Death by Marriage

by Blair Bancroft

  I wanted to sneak up to my room and quiver for a while. Unfortunately, I was a big girl now. I forced my feet across the grass, past the bird bath, to where Mom was now lopping great spiky branches off the bougainvillea. “Not enough weeds in winter,” she puffed as I moved up beside her. Snip. A long branch full of magenta blooms hit the grass.

  “Uh, Mom . . .”

  “It’ll grow back, bushier than ever.” Snip. Thwack.

  “But I like it with the branches all helter-skelter,” I protested. “At the rate you’re going, it’s going to look like a shipping crate.”

  “It needs taming.”

  I got the message. The bougainvillea she could control. I heaved the heart-felt sigh Mom was holding in.

  “I’ve asked Scott to hunt wild hogs for the barbecue,” Mom announced. Snip. Thwack.

  This was not as irrelevant as it sounded. Mom was running the Hospital Auxiliary Fund-raiser this year and had decided on an old-fashioned Florida barbecue. Thoughts of pigs roasted over open pits, mountains of potato salad, coleslaw and beans, followed by pecan and Key Lime pie already had people’s mouths watering. Throw in a country band, horse and pony rides, and a mini rodeo, and this year’s charity drive—traditionally held between Christmas and New Years when the town was bursting with visitors—was already being proclaimed a triumph.

  Trouble was, you can’t have a proper Florida pig roast without wild pig. No ordinary porker would do. And Mom had just assigned the task of producing enough wild pigs for the barbecue to Scott. I could only presume she was trying to keep him fully occupied when not out on Sea Tow. But . . . I shuddered. On a danger scale of one to ten, fastening a tow line to a cruiser adrift in the Gulf in anything less than a tropical storm was somewhere around a five, while hunting wild boar was more like an eleven. But Mom was right. This was a challenge Scott would enjoy, and he had plenty of friends to help him out. If they didn’t shoot each other in the process.

  “That’s good,” I muttered and trudged toward the house. I didn’t quite make it.

  Crystal came charging out of her apartment at the back of the house, her yellow A-line caftan with purple flowers catching the sun and nearly blinding me. “Gwyn Halliday, you come straight in here and tell me what’s going on. Didn’t anybody tell this family it’s Sunday?”

  Fortunately, before I fell into total collapse on Crystal’s couch, she handed me a cup of coffee and an ET bagel with cream cheese. Between mouthfuls I gave her a rundown on everything I’d done since I left DreamWear early yesterday afternoon. I suppose I was expecting praise for my initiative. Except for gasps of horror over Scott’s DUI, Crystal’s reaction left me with my mouth hanging open.

  “Are you nuts?” she demanded. “You’re out there making waves about a guy who had an obvious heart attack when our very own Miss Letty has doom closing in. I mean, her aura is so shadowed you wouldn’t believe. You want to play detective, Gwynie, find out what’s wrong with our favorite senior.”

  “But . . . but I think Martin may have been murdered,” I protested, stung by her rebuke.

  “Pooh! Hundreds of people saw him collapse before he went overboard. So maybe his wife was fooling around on the side. What do expect from a bimbo like that? Accept it, and move on. She’s gonna be rich, and Jeb Brannigan can take care of himself. Besides, what do you care what happens to him? I thought he was the enemy.”

  I lowered my last bite of bagel to my plate and stared at it. I closed my eyes, filtering Crystal’s scold through my weary head. Letitia Van Ryn was a good friend. If she really needed help, then Crystal and I had to come through for her. But every instinct insisted Martin Kellerman had not died a natural death. So somehow I was going to have to fit both problems into my schedule.

  Instinct. And where were my supposedly reliable instincts when I lived in New York? Dazzled by the glitter, overwhelmed by a handsome face, smooth talk, and great sex. So what made me think my instincts were any more reliable now?

  Maybe because this was Golden Beach. The only glitter was on my costumes. Guys took no for an answer, sex was a distant memory, and I’d only just met the first handsome face to light up my pheromones since I’d moved back home.

  Crystal’s caftan rippled as she crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared at me. “So?” she demanded. “What’re we going to do about Miss Letty?”

