Wedding Bell Blues

by Charlotte Douglas

  “We’re cool. Is Abe in?”

  “He is.”

  “If you need a fifth, Ralph’s willing to help.” Ralph Porter was Adler’s current partner.

  “Safety in numbers,” I said. “Sign him up.”

  I hung up to wait for Adler’s call. My desk was clear, so I started for Bill’s office, but he was on another line, and from the few snips I heard of his conversation, I could tell he was doing a background workup on Rebecca Franklin, Celeste’s alter ego.

  Without further excuses, I could no longer postpone what I’d been putting off all day. I patted Roger, on guard on his window bookcase against a sneak attack from Main Street, told him to be a good boy for Bill, and stopped by Darcy’s desk.

  “When Bill gets off the phone, tell him I’m at my mother’s, but I’ll be back soon.”

  If I survived. I put on my big-girl asbestos panties and headed out to face the dragon.

  I’d told Caroline I’d wait a few days to break the news to Mother that the big wedding was off, but if I waited much longer, I’d lose my nerve altogether.

  On the way to Mother’s house, I recalled a conversation I’d had with a behavioral therapist I’d consulted about Roger’s embarrassing humping habit.

  “Don’t scold him,” she’d said. “Distract him with something more interesting.”

  The problem was the only item Roger found more interesting than an attractive lower limb was food. If I used treats as a distraction every time Roger turned amorous, the pooch would pork up to unhealthy levels.

  Strange how the mind makes leaps and connections. The fact that my brain operated that way helped in detective work and, amazingly, provided an answer to my dilemma with Mother. In fact, the solution that came to me out of the blue was so perfect that, by the time I parked in front of Mother’s house, I was downright cheerful.

  But before I bearded the lioness in her den, I circled the house to the back door to visit Estelle and make certain my suspicions about mother’s sudden illness had been accurate.

  As soon as Estelle opened the back door, I was engulfed by the aroma of cookies baking, a wave of nostalgia and Estelle’s bear hug.

  “Miss Margaret, am I glad to see you. Your mama’s been madder’n a wet hen cause you haven’t been to see her. I can’t settle her to save my life.”

  “I’ve been out of town.” I took my familiar chair at the kitchen table, and Estelle poured me a glass of milk and plied me with cookies, as if I were still eight years old and had just arrived from school. “Is Mother all right?”

  She sat across from me and twined her dark fingers together on the tabletop. “Right as rain, especially now you’re here.”

  “What happened yesterday?”

  Estelle rolled her eyes. “Miz Skerritt was in her morning room, looking at bride magazines and brochures that Frenchwoman from New York left her. I took in her mid-morning tea, and she took a sip, calm as you please, set her cup down, and said for me to call Miss Caroline, that she was going to the hospital.”

  “She wasn’t in pain?”

  Estelle shook her head. “I asked her. Asked if she wanted an ambulance, but she said no, just Miss Caroline. At first, I was scared silly, till I realize there wasn’t anything wrong with Miz Skerritt but the gleam of mischief in her eyes.”

  “So she wasn’t ill?”

  Estelle shushed me. “Not so loud. She thinks she’s got everybody fooled, but I haven’t worked for somebody for over fifty years without knowing when they’re sick and when they’re not.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “I think she jus’ wanted you to come home to plan your wedding. She hasn’t talked about anything else for months.”

  I nodded. Estelle had confirmed my worst suspicions. “I’ll talk to her and put a stop to this foolishness.”

  I started to rise, and Estelle caught my hand. “You are going to marry your Mr. Malcolm, aren’t you?”

  I squeezed her hand and released it. “You bet. Just not in the style my mother is anticipating. We want a small wedding, maybe just the two of us and a couple of witnesses. You know I’ve never been one for a lot of fuss.”

  “I can still bake you a cake, can’t I?”

  I pushed to my feet. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Now, where’s Mother?”

  “In the family room. She’s probably through with her nap and watching Oprah by now.”

