Death by Marriage (6 page)

I paused in front of the Discount Auto Parts store at the south end of the mall. Every year Bryan Bell and his son Jack filled their entire front window with a nineteenth century Christmas village, complete with a train circling through a tunnel and chugging its way past homes, churches, the railroad station, a restaurant, town hall, a park and a skating pond. There was even a tiny ski lift going up the side of the mountain above the tunnel. At night there were lights in all the
miniature
buildings and tiny street lights along the roads, making the display even more dramatic. Parents brought their children to Bell’s Auto Discount Parts during the holiday, and a lot of adults came without the excuse of a child companion.

I followed the progress of the little blue engine until the train disappeared into the tunnel, and then with a sudden blink of nostalgia for a world that, at least in retrospect, seemed so much calmer and cleaner, I opened the door and went inside.

When I caught the appreciative surveys of both father and son, I glanced down at what I was wearing. A swirly half-circle skirt that flirted with my legs at mid-calf—a flower print in cherry and white on a black background, topped by a long-sleeved black knit wrap top, whose ties hung low, gently swishing as I walked. I’m a designer, after all, and I try to dress the part. No jeans and baggy sweaters for Gwyn Halliday. But no four-inch heels either. There’s a broad streak of pragmatism lurking beneath my creativity.

I complimented the Bells on the Christmas display. Both men grinned. But sorry, no, they’d watched the parade from the industrial area on the far side of the canal, nearer the Circus Bridge than the Center. They hadn’t seen anything but distant flashing lights and the boats settling down to wait out the search.

I thanked them and went out, pausing to peer in the front door of the pool hall next door. Inside in the gloom, I thought a saw a shadow moving. I wrapped on the glass. Stan Kaminsky, holding a push broom, came to the door, peered back at me, and turned the dead bolt. Stan is medium height, with the well-muscled shoulders and arms of a man who’s ridden a Harley all his life. But he couldn’t hold a candle to his companion—or maybe his wife—no one knew or wanted to ask. One look at Terry Branson and two words sprang to mind: Biker Babe. She was an inch taller than Stan, maybe twenty pounds heavier, and was never seen in anything but leather, even though they’d long since settled to running a pool hall in a squeaky clean, conservative town like Golden Beach. Probably they figured the community needed something a little on the wild side to keep us from tumbling off the edge of stultifying into downright moribund.

And, as a business, it seemed to work. The pool hall was open from three p.m. to two a.m. every day but Monday. And it was almost always jammed with that Florida rarity, native sons—a good many of them genuine red necks and crackers, with an occasional adventurous tourist thrown in. Our snowbirds, mostly seniors, never went near the place, but it was jammed six days a
week, particularly from seven ’
til midnight. Scott was one of their regulars.

“Hey, costume lady, don’t tell me you’re taking up pool? Naw, must be Scott left something behind and asked you to pick it up. Though I sure as hell ain’t seen it yet.”

“Nothing lost,” I told him with a grin. “I don’t suppose you took time off to watch the parade last night?”

“Ain’t that somethin’! Didn’t leave here ‘til two, but I heard about it. Nasty!” Stan’s brown eyes sharpened. “How come you’re asking questions, pretty lady? Not exactly your line of work, now is it?”

I told him about Martin wearing my Santa suit and Scott’s part in the recovery. “Guess I’m just curious. Sort of wondering if anyone saw things differently than I did.”

Stan nodded, evidently having no problem understanding an overactive need-to-know. He wished me good luck.

The south end of North Bypass Mall could be called the Men’s End. Auto parts, pool, and sporting goods. The only male on the north end of the mall was the owner of Antiques Etcetera, Peter Koonce, and there were those who thought Pete was well-placed at the Women’s End of the mall. But I had one more stop before I crossed into Female territory.

Erik at Golden Beach Sporting Goods informed me that he was on one of the boats stuck between the Center and Circus bridges until two-effing-thirty a.m. and he’d sat on his effing freezing buns for five effing hours but hadn’t seen an effing thing. Those weren’t quite the words he used, of course. He then apologized profusely and blamed his short temper on lack of sleep. I thanked him and tip-toed out, closing the door softly behind me.

