It was said there was a question of foul play. It was true the boy was not a strong swimmer. He was barely a swimmer at all, having come from the kind of family where lessons in swimming, in tennis and piano, are not a part of growing up. In fact, he was hardly a boy. At seventeen he had pushed at manhood, his body already lengthened and broadened toward full maturity.
There was no suggestion what had happened was planned. There was no alleged grudge, no rivalry over a girl. If, in the end, Anthony Martin had not been stretched out blue and dead on the sand, the afternoon’s events might have seemed no more remarkable than those of other summer days when the customary horseplay threatens, for a time, to go too far. But there was a body on the sand and there was the whole chain of mourning and recrimination it predicted and so the day was not like any other.