Prologue
Golden Beach is a Florida Gulfcoast town with miles of sandy beaches crested by heron, egrets, turkey-headed vultures, and snowbirds. The heron, egrets, and vultures are with us year-round. The snowbirds are seasonal. They migrate south by plane, train, and automobile between October and January and return to their northern habitats between April and June. A few—those less well endowed with green dead presidents—must sometimes confine themselves to a stay of one month. A sad circumstance, as unlike heron, egrets, and vultures, snowbirds are always in season. Hunted assiduously by both Florida natives and johnny-come-latelies for their fine northern plumage and their free-spending self-indulgence.
Some say Golden Beach was named for the color of its sand, but, truthfully, ninety years ago it was one of the first planned retirement developments in the country. And I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion the town fathers were honoring a senior’s golden years rather than golden sand. Or maybe they were simply picturing the wealth the retirees would bring with them. Whatever. The town was named before the market crash of twenty-nine, the one that precipitated the Great Depression, and by that time it was too late to change the name to Deserted, Breadline, or Lost Cause.
Golden Beach rose from the doldrums of hand-to-mouth existence only when the exuberant optimism of post-World War II exploded on the scene. And air conditioning. In two short months my grandparents (adopted) went from acres of oranges to a pink Mediterranean-style stucco mansion in the center of town. Did Gramma cringe when the vast orange grove my family had owned for four generations was platted for the Gulfcoast’s largest trailer park? Maybe. But after twenty years of hard times, she and Grampa probably just looked at their bank balance and smiled.
I never got to walk the orange grove, smell the sweet scent of spring blossoms, or pick a rough-skinned orange off the tree. I grew up in that three-story stucco a block from city hall, four blocks from the library, and a million miles from nowhere. As a child, I was happy as a clam. As a teen, awareness struck. Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever happened in Golden Beach. It was a dead-end far corner of the earth. I was young, young, young, trapped in a time warp where children should be seen and not heard.
Let me out of here!
At seventeen I fled to the Rhode Island School of Design like a rocket into the wild blue yonder. Life glowed on the horizon like a great sun rising. Freedom was mine. The world awaited.
Nine years later, emotionally battered, nearly down for the count, I came back.
Golden Beach.
Refuge.
Chapter 1
Five Years Later
Artemis, the strip mall mouser, did his best to trip me as I juggled a freshly washed monk’s robe, my sketchbook, and my oversize purse (containing his breakfast), while trying to insert my key in the Yale lock on the back door of DreamWear—Costumes & Creations. I didn’t quite make it. My sketchbook thudded to the asphalt, Artemis stopped snaking around my legs, and teleported himself behind a Dumpster twenty feet away. Ah well, as long as I hadn’t dropped the monk’s robe . . .
Actually, Artemis isn’t a mouser. He’s a ratter. You would not believe the size of the creatures he proudly drops at my door. You feed me. See what fine presents I bring in return. And, yes, I know Artemis is a female Greek god, not a fifteen pound feral tom earning his keep in an alley between a strip mall and one of Florida’s ubiquitous drainage canals. But I felt he was worthy of a distinguished name, and Artemis was the only Greek or Roman god that popped out of the jumble of my sixth-grade brush with ancient history.
Why adopt a feral strip-mall ratter, who allows a pat on the head once in a blue moon and has no concept of lap-sitting? I liked to think it was altruism. Truth is, designers tend to be solitary types, and we take love where we can find it. Even if it’s cupboard love.
I got the rear door open, found Artemis’s food packet in my purse, ripped it open, and dumped it in his dish. I filled his water bowl from the sink in the small bathroom in the backroom and put both containers outside. To beat any other four-footed creatures to the punch, Artemis would be out from behind the Dumpster in a flash. And now . . .
I opened the door into DreamWear’s showroom and stopped a moment, as I often did, to take it all in. The hint of a rainbow glinted in the front window, along with dancing dust motes illuminated by the Florida-brilliant eastern sun. Ambient light drifted over the costume racks, reaching as far as the animal outfits hung along the right wall. Lion, tiger, alligator, polar bear, snowman, rabbit, even a two-person horse. The disembodied heads for each outfit sat on a shelf directly above the limply hanging furry suits. Each morning they seemed to smile at me. Way to go, Gywn. You made it through another day.
