Chapter 2
On Saturday morning the light shining on the dust motes in DreamWear’s front window elicited no rainbow glints. Fittingly, the cloudy day matched my mood.
I hadn’t planned to come in today, but there was no way I was going to allow my chief assistant, Crystal King, to handle this morning’s returns—and the inevitable hushed and horrified remarks—all alone. The look on my mother’s face when I told her about last night’s disaster and Scott’s role in it had been enough to make me realize that Crystal needed back-up. I mean, Jo-Ann Wallace is unflappable, queenly serene no matter what happens, but she’d gone paper white. One more Scott episode to add to an already staggering list, not to mention the effect of a violent snowbird death on Wallace Realty, which Mom ran with style, panache, and extreme competence. I escaped, pushing myself away from the breakfast table and heading upstairs to get dressed.
Now, a half hour later, I snapped on the shop lights, pausing for a moment to stare at the strings of glass beads that marked the entrance to the velvet-hung enclosure known as Crystal’s Cave. Crystal King wandered into DreamWear at the height of the winter season three years ago, a bag lady splotched against the array of snowbirds in their winter white resortwear like a splash of mud on a snow bank. Short and somewhat plump, the woman with the unlikely name could have been any age from thirty to forty-five. Her short brown hair, self-cut, was marked by a broad streak of white. Among her very few possessions was a large crystal ball. I suspected it was the inspiration for her name.
I had no difficulty empathizing with Crystal’s situation. Just another runaway who’d chosen Florida as the place to flee from whatever they wanted to leave behind. Been there, done that. I’d simply been more fortunate because I’d had family to run to.
Crystal looked around the shop—from the bulging racks of costumes to pegboards filled with everything from makeup kits to angel wings and clown hats—and stayed to talk. She told fortunes, she said. Light-hearted fortunes only.
Responding indignantly to my ill-concealed amusement, she said, “You think I’m going to tell some guy he’s going to drop dead from a heart attack the next day?”
My smile faded fast. “Can you actually see that?” Ever polite, I struggled to keep my skepticism to myself.
Crystal ducked her head, gave a brief shrug of her well-rounded shoulders. “Sometimes,” she mumbled. Defiantly, she looked up. “But mostly I just go on body language. Catch the vibes. Tell people what’ll make ‘em happy. Don’t worry, it’s all smoke and mirrors. I’m not going to scare off the customers.”
The Season was in full swing, and I needed extra help. “Are you willing to learn the costume business?” I asked. “Can you be meticulous about details? It’s not all fun and games.”
Her amber eyes glowed. Solemnly, Crystal assured me she could. I hired her on the spot.
I also guessed Crystal had reached the end of the line. Literally. Golden Beach was as far south as her bus money had lasted. She had no place else to go. So I took her home with me.
Crazy? Probably. But, for once, luck was with me. In one burst of Good Samaritanship, I acquired my chief shop assistant and best friend. There are times, however, when I experience a frisson of wonder over Crystal’s “gift.” All smoke and mirrors? Not quite.
“Wasn’t it awful? Were you there? Did you see?” Debbie Ellis, the mayor’s wife and one of our regulars, heaved her husband’s Santa suit up onto the counter and plopped her Mrs. Santa (with long skirt, apron and mobcap) on top. Eyes wide, she glanced from Crystal to me, then back again.
“I was at the Circus Bridge,” Crystal told her. “Missed the whole thing. But Gwyn was there. Too close,” she added glumly.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “but I can’t talk about it.” At Debbie’s obvious disappointment, I added, “Mr. Kellerman was a customer, a very nice man. As you say, it was awful.”
I’d stayed the whole long night while they searched for the body. What was left after twin diesels passed over it. I could only hope Mr. Kellerman was unconscious from what appeared to be a heart attack before the final moments.
As Crystal checked each item of the two returned costumes against the rental lists, Debbie Ellis confided, “There’s a lot of talk.”
“Really?” Crystal, never above a bit of gossip, put down the lists and leaned closer.
Embarrassing as it is to admit, I paused with my hand on the black and white feather boa I was laying out for a Twenties party that evening. My ears stood to attention.
