“Shit!”
When I first met Crystal, her speech had been heavily salted with four-letter expletives. Since then, she’d made a real effort to adapt to the more moderate manner of speech in Golden Beach. Her hearty bit of Anglo-Saxon clearly demonstrated just how upset she was.
So was I.
“New Years Day is good for calls,” I suggested. “An old tradition, right?”
“If no one’s watching the Rose Parade or football.”
We looked at each other, exchanged decisive nods. We’d do it. Tomorrow we’d visit Letty and try to convince her that accepting a financial advisor would be a great way to start the new year. And while we were there, we’d do a bit of snooping on the subject of Marshall Johnson.
Letty. At her age!
What was the matter with me? Seniors made second marriages all the time. I guess I’d assumed the women were looking for a companion and the men were looking for a cook and maid. Silly me. Senior sex was alive and well in Golden Beach.
While in New York, I’d had enough of the club scene to last a lifetime, so Mom, Crystal, and I usually shared a bottle of champagne while watching the Waterford crystal ball drop in Times Square, and worrying about Scott. This year was no different, except I worried considerably more about Scott than I had in the past. I also thought about Boone, who was undoubtedly on duty, along with every one of his officers, attempting to keep the lid on New Years Eve celebrations. I’d done a good job messing up our budding relationship—the silence from Boone’s direction was worse than the anticipated scold. He was probably waiting to interrogate me about Virginia Mills’s photo until he calmed down enough to be coherent.
Or maybe he’d written me off as an exotic too volatile for the straight-arrow new chief of the GBPD. Good-bye and good riddance.
Suddenly, I felt ill, my body the weight of Mount Rushmore—sickened by Letty’s problems, Martin’s death, the old man’s . . . by losing the first man of interest since I’d returned to Golden Beach.
And then there was Chad. God forgive me, but somehow I’d added him to my list of problems to be solved. The ultimate challenge, the most hopeless cause of all.
By some weird machination of fate, after more than five years of shunning men, scoffing at love, and running from sex as if it were a charging Brahma bull, two men had come out of nowhere to pique my interest in rejoining the land of the living.
And I’d fought with both of them. Way to go, Gwyn!
“There it goes!” Crystal cried, pointing at the television screen where the sparkling crystal ball had begun its descent and a hundred thousand voices in Times Square roared.
Seven, six, five . . . Martin, Letty, Chad, Boone.
Chad.
Chapter 14
The next day, Letty was all smiles, delighted to see us. And, thank goodness, she was alone. We apologized for dropping in unexpectedly and waited patiently while she rushed around, boiling water for tea while making up a plate of holiday goodies. Naturally, no guest could go away unfed.
When we were finally settled in the living room and had indulged in the expected amount of polite chitchat, I took a deep breath and ventured onto dangerous ground. “Letty . . . after what you told us about the money you may have lost, I spoke to my mother—she’s lived here all her life and knows everyone—and she recommended someone who could be your financial advisor. You know—an expert you could consult before making investments or charitable contributions. Don’t you think that might be helpful?” I offered my most encouraging smile.
“How thoughtful, my dear,” Letty said, “but I won’t be needing help in the future.” She paused dramatically, eyes sparkling, a smile splitting her face from ear to ear. “You see, I’m getting married, and dear Marshall will be taking care of my affairs in the future. Such a relief,” she added, “to place my burdens on his capable shoulders.”
I struggled for words as Crystal whispered on a sigh, “Oh, Letty.”
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say: Letty, Marshall may be a con artist out to take all your money, maybe even your life. I couldn’t do that to her. What if my imagination had gone ballistic and my suspicions were totally wrong?
Crystal agrees with you, hissed my inner voice. Crystal blew the whistle on Letty’s shadowed aura.
“Letty,” I said gently, “you haven’t known Marshall very long. Do you know anything about his background? I mean, you’re a very wealthy woman. Have you considered that he might be marrying your money?”
