Death by Marriage

by Blair Bancroft

  Across the street from the North Bypass Mall is a younger, pricier, more up-scale cluster of businesses, known as Golden Beach Heights. The difference in actual ground height is all of ten feet. (If you’re not aware of it, except for a slight rise in the middle of the state, Florida is flat as a pancake.) The businesses at the Heights are set back tastefully from the highway behind a row of trees, and the owners tended to look down their noses at their counterparts across the street. But at this point the Bypass was six lanes with a median down the middle, allowing us to ignore each other with ease.

  But today I was going to be disloyal to my side of the Bypass. The Heights boasted an Irish Pub with a variety of comfort foods done up in grand Irish style, and one of those wonderful places called a “snug”—in this case, a three-sided nook tucked behind one end of the bar, furnished with a rectangular polished oak table and padded bench seats along each wall. One American touch—a Tiffany-style shade covered the lamp that hung about four feet above the table. Very private, it was just what I needed for a long talk with Sherry Lambert. Since the Pub’s manager was another high school acquaintance, it hadn’t been difficult to talk him into reserving the snug. And Sherry, though sounding a bit wary, had agreed to meet me there after she finished her one-to-five stint on the front desk at Wallace Realty.

  Did I feel guilty about using Mom’s clout to get Sherry to meet me? Not really. She knew I’d witnessed her temper tantrum at the barbecue, and maybe she’d like an opportunity for a little damage control. Whatever. She’d agreed to talk to me, and that’s what counted.

  Sherry slid onto the bench seat across from me only a few minutes after I arrived. The contrast with the furious, red-faced, casually dressed woman who had confronted Vanessa Kellerman couldn’t have been more pronounced. Sherry wore a white silk shirt beneath a classically tailored burgundy suit. Not a single hair escaped her short dark cap of curls. Her black snakeskin purse matched her high-heeled shoes. Her earrings—garnets or rubies?—matched her suit, as did her fingernails. Nice. I always made an effort to represent the ambiance of my somewhat exotic business, but Sherry made me feel like a country cousin. Miss Sophisticate to Gypsy Fortune Teller.

  The bartender took our orders. I always take advantage of the Pub’s genuine draft Guinness, built slowly at the tap, not the so-called Draft that comes in a can. To my surprise, Sherry joined me in drinking beer, though ordering a Blue Moon instead of the dark Irish brew.

  “Look,” she said while we waited for our drinks to arrive, “I’m sorry about the scene at the barbecue. But that”—she bit off the epithet on the tip of her tongue—“that woman just makes me see red. Martin was going to marry me, I swear it. See?” She fished inside her silk shirt and pulled out a ring on a silver chain. The diamond was large enough to catch the rainbow glints reflected from the Tiffany lamp above.

  “We were engaged,” Sherry insisted, “and then Vanessa trailed her tail in front of him, and Martin went nuts.” She dropped the ring back under her shirt. “I’ll never understand men. She just walked right in and grabbed him. I could only stand back and watch, a spectator in my own soap opera. You’ve heard of ‘Gone in Sixty Seconds’? Well, it was just about that bad.”

  Sherry stared at her perfectly manicured fingernails while the bartender served our drinks, along with a bowl of peanuts.

  Peanuts. The irony struck me hard. I glanced up to find Sherry looking as stricken as I felt. Would Martin’s murderer react that way? I doubted it. I was pretty sure that if Sherry had killed him, she would have had the guts to display only the proverbial cool, calm, and collected.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, her eyes still fixed on the peanuts. “Vanessa did it, I know she did. I tell you that woman’s a witch as well as a bitch.”

  Scratch Sherry from the Suspect List.

  Jumping the gun, Gwyn.

  I powered down, forcing the analytical side of my brain back into place. Salespeople like Sherry had to be highly flexible. You could almost say they were born actors—the ability to put on different fronts for different people was an inherent part of the job.

  And then there was Scott.

  I was still fishing around for the words to bring up such a tricky topic when Sherry put down her heavy mug and said, “Martin was so ashamed—I give him credit for that. When he told me about Vanessa, he offered me the moon and the stars. Ten thousand right away and shares in his company in his Will.” Sherry’s long fingers wiped away a tear. “Even hurting so bad, I felt like one of those courtesans in books, getting her congé. Except they had to expect it, right? And I didn’t.”