  I shook my head. “She really likes you. If you couldn’t get her to tell you what’s wrong, I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “Trouble is,” Crystal admitted, “when I saw all that grunge on her aura, I played it down, figuring you wouldn’t want me to push her. Maybe if we both talked to her . . . maybe if she saw we both really care . . .”

  My head felt like a hot air balloon after someone turned off the heat. I was deflating fast. I needed a few hours sleep before I was going to be fully functional. “I’ll call Letty,” I promised. “Hopefully, she won’t mind a holiday visit.”

  Crystal brightened. “Thanks, Gwynie. Maybe at home she’ll talk to us.”

  I dragged myself up off the couch. “The bagel was lunch. Don’t wake me for anything less than a tidal wave.” I waggled my fingers in Crystal’s direction and left.

  As it happened, the tidal wave came on Monday when all the costumes for weekend parties came back. Crystal and I stood shoulder to shoulder, checking every last accessory, returning deposits with our best professional smiles. We weren’t as busy as the day after Halloween when it was all employees on deck, but we certainly didn’t have time to think about anything but business. At three o’clock things quieted down enough that I could take the time to call Miss Letty, who promptly responded that she would be delighted for us to pay a Holiday call. Tea at four on Wednesday? I quickly agreed. In late afternoon I’d have no problem getting one of our part-time students to babysit the store, and our Santa check-outs for Christmas Eve weren’t until Thursday.

  So far, so good. Crystal was happy, but Martin Kellerman’s death still nagged. Martin. Velvet Santa suit. My thoughts took a jog to the practical. “I left a message on Badermann’s machine on Saturday,” I told Crystal. Badermann was our primary costume and accessory supplier. “Hopefully, they’ll overnight a new Santa today because the velvet suit is booked for Christmas Eve.” Along with every other Santa suit we owned.

  Back to my Martin problem. Deb Ellis could probably arrange for me to talk to Vanessa Kellerman, but what excuse could I use? Pardon me, ma’am, but could you please answer a few questions because I think maybe you killed your husband.

  Ah-hah! Hospital Auxiliary. I called Mom. No, Vanessa Kellerman had not been invited to join. No surprise there. But for a good cause, I wheedled? Mom grumbled, but authorized a probationary try-out if that was really the only luncheon excuse I could come up with.

  I called Deb Ellis, who was grimly gleeful about any maneuver that might bring about Vanessa Kellerman’s downfall. She called back a short while later to tell me she’d set up a lunch date at the Yacht Club for tomorrow at one.

  “You’re in over your head,” Crystal warned. “If she’s innocent, she’ll sue you. And if she killed him, you could be next. Whatever ails Miss Letty, it isn’t going to get you dead.”

  So much for Crystal’s clairvoyance.

  On Tuesday morning I slipped into a marine blue shirtdress, accessorized it with a silver necklace and earrings by a Sarasota designer, pulled on pantyhose, slid my feet into conservative navy pumps with three-inch heels, and dropped a few essentials into a small, matching clutch purse. The other women at the Golden Beach Yacht Club might be more casual, but I was representing my mother and the Hospital Auxiliary, and I needed to look the part.

  The Golden Beach Yacht Club suits it nautical setting. No ornate draperies that might shut out the view. No fancy chandeliers or gilded wood. No thwack of tennis rackets or golf balls. The Club sits on a narrow peninsula leading down to the jetties. Its broad windows offer a panorama of blue water and boats of every description. Space is limited, but the Club
managed to squeeze in a parking lot, a pool, a Tiki bar, and docking facilities for forty-seven boats. In addition to the spectacular view, the main dining room oozes serene. The wait staff is friendly and efficient; the food, excellent. Mom kept offering to sponsor me, hinting about the advantages of the Club’s Singles events. I usually responded that my childhood rubber ducky didn’t count as a yacht.

  Deb Ellis, the consummate hostess, was already in place. At a table next to the windows, of course. Deb looks like a well-dressed dumpling. Round face, round arms, round hips. Rubens would have loved her. But when you get to know her, you discover her mind is sharp, and so are her teeth. She can sink her fangs into the jugular with the best of the sharks. Sometimes I suspected she was head of the pack. I was nervous, not looking forward to my interview with Vanessa Kellerman at all. Deb was. I could feel it.

  Deb’s eyes sparkled as she motioned me toward the chair with the best view of the water. “I can hardly wait,” she chortled. “Have you got your questions ready?”

