"Interesting composition," Tilly said as she inspected the Polaroid through the magnifying glass that hung around her neck. "Who is that man lying on top of Emily?"

"Our driver. He passed out and crashed us into the pond. Then he fell on top of her. We thought for sure he was dead. Then his cell phone rang, and he answered it. He would've laid right there talkin', too, if Emily hadn't done somethin'." Nana handed Tilly a second photograph. "This one's of Emily kneein' the driver in his privates." And a third. "This is the driver curled up in pain after Emily kneed 'im. And you can see there, he's still talkin' on his cell phone. That was pretty impressive."

"What caused him to pass out?" asked Tilly. "Seizure?"

"Sloshed," said Nana. She handed Tilly a final photo. "This is the policeman who dragged Emily outta the pond and gave her a written warnin' for swimmin' in an unauthorized area."

Tilly, who made ordinary mortals quake with her legendary bluntness and direct stares, stabbed a long finger at the policeman's photo. "Did you get his name? We should march right down to the Garda Station and file a complaint. This situation was not Emily's fault. She was treated unfairly." She turned to me. "And if I were you, I'd sue the carriage company for damages. Look at you. You look like one of the contestants on Survivor."

I caught a glimpse of myself in the gilt-framed mirror decorating the lobby wall. Ehhh. My dark brown hair was a wild, dripping mop of corkscrew curls. Mascara circled my eyes. My new rayon blouse and skirt clung to my five-foot-five-inch frame in a series of wet, misshapen folds. I didn't look as good as a Survivor contestant. I looked more like Alice Cooper meets Xena, Warrior Princess.

Nana regarded Tilly with a twinkle in her eye. "You watch Survivor?"

"Reality television, Marion. Anthropology for the masses. I think of it as a modern version of Margaret Mead's Coming of Age in Samoa without the monographic analysis."

"I think of it as Days of Our Lives without the script."

Tilly looked pensive. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but in a sense, you're perfectly right. That's a very astute observation. Do you have a favorite contestant?"

I'd been concerned that Tilly and Nana wouldn't be compatible as roommates. Tilly had a Ph.D. Nana had an eighth-grade education. Tilly was five-foot-eleven, built like a beanpole, and carried a fancy walking stick. Nana was four-foot-ten, built like a fire hydrant, and carried a really big handbag. Tilly had never married. Nana had been married to the same man for over fifty years. Survivor was the only thing they had in common, but, come to think of it, that was probably a lot more than most married couples had in common. Heck, they'd probably become fast friends.

I waved my arm to catch the notice of a desk clerk. My appearance was making me nervous. I needed to change my clothes before someone issued me a written warning for shedding water in an unauthorized area. "The key to room 410, please? And I'm in something of a hurry."