  Well, who’d have thought Sherry Lambert read historical romances? Stay on track, Gwyn. Don’t let her off the hook.

  “Sherry . . . something’s come up. I’ve heard some stories that have me worried. I thought you might be able to help.” She frowned, wiped another tear, and looked me in the eye. Again, not what I expected from a killer. No cool bravado, just hurt, lingering anger . . . and curiosity.

  “I realize rumors are iffy,” I continued, “but I heard that you’d been seeing Jeb Brannigan. And maybe my brother too.”

  As fast as a lightning bolt, Sherry Lambert transformed from jilted lover to sophisticated woman of the world. Her brown eyes glittered, I could almost feel the snug’s temperature fall. “And that’s your business how?” she challenged.

  “Because there are rumors one of them might have killed Martin in order to marry the Merry Widow and her multi-millions. So I need to know what you know. Now.” Okay, so I have a temper too. In a softer tone, I added, “I happen to like my brother. I don’t want to see him in trouble for something he didn’t do.”

  Sherry’s right hand convulsively kneaded her shiny black purse. Red almost as dark as her suit flooded her face. “So they’re younger than I am,” she said, on the defensive. “Can you blame a girl on the rebound checking out the two biggest hunks in town? I mean, really, who wouldn’t?”

  I tapped my fingers against my mug, summoning courage. “Um . . . Sherry . . . I also heard that sometimes you, ah, maybe . . . double-dated.” Once started, I rushed ahead. “I know that seems odd, considering your opinion of Vanessa, but—”

  “I enjoyed it.” Sherry’s eyes narrowed, her body language projected “fierce.” “I loved to watch the bitch getting it on with someone else. Hey, Martin, look what you got instead of loyal little me! And, besides, if you’ve never done it with a younger man, Gwyn, you have no idea.”

  I gulped. “Are you saying the four of you were, um, ‘swinging’?”

  “Two’s, three’s, four’s, whatever,” Sherry said. “It was fun. And every single time I gloated over kicking Martin in the teeth.”

  Now was the moment—when she was so full of herself, glowing over screwing Martin in a whole new way. “But you were still angry,” I said. “You’d never really be free until he was gone. And then there were all those lovely shares of stock.”

  Sherry stared at me as if I were mad. “Me? You’re accusing me? Listen, girl, I’ve got money in the family. Just like you. I don’t really need Martin’s lousy shares. It’s the principal of the thing, plus knowing she killed him, drives me mad. He was nice, really,” she added more softly. “It’s just that, like most guys, he thought with his dick.”

  I thought of Chad’s leer yesterday on his houseboat. “Right. I’m sorry, Sherry. I had trouble believing the rumors about Scott. You know, baby brother and all.” Sadly, I shook my head. “I needed to check it out, and I pushed too hard. I hope you understand. He could be headed for real trouble.”

  Sherry offered a slight nod, which I took for apology accepted, adding, “Vanessa was never more than a game to Scott, I promise you that. We both were. He was just a guy taking what was offered, snatching a bit of fun in a town that’s up to its neck in senior citizens.”

  “You think Jeb’s harmless too?”

  Sherry thought about it. “He’s more conniving than Scott, but not as smart. Truthfully . . . I’m not sure. Nob
ody knows Vanessa’s power better than I do. But Scott, he’s a sweetie. He just wants to rescue people, not kill them.”

  My opinion exactly. “Thank you,” I said, and meant it. “How about another round?”

  Over more beer, we turned to dissecting the current real estate market, the best local hiking trails, and a number of mutual acquaintances. As I headed for my car, a flash of envy startled me. No matter how sorry I felt about Sherry being dumped, no matter how shocked I was by her swinging lifestyle, she was out there having fun. Having sex.

  With my brother. Yuck! My moment of envy vanished.

  Now came the hard part. For days now Scott had been avoiding the family, going out early and coming home late, very late. Tonight I was going to wait up, if it took half the night.

