The rants of my two earlier customers were too ephemeral to bear repeating, but Deb Ellis’s remarks might have held a crumb of truth. “The mayor’s wife,” I said, “seems to think Mrs. Kellerman was seeing Jeb Brannigan on the side. To be honest, it doesn’t sound right. For all he’s a hunk, I can’t see Vanessa Kellerman interested in Jeb for anything more than his boating skills.”
“Some women are into slumming. And major abs.”
“Jeb may be a redneck, but if the rumor’s true, he’s the one who’d be slumming.” I wanted to think the mee-ow I heard came from Artemis, but I’m afraid it was my conscience calling. No doubt about it, I should stick to costume design and leave criminal analysis and ethics to others.
If only I’d listened to my own advice.
Chapter 4
“Gwyn?”
Oops. I’d been standing at the front door, mesmerized by the sight of Boone Talbot climbing into a perfectly ordinary dark blue Taurus, reversing, and driving up the slight slope to the Bypass. Five years celibate, and I’d been struck by lightning. A freaky out-of-the-blue bolt that had fried my common sense like an egg on a Florida summer sidewalk. I hadn’t felt this stunned since I first saw Chad Yarnell in swim trunks when I was eleven. Dear Lord, what was wrong with me? Martin’s death seemed to have cracked the wall I’d put around my emotions, letting newly aroused interest and childhood memories flood my mind in a mix that was almost painful.
Little Gypsy Laura Wallace gazing in awe from afar as the prince of Golden Beach captained the football team, broke home run and swim records, and still managed a 3.8 average. Cow-eyed and worshipful, I’d embarrassed myself through age twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . and beyond.
Futile then, futile now. Through all those years of hero worship, Chad—a lofty three years older than I—had occasionally rewarded my devotion with a wink and a pat on the head. I doubt he ever knew my name. He’d gone off to college and been swallowed up by some kind of government service long before I’d finished my stint at Rhode Island School of Design and dashed off to the big city to what I knew was going to be a meteoric career. Bye-bye, Laura Wallace, Nerd. Hello, Gwyn Halliday, Designer Extraordinaire.
Now here I was, with my nose pressed to the glass of my little costume shop, sighing over six feet of cornpone cop from Nebraska. Obviously, my biological clock was trying to tell me something. But, believe me, there isn’t anything on that subject my mother hasn’t already said. Time to stop this nonsense, Gwyn. Get a life before you wither on the vine. Date! Or whatever they call it now. Trust somebody. There’s nothing like a husband and children . . .
Never mind that the grandchildren wouldn’t be blood relatives. I had to give Mom credit. Never had she treated me any differently from Scott. I was as truly hers as if we actually shared the same DNA.
“Good choice,” Crystal said from just behind me. “That man’s aura is stellar. A real winner. An honest man with small-town values, no taint of big city cynicism. Way to go, girl.”
“You can see that?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
Not all smoke and mirrors. After three years I’d come to accept Crystal’s often remarkable intuition.
Didn’t make a difference, though. Well, not much. I wasn’t ready for any man in my life, no matter how loud my hormones rattled their cage. Just because this was the first time in five years I’d been tempted to fall off the celibate wagon didn’t mean I wasn’t woman enough to stand up and fight the attraction. I squared my shoulders, marched back toward the counter, and grabbed my purse out of the lowest accessory drawer. “How many returns left?” I asked.
“Two.”
“Why don’t you close up as soon as they’re back? I’m . . .”
Surprise. I hadn’t consciously thought about it, but the idea had been there all along. I didn’t really understand what was driving me. Except for my family and a couple of men in my life—one, my teenage crush, Chad Yarnell—I’d never cared for anything but designing. But now something strange was happening. Something strong enough to overpower the creative artist with an urge toward Miss Marple.
I’d barely known Martin Kellerman, but I liked him. I’d seen him die. I’d watched as they’d bagged what was left of him.
I was a witness. I cared.
A nasty case of morbid curiosity? I didn’t think so. Ruthlessly, I shoved Boone Talbot into a rosy niche in my brain marked, “Open later.”
“I’m going to canvas the neighborhood, see if anyone saw something last night.”