Letty sat back in her chair, her magenta silk dress casting a rosy glow on her parchment cheeks. She appeared confident and just a tad smug. “Well, of course I did. How could I help it? I’m not a fool, my dears. But I decided it didn’t matter. Marshall is delightful, he treats me like a queen. And he’s a handsome devil, don’t you agree? Why shouldn’t I enjoy what he has to offer?”
I glanced at Crystal, who seemed to have been struck dumb. No help there.
What could I say? While Crystal maintained her silence, I congratulated Letty and said I hoped she’d invite us to the wedding. As we made our farewells at the door, I reminded her that if she changed her mind about needing a financial advisor, she could call us any time, day or night. Or for any other reason.
A moment of understanding, of gratitude, flashed across Letty’s face, and I realized she knew she was taking a risk. But after a lifetime of solitude, she was willing to chance it. Could I fault her for being caught in that all-consuming need for love, at least for companionship? For a warm body. Something besides silence in one’s life.
I knew about silence. It could do strange things, like erupt into a startling attraction to the Chief of Police or make excuses for the wreck of Prince Chad.
As Crystal and I rode down in the elevator, I heaved a sigh that should have penetrated all the way to Letty’s condo. Understanding her problem didn’t make it any easier to solve. The sword of Damocles hung over Letty’s head by the thinnest thread. And at the moment I couldn’t see a damn thing I could do about it.
So there! Pardon my four-letter word for the day.
The words “stubborn little minx” echo from my childhood—my mother’s preferred expression of exasperation. My father called me a “hard-headed little witch.” Since both epithets were delivered with more baffled love—as in “if we only knew where that came from”— than criticism, I came to regard them as compliments. I was hard-headed, stubborn, and cursed—or blessed, depending on your viewpoint—with an artist’s ability to think outside the box.
But . . .
Martin Kellerman, Basil Janecek, Letty Van Ryn. The three names thrummed through my mind with relentless insistence. Victims all, I was certain of it.
Except Letty was not going to be murdered, I would make sure of that.
Yeah, sure, my pesky inner voice mocked.
Shut up!
The next morning, I was still stuck with nothing but improbable schemes to save Letty when a surprise visitor came through the door to DreamWear shortly after we opened. In spite of being only three doors down for the last five years, Terry Branson had never set foot in my shop.
“Hi, Terry, need a costume?” Not that I had any genuine leather costumes, but maybe Terry was actually branching out from biker babe. I gave her the special grin and wave I reserved for mall neighbors.
Terry offered a sheepish grin, shrugging man-size shoulders on her nearly six-foot frame. “No costume, sorry,” she said in a voice almost as baritone as Boone Talbot’s, but . . .” She paused, evidently at a loss for words. “Uh, look, Gwyn, you know I really mind my own business, right? When have you ever heard me snitch on anybody, but . . . uh, well . . . Dammit!”
I kept my mouth shut, while attempting to broadcast my most sympathetic listener’s mode.
“There’s lots of rumors going around,” Terry said, “probably none of them true, but . . .” She swallowed, squinched up her face, as if in pain. “I heard there’s a question about that guy’s death in the parade. I heard he was wea
ring your Santa Suit and that you’ve been asking questions.” I nodded. “And I heard there’s a lot of talk about who was sleeping with who at the Yacht Club. You know, like who might have wanted that guy dead because he was getting it on with his wife.”
“That’s a possibility,” I said, “but it would have had to be a pretty hot affair for someone to murder Martin over it.”
“But his wife’s inherited a bundle. Sex and money, real zingers for a motive, right?”
“Uh, right.” My intuition blinked red, maybe in embarrassment. Terry was forcing me to look at things from a different slant. Maybe I’d let Jeb talk his way off my suspect list far too easily. Scott had hinted at it too. Jeb could be using Cary Knight as a smoke screen. After all, any man who married the widow Kellerman would be a very rich.
“So now comes the hard part,” Terry said. “I thought you ought to know.”
Oh-oh.