  I solved the problem of waiting up for Scott with time-honored sisterly chutzpah. I rummaged around in the kitchen junk drawer until I found the extra key to the apartment over the garage, then climbed the outside staircase and let myself in. If one overlooked the debris scattered about the living area—drink cups, fast food wrappers, a pizza box, and several skin flick DVDs—the apartment was a neat bachelor pad, stylishly furnished in black and tan with dashes of red because Mom chose every last detail. I didn’t snoop in the bedroom. Truthfully, I felt guilty enough invading this far into Scott’s castle. I stretched out on the black leather sofa—so butter soft I might not be able to get up—and settled in for the duration.

  I fell asleep but, my warning alarms carefully set, I woke to the soft snick of a deadbolt turning in its slot. Scott didn’t even looked surprised when he saw me, more like, well, hell, it took you long enough. I lay there glaring at him, not saying a word.

  His defensive bristles went up. “What?”

  “Sit.” I dragged myself up, making room on the soft black leather.

  Scott tucked his bag of pool cues in the closet, then sat down on the couch, leaning into the far corner and stretching out his long legs until they nearly touched my toes. “So?” he drawled, bravado firmly in place.

  No sense beating around the bush, as Gramma Wallace used to say. This was Scott—baby brother, friend. Sometimes, like now, major pain in the you-know-what. “Is it true you and Jeb were swinging with Vanessa Kellerman and Sherry Lambert?”

  Scott studied the ceiling, giving an elaborate imitation of someone attempting to understand an obtuse question.

  “Scott?”

  He gave an infinitesimal shrug. “No big deal. The ladies seemed to get off on it.”

  “They were rivals, Scott. Vanessa stole Martin from under Sherry’s nose. How could they possibly—”

  “Guess they both figured they were screwing Kellerman. Uh, you know, the other definition. Listen, Gwyn, I know you liked Kellerman, but he was a player. Even after he was married. I figure Sherry wanted to show him she still had the stuff to interest younger men, and Nessa married him for his money. She had no qualms about treating him as carelessly as he treated her, as long as he kept paying the bills.”

  “But she’s a trophy wife,” I protested. “A stunner. Why would Martin cheat?”

  Scott shook his head, throwing in a wry glance for good measure. “For someone who spent all those years in the big city, you sure are naive. Some guys are just like that, Gwynie. It’s sort of a disease.”

  I studied my feet while the silence lengthened. Okay, I’d found out what I needed to know. And wished I hadn’t. Scott hadn’t even tried to deny it.

  “Scott . . . have you given a thought to the fact that playing sex games with three suspects in Martin’s murder makes you a suspect too?”

  “Fear of sullying your delicate little ears wasn’t the only reason I kept myself out of it the last time you decided to grill me.”

  Surprise. Sometimes I forgot that Scott inherited excellent brains from Mom and Dad, even if he seldom used them.

  “But damned if I can figure a motive,” he added. “I mean, no one ever pretended we were overcome with passion. It was just fun and games. As far as Jeb and I were concerned, old Martin could do as he damn well pleased. He wasn’t a problem.”

  “But what if one of you planned on marrying the Merry Widow?”

  Scott sat up so fast I thought he might rocket to the ceiling. “Marry? Me? Have you lost your mind?”

  Definitely not an act. I breathed a private sigh of relief, before settling down to the nasty facts of life. “I’m not the trouble, Scott. Giving the police the impression that you might want to marry the widow and get all Martin’s lovely money is enough to put you near the top of the suspect list. You and Jeb both.”

  “Who—was it your cop? Did he tell you that?”

  “No. He . . . he isn’t happy about me asking questions. We don’t talk much, particularly about Martin.”

  “Then who do I thank for coming up with this particular zinger?” Scott’s sarcasm dripped between us like a bloody knife.

  “Just someone repeating a rumor. Unfortunately, the police are bound to come up with it on their own. And maybe seize the idea with glee. You have anyone on the force who doesn’t like you?”

  Scott groaned. “The locals all know me—most of them are cool. But, yeah, there’re a couple of stiff-necked pricks who’d love to kick my ass.” Scott’s gloomy face suddenly brightened. “Hey . . . you can get your boyfriend to put in a good word for me.”

  At my blank look, he added, “You know, Chief Cornpone from Nebrasky.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Whatever. He likes you, and no way is he going to piss you off by throwing me in jail.”

  “Listen to you! You’re talking like you’re guilty.”

  “I’m not!”

