French phrase meaning “make the new guy do it.”
—Pete Wells
I woke early in spite of my best intentions to sleep in, troubled by the events of the previous evening. Had Toby really heard a gunshot? Or had she ramped herself up so that she panicked and overreacted? Had I?
By the time Connie and Ray had arrived to take me back to the houseboat, I was leaning toward the latter explanation. And the police were definitely headed that way, too, based on the “poor nervous biddy thought she heard a gun” tone in their voices and the matching skepticism in their eyes. Toby’s injuries did not resemble gunshot wounds, the paramedic who cleaned and bandaged her up had reported. They more resembled flesh scraping against the concrete dock, as it definitely had while we flopped around trying to reach the ladder and then climb out of the murky water.
And finally, a second phalanx of cops had searched the vegetation and the outbuildings around Mallory Square, and come up with zero evidence of a sharpshooter. No bullets, no bullet casings, no nothing. Which in the end was the good news we all preferred, even if it was embarrassing to Toby. What kept me awake more than anything was the visceral memory of Toby’s arms, squeezing my neck and head in the cold, brackish water. And how easily my attempt at rescue could have ended with a double drowning.
There would be nothing gained by staying in bed. And Shapiro’s comments yesterday about my plump-as-a-guinea-hen figure kept surfacing through the layers of my cortex, no matter how hard I tried to press them down. Exercising might calm those voices—all of them.
So I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt, fed the cats, and set off jogging in a slow chug toward the harbor. I motored up Palm and around the curve to Eaton and then over to the historic seaport harbor, thinking that once again, I would reward myself with a large café con leche on the way home.