I waved at the DeFrancos as I passed by. The Closed sign was up at DreamWear, all costumes accounted for. I didn’t even glance at the Credit Union, which was, of course, closed on Saturday. The Second Chance Boutique had a line at the counter, with Iris ringing up and Brigitte bagging. Well, good for them. The two owners of this upscale consignment shop always kept their eyes pealed for vintage clothing for DreamWear, and my Realtor mother was among their most faithful donors, offering her trendy suits for recycling on a regular basis. But now was obviously not the moment for tossing questions at them.

Things were quieter at Antiques Etcetera, a colorful and intriguing combination of antiques, estate jewelry, and furniture that was often more “used” than “antique.” Today, Peter Koonce was behind his counter-cum-jewelry showcase, perched on a solid oak bar stool more sturdy than the elegant wicker one he’d sold to me. As I entered, the benign smile he was directing toward a couple of browsers blossomed into a beaming welcome.

Peter is tall, lean, fortyish, and not bad looking. And no matter what Scott says, he’s never given me any indication he’s not interested in women. Then again, he might swing both ways. Today, after telling me he’d spent last night cataloging and pricing new inventory, he kept up a non-stop chatter, pausing only long enough to respond to the browsers’ questions about prices and provenances. Peter is always dressed well—maybe that’s what made Scott suspicious. And he keeps my costume needs in mind, sometimes shooting me hushed phone calls from large auction houses to ask if I had any interest in a certain item.

Peter was enough of a friend that I’d considered dating him once or twice during the summer season when real estate was so slow my mother turned to nagging me about grandchildren. (I think she was pretty certain she wasn’t going to see any from Scott for some time to come. Legitimate issue, that is. Mom lives in fear of bad news in the other direction.)

Fortunately, one of Peter’s customers actually wanted to buy something, and I slipped out, happy for an opportunity to gaze at the display window of Aquarius Rising, the next shop north. Aquarius is a marvelous pastiche of crystals, gemstones, hand-crafted jewelry, essential oils, New Age literature, and the occasional odd sculpture that left little to the imagination. A geode of blue crystal called to me from the center of window. Eagerly, I reached for the door, paused, then turned away. Aquarius was nearly as crowded as The Second Chance Boutique. I waved to Amy and Sloane and passed on by. No time for questions, but I’d be back. That blue crystal was
mine
.

I skipped Carolee’s Fabrics, my home-away-from-home, and peeked through the window of Nature’s Foods. Oops. Almost every last person in Golden Beach must be partying tonight. From the gourmet cheese counter and olive bar to artistically arranged organic fruit and take-out meals, the place was sizzling. Not for the first time I wondered if I was in the wrong business. I turned back toward Carolee’s Fabrics and one of my favorite people, the manager, Alyce Jahnke.

Alyce, who proved that last was best. Five minutes later she was giving me an indignant earful.

Chapter 5

I hadn’t known Alyce well when we were in high school. She was two years ahead of me, with all the golden aura of a cheerleader going steady since ninth grade with the sure-footed left end who caught Chad Yarnell’s passes. They’d married right out of high school, and by the time I came home from my freshman year at college, she was a mother. And twice again since. Alyce joked that at the rate her oldest daughter was growing, she might make Alyce a grandmother by the time she was forty.

I shuddered. Not that I didn’t consider Alyce my second-best friend (after Crystal), but the thought of teenage children made me add a mental dead bolt to that niche where I’d consigned Chief Boone Talbot.

I suppose some would say it’s sad that my two best friends are business-related. And maybe it is. But it’s tough to start a small business, even tougher to keep it going. If you want to survive, there’s not much time for social life. Particularly when you’ve crashed and burned as badly as I had in New York. Crystal was my right arm, and Alyce? Well, Alyce was manager of Carolee’s Fabrics, a national chain, and since I probably bought enough fabric to support the store’s electric bill, we inevitably saw a lot of each other.

Alyce was smart, competent, spunky, and endowed with enough down-to-earth common sense to give an artistic temperament like mine a swift kick in the pants when necessary. Tall and still lean after three children, she had the athletic build of a long-distance runner. Even her face was thin, only her pert brown curls and a light in her matching brown eyes revealing her good humor and good heart.