  I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and went in search. I found Mother where Estelle said she’d be, seated on an overstuffed chaise longue in the family room. She clicked off the television with the remote as soon as I entered the room.

  “Margaret, how kind of you to come back to check on your mother.”

  As if she’d given me a choice. “I want to talk with you. Is now a good time?”

  She beamed with triumph. “For you, I have all the time in the world, dear.”

  “You sure you’re feeling up to it?”

  She apparently remembered then that she’d faked a heart attack to get me home, and, like an awkward thespian, clutched her chest. “The doctors assure me that I’ll be all right.”

  I smiled with more wickedness than warmth and took the chair opposite her. She’d provided exactly the opening I needed.

  “Your heart problem started me thinking.”

  “About your wedding?” Her eagerness was almost funny, but I sobered my expression.

  “About you, Mother, and all the good you’ve done for others through your charities over the years.”

  “Why, Margaret, what a nice thing to say.” Her eyes teared, and I felt a stab of guilt. Although I was buttering her up for the kill, my compliment was true. Priscilla Skerritt had been a force for good, not only in Pelican Bay but throughout the state.

  “And considering the good you’ve done,” I continued before I lost my nerve, “and your recent heart spell, I think you should honor Daddy and celebrate your recovery by holding a fund-raising gala for the American Heart Association.”

  “A wonderful idea—” She shook her head. “But not now. We have a wedding to plan.”

  “Mother,” I said in my firmest voice. “I don’t want a big wedding. I don’t even want a church wedding. Bill and I will probably elope.”

  “But—”

  “That,” I plunged ahead, “is why I think your time and skills could be put to much better use planning a Valentine’s Day Ball. You could raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for a good cause. And you could be the Queen of Hearts.”

  What woman, faced with the choice, wouldn’t choose Queen of Hearts over mother of the bride any day? I pushed home my point. “Besides, you’re much too youthful to be the mother of a bride who’s old enough to be a grandmother.”

  I could almost see her mind working, sorting visions of flowers, caterers, ball gowns, publicity and public acclaim.

  I fired off another shot. “You could have the party here, and you already have the Hilton ballroom booked in case of rain.”

  She faltered with a momentary glance at the bridal magazines spread on the tabletop beside her chair.

  “And you can expand the number of guests,” I added quickly, “since you don’t have to worry about the size of a church.”

  “But your beautiful wedding?”

  “It never was my wedding,” I said gently. “You know me, Mother. That’s not my style.”

  “No,” she agreed instantly and with sadness, “it isn’t.”

  I administered my coup de grâce. “Your Valentine ball would rival the Omelet Parties,” the social event of the year in Upper Pinellas, which raised money for programs for the mentally challenged. “You’d establish a wonderful precedent.”

  “But what will people think when I don’t throw you a proper wedding?” Mother’s insecurities had raised their ugly heads.

  “They’ll be so dazzled by your gala, they won’t give my marriage any thought at all.”

  I rose and gathered up the bridal magazines and brochures. “I’ll get these out of your w
ay. I know you have a million things to do to be ready by February.”

  I held my breath, waiting for her to protest. But she didn’t. Her eyes had glazed, her mind already occupied with the details of her charity event.

  I leaned forward and kissed her papery cheek. “Glad to see you looking so well, Mother, but I must get back to work.”

  She was reaching for the phone to call Caroline as I hurried to the kitchen to drop the wedding materials in the trash. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. When Roger misbehaved, I distracted him with a treat. I’d discovered that the same method worked on Mother. I made a mental note to send flowers and some chocolates to the doggy behavior therapist.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Any word from Adler?” I asked Bill when I returned to the office.

  He shook his head. “Guess he’s too covered up to sort through the photos for our man. But I found some interesting info on Rebecca Franklin, aka Celeste.”

  I settled into the chair across from his desk. “I’m listening.”