“You’re what?” Crystal gaped at me.
“Check my aura. Does it look normal?”
Crystal shook her head. “I figured you were still transitioning back to Gwyn after going neon for the cop.”
“Trust me. It’s my curiosity that’s rampant, not my hormones.” I wiggled my fingers at her. “See you back at the house.”
As the glass door swung shut behind me, Crystal was standing there, mouth open, amber eyes wide, her pink tongue showing behind a row of white teeth. Maybe long acquaintance had sprinkled a few psychic vibes in my direction. I was pretty sure I caught a telepathic, What the hell!
Back in the sixties when the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers decided to turn Golden Beach into an island so wealthy yacht owners would not be inconvenienced by being forced out into the choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the Florida Department of Transportation considered a resultant problem. Oh, horrors, the smooth, if very long, drive from Tampa to Miami along Route 41 would now be disrupted by not one, but two drawbridges as the famed Tamiami Trail—built with considerable loss of life back in the twenties—crossed the newly created “island” of Golden Beach. The result: the “Bypass,” built on the east side of the Intracoastal’s five-mile canal around downtown Golden Beach. Travelers could now zip by without ever knowing they were missing one of the finest gems on the entire Gulfcoast.
Forty-some years later, anonymity was considered a blessing—“too g. d. many snowbirds,” my father used to growl—but back in the sixties the reaction was inevitable. Businesses moved en masse to the Bypass, and ours was the first strip mall to rear its ugly modern head in a town known for its elegant Mediterranean Revival main street and a succession of perfectly gorgeous stucco mansions marching from the Town Hall down to the Gulf of Mexico.
Now the North Bypass Mall was forty-years-old and long since demoted to low-rent status as bigger and better malls proliferated along the Bypass and spread south, framing the Tamiami Trail in wall-to-wall ugly, with not so much as a lone cabbage palm in sight. The founding fathers, who had hired a pioneer city planner to design downtown Golden Beach, were probably still rolling in their graves. Or maybe their spirits had been so shocked, they’d simply fled to greener pastures.
But the North Bypass Mall worked for me and any other business that needed space at a rent we could afford. Downtown Golden Beach, after a struggle, had emerged as an upscale tourist attraction, our main street lined with boutiques featuring fine women’s clothing, beachwear, jewelry, candy, candles, gourmet sandwiches, seashells, sharks’ teeth, and, inevitably, real estate. My mother, Golden Beach’s top Realtor, had an office downtown, which also included a seasonal rental department. Take my word for it—in Golden Beach winter rentals were sold out by the previous July. For certain properties, someone had to die before you could get a foot through the rental door.
My stomach rumbled. Might as well start with DeFranco’s Deli next door. Sal and Angelina DeFranco had been running the deli since well before DreamWear moved in. The food was always excellent and served with a smile. To gild the lily, their seventeen-year-old son Tim had developed an interest in costumes, particularly the Medieval era, and was one of our most dependable “flexible extras,” willing to fill in after school and weekends when DreamWear needed help.
While I munched on tuna, lettuce, tomato, and pickles, washed down by the best unsweet iced tea in Golden Beach, I absorbed the purpler parts of the gossip grapevine that had passed through the
deli that morning. Santa Claus, in the form of Martin Kellerman, had been so high on Christmas cheer (schnapps, cocaine?) that he’d tried to fly. Vanessa Kellerman, in a burst of overwhelming greed, had pushed poor old Santa over the side. Jeb Brannigan, his eye ever on the gold ring, had managed the whole thing without ever leaving the wheelhouse. Or maybe it was Scott Wallace—Angelina shot me an apologetic glance. After all, everyone said the delectable Vanessa Kellerman had something going on the side. And after seeing her in the French Maid Mrs. Santa, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t believe it.
“Bull,” Sal growled. “Every word. What killed him was standing up there on the bow. Anyone could have told him that’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“It’s the Intracoastal,” Angelina stated with exaggerated patience. “The canal part. It’s like glass.”
Sal gave her the eye. “With the wakes of twenty boats ahead of you? Come on, Angie, you don’t have to be Christopher Columbus to figure that one out.”