  “What about Jeb? He’s always had his eye on the brass ring. Why else would he butt into a job that lets him play around with the wealthy? You’re a do-gooder. Jeb isn’t.”

  “Goodnight, Gwynie.” Scott stood up, all seventy-three inches of him towering over me, his rugged blond good looks fixed in a determined scowl. “No, I did not kill Martin. I wouldn’t marry his widow if she came with a billion instead of a million. What Jeb would do, except screw every female in sight, I don’t know. No, I’ve never heard him say word one to make me think he was out for anything more than a good time. Hot sex on call, then sayonara, out the door, good-bye. That’s how it was. For both of us. Period.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I had to ask. Dammit, Scott, ” I added fiercely, “I care what happens to you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Scott, as solemn as I’d ever seen him. Even at eight a.m. at the Sarasota County Jail.

  “Goodnight.” I left.

  Which didn’t mean I slept. I tossed and turned while Martin, Vanessa, Sherry, Jeb, Scott, the Bairds, Basil Janecek, Letty, and the Johnsons, father and son, kaledioscoped through my head, with Boone Talbot and Chad Yarnell randomly popping up among the swirling faces like scary Jack-in-the-Boxes. In the morning I dragged myself to work, bleary-eyed and discouraged. I was way out of my league. If it weren’t for the threat hanging over Scott, I’d shut myself up in DreamWear, live solely through my fantasies, and let the rest of the world go by.

  As I’d been doing for the last five years.

  You cracked the shell, kid. Ain’t no going back.

  I sat slumped on my wicker stool and glowered at my beloved costume shop. At all the costumes I’d labored so long to create, at the accessories and specialty items I purchased wholesale. At the masquerade masks, the crowns, tiaras, bangles and beads that added the soul-satisfying touch of bling. At Crystal’s Cave, the shelf of disembodied animal heads . . . even the light fixtures set behind grates in the ceiling. At the whole of my shop—mine, mine, mine—that usually brought me joy. And found all the colors fading to gray. My lovely little . . . illusion? . . . was crumbling under the intrusive reality of a world I thought I’d put behind me forever. Murder in Golden Beach? It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not in Gwyn Halliday’s particular corner of paradise.

  When
my cellphone rang, I was hard put to infuse cheer into my customary, “Good morning. DreamWear.”

  “Good morning, DreamWear,” drawled a baritone hot enough to melt chocolate.

  Thump! I wasn’t sure which part of my anatomy reacted, my stomach or my heart, but my hormones quivered in response to Boone Talbot’s baritone. His I’m-not-going-to-eat-you baritone.

  “Any chance you could meet me by the tennis courts at Edge Park, say, about five?” Boone asked.

  Edge Park was a sports complex, including woods with hiking trails, directly behind the police station and only a few short blocks from DreamWear. A convenient meeting spot, particularly if you had something to hide.

  “I’m afraid I packed away my tennis racket sometime around age fifteen. I was a total klutz. Another dire moment of teen angst.”

  “And I’ve never figured out what all those ‘loves’ are about, so we’re even. There’re a couple of picnic tables by the courts. Pick one, and I’ll find you.”

  Ah, ha! The Chief was up to something. Information? I could only hope.

  When I closed my phone and looked up, the shop had come to life. The sun shone like a spotlight through the front window, illuminating everything, including me. A rosy glow replaced the gloom. Was I really so shallow that the mere sound of a man’s voice could brighten my day? Or was it the feeling that some of my questions were going to be answered?

  Or maybe the knowledge that I’d crossed the Rubicon, made my decision. I not only couldn’t ignore the dramatic events outside my own safety zone, I genuinely didn’t want to. I needed to know.

  Gwyn Halliday, sleuth.

  Boone Talbot, here I come.

  Chapter 17

  At four-forty-five I left Crystal to handle the shop alone and arrived at Edge Park eight minutes early. At nearly five on a January afternoon, the playing fields, tennis courts, and picnic tables were deserted. I couldn’t vouch for the hiking trails in the woods to the north, but I suspected they too had been left to the racoons, possums, armadillos, snakes, and other wildlife common to our area. I chose the picnic table farthest from the road, buttoned my heavy cardigan all the way to the top, crossed my arms over my chest, and hoped Boone wasn’t late. An hour before dark, there was a decided nip in the air.