Holidays Are Murder
Page 18
“So, if Darcy’s willing,” Bill said with a happy grin, “we have everything we need.”
“Clients would be helpful.”
“Ah, Margaret, have faith. If we build it, they will come.”
Christmas Eve, Bill and I returned to my condo after having dinner with Caroline and Hunt.
Hunt had been fascinated by the details of Rayburn Price’s murders.
“So he was a serial killer,” Hunt said.
I nodded. “But, unlike most serial killers, he didn’t murder for the thrill. Just the money. Our investigation found that he was moving the millions he’d scammed from life insurance to a bank in the Caymans. Apparently, once he’d killed and collected on his three remaining victims, he planned to leave the country and disappear.”
“Is he being charged with the murder in Captiva, too?” Caroline asked.
“Yep,” Bill said. “His prints were found all over the boat where his victim, killed weeks before Lovelace, died in a faked accident. But Price’s prints weren’t in the data base then, and the Lee County investigators couldn’t identify him until he’d been arrested and fingerprinted in Pelican Bay.”
“So Price isn’t going anywhere,” Hunt said.
“Except Raiford,” I said. “The state attorney’s office will ask for the death penalty in the Lovelace murder. And charges have yet to be brought in the other murders.”
“Poor Samantha,” Caroline said. “This will be a sad Christmas for her and the girls.”
Bill quickly changed the subject. “Margaret and I need to talk to you about insurance, Hunt.”
Hunt’s expression brightened. “What kind?”
“We’re going to need a business policy.”
The conversation shifted to our new venture, and by the time we’d finished our meal and two bottles of excellent wine, I was surprised to find that I was enjoying myself.
Back at my condo, I switched on the television, where a local cable station was running uninterrupted footage of a fireplace, complete with burning logs and Christmas stockings, accompanied by Christmas carols. Even if my living room had had a fireplace, it would have been too warm for a fire. Bill opened the sliders to the patio to the southwest breeze and the crisp smell of salt and sea.
Earlier in the week, Bill had insisted that we get a tree, a real tree, and the pungent scent of fir mixed with the tangy aroma from the sound. I’d owned no lights or ornaments, so Bill had volunteered to shop for trimmings and to decorate. He was a man who loved surprises. I had returned home a few days ago to find the fir draped with white twinkle lights, blue-and-green silk balls the color of the sea, sand dollars and starfish bleached and dried to a creamy white, and garlands made from tiny shells.
“It goes with your Florida tourist decor,” he’d explained, looking immensely proud.
He’d always teased me that my condo had the same decor as a suite at the Pelican Bay Hilton on the beach, but I loved the soothing sea colors. And his tree was a perfect fit, not the garish intrusion I’d expected.
“What?” I’d asked. “No flamingos?”
“You can have them if you like.”
I had shaken my head. “It’s perfect, just as it is. Thank you.”
With only the glow from the fire projected on the television screen and the twinkle lights on the tree, we sat on the sofa and listened to the medley of carols.
“I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time,” I said.
“All that wine at dinner.”
I thought for a moment. “It’s more than that. I feel…content.”
Bill put his arms around me and tugged me closer. “Me, too. But there’s one thing missing.”
I pulled back and looked at him. “We have the tree, the fire, the carols. What else is there?”
He released me to fish in the pocket of his slacks and withdraw a small velvet-covered box. “Your Christmas present.”
He flipped open the box and took out a delicate yellow gold band set with three aquamarines, elegant in its simplicity. “Will you marry me, Margaret?”
My eyes filled with tears at the beauty and thoughtfulness of his choice. He’d selected my birthstone, knowing that a diamond solitaire held too many memories of Greg and that I’d want a ring that reminded me only of Bill. “It’s beautiful.”
He started to speak but had to clear the emotion from his throat. “There are three stones, one for our past, one for the present, and the third for our future together.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes would be good.”
“I know, but I’m scared.”
“Scared of me?”
I shook my head. “Everything’s changing so fast. Losing my job, starting a new business. I’m terrified that if we throw marriage into the mix right now, we’re asking for trouble.”
He smiled. “Then we don’t have to marry right now.”
I hesitated. “When did you have in mind?”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“But that’s less than two months!”
He shook his head. “The following year. That gives you over a year to adjust to our new partnership before we take the plunge.”
“You’d wait that long?”
“Some things are worth waiting for. Besides, it’s not as if we won’t be together.”
“Why Valentine’s Day? I didn’t know you were a romantic.”
“I’m not.” The mischief I loved so well twinkled in his blue eyes. “I figured it would help me remember our anniversary.”
I took a deep breath and held out my left hand.
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
With my throat too tight with emotion to speak, I nodded and he slid the ring on my finger. I held up my hand to the light and the aquamarines sparkled like the sunlight on the waters of the Gulf, as deep and enduring as my love for him.
The sound of church bells, pealing midnight with a joyful clamor, carried through the open door.
“A good omen,” Bill said.
“A good omen,” I agreed.
I snuggled deeper into his embrace and lifted my face to his kiss.
HOLIDAYS ARE MURDER
Copyright © 2005 Charlotte Douglas
ISBN: 978-1-4592-4413-9
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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