Frances burrowed her head deeper into the sand. “Oh, God! There are pieces missing? I’ll never touch seafood again.”

“Sorry, Frances,” Haley apologized. “I was just speculating. Of course there aren’t any pieces missing.”

“Well, quit speculating,” Sister grumbled.

I jumped in. “The child said she was sorry, Mary Alice.” I patted Haley’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Haley said. “We’re all just rattled.”

The sirens were screaming down the Holiday Isle road now. A few of the herons, disturbed by the noise, took off, running a short distance on their stick legs before they lifted into the air.

“What do they do for broken tailbones?” I asked Haley.

“Put a shot of xylocaine in it. Cortisone. Why?”

“I think Frances broke mine when she knocked me down.”

“Shut up,” Frances said. “Everybody shut up.”

And we did. The sirens wailed to a stop at the dune and three uniformed men and one woman came scrambling over it, carrying all kinds of heavy and totally unnecessary resuscitation equipment. We all stood up to meet them, including Sister who was about as green as the sky had been a few moments before.

“You the women who called?” the youngest of the men wanted to know.

“I did.” Haley took a step toward them. “There’s a body over there.” She pointed toward the white form that was Millicent, and that had now washed farther up on the beach.

Lugging their heavy equipment as if they expected to perform a Lazarus miracle, the four hurried toward the body. The four of us stayed where we were. We watched as they circled the white bundle, as they conferred. Finally the woman broke away and came back to us.

“She’s wet,” she said. We looked at each other, puzzled.

“She’s part way in the water,” Sister stated the obvious.

“Was she like this when you got here?”

“Wet? Yes. Dead? Yes. Why?”

“If she’s wet she belongs to the Florida Marine Patrol, not us. We’re the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department. We’ll call them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Haley said. “How long will it take for them to get here?”

“Depends. Sometimes they’re right in the harbor. Sometimes not.” She turned around and yelled at one of her cohorts, “Buddy, get the marines.” Then she turned back to us. “Sorry about this, but it’s out of our jurisdiction.” She shook hands with Mary Alice who was standing closest to her. “I’m Lisa Andrews. Are you ladies okay?”

“Been better,” Sister admitted. “We know the lady.”

“Really?” Lisa Andrews took out a notepad. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Millicent Weatherby. She’s resident manager at Gulf Towers where I have a condo.”

Officer Andrews looked up from her writing. “Fairchild’s wife?”

“Yes. You know Fairchild?”