“Those boats were barely moving, and you know it.”
Time to insert a little truth. “I saw the whole thing,” I said. “It looked like Martin had an attack of some kind, probably heart. He simply stumbled forward and fell.”
Sal and Angie gulped air as their mouths snapped closed over whatever they’d been about to say. Angie’s liquid brown eyes gleamed. “You were there? We were on Center Bridge—couldn’t see much from there.”
Evidently no one was feeling creative when the Intracoastal canal cut Golden Beach off from the mainland—perhaps the result of still simmering tempers at Town Hall. The three new bridges that connected downtown and the beaches to the mainland were named North Bridge, Center Bridge, and South Bridge. Only many years later did the South Bridge officially become Circus Bridge in honor of the departed Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey. The scene of last night’s disaster was about a hundred yards south of the Center Bridge.
I gave the DeFrancos an expurgated version of what I’d told Boone Talbot, leaving Jeb Brannigan out and emphasizing Scott’s role as a hero.
Angie patted my hand. “He’s a good boy. One of these days he’ll settle down. We nearly gave up on Joseph, our oldest, and look at him now.” She tossed her hands in the air, palms out. “Wife, two babies, good job. Keeps in touch, even though they’re in Philadelphia. Just you wait, it’ll happen for Scott one of these days. I promise.”
I reached for a smile, murmured my thanks, and escaped. I vaguely remembered Joseph DeFranco, solely because he’d been on the football team with Chad Yarnell. And, yes, they’d been involved in some incidents I’d overheard my parents discussing in whispers. (Okay, I was eavesdropping for all I was worth.) But they’d both gone off to college, graduated, and dutifully plunged into the grown-up world. My brother Scott had managed a couple of years at the local community college, but at twenty-seven the grown-up world still eluded him. A status unchanged, and perhaps unchangeable. I sighed.
I decided to start at one end of the mall and work my way to the other. The sun had chased away the clouds, but I was in no danger of suffering sunstroke while I walked the mall’s length, maybe a quarter of a mile, as a roof covered the sidewalk in front of the stores. Partly because Florida suffers from an excess of sun interspersed with torrential rain in the summer, and partly because everyone wants to protect their primary source of income, the ubiquitous snowbirds who actually think our winter sun is hot, not to mention that heaven forbid rain should deter their urge to shop.
I paused in front of the Discount Auto Parts store at the south end of the mall. Every year Bryan Bell and his son Jack filled their entire front window with a nineteenth century Christmas village, complete with a train circling through a tunnel and chugging its way past homes, churches, the railroad station, a restaurant, town hall, a park and a skating pond. There was even a tiny ski lift going up the side of the mountain above the tunnel. At night there were lights in all the miniature buildings and tiny street lights along the roads, making the display even more dramatic. Parents brought their children to Bell’s Auto Discount Parts during the holiday, and a lot of adults came without the excuse of a child companion.
I followed the progress of the little blue engine until the train disappeared into the tunnel, and then with a sudden blink of nostalgia for a world that, at least in retrospect, seemed so much calmer and cleaner, I opened the door and went inside.
When I caught the appreciative surveys of both father and son, I glanced down at what I was wearing. A swirly half-circle skirt that flirted with my legs at mid-calf—a flower print in cherry and white on a black background, topped by a long-sleeved black knit wrap top, whose ties hung low, gently swishing as I walked. I’m a designer, after all, and I try to dress the part. No jeans and baggy sweaters for Gwyn Halliday. But no four-inch heels either. There’s a broad streak of pragmatism lurking beneath my creativity.
I complimented the Bells on the Christmas display. Both men grinned. But sorry, no, they’d watched the parade from the industrial area on the far side of the canal, nearer the Circus Bridge than the Center. They hadn’t seen anything but distant flashing lights and the boats settling down to wait out the search.
