Death by Marriage (9 page)

“I liked Martin Kellerman,” I told him quietly. “I’m just trying to figure out how he died. He definitely had an attack of some kind before he fell overboard. I’d just like to know what caused it.” Natural or induced? And why didn’t his wife move a muscle to help him?

Inwardly, I sighed. As much as I didn’t want to, I was inclined to accept Jeb’s story. Even a Neanderthal like Jeb Brannigan could lose it when he saw Santa Claus toppling toward the Waterway.

Two berths to the west, a sixty-foot cruiser rumbled to life. “You need to give the police a statement,” I said. “Just tell them what you told me. And it wouldn’t hurt to get your Cary to give a statement as well, saying she’s your steady and she keeps you too busy to have any time for playing around.”

Jeb raked me with a look that said,
You’ve got to be kidding
. “What part of jailbait don’t you understand? I’m pushing thirty-three and she’s seventeen. Letting Cary make a statement is like saying, ‘Come and get me.’”

I sagged even lower on the bait box. “It’s better than being accused of murder.”

“Not much.”

He was right. Rape, even statutory rape, was severely frowned on in the State of Florida.

“The new Chief of Police is a reasonable guy,” I told him. “Talk to him.”

“My name’s Brannigan, remember?”

“Boone Talbot didn’t come along until months after your daddy lost his job. He doesn’t care that your name is Brannigan.”

“Yeah, right.”

I sighed and heaved myself off the bait box. “Tell Talbot about the parade, exactly what you saw, what you did. He’ll understand. You don’t have to mention Cary, but Talbot’s sharp. I expect he’s going to find out, so I still think you should be upfront about it.” I turned toward the gunnel and gasped. The tide was on the way out, and while Jeb and I talked, the distance back up to the parking lot had grown from a challenging scramble to climbing Everest without a Sherpa guide.

Jeb unfolded all six feet-four inches from the fishing chair, lips twitching, his cocky self clearly back to normal. He gripped my left arm. “Up on the benchseat, then the gunnel,” he ordered, heaving me into the air as easily as a sack of sugar. “Grab the bollard. Good. One, two, three,
hike
!” Jeb shifted his hands and boosted me up to the parking lot
asphalt
. When I got home, I’d have to check for palm prints on my booty. It felt like both nether cheeks had been burned with a branding iron.

I thanked him and staggered off to my car. As I sank behind the steering wheel, I glanced at my watch. Sunday in Golden Beach, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Chapter 7

When I pulled into the driveway at home, there was no sign of Scott’s red Corvette, but Mom was whacking weeds with a vengeance. It seemed likely Scott had made his confession, swiftly followed by his escape. Not that a taut atmosphere at home was solely responsible for his disappearance. Yesterday Scott had missed his second busiest day of the week for rescues at sea. Not being on call on Sunday would be total dereliction of duty, no matter what shape he was in. There were a number of routes across the Island; we must have just missed each other.

I wanted to sneak up to my room and quiver for a while. Unfortunately, I was a big girl now. I forced my feet across the grass, past the bird bath, to where Mom was now lopping great spiky branches off the bougainvillea. “Not enough weeds in winter,” she puffed as I moved up beside her.
Snip
. A long branch full of magenta blooms hit the grass.

“Uh, Mom . . .”

“It’ll grow back, bushier than ever.”
Snip. Thwack.

“But I like it with the branches all helter-skelter,” I protested. “At the rate you’re going, it’s going to look like a shipping crate.”

“It needs taming.”

I got the message. The bougainvillea she could control. I heaved the hear
t-felt sigh Mom was holding in.

“I’ve asked Scott to hunt wild hogs for the barbecue,” Mom announced.
Snip. Thwack.

This was not as irrelevant as it sounded. Mom was running the Hospital Auxiliary Fund-raiser this year and had decided on an old-fashioned Florida barbecue. Thoughts of pigs roasted over open pits, mountains of potato salad, coleslaw and beans, followed by pecan and Key Lime pie already had people’s mouths watering. Throw in a country band, horse and pony rides, and a mini rodeo, and this year’s charity drive—traditionally held between Christmas and New Years when the town was bursting with visitors—was already being proclaimed a triumph.