“You’re right about him being a nice man,” Deb said. “Too nice. Swallowed the bait trailed by that tart of a wife hook, line, and sinker. Poor Martin, a quarter century older than Vanessa, but not one bit wiser than a teen panting after his first crush. Brains in his you-know-what, just like every other male.”
On Mr. Kellerman’s behalf, I winced. But Deb had a point. A lonely senior—a wealthy lonely senior—was a magnet for females of all ages. But that didn’t make the women’s motivation any more than a search for a more comfortable life.
Crystal sucked in a breath. “You don’t think she—”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Deb returned in a tone that said but that’s what I meant. “She’ll be sitting pretty, let me tell you.”
I dropped the feather boa over the top of the check-out rack and stepped closer to the counter. “I was a witness, Deb. He suffered an episode of some kind and stumbled over the edge. His wife never touched him.”
“Exactly!” Deb crowed. “If she’d reached for him, maybe he wouldn’t have gone off.”
“I can see her being a gold-digger,” Crystal said, “but murdering someone in front of hundreds of witnesses, that’s just plain stupid. Makes no sense.”
Deb’s face arranged itself into an ever-so-slightly offended picture of innocence. “I’m not saying it was murder. I’m just saying Martin’s demise was highly convenient for Vanessa.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She was getting pretty cozy with Jeb Brannigan, you know. Or so I’m told. And he was piloting Rainbow’s End last night.”
“But she and Martin just got married,” I protested. Stupid remark. Obviously, I’d been back in the Pollyanna atmosphere of Golden Beach too long.
Deb gave me the look. The one that says, How naive can you get?
Jeb Brannigan is my brother Scott’s rival in the sea rescue business. During the Season there are enough boating emergencies to keep both services busy. Off-season, it’s often a race to see who gets there first. No one could call Jeb and Scott friends.
Scott is built like a linebacker. Jeb is bigger, every extra pound muscle. I’d known him since grade school, but from high school on, I’d avoided meeting the gaze of his avid brown eyes. Jeb is capable of misinterpreting the intentions of a woman who looks him in the eye. He tends to wear minimal clothing in nearly every kind of weather, displaying his workout-enlarged biceps and his rippling abs as clearly and as often as possible. Frankly, the man looks like he could put a tow rope between his teeth and pull an ailing cruiser home without aid of his boat. I could understand Jeb having a certain appeal to a woman like the French Maid Mrs. Santa I’d seen with Martin last night. After all, what did poor Martin have to offer, other than charm and stacks of cash?
“Sorry, Deb,” I said, “but my brain’s on hold. I didn’t get much sleep last night. All I know is that Martin Kellerman was one of our most pleasant customers, and I’m really sorry to see him go. And even sorrier to hear I may be grieving more than his widow. I sincerely hope that’s not so. And now,” I added briskly, “I’d better finish these check-outs and get down to the police station. I promised I’d drop by this morning and give a witness statement.” I offered my best professional smile and turned away, sliding open the drawer behind the counter that held our long strings of pearls.
In my head I was swearing. Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t want dear old Martin to be a cuckolded husband, a patsy for a woman out to feather her nest with someone else’s greenbacks. I to
ld myself Debbie Ellis’s gossip was just that—a speculative tale with no basis in fact. But I wasn’t so magnanimous I didn’t hope a little of the negative talk might rub off on Jeb Brannigan. Scott and I have almost nothing in common, but he’s family. I’m loyal.
Crystal finished checking off the various pieces of the Santa outfits worn by Deb and her husband, the mayor. Crystal wasn’t quite as colorful as usual today. She liked to shroud her ample figure in flowing caftans, hand-painted in brilliant-hued flowers. But in honor of the solemnity of today she was wearing her “dress” outfit, black cotton with a swirl of white lilies.
Her floor-length caftan moved gracefully with her as she turned to our Deposits file and removed Deb Ellis’s cash security deposit and returned it to her. Not exactly a state-of-the-art system, but it saved a lot of unnecessary voids on the credit card.