I thanked them and went out, pausing to peer in the front door of the pool hall next door. Inside in the gloom, I thought a saw a shadow moving. I wrapped on the glass. Stan Kaminsky, holding a push broom, came to the door, peered back at me, and turned the dead bolt. Stan is medium height, with the well-muscled shoulders and arms of a man who’s ridden a Harley all his life. But he couldn’t hold a candle to his companion—or maybe his wife—no one knew or wanted to ask. One look at Terry Branson and two words sprang to mind: Biker Babe. She was an inch taller than Stan, maybe twenty pounds heavier, and was never seen in anything but leather, even though they’d long since settled to running a pool hall in a squeaky clean, conservative town like Golden Beach. Probably they figured the community needed something a little on the wild side to keep us from tumbling off the edge of stultifying into downright moribund.
And, as a business, it seemed to work. The pool hall was open from three p.m. to two a.m. every day but Monday. And it was almost always jammed with that Florida rarity, native sons—a good many of them genuine red necks and crackers, with an occasional adventurous tourist thrown in. Our snowbirds, mostly seniors, never went near the place, but it was jammed six days a week, particularly from seven ’til midnight. Scott was one of their regulars.
“Hey, costume lady, don’t tell me you’re taking up pool? Naw, must be Scott left something behind and asked you to pick it up. Though I sure as hell ain’t seen it yet.”
“Nothing lost,” I told him with a grin. “I don’t suppose you took time off to watch the parade last night?”
“Ain’t that somethin’! Didn’t leave here ‘til two, but I heard about it. Nasty!” Stan’s brown eyes sharpened. “How come you’re asking questions, pretty lady? Not exactly your line of work, now is it?”
I told him about Martin wearing my Santa suit and Scott’s part in the recovery. “Guess I’m just curious. Sort of wondering if anyone saw things differently than I did.”
Stan nodded, evidently having no problem understanding an overactive need-to-know. He wished me good luck.
The south end of North Bypass Mall could be called the Men’s End. Auto parts, pool, and sporting goods. The only male on the north end of the mall was the owner of Antiques Etcetera, Peter Koonce, and there were those who thought Pete was well-placed at the Women’s End of the mall. But I had one more stop before I crossed into Female territory.
Erik at Golden Beach Sporting Goods informed me that he was on one of the boats stuck between the Center and Circus bridges until two-effing-thirty a.m. and he’d sat on his effing freezing buns for five effing hours but hadn’t seen an effing thing. Those weren’t quite the words he used, of course. He then apologized profusely and blamed his short temper on lack of sleep. I thanked him and tip-toed out, closing the door softly behind me.
I
waved at the DeFrancos as I passed by. The Closed sign was up at DreamWear, all costumes accounted for. I didn’t even glance at the Credit Union, which was, of course, closed on Saturday. The Second Chance Boutique had a line at the counter, with Iris ringing up and Brigitte bagging. Well, good for them. The two owners of this upscale consignment shop always kept their eyes pealed for vintage clothing for DreamWear, and my Realtor mother was among their most faithful donors, offering her trendy suits for recycling on a regular basis. But now was obviously not the moment for tossing questions at them.
Things were quieter at Antiques Etcetera, a colorful and intriguing combination of antiques, estate jewelry, and furniture that was often more “used” than “antique.” Today, Peter Koonce was behind his counter-cum-jewelry showcase, perched on a solid oak bar stool more sturdy than the elegant wicker one he’d sold to me. As I entered, the benign smile he was directing toward a couple of browsers blossomed into a beaming welcome.
Peter is tall, lean, fortyish, and not bad looking. And no matter what Scott says, he’s never given me any indication he’s not interested in women. Then again, he might swing both ways. Today, after telling me he’d spent last night cataloging and pricing new inventory, he kept up a non-stop chatter, pausing only long enough to respond to the browsers’ questions about prices and provenances. Peter is always dressed well—maybe that’s what made Scott suspicious. And he keeps my costume needs in mind, sometimes shooting me hushed phone calls from large auction houses to ask if I had any interest in a certain item.
Peter was enough of a friend that I’d considered dating him once or twice during the summer season when real estate was so slow my mother turned to nagging me about grandchildren. (I think she was pretty certain she wasn’t going to see any from Scott for some time to come. Legitimate issue, that is. Mom lives in fear of bad news in the other direction.)
Death by Marriage Page 4
