Death by Marriage (14 page)

Basil Janecek, age 86, was found dead in his bed on Christmas Eve. Although police report his death may be from natural causes, his live-in health care worker, Virginia Mills, has disappeared and is considered a person of interest . Neighbors report Mills has not been seen in more than a week.

Not Martin, but a second suspicious death within a two-week period. Definitely strange—not Golden Beach at all. Prickles swept from my scalp to the tips of my fingers. What was that line from
Macbeth? By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

The article went on to say in terse newspaper terms that, according to neighbors, Mills had obtained a Power of Attorney so she could handle Janecek’s affairs. She had seemed competent, but kept to herself, not mixing with anyone in the neighborhood. A thorough audit of Janecek’s finances was planned.

I assumed that meant police were suspicious that Virginia Mills had emptied Basil Janecek’s accounts and gotten out of Dodge in a hurry.

The house phone rang. Major surprise. Both heart and head did a happy dance as Boone Talbot asked me to the barbecue. Good thing Crystal wasn’t around because my aura had to be well beyond neon, maybe even giving off sparks. Not only was I willing to put aside Boone’s harsh words the last time we met, but there was absolutely no one I wanted to talk to more. Not even Scott. Though perhaps not quite for the reasons Boone presumed.

Thud
. I came back to earth, forced to explain to Boone that I had to work from sun-up to well after the barbecue closed down on Tuesday. I did my best to project a nice mix of sincere regret and encouragement, even skating close to
all is forgiven
. I guess the Chief got the message, because we settled for pizza and beer. Tonight.
Eureka
! Nothing like multi-tasking. I could take another step toward discovering if Boone Talbot should be allowed to inch his way into my life and at the same time pump him about the latest death. And, of course, try to weasel an update on Martin’s case. As I hung up the phone, I smiled for the first time since Alyce dropped her little bomb about Scott.

Maybe I could even do some crisis prevention on Scott’s behalf.

And maybe I’d better keep my mouth shut and hope Scott’s acquaintance with Vanessa Kellerman never came to light.

Gwyn Halliday in la-la land again. Whatever was happening in Golden Beach was blowing up into a storm, and I needed to be prepared for the worst. With Martin the catalyst and Letty, Boone, and Chad added to the mix, I’d cracked my self-imposed cocoon. And that, inevitably, led to breaking out of my confined role as Costume Party Pollyanna and digging my toes into a nastier reality than I was prepared to face.

But there was no going back. No crawling into the cozy security of my costume fantasy world. Too much was at stake. I had to keep going. For Scott. For Martin. For the poor old man I never knew. For Letty, who was somehow involved in all this. Or would be, I was certain of it.

But if anyone asked me why, I’d be stuck for an answer. Gwyn Halliday—tongue-tied, flying blind on the intuition and imagination express.

Date
. Panic time. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been on a date, or three or four, since I limped home from New York, but this was the first time I’d felt excited instead of awkward and uneasy. The first time my mother or Crystal hadn’t pushed me into it. The first time I was so nervous I was tempted to crawl under my bedcovers and claim I’d just come down with the flu.

Instead, I pulled on a pair of black jeans that fit like a second skin, then tried on nearly every top in my wardrobe. Too loose, too tight, too much cleavage. Too dark, too bright, too dressy. I settled for the simple contrast of a white, modestly V-necked cotton knit peeking out from under my fringed and hand-embroidered black jeans jacket, one of my own creations. There! My full-length mirror reflected Gwyn Halliday, the gal with a costume appropriate for all occasions, including pizza and beer on a Sunday night in Golden Beach, Florida.

Armor, that’s what it was. Fortunately, I was pretty certain Boone Talbot wasn’t one of those guys who jumped a girl on a first date. I was definitely ready to add him to my short list of friends, but in spite of my hormones turning somersaults at the sound of his voice, I was a long way from wanting a lover.

Or maybe not . . .

Later that night, as Boone left me on my doorstep after a kiss that could only be described as chaste, I decided I must still be broadcasting
Hands off
on all channels. I’d have to work on that.