The monk’s robes also hung along that wall, beside genies, pirates, knights, Robin Hood, and Merry Men. Glaring or grinning animal heads sat on a shelf above the drooping, inanimate costumes, gradually giving way to glittering genie hats with veils, sturdy Medieval helms, and green suede triangle hats with jaunty feathers. We kept the sweeping broad-brimmed Victorian hats with ostrich plumes up there too, along with other bulky accessories that didn’t fit in a drawer.
And near the front window was what I called my Carnival of Venice display—a rack of exotically beautiful masquerade masks, available for purchase. They were pricey, discouragingly so, and I was considering adding a few to our rental inventory, along with the cover-all cloaks called dominos, outfits that had been popular with those unwilling to don full costume for at least the last four hundred years. Something to think about over the summer, but not now. From Halloween through the Winter Season when Golden Beach tripled its population due to snowbirds, tourists, and visiting relatives, DreamWear ran flat out.
Nothing as big as Halloween of course, but having survived October thirty-first with a hefty profit, followed by a brisk run on Pilgrims and Indians for Thanksgiving , I was feeling optimistic, as well as prideful, this morning. The ghastly horror masks (DreamWear catered to all tastes) were gone from the window display, replaced by Santa, Mrs. Santa, and Elves. Christmas was good. Nobody would be asking for Lady Godiva (a floor-length blond wig, nothing else). Or our Flasher outfit. (You’ll have to use your imagination for that one.) Just wholesome holiday outfits. Well, almost. The French Maid Mrs. Santa inched a bit over the G line.
Pride goeth before a fall. I shoved the old saying aside as quickly as it popped into my head. I’d worked hard to create DreamWear—and nearly every last stitch in it. I had a right to stand here and soak it up. Breathe the ambiance. Feel the joy of mine, all mine. I did this. I really did.
I should have remembered there’s a reason those old sayings have survived the test of time.
I glanced at my watch. Nine-thirty. Not yet time to open the door, but definitely time to get to work. I went behind the counter and took out the rental forms for today’s pick-ups. It was Friday, and we had pick-ups for private Christmas parties as well as the boat parade tonight. Plus afternoon parties at a retirement home and at a group home for autistic children.
The boat parade was a much-loved annual event. Owners decorate their boats with an amazing variety of lights and sound. On the appointed evening, the boats line up at the Golden Beach Yacht Club and parade several miles down the Intracoastal Waterway, where they turn around (the larger ones, ponderously) and head back for private celebrations at their home docks. Many of the owners dress in costume for the parade, adding to the colorful display. DreamWear’s Santa suits were usually fully booked for the parade by early September.
And today was the day. We kept most of our costume accessories, such as Santa’s white gloves, Mrs. Santa’s mob cap, and the elf hats in drawers behind the counter. If left on the showroom floor, they could be too easily lost. Doing one res
ervation form at a time, I began transferring outfits to our pick-up rack, adding the necessary accessories from the drawer.
That’s odd. Martin Kellerman was a regular. He’d rented our best velvet Santa every Christmas for the last five years. But a Mrs. Santa too? That was new. I don’t pry into my customers’ lives, but since Mr. Kellerman is a “young” senior, I’d assumed he was married. But maybe he was a widower who had just acquired a girlfriend. A wife? Whoever she might be, she’d reserved our eye-catching French Maid Mrs. Santa. Short, pert, red velvet skirt, a fitted top adjusted by sexy lacing, a frilly white apron, and red velvet beret with white fake fur pom-pom. Interesting. If I could find a way not to be too intrusive, I’d ask Mr. Kellerman about this addition to his life when he came in to pick up his order.