Trouble was, you can’t have a proper Florida pig roast without wild pig. No ordinary porker would do. And Mom had just assigned the task of producing enough wild pigs for the barbecue to Scott. I could only presume she was trying to keep him fully occupied when not out on
Sea Tow
. But . . . I shuddered. On a danger scale of one to ten, fastening a tow line to a cruiser adrift in the
G
ulf in anything less than a tropical storm was somewhere around a five, while hunting wild boar was more like an eleven. But Mom was right. This was a challenge Scott would enjoy, and he had plenty of friends to help him out. If they didn’t shoot each other in the process.

“That’s good,” I muttered and trudged toward the house. I didn’t quite make it.

Crystal came charging out of her apartment at the back of the house, her yellow A-line caftan with purple flowers catching the sun and nearly blinding me. “Gwyn Halliday, you come straight in here and tell me what’s going on. Didn’t anybody tell this family it’s Sunday?”

Fortunately, before I fell into total collapse on Crystal’s couch, she handed me a cup of coffee and an ET bagel with cream cheese. Between mouthfuls I gave her a rundown on everything I’d done since I left DreamWear early yesterday afternoon. I suppose I was expecting praise for my initiative. Except for gasps of horror over Scott’s DUI, Crystal’s reaction left me with my mouth hanging open.

“Are you nuts?” she demanded. “You’re out there making waves about a guy who had an obvious heart attack when our very own Miss Letty has doom closing in. I mean, her aura is so shadowed you wouldn’t believe. You want to play detective, Gwynie, find out what’s wrong with our favorite senior.”

“But . . . but I think Martin may have been murdered,” I protested, stung by her rebuke.

“Pooh! Hundreds of people saw him collapse before he went overboard. So maybe his wife was fooling around on the side. What do expect from a bimbo like that? Accept it, and move on. She’s gonna be rich, and Jeb Brannigan can take care of himself. Besides, what do you care what happens to him? I thought he was the enemy.”

I lowered my last bite of bagel to my plate and stared at it. I closed my eyes, filtering Crystal’s scold through my weary head. Letitia Van Ryn was a good friend. If she really needed help, then Crystal and I had to come through for her. But every instinct insisted Martin Kellerman had not died a natural death. So somehow I was going to have to fit both problems into my schedule.

Instinct
. And where were my supposedly reliable instincts when I lived in New York? Dazzled by the glitter, overwhelmed by a handsome face, smooth talk, and great sex. So what made me think my instincts were any more reliable now?

Maybe because this was Golden Beach. The only glitter was on my costumes. Guys took no for an answer, sex was a distant memory, and I’d only just met the first handsome face to light up my pheromones since I’d moved back home.

Crystal’s caftan rippled as she crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared at me. “So?” she demanded. “What’re we going to do about Miss Letty?”

I shook my head. “She really likes you. If you couldn’t get her to tell you what’s wrong, I don’t know what else we can do.”

“Trouble is,” Crystal admitted, “when I saw all that grunge on her aura, I played it down, figuring you wouldn’t want me to push her. Maybe if we both talked to her . . . maybe if she saw we both really care . . .”

My head felt like a hot air balloon after someone turned off the heat. I was deflating fast. I needed a few hours sleep before I was going to be fully functional. “I’ll call Letty,” I promised. “Hopefully, she won’t mind a holiday visit.”

Crystal brightened. “Thanks, Gwynie. Maybe at home she’ll talk to us.”

I dragged myself up off the couch. “The bagel was lunch. Don’t wake me for anything less than a tidal wave.” I waggled my fingers in Crystal’s direction and left.

As it happened, the tidal wave came on Monday when all the costumes for weekend parties came back. Crystal and I stood shoulder to shoulder, checking every last accessory, returning deposits with our best professional smiles. We weren’t as busy as the day after Halloween when it was all employees on deck, but we certainly didn’t have time to think about anything but business. At three o’clock things quieted down enough that I could take the time to call Miss Letty, who promptly responded that she would be delighted for us to pay a Holiday call. Tea at four on Wednesday? I quickly agreed. In late afternoon I’d have no problem getting one of our part-time students to babysit the store, and our Santa check-outs for Christmas Eve weren’t until Thursday.