As I got ready for bed, I made myself shift from the lack of sizzle in Boone’s kiss and focus on what I’d learned on my date with the Chief of Police. Boone Talbot was a good cop, so the answer was,
not much
. Yes, Virginia Mills was a person of interest in Basil Janecek’s death. No, they hadn’t found her yet.

Martin Kellerman? Boone shook his head, his blue eyes reflecting disappointment that I was dumb enough, or had nerve enough, to continue asking questions about on-going investigations.

Letty’s problems? Con artists were everywhere, Boone said, and seniors were particularly vulnerable. Con artists were slippery, usually gone on the wind before the police knew a crime had been committed. Crystal and I needed to do all we could to steer Letty away from danger.

After that . . . for someone who grew up fifteen hundred miles from an ocean, Boone Talbot did a remarkable imitation of a clam.

But the pizza was good. So was the beer, and the company, once I stopped playing interrogator, was even better. I liked the downhome cop from Nebraska. Integrity, good manners, and a pleasing personality wrapped in an attractive package, with the tough alter ego of Number One Cop hovering just out of sight—what more could a woman ask for?

A kiss that didn’t feel like he thought his lips were touching a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse?

I’d brought it on myself. Celibacy is a state of mind that can’t be cracked in a single date.

As I pulled my nightgown over my head, I remembered something else. Boone had warned me to be sure our doors were locked at all times. And to advise my neighbors to do the same. There had been an unusual rash of house break-ins over the past few months, many in broad daylight. Some with the owners distracted by talking to one member of the gang while others raided the house. The losses were mostly jewelry, wallets, small appliances, and an occasional painting. It was the Season, of course, and thieves as well as con artists followed the annual migration south—sometimes whole extended families of them, Boone had added, but records showed Golden Beach had never before experienced so many thefts in so short a time.

He was right. The few burglaries we had in Golden Beach were at businesses; on rare occasions, a bank. Not houses. Not in our little corner of paradise. Could the thefts have any connection to . . .

Stop! Don’t even think it.
But I made a note to go to the library and do some research. I needed to know more about con artists and their scams, and I might as well see if I could find something on a different kind of snowbird Crystal had mentioned—gangs of thieves who tracked their prey south, indulging themselves in the Florida sun, shoulder to shoulder with their unsuspecting victims.

I slid into bed, closed my eyes. Okay, so I should have grabbed the man and kissed him back. He was asking for encouragement, and what he got was ice.

Maybe, just maybe, I’d do better next time.

The week between Christmas and New Years was a heyday for boaters, so Scott would be “at sea” during the hours of the Hospital Auxiliary’s Fund-raiser. Crystal had volunteered to keep DreamWear open so the “kids,” our part-time helpers Tim and Jessie, could enjoy the barbecue. Smar
t gal. She could sit on the
wicker stool behind the counter in air-conditioned peace and quiet while I set up serving tables, guided the pony man and his four-footed companions to their designated area, and soothed the nerves of craft artists and bake sale ladies who thought their booths weren’t close enough to the food vendors and games.

At the roar of a small plane taking off from a runway only a hundred yards away, I paused and watched the Ces
sna soar into the air over the G
ulf, then turn slowly north, heading toward Sarasota and Tampa. The site of the barbecue was a large grassy area just south of the airport, with the Gulf of Mexico shining blue-green a half mile to the west. Once again I was reminded how fortunate I was to be part of paradise.

The tantalizing odor of roast pork caught my attention, drifting from the area where Scott’s contributions to the barbecue turned slowly on their spits. I paused to sniff, my taste buds salivating. I’d have to be sure to pack up a meal for Scott, but I had no intention of giving it to him until he gave me a straight story about Vanessa Kellerman.

I looked toward the G
ulf, where the morning sun tipped incoming waves with sparks of fire and wondered how he was doing. Probably just sitting at the marina, waiting for a call. A bit early in the day for emergencies. Boaters hadn’t yet had time to run out of gas or do something stupid because they’d been drinking all day.

