Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (12 page)

The interior of the Grey Gull Inn was even better than the exterior. The lobby exuded the charm of a close friend’s living room, inviting guests to settle down with a good book in one of the cozy wing chairs that were scattered in comfortable groupings around the room. Beautiful white wainscoting complimented walls painted in a muted cranberry, an appropriate color for Nantucket.

A door which I guessed led to the dining room opened, and a woman dressed in khaki slacks and a cream cashmere sweater came through, her forehead creased with a frown. As soon as she caught sight of us, however, her face immediately switched into what I call the “on” position. The “so happy to meet you” look that is only achieved after hours of practice in front of a mirror. Or on a stage.

“These must be your parents, Jenny,” she exclaimed. “I’m JoAnn Wallace. Welcome to the Grey Gull Inn. My brother and I are so excited to have you here.”

I swear, then JoAnn gave me a kiss on the cheek. Sheesh. A little too much of a warm welcome from a complete stranger. Oblivious to my discomfort, JoAnn continued, “Please, for the next few days, think of the Grey Gull Inn as your home.” Then she turned and gave Jim a quick peck, too.

Hmmm.

“This is such a beautiful place,” I said to JoAnn, linking my arm through Jim’s and drawing him a little closer to me. “I love antique houses. This reminds me of our own, back in Fairport, Connecticut. Where we’ve lived for most of our married life. But our house doesn’t come with a legend, the way your inn does. Where is the staircase where Charity Grey died? Is it in this part of the inn?”

Mark, who up to now had remained quiet, started to laugh. “Leave it to you, Carol, to bring up a mysterious death within the first hour of being on Nantucket. I’m the police detective, but I’m strictly off duty this weekend.”

What he didn’t add, because he’s such a polite guy, was, “I suggest you do the same.”

“I’m just curious,” I shot back to my soon-to-be son-in-law. “And I saw a picture of the staircase and read all about poor Charity’s fatal fall on the Grey Gull Inn webpage. So there, Detective Smarty Pants.”

I turned to JoAnn. “Mark loves to tease me.”

“We all love to tease you, Mom,” Jenny said. “Because we all love you.”

“I can assure you that the staircase is quite safe,” JoAnn said. “We put the legend of Charity’s fall on our webpage to give some history about the building. We never anticipated how many guests would stay here because of it. Some people can’t resist being at the scene of a tragedy, even if it happened almost two hundred years ago.”

Don’t kid me, JoAnn. You’re using Charity’s mysterious death as a marketing tool for the inn.

I didn’t really say that, of course.

“Do we need to register or give you a credit card number?” Jim asked. “Goodness, no,” JoAnn replied. “Tiffani has taken care of all of that.

She often brings guests to the Grey Gull Inn, and then, they become repeat customers. I hope that will happen with all of you, too.”

“Mom, Mark and I have already put our bags in our room,” Jenny said. “Why don’t you and Dad do the same, freshen up a bit, and then we’ll all meet back here in about half an hour.”

Jenny turned to JoAnn. “I remember Tiffani said she and Skip were going to meet a local florist about providing bouquets for the wedding. Do you know if they’re back yet?”

JoAnn frowned. “Skip had things to do here this morning. I don’t know why Tiffani insisted on dragging him along with her to some florist when she was perfectly capable of doing it on her own.”

Then, realizing she was talking to guests who were new to the Grey Gull Inn, JoAnn backpedaled a little. “I didn’t mean to criticize Tiffani. What I meant was, she’s here so often, she knows Nantucket like a native. She’s terrific to work with, a real professional, and she’s brought lots of customers here. I know she’ll do a terrific job organizing your wedding. And she often relies on Skip’s opinion. He has fabulous taste.” JoAnn gestured around the inn’s exquisitely appointed lobby. “Most of these decorating choices were his. I have no sense or style for that sort of thing. I’m the behind-the-scenes business manager for the inn. So we complement each other well.”

She handed Jim an old-fashioned key. “You’re in the Mariner room, in the original part of the inn. It’s right through that doorway, up the stairs to the second floor, the third room on the right. Enjoy your stay.”

“Our room’s right next door to yours, Mom,” Jenny said. “Wait’ll you check out what’s on the other side of this doorway. Something you’ve been dying to see.”

She waved us through, and I stopped dead in my tracks, causing Jim to bump into me. Because there it was – The Staircase. Even more imposing than it had looked online. And with the narrowest, steepest treads I’d ever seen.

“You mean we have to use these stairs every time we want to go out?” Jim groused. “Or come back to our room? This staircase is lethal. My feet are too big for the treads. The only way I can use it is if I position my foot sideways,” he said.

“Well, we won’t be running up and down these stairs, that’s for sure,” I said, ignoring the tiny prickle of fear I felt. “I can see why poor Charity fell. But it is beautiful, and the railing looks secure enough. At least it’s a real wooden banister, not the kind that’s made of rope, like I’ve seen in some really old houses.” I started upstairs, carrying my tote bag and being careful where I placed my own feet.

“Look, Jim, there’s even a coffin corner.” I started to turn back to Jim, then thought the better of it. “That’s the extra wide part of a staircase designed so the undertaker could get a coffin down to the first floor. I read about coffin corners when I was doing some research on Nantucket houses.”