  “Celeste ran away from home at sixteen. She wanted to be a country music star, so she ended up in Nashville working as a waitress. Either she had no talent or no lucky breaks, because she never had a shot at becoming a singer. She did, however, hook up with Ryan Wayne, faked her age, and married him, just before he was sent to prison for a series of car thefts and burglaries.”

  “You can’t say she didn’t know what she was getting into.”

  I could never understand women so desperate to marry that they blindly committed to men like Ryan Wayne/Ashton, who were so obviously bad. My Bill was as good as they came, yet I was balking at dipping a toe into the matrimonial pool, much less taking the plunge.

  “And if she was as frightened of him as Cynthia Woods implied,” he said, “I can’t understand why she stayed with him all those years.”

  “Abused women have had their heads messed with,” I reminded him. “They begin to believe they’re to blame for their troubles and that their abusers are mistreating them for their own good. Their abusers create a sense of dependency. And the feeling that there’s nowhere for them to go, that no one else will put up with them, and they’re too inadequate to look after themselves.”

  I recalled Celeste, standing in the gazebo in shock and wondering where she would go now that her husband was dead. “Celeste definitely fits the pattern.”

  “We’ll know more when we talk to Garcia,” Bill said, “and find out why he was at Grove Spirit House.”

  “In the meantime, I have a project for us.”

  Bill raised his eyebrows. “What kind of project?”

  “Remember Bessie Lassiter, the elderly shoplifter from the Historical Society?”

  He nodded.

  “Darcy’s arranged for Meals on Wheels for her and her sister, but they won’t start for a few weeks. So while I was at Mother’s this afternoon, I had Estelle make up a shopping list. I thought we could put together a basket of staples and other goodies and take it to them to tide them over.”

  “It’s a good idea.” Bill’s smile dropped to a frown. “But I doubt they’ll go for it. Bessie’s a very proud woman. She won’t like charity.”

  “Then we’ll tell her she won the grand prize in the drawing we had to celebrate the opening of our business.”

  “We’ve been open for months. You think they’ll fall for that?”

  “Turn on your charm,” I said, “and they’ll never know what hit them.”

  Minutes later, Bill dropped me off at Publix and drove off toward Pier 1 to find a suitably large basket. I hated grocery shopping, but if I had to do it, Publix was the place. The only problem was that in their upgrades of their facilities, the company had created mega-buildings. The Pelican Bay store was so huge, if I bought green bananas in the produce section at one end, the fruit was ripe by the time I finally reached the other end and was ready to check out.

  Dodging elderly couples shopping hand-in-hand and mothers with fidgety children in their baskets or trailing alongside, I filled my cart with muffins and a pie from the bakery, fresh fruits and vegetables, and boxes of pastas. I added a variety of canned goods and paper products, and topped the cart off with a bouquet from the floral section and a gift certificate that the Lassiter sisters could use to purchase meat or frozen entrées. I didn’t like to cook, but I loved to eat, so I figured I’d done all right.

  Bill was waiting in the parking lot when I came out, and we transferred the items from the bags in my cart into the oversize basket he’d stowed in the rear of his SUV.

  “Looks good enough to eat,” Bill said.

  Even though we’d had a late lunch, my stomach growled in agreement.

  “This should keep them well-fed until their Meals on Wheels begin,” Bill added with a nod of satisfaction and slammed the hatch.

  The drive to the Lassiter sisters’ tiny home on Tangerine Street was a short one. The house was in an older section of town on a street that paralleled the Pinellas Trail, an old railroad bed that had been converted into a linear park that ran the length of the county. The neighborhood, desirable because of its proximity to the waterfront, had been undergoing a revitalization as new families moved in. Many of the houses sported large additions and exterior remodels that promised more of the same inside.

  By comparison, the Lassiter place, a small square box built of concrete blocks and painted a fading pink, appeared stuck in a time warp. I doubted any changes had been made on the structure since it had been built in the 1940s. The lawn was neatly trimmed, and shrubs and plants long out of style, such as Turk’s cap, Surinam cherry, periwinkle and crown-of-thorns, filled the foundation beds. A melaleuca tree shaded the front jalousie windows from the sharp angle of the setting sun.