Alyce was at the register when I stepped through the door, with two assistants working the cutting tables. She bagged the customer’s fabric, thread, and zipper, handed her the receipt regurgitated by her state-of-the-art cash register, and wished her a good day. As soon as the customer headed for the door, Alyce called for one of the assistants to take over the register, glanced at me, and jerked her head toward the backroom.

“I’ve got those doohickeys you ordered,” she said as I followed her down the narrow aisle between towering rolls of drapery fabric. “Came in this morning, though what you want them for I can’t imagine.”

Sometimes I wondered the same. But without the scantywear designs by Randi Wolff—a secret a.k.a. known only to Crystal and myself—DreamWear might have folded long since. Fortunately for the shop’s initial start-up, my mother had inherited money from all those orange groves, plus she didn’t become top dog in Golden Beach real estate by sitting on her nicely rounded derrière. Mom invested heavily in DreamWear and was my silent partner. She’d even protested when I started paying her a partner’s share, but this was something I had to do, even though I’d been forced to create Erotic Designs by Randi Wolff to do it. I kept it very quiet—no web page, no advertising. I worked exclusively with a distribution company in Los Angeles. But Randi’s startling success often kept me up late at night, fulfilling orders in my attic workroom in the sprawling stucco mansion at 100 Royal Palm Drive.

When we reached the backroom, Alyce handed me my special order, which I shoved in my purse without looking. Animation lit her face as she drew a deep breath and prepared to launch into something she’d evidently been bursting to say all day. “Have you heard what they’re saying about Jeb Brannigan?” she demanded. “I never heard such crap. He wouldn’t touch that tarted-up aging bit of trailer trash if she came to him on her knees, begging.”

I blinked at that one. Jeb Brannigan scored with every female he could lay his hands on. I sincerely doubted he made exceptions for social climbing trailer trash, particularly one who looked like Vanessa Kellerman. I did a fast mental review of Golden Beach relationships. Jeb was in the class ahead of me in high school, two years younger than Alyce, her boyfriend Gene, and Chad Yarnell.

“I didn’t realize you knew Jeb,” I said
.

“My daddy and the old C
hief were buds. Jeb and me spent a lot of time together when we were kids. Fishing, swimming, picnics, barbecues, even some hunting. He was a wild one, but that’s what boys are, right? I mean, look at Scott.”

Right.

“You know Jeb’s a chaser,” I said carefully, “so what makes you think he and Vanessa Kellerman weren’t an item?”

Alyce beamed a “gotcha” smile. “‘Cuz Gene and I were out in our boat last Sunday, and there’s Jeb and some girl barely over the legal limit making out like mad on Tucker’s Island. I mean, smack in the middle of Golden Beach Inlet in full view of
everybody
.” Alyce backed an inch or two down from her high horse, and shrugged. “Okay, so they were up near the underbrush and I used the binoculars, but it was Jeb and some kid young enough to be Vanessa Kellerman’s daughter.”

Interesting. If Jeb really was doing the nasty with Mrs. Santa, he wasn’t completely ensnared in her charms. Not enough to deliberately bump Martin Kellerman overboard. Not enough to risk a charge of
murder.

“You’re
sure
it was Jeb?”

“Told you. I’ve known him all my life.” Alyce’s brown eyes shone with the light of the true believer. She poked her head out the door, and sighed. “Line-up at the cutting counter. “Gotta go.” She frowned, squirmed a bit. “Sorry for the tirade. I know you don’t like Jeb, but all these rumors made me mad.” Alyce dashed through the gauntlet of drapery fabrics, past buttons and ribbons, and quickly dispatched her assistant back to the cutting tables.

Slowly I followed, my mind whirling with possibilities. No need to check out my special order. Alyce would add it to my discounted, tax-exempt bill, which I paid once a month. Easier to keep track of my frequently exorbitant fabric expenses that way.

Unfortunately, there was no way around a glaring fact—I was going to have to talk to Jeb Brannigan. Aargh!