That was one of the unexpected things about owning a costume shop. I discovered that I, Gywn Halliday, natural born recluse, enjoyed interacting with customers. Maybe because costumes were such a fun business. Our customers wanted to enjoy themselves or entertain others. Or maybe it was because designing was so solitary, I simply enjoyed having the opportunity to talk to people. To be part of the human race, while always knowing the escape of the drawing board waited, giving me the respite I needed. Thank God business had reached the point where I could afford excellent assistants.
I tucked a pair of white gloves into Santa’s coat pocket and looked up to see a face peering through the glass of the front door. Oops! Ten-oh-five, and I hadn’t turned the dead bolt. Martin Kellerman. Alone.
“Sorry,” I burbled as I let him in. “Lots of pick-ups today. I lost track of the time.”
Martin was one of those fortunate businessmen who had been successful enough to retire well before age sixty-five. Though gray streaked his brown hair, his eyes shone with the confidence of a man life has treated well. His well-honed, tanned body spoke of someone who spent a good deal of time outdoors—golf, tennis, and boating. And he was charming, to boot. If divorced or a widower, Martin Kellerman probably had his pick of Golden Beach females, the young as well as women his own age. He was a catch. Now well caught?
As I checked off each item of his two costumes, curiosity got the better of me. “I see you’re getting a Mrs. Santa this year?” I said, hoping my comment sounded friendly without intruding on his privacy.
“Got married,” he returned with a beaming grin. “Little darling from Indianapolis. Walked right into her while shelling on the beach. Darn near knocked her over.” Martin winked. “She sure knocked me over, I can tell you. Six weeks from meet to marriage. Never thought I’d take the plunge again, but it’s great. What about you, Ms Halliday? Read that article in the Gazette. Can’t believe a pretty young thing like you isn’t married. The men around here blind?”
“Not so young,” I told him. “I have school friends with children in their teens.”
“Never too late. Just look at me,” he chortled as I handed him the costumes. “You coming to the parade?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I was still looking after him, smiling, as the front door closed behind him.
Yes, I’d made the right decision when I came home. I’d leave the rat race to others, the feral cats like Artemis who thrived on hard knocks . . . and worse.
I searched out our brightest clown costume for the children’s party, again making sure all the extras were there. Pointed hat, huge red plastic shoes, oversize gloves. Ten-thirty a.m. at DreamWear—Costumes & Creations, and all was well.
Snowbirds laugh when Floridians shiver, but to me it was cold as I sat in a folding chair on the bank of the Intracoastal and looked north up the broad canal, waiting for the first sign of floating Christmas lights. Golden Beach is that rarity in Florida, a town with direct access to the Gulf of Mexico. Almost all cities and towns, whether on Florida’s Gulfcoast or the Atlantic, are protected by barrier islands. Which means residents have to drive across a bridge to get to the beach. Golden Beach, however, is directly on the water. You can stroll from the shops on Main Street straight to the beach.
So when the Army Corps of Engineers created the Intracoastal Waterway, they had to dig a canal around the eastern edge of town, transforming it into an area known forever after as “the Island.” You can sit in the bleachers on the high school football field and see masts gliding by on the Waterway. That’s where I was at the moment—along with what seemed like half the population of Golden Beach—east of the football field on a grassy bank above the rip-rap. Many, like me, had carted in folding chairs. Others were spread out on blankets. A few—not as experienced on the parade’s uncertain timing due to the initial boat line-up being tantamount to herding cats—formed a solid phalanx of vertical shadows behind the blankets and chairs.
There! The flashing blue and white lights of the local police boat leading the parade winked in the distance. I could feel a smile spreading across my face. Golden Beach was a town where we were never too old or too sophisticated to enjoy a parade. We did the Fourth of July well also, and never forgot the other holidays either. (Something that hadn’t hurt business at DreamWear, I had to admit.)
And every last one of the old-timers like me missed the days when Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey wintered here. For thirty years the residents of Golden Beach turned out to welcome the circus train and watch the animals being walked the quarter mile from the train to winter quarters, situated at one end of our small airport. When I was an awe-struck thirteen, Gunther Gebel Williams, leading the parade as always, had noticed me as I stood in my prized position at the south drawbridge over the Intracoastal. He smiled and said, “Good morning, miss.” I’d treasure that golden moment forever.