“Scott brought her to watch him play pool—the wife, that Vanessa Kellerman. Maybe three or four times the last couple of months. Miserable bitch must be ten years older, but she was all over him, practically drooling. And him lapping it up like a cat with cream. Sorry to put it like that, but it’s going to come out, and I thought you ought to know. Scott and Jeb Brannigan have been screwing just about every Botox Babe in the marina.” Terry softened her low rumble until I could barely hear her. “There’s even talk they’re into ménage, if you know what I mean.”
I’d never considered myself an actress, not even after what happened in New York, but somehow I managed to keep a cool façade. “Thanks, Terry. Not what I wanted to hear, but you’re right, I needed to know. I really appreciate it. I’ll see what I can do with damage control.”
She patted me on the arm. “As I said, I’m sorry. Scott is one of our favorite people, and I don’t want to see him go down just because some rich, middle-aged broads think he’s hot.”
I stood there, staring blankly at the front door long after it closed behind Terry. Her information, added to Alyce’s, was the death knell for hoping Scott wasn’t involved in this mess. He and Jeb were in it up to their necks. But Scott would never—
No time at all to process Terry’s bolt from the blue as a pert twenty-something came in looking for a custom wench costume for vending ale at Medieval and Renaissance fairs. It took well over an hour for her to examine my sketch book, select a style and colors, and be measured. When I was free at last, Crystal pounced, frantically waving me into her velvet-draped cave.
Clearly, she’d overheard Terry’s words from inside her cave. “So?” she challenged. “What’re we going to do about Scott?”
“Scott wouldn’t marry that woman if she gave him a million up front!”
“Easy, easy, girl. We know that, but the cops don’t. Any man sniffing up the widow’s skirts is bound to be a suspect, so don’t go off half-cocked and stir up so much of a storm that you draw a beeline straight to Scott.”
With my hands steepled in front of my face, my thumbs tucked under my chin, I concentrated on remembering to breathe. Mind numb, I’d become a statue behind the counter of my own shop. Crystal reached out, grabbed the little handbell and sign, and plunked them down on the counter. “Come on,” she said, dragging me toward her cave, “it’s Sherlock time.
“Sit,” she ordered as the bead curtains jingled softly behind us. I sat. “Forget the old guy and the nurse,” Crystal ordered. “There’s enough suspects in the Who-killed-Martin stakes to swamp a boat. First, there’s the Merry Widow herself. She had motive and opportunity—I still say she did it. Then there’s Jeb who never saw a woman with money he didn’t like. He’s a self-centered s.o.b., always out for number one—“ She broke off, snapped her fingers an inch from my nose.
“Come on, Gwynie girl, pay attention. At least have the courtesy to agree with me. Nod if you hear me.”
A sharp flick of my hand and she backed off, giving me her piercing amber stare above arms crossed over her ample bosom. “Well?”
Fine. She had a valid point. We needed to drag our speculations from the realm of what-if out into the open, make a list of possible murderers . . . with Scott at the absolute bottom. I stifled a moan. “I was sure Vanessa did it,” I admitted, “possibly with Jeb’s help. But after I met the Bairds, I began to wonder if I’d leaped to the obvious without taking a good look around. We need to find out more about Baird’s claim to Martin’s shares in the company. And then there’s Sherry Lambert. She dated Martin, so she’d know about his allergy.”
“The woman scorned? A crime of passion,” Crystal added on a dramatic flourish.
“Not passion. Calculated, cold-blooded, first-degree murder. And I want to know who would stoop that low.”
“Not Scott.”
“Definitely not Scott . . . but he’s done so many stupid things he hasn’t got a lot going for him in a murder investigation. At the very best—knowing Scott as they do—the cops could figure he hung the peanuts as a lark, maybe at Vanessa’s suggestion—totally unaware how deadly peanut allergies can be. I mean, that’s believable. It sounds like him.”
Crystal groaned, and nodded. “Anybody else?” she asked.
“Random nut case . . . no pun intended.”
“Tying peanuts on a Christmas tree?” Crystal planted her hands on her hips and fixed me with her pin-me-to-the-wall stare. “Not exactly the act of your average schizoid. I think we can rule random out.”