  “I’m here to invite her to help with the Auxiliary’s fund-raiser, remember?” I unfolded my large navy blue napkin and draped it over my lap.

  “Aren’t you the one? You and Jo, as devious as they come.”

  I debated leaping to counter this aspersion on my mother’s business practices, then decided this wasn’t the time or place. Swiftly, I filled Deb in on what I’d learned from Alyce Jahnke and Jeb Brannigan.

  She frowned. “Everybody knows Nessa was seeing someone, and Jeb seems the logical choice. I’ll ask around.”

  Noting Deb’s suddenly arrested look, I turned to see a blonde paused in the entrance to the dining room. Long golden waves of hair stopped just short of obscuring her Double-D, undoubtedly surgically enhanced, breasts. Her black dress was long-sleeved, but stopped four inches short of her knees. Her only ornaments, other than her hair, were the diamonds in her ears and the rock on her finger that managed to catch the light, even thirty feet from the club’s bank of sunlit windows. The maître d’, obviously absorbed in the towering expanse of tan legs that rose to just short of where the sun don’t shine, stumbled as he rushed to her side, scattering several of the leather-clad menus in his hand.

  Deb and I watched, fascinated, as he retrieved the menus, gathered his dignity, and approached the Widow Kellerman, who looked as if disconcerting house stewards and anyone else who might be gawking was all part of her daily routine. Actually, from what I could see as she glided toward our table, she basked in it. Throwing the bull at her might be more difficult than I’d anticipated. I hadn’t even met her yet, and I couldn’t stand the woman.

  For shame, Gwyn. Okay, okay, so I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I couldn’t keep an open mind.

  Vanessa Kellerman took the chair to my right. Jeb Brannigan maligned her when he called her a Boxtox babe. She was still hovering on the right side of forty, and, as far as I could tell, she hadn’t needed Botox to win the role of trophy wife. Just a youthful gene pool, impeccable facial care, the boob job . . . and chutzpah.

  I expressed my condolences, which were accepted with murmured thanks and a gracious nod. After we placed our lunch orders, I summoned my best customer smile. “My mother wanted to speak with you in person,” I said to Vanessa, “but with the Season coming on, real estate is sizzling. I hope you don’t mind me substituting.”

  The Widow Kellerman fluttered her inch-long false eyelashes in my direction. “Of course I understand. And I’m delighted to meet you at last. Martin always spoke highly of you.”

  Not the reply I wanted. This was the enemy. She wasn’t supposed to be well-mannered. “As you may know,” I said, “Mom is in charge of the Hospital Auxiliary’s Fund-raiser this year, and she was wondering if you would like to participate. Maybe it’s too soon,” I added hastily, “but we thought perhaps having something to do would . . .”. My words trailed away. I was going to have to improve my conversational skills. Obviously, I spent too much time at the drawing board and sewing machine.

  Vanessa Kellerman’s liquid brown eyes lit up like a child about to tear into a stack of birthday presents. “What a lovely suggestion,” she cooed. “Quite frankly,” she added, “I’ve been told it takes years to get into the Hospital Auxiliary.”

  “It does. Mom thought she should make an exception in your case.”

  Fortunately, our food arrived in the midst of Vanessa’s gushing thanks. Now what? We’d taken care of the excuse for this lunch meeting. How on earth did I maneuver from charmingly friendly conversation to “Excuse me, Vanessa, but why didn’t you grab your husband before he fell overboard?”

  Maybe this lunch wasn’t such a good idea after all. I’d foisted Vanessa Kellerman onto the Hospital Auxiliary with nothing to show for it.

  Vanessa gazed out the window as a cruiser remarkably similar to Rainbow’s End passed by, heading toward the passage through the Golden Beach jetties. “You probably didn’t know,” she said softly, “but Martin was allergic to peanuts. The police suspect he died of anaphylactic shock.”

  I almost choked on a piece of chicken. Deb’s fork dropped onto her plate. “What?” we chorused, almost in unison.

  “He couldn’t go near a peanut,” she said dolefully. “He had an epi pen, of course. He carried it all the time. But the Santa pockets were so deep . . . evidently he couldn’t find it in time.”