“Really, Gwyn,” barked a voice to my right. “Where’s the clean-up crew? The smell from those animals is nauseating.”

The marvelous odors wafting from the open-pit barbecue evaporated as I turned toward Vanessa Kellerman. I had to give her credit—she’d been on site since eight o’clock and had actually been helpful. But where I smelled roasting wild boar, she smelled manure.

I smiled, attempting to minimize her complaint. “Can’t have a good-old country picnic without animals,” I said. “It’s part of the fun.”

“I don’t mind the ponies,” she sputtered, “but they’ve got at least a dozen horses over there, and
bulls
.”

“Hard to have a mini-rodeo without them.”

“Well, it smells disgusting!”

I stared at her blonde perfection, nicely displayed in tailored turquoise slacks and a striped knit top that hugged every curve. She’d been working for nearly two hours and not a hair out of place, while I undoubtedly looked the way I felt—like I’d set up the entire event on my own. Which was totally untrue, and I knew it. Just because I was Mom’s primary “go to” person . . .

“Vanessa . . .” I took a deep breath, reminding myself she was a recent widow. I thought of the good cause our fund-raiser represented, thought of Martin, considered my family responsibility to Mom. “Vanessa, I’ll go check with the head of clean-up right away. Maybe they’re off to a slow start because we don’t open for another twenty minutes. Why don’t you tell Jo you’d like to stick to assignments away from the animals. Tell her you’re allergic.”

Still looking sour, Vanessa gave a brisk nod. “Fine. I’ll do that.” And she stalked away.

Later, when the crowds came pouring in, all the hassles seemed worth it. Families pushed strollers across the rough grass, teens in bunches swaggered or giggled according to their sex. Some seniors strode in briskly, while others needed canes or walkers. Snowbirds and holiday visitors were clearly delineated by shorts and summer shirts, something no native Floridian would consider wearing in December. And almost all, I noted, paid a visit to the large tent where shells and sharks’ teeth were exhibited. Golden Beach is the sharks’ tooth capital of the world, the age of the black or brown petrified teeth estimated at seven to eleven million years.

When my parents were young, it was possible to find sharks’ teeth three to five inches long while walking the beach. Now, with the population explosion, it was becoming harder and harder to find even small teeth. Shell and sharks’ teeth devotees could be seen patrolling the beaches at dawn after every storm, hoping for a good find. So it wasn’t surprising that even locals wanted to see the tooth display. Their children had probably never seen a shark’s tooth bigger than half an inch. And large shells had become equally as scarce.

I was coming back from a stint of lifting kids onto ponies when a striking brunette waved to me. Sherry Lambert. Sherry runs the rental branch of Wallace Realty and does a fine job of it, while still managing to sell real estate at a brisk pace. But Scott’s hints about Jeb, Vanessa, and Sherry flooded through my head in a swirling kaleidoscope of unwanted images. I managed a smile and waved back. Thank goodness we were separated by thirty feet of milling fair-goers.

Boone Talbot, in full uniform, appeared while I was dishing up barbecued beans. Perhaps my enthusiastic description of the planned events and the expected size of the crowd had made him realize the Fund-raiser was a good place for a new police chief to practice Meet and Greet. Or maybe he’d planned to be on hand all along, and his invitation to me had been an afterthought.

Or maybe he really liked me. The Chief grabbed a paper plate and joined the food line. His eyes flashed warmly as I added beans to his plate, for once in my life feeling amazingly domestic. But would I want to feed the man every day for the rest of my life?

More than startled by the thought, I blinked, and hastened to add beans to the plate of the next person in line.

By mid-afternoon I was too tired to think about Boone Talbot or wonder if Jeb had been practicing ménage à trois with Vanessa and Sherry. Mom’s voice was beginning to grate.
Gwyn, take this to . . . Gwynie, that jewelry designer—what’s his name?—needs fives and ones. Gwyn, there’s some kind of dispute over in games. See what you can do . . .

I wanted to cruise around, just look a bit, maybe take a peek at the rodeo. Maybe even ride a horse. Hadn’t done that in an age. Not since Central Park.