No kidding. “I guess I’d better talk to Sherry—she’s easy to find.” I paused, staring down at Crystal’s ball, wondering . . . wishing. I could claim some special insight, a wee touch of magic of my own.
Just use the brains you’ve got, kid. “And I’ll see if I can worm info on the Bairds out of Vanessa,” I added briskly. “She’s angry enough that maybe she’ll be willing to talk about her quarrel with Baird.”
Crystal gave a decisive nod. “Good start. Go for it. That leaves us with the no-little-matter of Letty.”
Guilt. Hadn’t I just sworn nothing would happen to Letty, but Scott was family. Scott came first.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “For the moment Letty’s your problem. Keep an eye on her and warn me if things start to go south. I have to concentrate on saving Scott’s idiot neck.”
Crystal’s soulful amber gazed back at me. “Letty needs saving too. She’s old and she’s alone, and she’s set on marrying a guy who’s probably a con artist.”
I touched my index finger to Crystal’s ball, I don’t know why. Hoping for inspiration? It didn’t work. The ball came to life only for Crystal. “Just give me a day or two,” I murmured. “Letty’s not about to run off to Vegas.” Crystal’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t even think it!” I snapped. “I promise you everything will be fine with Letty while I save Scott from his own stupidity.”
“But Letty’s our friend.”
Swallow your pride and ask for help. Once again, I swatted my inner voice aside. And then . . . my survival instincts kicked in.
I was up to my neck in Martin’s murder and Scott’s possible involvement. Maybe I was nuts, but somehow I felt Basil Janecek’s death might be connected. Add in the threat to Letty and the fact that I was trained to design costumes, not conduct investigations and . . .
I. Needed. Help.
“You’re right, and I’m going to ask Boone to check Marshall out. But he’s so smooth, so really good at his job, I bet there isn’t a warrant out for him anywhere. And, besides, he could be for real. Attracted by Letty’s money, sure, but happy enough to play doting husband until he inherits the lot.”
“The nephew would have a hemorrhage if he knew Letty was getting married.”
“We’re not blowing the whistle on her.”
“Not even to save her life?”
“He could get Power of Attorney, and Letty’s life as she knows it would be over. Better Marshall marries her for her money than that.”
“Well . . . dammit.” Crystal knuckled her forehead. “So how are we going to help her?”
/> “I’m not sure we can”—I held up my hand to stop Crystal’s protest—“but I’ve got a wild idea about where we can get help. Just give me a day or two, okay? When’s the wedding?”
“Letty hasn’t said. A few weeks yet, I think. She’s planning on something more than a JP, maybe even a church ceremony. After all, it’s her first.”
At the rate I was going, I’d be seventy-some before my first wedding. Maybe not even then.
Which, sadly, led me back to the “what next” on the list I was forming in my head. “If I bring you lunch from the deli, can you handle the shop for the rest of the day? I’d like to get started on finding the answers to all the questions chasing around my head.”
“No problem.”
I clasped my hands under my chin and stared at Crystal, willing her to understand. “We need help,” I said. “Even if I ignore Basil Janecek, there’s Scott’s problem and Letty about to jump off a cliff. That’s way more than we can handle and still keep the shop run—”
“You know I can take care of DreamWear, Gwynie. You’re the one who knows how to ask questions, not me. Go out and get ‘em, girl!”
“Thanks,” I murmured, “but you may not like the help I have in mind. Or you may misinterpret—”
“Help’s help. You got somebody you want, go for it.”
My long broomstick skirt brushed the rug as I unfolded myself from the wrought iron ice cream chair that had never been intended for prolonged sitting. “It probably won’t work out,” I said, “but keep that thought in mind in case he says yes.”
Crystal’s curiosity finally got the better of her. “He who?” she demanded.
“Chad Yarnell.” I zipped through the bead curtain, grabbed my purse from the drawer behind the counter, and charged toward the back door before Crystal recovered from her shock.
I hadn’t really believed I’d do it until his name popped out of mouth. But the truth was, I was desperate for help. And at the moment Chad didn’t appear to be doing anything at all. Maybe, just maybe . . .
Death by Marriage Page 14