But the train tracks deteriorated beyond anyone being able to raise enough money to fix them, and the circus now wintered in Tampa. A real loss. I mean, how many towns get to have real camels bring the Wise Men to the Christmas tableau? And llamas in place of sheep?
The crowd cheered as the police boat glided by. The men on the boat—one wearing a DreamWear Santa suit—waved. I’d have to keep an eye out for Scott. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t comment on his decorating efforts. Scott is my younger brother. Among his efforts to keep the wolf away from the door, he runs a Sea Tow business. You’re twelve miles out and your motor breaks down, call Scott for a tow. In Season, it’s a good living. From May to October—like most of Golden Beach’s year-round residents—unless you’ve saved up your seasonal pennies, you could starve. I close DreamWear every August. It isn’t worth the effort to keep it open.
God bless the snowbirds. Particularly the ones who begin to show up by mid-September.
I’d have to look sharp to spot Scott because his boat is about half the size of others in the parade. He has a powerful motor, but that’s about it. His Sea Tow would be dwarfed by the stately array of cruisers and sailboats that looked only slightly smaller than the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. They glided by me, their gaily dressed crews waving to the crowd, speaker systems blaring holiday songs, and adorned with a panoply of lights, Christmas trees, and banners impossible to describe. There was a prize for the best-decorated boat, but I suspected the owners participated in the parade for the same reason I designed costumes. It was creative, it was festive, and it gave pleasure. For a few moments in time life was good.
I waved to Scott and, knowing where I was going to be, he actually spotted me and waved back. As did his latest bit of fluff—oops, I didn’t even know this one. What happened to Jill, or was it Kim? Obviously, I needed to raise my head from the drawing board and practice more frequent family interaction.
Three more boats glided by, one with all white lights and classic Christmas carols floating through the sharp night air, two with flashing colored lights and holiday tunes approved by the ACLU, turning the electronically enhanced music into a cacophony of consumerism versus religion. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer versus Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. I winced. Okay, so even in Golden Beach, not everything is perfect.
And there at last was Martin Keller
man in DreamWear’s finest Santa suit. Truthfully, I recognized the outfit, not the man. The beard and mustache of our best Santa is so full and realistic that Mr. Kellerman was unrecognizable behind it. I also recognized our one and only sexy Mrs. Santa. And—oh, my!—the new Mrs. Kellerman, at least twenty years Martin’s junior, certainly did justice to it. Front-laced bodice and all.
Mr. Kellerman had a trophy wife? Well, why not? I might be of an artistic bent, but I was also a businesswoman. Martin Kellerman was entitled to what his money could buy. But as a female, the concept bothered me. I liked to think women had risen above being empty show pieces for rich old men.
Look who’s talking! My conscience mocked me. Costumes weren’t a year-round business any more than Scott’s Sea Tow. I designed other things, some blush-worthy enough to bear a different designer label. In Golden Beach we did what we had to, so we could continue to live in paradise.
The Kellermans were smiling and waving from the bow of their forty-footer, while an anonymous shadow inside the cabin handled the steering. A Christmas tree with twinkling colored lights rose up out of the forward hatch. Mr. and Mrs. Santa stood near the front of the tree, one on each side, with the thick branches close enough to provide support, if necessary. There were whistles for Mrs. Santa from some of the rednecks in the crowd. I had to agree with them. No matter what the libbers say, Mrs. Martin Kellerman was well worth a whistle.
I was just turning toward the next boat in line when out of the corner of my eye I saw Martin stagger, grab for the tree. I sucked in a shocked breath as he clung for a moment, left hand on the tree, right hand scrabbling for . . . something, or perhaps simply flailing the air, trying to maintain his balance. The cruiser plowed into the wake of the boat in front. Martin stumbled forward, plunged over the side. There was no way the boat could stop in time to keep from running over him.
Mrs. Kellerman screamed.
Death by Marriage Page 1