“I hope no one has to use it while we’re here,” Jim said.

I ignored him, something I’ve had years of practice doing. Because I had something else to worry about. Our room didn’t have a private bath. In order to get to either of the bathrooms shared by the four rooms on this floor, guests had to pass perilously close to The Staircase. This could be a real problem, especially in the middle of the night.

Then I told myself to look on the bright side. At least, the bathrooms were inside the inn.

Chapter 16

My mind wanders. Sometimes I can’t find it for days.

“What’s all that yelling?” Jim asked as we carefully negotiated our way down the treacherous staircase to the first floor and turned in the direction of the lobby. “It sounds like a helluva argument.”

“I hope it’s not Jenny and Mark,” I said, unsure whether to proceed and interrupt what was definitely a nasty exchange between a man and a woman or stay put and hope the argument would be over soon. “I’ve read that planning a wedding can fray even the best of relationships.

“Oh, no,” I said, catching sight of the warring couple. “I thought Bob went back to the mainland.”

I had decided to zip my lips about Bob Green’s plan to show up on Nantucket and surprise Tiffani. I hadn’t seen him get off the ferry, and I was hoping he took my advice and stayed on the boat for a return trip to Hyannis.

Then, I’d put that potential complication to our island visit firmly out of my mind. Without saying a word about it to Jim.

Jim nudged his way past me and stormed into the lobby. “Bob, what are you doing here?” he asked. “And what the heck is going on?”

“Hello, Tiffani,” I said to the obviously furious wedding planner. Then I turned to Bob and said, “I warned you that showing up as a surprise for Tiffani wasn’t a great idea. But you didn’t listen to me.”

True to form, Jim immediately blamed me. “Do you mean to tell me, Carol, that you knew Bob was coming to Nantucket and didn’t say anything? What’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t find out about it until we were on the ferry,” I said in my own defense. “And by that time, it was too late to do much about it.”
Short of pushing Bob overboard.

I didn’t really say that, of course.

“Will you two kindly agree to resolve your differences at another time?” Jim demanded, matching Tiffani’s angry face with one of his own. “Right now, Tiffani, you’re working for us, remember? And we’re here to plan Jenny and Mark’s wedding. Your personal relationship is no concern of ours.”

Jim shot me a look, daring me to disagree. For once, I kept quiet. Both Tiffani and Bob looked chagrined, and she immediately slipped back into her official wedding planner mode.

“You’re right, of course, Jim,” she said. “Please accept my apology for being so unprofessional.”

Turning to Bob, Tiffani said, “It’s best for everyone if you leave Nantucket right away. We’ll continue this
discussion
…” she practically spat out that word… “when I get back to Connecticut.

Bob started to reply, then thought better of it. I actually felt sorry for the guy. Although he didn’t deserve any sympathy, especially not from me.

“You’re right. I’m going. Jim, Carol, please accept my apology for this unfortunate incident.” Then, mercifully, he left.

Awkward silence followed. I hastened to fill it – I hate awkward silences.

All right, I admit it. I hate silences of any kind. When I’m home alone, except for Lucy and Ethel, I always have the radio or the television on for a little background noise.

“So, Tiffani,” I asked in my most upbeat tone, “what do you have planned for us today? Checking out venues for the wedding? Mark and

Jenny will be here any minute, and I know finding the site is tops on their to-do list.”

So get on it. That’s why we’re here, remember?

Tiffani gestured us onto a loveseat in front of the lobby’s fireplace. “I have a map of the island here, Carol. Our choices are somewhat limited because of the short lead time. We’ll start with the Whaling Museum. It’s a lovely spot, and it’s right in the center of town. Jenny and Mark will look at that first. In fact,” she said, checking her watch, “they’re probably at the museum now.”

“I don’t think so, Tiffani,” I said. “We told the kids we’d meet them in the lobby.”

We’re the parents of the bride, and we have some say in this, too. Don’t forget that, ok?

“I saw them after you did, Carol. I checked with the events person at the Whaling Museum, and told Jenny and Mark that the museum is already booked for a party in conjunction with the annual Stroll Festival of Trees. But I’m hopeful that if the wedding is held early in the day, before setup for the other party starts, we can work it out.

“Of course, if Mark and Jenny could be flexible about their date – maybe moving their wedding to the following weekend – we could definitely hold it at the museum. I suggested that they look at the Whaling Museum by themselves, before the rest of us joined them. That way, they can talk privately about their initial impressions.”

“I hope we’ll
all
get to see the rest of the venues,” I said, hurt that Jim and I (especially me) hadn’t been included in the initial site visit. “Jenny and Mark value our opinion.” (Especially mine.)

Tiffani gave me a cursory head nod and Jim a brilliant smile. “Of course you’ll be included.”

She looked at her watch, then said, “We’d better get over to the museum and see what they’ve decided. Follow me.”

Her implication was clear.
I’m the one calling the shots, Carol. You may be the mother of the bride, but I’m planning this wedding. Without any interference from you.

I was ticked off at her attitude. Until I reminded myself that’s what she’d been hired to do: organize the wedding.

And my job was to shut up and (maybe) shop for a beige dress. Sheesh.