So far, so good. Crystal was happy, but Martin Kellerman’s death still nagged.
Martin. Velvet Santa suit
. My thoughts took a jog to the practical. “I left a message on Badermann’s machine on Saturday,” I told Crystal. Badermann was our primary costume and accessory supplier. “Hopefully, they’ll overnight a new Santa today because the velvet suit is booked for Christmas Eve.” Along with every other Santa suit we owned.

Back to my Martin problem. Deb Ellis could probably arrange for me to talk to Vanessa Kellerman, but what excuse could I use?
Pardon me, ma’am, but could you please answer a few questions because I think maybe you killed your husband.

Ah-hah! Hospital Auxiliary
. I called Mom. No, Vanessa Kellerman had not been invited to join. No surprise there. But for a good cause, I wheedled? Mom grumbled, but authorized a probationary try-out if that was really the only luncheon excuse I could come up with.

I called Deb Ellis, who was grimly gleeful about any maneuver that might bring about Vanessa Kellerman’s downfall. She called back a short while later to tell me she’d set up a lunch date at the Yacht Club for tomorrow at one.

“You’re in over your head,” Crystal warned. “If she’s innocent, she’ll sue you. And if she killed him, you could be next. Whatever ails Miss Letty, it isn’t going to get you dead.”

So much for Crystal’s clairvoyance.

On Tuesday morning I slipped into a marine blue shirtdress, accessorized it with a silver necklace and earrings by a Sarasota designer, pulled on pantyhose, slid my feet into conservative navy pumps with three-inch heels, and dropped a few essentials into a small, matching clutch purse. The other women at the Golden Beach Yacht Club might be more casual, but I was representing my mother and the Hospital Auxiliary, and I needed to look the part.

The Golden Beach Yacht Club suits it nautical setting. No ornate draperies that might shut out the view. No fancy chandeliers or gilded wood. No thwack of tennis rackets or golf balls. The Club sits on a narrow peninsula leading down to the jetties. Its broad windows offer a panorama of blue water and boats of every description. Space is limited, but the Club managed to squeeze in a parking lot, a pool, a Tiki bar, and docking facilities for forty-seven boats. In addition to the spectacular view, the main dining room oozes serene. The wait staff is friendly and efficient; the food, excellent. Mom kept offering to sponsor me, hinting about the advantages of the Club’s Singles events. I usually responded that my childhood rubber ducky didn’t count as a yacht.

Deb Ellis, the consummate hostess, was already in place. At a table next to the windows, of course. Deb looks like a well-dressed dumpling. Round face, round arms, round hips. Rubens would have loved her. But when you get to know her, you discover her mind is sharp, and so are her teeth. She can sink her fangs into the jugular with the best of the sharks. Sometimes I suspected she was head of the pack. I was nervous, not looking forward to my interview with Vanessa Kellerman at all. Deb was. I could feel it.

Deb’s eyes sparkled as she motioned me toward the chair with the best view of the water. “I can hardly wait,” she chortled. “Have you got your questions ready?”

“I’m here to invite her to help with the Auxiliary’s fund-raiser, remember?” I unfolded my large navy blue napkin and draped it over my lap.

“Aren’t you the one? You and Jo, as devious as they come.”

I debated leaping to counter this aspersion on my mother’s business practices, then decided this wasn’t the time or place. Swiftly, I filled Deb in on what I’d learned from Alyce Jahnke and Jeb Brannigan.

She frowned. “Everybody knows Nessa was seeing someone, and Jeb seems the logical choice. I’ll ask around.”

Noting Deb’s suddenly arrested look, I turned to see a blonde paused in the entrance to the dining room. Long golden waves of hair stopped just short of obscuring her Double-D, undoubtedly surgically enhanced, breasts. Her black dress was long-sleeved, but stopped four inches short of her knees. Her only ornaments, other than her hair, were the diamonds in her ears and the rock on her finger that managed to catch the light, even thirty feet from the club’s bank of sunlit windows. The maître d’, obviously absorbed in the towering expanse of tan legs that rose to just short of where the sun don’t shine, stumbled as he rushed to her side, scattering several of the leather-clad menus in his hand.