  Bill parked in the empty driveway. There was no car in the carport, either, and I doubted the Lassiter sisters, even if capable of driving, could afford a vehicle or its insurance.

  We climbed out of the SUV, and Bill had gone to the rear to retrieve the basket when a woman’s high-pitched scream burst through the open windows.

  “Look out,” she cried, “he’s coming your way.”

  Another ear-splitting shriek split the quietness.

  “Keep away from me, you low-down snake,” a second female voice shouted.

  The thud of blows reverberated in the evening air, followed by a crash and the sound of breaking glass.

  Bill and I exchanged glances, then darted toward the house. Another scream emanated from the rear. We raced through the carport to the large screen porch at the back of the house.

  Visible through the screen, a very old woman, tall and gangly with her white hair coiled in braids atop her head, tottered on a low footstool. She clutched the skirt of her cotton housedress above her knees. Another elderly woman, shorter with her white hair cropped above her ears, was wielding a broom like a Samurai warrior, slashing and lunging at something in the far corner. The ceramic pieces from a broken lamp littered the floor among the wicker furniture.

  “Don’t kill it,” the woman on the stool shouted. “Just get it out of here.”

  “I’m trying,” her companion said, her voice wheezing with exertion, “but the danged fellow doesn’t want to leave.”

  “Can we help?” Bill called.

  “Open the door!” the broom wielder shouted.

  Bill whipped open the screen. The tiny woman worked her broom over the floor like a hockey player moving a puck across the ice, and a four-foot black racer slithered ahead of her and out the door. Bill and I leaped out of its path.

  “Whew!” The woman tossed aside the broom and collapsed into the nearest chair.

  Bill hurried inside to help the other lady off her stool.

  “Thank you, young man.” She released his hand and smoothed her skirt. “You arrived in the nick of time. We hate snakes, but not enough to kill them, so they keep coming back.”

  Bill told the women our names. “We’re with Pelican Bay Investigations.”

  “
I’m Violet Lassiter,” the tall one said, “and that’s Bessie, my sister.” Violet turned to her younger sister. “Are we being investigated, Bessie?”

  Bessie, still catching her breath from her snake encounter, fanned her face with her hand. “I hope not. I don’t like trouble.” She looked at Bill. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “A few days ago. That must have been when you entered our drawing.”

  “You entered a drawing?” Violet asked Bessie. “For what?”

  “I don’t remember. But then I don’t remember a lot of things these days.” Bessie looked back at Bill. “But I do remember you, so if you say I entered, then I must have.”

  “You not only entered,” I said, “you won.”

  “Not a trip to Vegas, I hope,” Violet said with a frown, “with transportation not included. That’s a rip-off.”

  “Nothing so grand as a trip,” I said quickly. “Just one of the gift baskets we’re giving away to celebrate our new business venture.”

  “It’s in the car,” Bill said. “I’ll get it.”

  Violet sat in a folding aluminum chair with nylon webbing and waved toward an old-fashioned glider. “Have a seat.”

  I sat to wait for Bill’s return.

  “You really have to be more responsible, Bessie,” Violet said. “You can’t go around doing things you don’t remember. You need to write them down.”

  Bessie straightened her spine and glared at her sister. “When are you going to stop treating me like a child? I’m eighty-four years old. You can at least give me credit for having lived long enough to have learned something.”

  “Hmmmph. You’re still a baby compared to me. After all, I’m the one who got a personal letter from the president on my one-hundredth birthday.”

  “And you wouldn’t have gotten that if I hadn’t written and requested it,” Bessie snapped back.

  The way the sisters were bickering, Violet was lucky Bessie didn’t come after her with the broom.

  “You have a lovely place here,” I said, hoping for a cease-fire.

  “Folks in the neighborhood think it’s an eyesore,” Violet said.

  “They don’t!” Bessie protested.