I hung the last Twenties costumes on the check-out rack—three long pin-stripe gangster jackets and a red velveteen smoking jacket, which was almost no costume at all but popular with gentleman who weren’t quite into the concept of “make believe.” And, finally, I balanced three fedoras and three plastic tommy guns on top of the rack. The thought of carrying these ancient machine gun replicas definitely made the day for our would-be Al Capones.
But not for me. Now that the set-up for the Twenties party was done, my mind reverted, for the thousandth time, to the boat parade. Oh, Martin, I’m so very sorry. God bless.
“Crystal, my dear!”
Our all-time favorite customer came sailing through the door. And she’d never once rented a costume. Miss Letitia Van Ryn made her customary grand entrance accompanied by Royal Willie, the only live animal besides Artemis who was granted entry to DreamWear. Royal Willie, sleek and dignified, was a retired greyhound from the Sarasota Dog Track. His owner, only slightly larger than her pet, was a remarkable match for Royal Willie, from her wisp of a figure to the perfection of her silver-haired coiffure and the elegant lines of her designer clothes. Miss Letty is a representative of a vanishing species, a woman from “old money” who never had to work a day in her life. A woman who remained a spinster by choice, dedicated to the memory of a fiancé who drowned in a sailboat accident fifty years ago. A woman whose inherited wealth was strong enough to survive the vagaries of the investment market and cushion her from the anxieties suffered by the rest of us.
She’s is a darling, our Miss Letty. She lives in the penthouse apartment of a waterfront condo on Golden Beach inlet, not far from our modest strip mall, and frequently stops in for a chat while out walking Royal Willie. DreamWear’s main attraction for Miss Letty is Crystal and her light-hearted fortunes. But to tell the truth, I suspect Miss Letty’s interest in fortune-telling is prompted more by a kind heart than an avid interest in her future, which seems guaranteed to continue as smoothly and comfortably as it always has.
Sometimes I look at Miss Letty and see myself forty years from now. And I hear a faint echo of protest from that starry-eyed girl who dashed off to New York as eagerly as she’d dashed off to college. The girl who knew she could have it all. Brilliant career, the perfect man, elegant home, children . . .
I knew better now. But the years were passing, and there were moments when I regretted the lonely path I’d taken. Was this really what Robert Frost meant by “the road less traveled”?
I shook my head. This wasn’t the moment for my mind to wander. Too little sleep. Too much to do.
“Good morning to both of you,” Miss Letty declared brightly as she shortened Royal Willie’s leash. Not that Royal Willie has ever done anything so disgraceful as mistake the crowded aisles of DreamWear for the wide-open spaces of the dogtrack, but I always appreciated the gesture.
“Crystal, my child, I am very much in need of good fortune. I trust your ball has a rosy hue today.”
“My ball always has a rosy hue,” Crystal assured her, “especially for you, Miss Letty.”
The long strings of multi-color glass beads marking the entrance to Crystal’s Cave tinkled softly as the two women, accompanied by a docile Royal Willie, disappeared behind the midnight blue draperies. I frowned. Had I heard a hint of anxiety beneath the façade of Miss Letty’s salon perfection?
Of course not. I was simply suffering a hangover of gloom from Martin’s accident.
Idiot! It’s Christmas. Joy. Parties. Love. Peace on Earth.
I bit off a sigh as two more Santa suits came back, the customers arriving neck and neck, along with gossip flaming into the kill zone. Whew! Golden Beach certainly didn’t like Vanessa Kellerman. If the yacht club set had its way, she’d be hanged from the nearest yardarm. Which likely meant she was guilty of nothing more than marrying well.
After both customers headed toward for the yacht club, the golf course, the Community Center, or any place else they could spread wild rumors, I sank down on the natural wicker bar stool behind the counter, settled myself into the French blue velvet upholstered seat, and stared into space.
Could there possibly be any truth lurking among the rumors? Surely not. This was Golden Beach. As far as I could recall, we’d had only one murder since I’d come back to town—a domestic violence that morphed into manslaughter. Womanslaughter. But flat-out premeditated murder? Not. Martin Kellerman had had a heart attack, tumbled off the bow, perhaps dead already, and been finished off by the twin diesels of his ironically named Rainbow’s End. A tragedy, but not murder. And that’s what I would tell the police.