  Santa pockets. My Santa’s pockets. I gulped, fighting the surprise, the horror of having played a role, however inadvertent, in Martin’s death. Even if he’d found the pen, he’d have had to push up the heavy velvet sleeves . . .

  Fighting revulsion, I took a sip of Pinot Grigio. No, no, no, no, no, no! Something was wrong here.

  I tried to speak. Swallowed, tried again. “Mrs. Kellerman, are the police sure that’s what happened? I mean, anaphylactic shock is instantaneous, right? Where would Martin run into peanuts on board his own boat?”

  The widow’s heavily lashed eyes widened. Innocence radiated from her like one of Crystal’s auras. “That’s what’s so strange.” She knuckled her lower lip, eyes misting. “We never had peanuts or peanut butter in the condo or on the boat. Not even candy bars. I can’t imagine how it happened.”

  I could.

  It didn’t take much creativity to picture Vanessa hanging a bag of peanuts or maybe a netted dollop of peanut butter as an ornament on the boat’s tree.

  Surely Martin would have noticed.

  Not if the “ornament” was hidden in the branches and he was so allergic that he didn’t have to actually swallow the peanuts to have an attack.

  I was stretching. Trying to get myself off the hook? No. Now, more than ever, I was convinced Vanessa Kellerman had a hand in her husband’s death. “I saw the whole thing,” I said. “If only you’d had time to grab Martin before he went overboard.”

  She’d had time, plenty of time.

  Vanessa hung her head. “I was in shock,” she whispered so softly Deb and I had to lean in to hear her. “At first I just thought he’d lost his balance for a moment, that he’d grab the tree, no problem. And then when he went down, I couldn’t move. It was unreal. The lights, the loud music, all those engines. The boat hit a wake, and I had to grab the tree myself. The next thing I knew, Martin was gone, and I was down on my knees, screaming. It was awful. Awful.”

  God, she was good. I could only stare in admiration. She’d covered all the bases and come up smelling of roses. Everything she said fit the timeline I’d seen with my own eyes.

  I didn’t believe a word. Somewhere on the bottom of the Intracoastal was a bag of peanuts or peanut butter. Maybe it was fishfood already. The Widow Kellerman was going to inherit all Martin’s worldly possessions, and no one was going to be able to prove a thing.

  Just because you don’t like the woman doesn’t mean she’s guilty of murder.

  Shut up! I snapped at the common sense side of my personality. For the moment it worked.

  Deb and I made all the expected sympathetic noises. We finished our l
unches, I gave Vanessa Mom’s card with the date and time of the next Fund-raiser committee meeting. She beamed and assured me she’d be there.

  After she left, Deb and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Do you think that story’s true?” she asked.

  “I’m trying hard to tell myself we’ve made a mountain out of molehill, but I’m not there yet. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “I ran into Laetitia Van Ryn at Publix,” Deb said, the inquisitive gleam back in her eye. “She told me you met Chief Talbot. Maybe you should ask him what’s going on.”

  “As if he’s going to tell me word one.”

  “Come on, Gwyn. Miss Letty spilled the beans. Crystal told her your aura and Chief’s went neon when you met. Give it a try. The worst the farm boy can say is no. It’s not like he’s going to haul you off to jail for a little excess curiosity.”

  I waved my fingers. “Bye, Deb. Thanks for arranging lunch. Maybe a little more info than I expected, but I’m regrouping. We’ll figure this out yet.”

  Five minutes later, I slid behind the wheel of the Malibu, turned the key to start the air, then sat there unmoving, my mind as numb as when the deputy woke me to say Scott was DUI.

  I was in way over my head. Only in my daydreams could I solve the puzzle surrounding Martin’s death. And as for Miss Letty’s aura, I hadn’t a clue. The entire North Bypass Mall was probably laughing at me. Boone Talbot had undoubtedly heard about my feeble efforts and joined the chorus.

  No, more likely Boone Talbot was pissed. And I really hadn’t wanted to throw a monkey wrench into a promising relationship.

  Relationship? Oh, wow, Gwyn, you really do have a lot of imagination!

  I heaved a sigh, and headed back to the shop, my mind skittering in a relentless kaleidoscope of Martin, Vanessa, Jeb, Scott, Mom, Crystal, and Miss Letty.