I transitioned to my ever-reliable professional smile to greet a couple who had just entered the store. Everything about them screamed country club snowbirds, from their fiftyish age to shorts and sandals in December, the labels on their matching polo shirts, their tennis tans, and the expense of their haircuts. In brief, they smelled of money. I broadened my smile. Not because I heard the chink of coins, but because I pegged them as customers who might demand more than my customary courtesy.
I was right.
The wife homed in on our check-out rack as if it were a blue-light special. “Jeffrey,” she cried, fingering the long black fringe dangling from one of the Twenties dresses, “this is just what I need.” She turned to me. “You rent these? That’s what I was told.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Fine. I’ll take this one.”
“And when did you need it, ma’am?”
“Tonight,” she snapped, obviously implying I was an idiot not to know that.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but these costumes are all reserved for this evening.” I thought fast. “But I have a very pretty Greek chiton which can be belted up to look exactly like the early Twenties when the hems were still ankle-length.”
“But I want this one.” The woman’s voice rose to a whine.
“I’m really sorry,” I repeated, “but all these costumes were reserved weeks ago and are waiting for pick-up for the Bayport Country Club dance tonight.”
“Jeffrey,” the woman wailed, turning to her husband. “Do something. Buy it, for heaven’s sake.”
Jeffrey, too much the businessman not to recognize an impasse when he saw it, had the grace to appear embarrassed. “Evelyn, he explained patiently, I can’t buy a costume which is already rented for tonight. Nor, I’m sure, would this young lady sell it.”
“If you’d come in even two days ago,” I said as gently as I could through gritted teeth, “I would have been happy to make one just for you. In fact, I’d be happy to create one you can buy and wear to as many parties as you’d like. I just can’t let you have this one for tonight.”
“I should have known,” the woman said, her venomous tone rising to reach other customers who had just walked through the door, “that a small place like this wouldn’t be able to handle the demand of a big party.”
“Evelyn!” her husband hissed.
“Oh, well”—the woman sighed dramatically—“you may show me your miserable Greek gown.”
The glass beads of Crystal’s Cav
e beat a high-pitched tattoo. “Willie!”shrieked Miss Letty’s disembodied voice from behind the velvet curtains. Jeffrey broke off the soothing murmurs he was whispering in his wife’s ear as something sleek and furry flashed past us. Evelyn screamed and fell sobbing into her husband’s arms. Another frantic tinkle of glass as Crystal and Miss Letty erupted through the bead curtain, their eyes darting in a frantic arc around the shop. Bemused, I stood like an idiot—later, I’d attribute my failure to act to sleep deprivation—and watched the action like a couch potato absorbed in a game show.
Royal Willie was off and running, his goal much more enticing than the dog track’s mechanical rabbit. Evidently, Artemis had sneaked through the front door with the latest customers, a not unusual occurrence as the oversize orange cat enjoyed passing his days sleeping in the comfort of DreamWear’s air-conditioning. Artemis, terror of the local dog population as well as cats, squirrels, rats, and mice, had met few serious challenges in his time. Royal Willie, prince of the dog track, was definitely one of them.
Artemis outpaced Royal Willie until he hit the low wall bordering the front window display. He bounced straight up, headed for the side wall rack and raced toward the back. Sensing that Royal Willie was about to catch the rabbit for the first time in his illustrious career, Artemis made a leap for the orange-fur body of the lion and clawed his way to the upper shelf. Where he crouched, rump in the air, wedged between the lion head and the tall white ears of the Easter Bunny, his tail bushed to twice its normal size, his teeth bared in triumph. With a long drawn-out Grrr-yee-oww-yee-oww-grr he offered a joyous challenge to Royal Willie who could only stand quivering below, offering frustrated yips.
“Oh, Willie, how could you?” sobbed Miss Letty as one of my customers, younger and faster on his feet than most, solemnly handed her the greyhound’s leash.
“It’s all right, Miss Letty,” I assured her. “No harm done. This was bound to happen sooner or later. I should put them both off limits, but I just don’t have the heart.”
Death by Marriage Page 2
