Death by Marriage (19 page)

Clearly, she’d overheard Terry’s words from inside her cave. “So?” she challenged. “What’re we going to do about Scott?”

“Scott wouldn’t marry that woman if she gave him a million up front!”

“Easy, easy, girl.
We
know that, but the cops don’t. Any man sniffing up the widow’s skirts is bound to be a suspect, so don’t go off half-cocked and stir up so much of a storm that you draw a beeline straight to Scott.”

With my hands steepled in front of my face, my thumbs tucked under my chin, I concentrated on remembering to breathe. Mind numb, I’d become a statue behind the counter of my own shop. Crystal reached out, grabbed the little handbell and sign, and plunked them down on the counter. “Come on,” she said, dragging me toward her cave, “it’s Sherlock time.

“Sit,” she ordered as the bead curtains jingled softly behind us. I sat. “Forget the old guy and the nurse,” Crystal ordered. “There’s enough suspects in the Who-killed-Martin stakes to swamp a boat. First, there’s the Merry Widow herself. She had motive and opportunity—I still say she did it. Then there’s Jeb who never saw a woman with money he didn’t like. He’s a self-centered s.o.b., always out for number one—“ She broke off, snapped her fingers an inch from my nose.

“Come on, Gwynie girl, pay attention. At least have the courtesy to agree with me. Nod if you hear me.”

A sharp flick of my hand and she backed off, giving me her piercing amber stare above arms crossed over her ample bosom. “Well?”

Fine. She had a valid point. We needed to drag our speculations from the realm of what-if out into the open, make a list of possible murderers . . . with Scott at the absolute bottom. I stifled a moan. “I was sure Vanessa did it,” I admitted, “possibly with Jeb’s help. But after I met the Bairds, I began to wonder if I’d leaped to the obvious without taking a good look around. We need to find out more about Baird’s claim to Martin’s shares in the company. And then there’s Sherry Lambert. She dated Martin, so she’d know about his allergy.”

“The woman scorned? A crime of passion,” Crystal added on a dramatic flourish.

“Not passion. Calculated, cold-blooded, first-degree murder. And I want to know who would stoop that low.”

“Not Scott.”

“Definitely not Scott . . . but he’s done so many stupid things he hasn’t got a lot going for him in a murder investigation. At the very best—knowing Scott as they do—the cops could figure he hung the peanuts as a lark, maybe at Vanessa’s suggestion—totally unaware how deadly peanut allergies can be. I mean, that’s believable. It sounds like him.”

Crystal groaned, and nodded. “Anybody else?” she asked.

“Random nut case . . . no pun intended.”

“Tying peanuts on a Christmas tree?” Crystal planted her hands on her hips and fixed me with her pin-me-to-the-wall stare. “Not exactly the act of your average schizoid. I think we can rule random out.”

No kidding. “I guess I’d better talk to Sherry—she’s easy to find.” I paused, staring down at Crystal’s ball, wondering . . . wishing. I could
claim
some special insight,
a wee
touch of magic
of my own
.

Just use the brains you’ve got, kid
. “And I’ll see if I can worm info on the Bairds out of Vanessa,” I added briskly. “She’s angry enough that maybe she’ll be willing to talk about her quarrel with Baird.”

Crystal gave a decisive nod. “Good start. Go for it. That leaves us with the no-little-matter of Letty.”

Guilt. Hadn’t I just sworn nothing would happen to Letty, but Scott was family. Scott came first.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “For the moment Letty’s your problem. Keep an eye on her and warn me if things start to go south. I have to concentrate on saving Scott’s idiot neck.”

Crystal’s soulful amber gazed back at me. “Letty needs saving too. She’s old and she’s alone, and she’s set on marrying a guy who’s probably a con artist.”

I touched my index finger to Crystal’s ball, I don’t know why. Hoping for inspiration? It didn’t work. The ball came to life only for Crystal. “Just give me a day or two,” I murmured. “Letty’s not about to run off to Vegas.”
Crystal’s eyes widened in horror. “Don’t even think it!” I snapped. “I promise you everything will be fine with Letty while I save Scott from his own stupidity.”

“But Letty’s our
friend
.”

Swallow your pride and ask for help
. Once again, I swatted my inner voice aside. And then . . . my survival instincts kicked in.

I was up to my neck in Martin’s murder and Scott’s possible involvement. Maybe I was nuts, but somehow I felt Basil Janecek’s death might be connected. Add in the threat to Letty and the fact that I was trained to design costumes, not conduct investigations and . . .

I. Needed. Help.

“You’re right, and I’m going to ask Boone to check Marshall out. But he’s so smooth, so really good at his job, I bet there isn’t a warrant out for him anywhere. And, besides, he could be for real. Attracted by Letty’s money, sure, but happy enough to play doting husband until he inherits the lot.”

“The nephew would have a hemorrhage if he knew Letty was getting married.”

“We’re not blowing the whistle on her.”

“Not even to save her life?”

“He could get Power of Attorney, and Letty’s life as she knows it would be over. Better Marshall marries her for her money than that.”

“Well . . . dammit.” Crystal knuckled her forehead. “So how are we going to help her?”

“I’m not sure we can”—I held up my hand to stop Crystal’s protest—“but I’ve got a wild idea about where we can get help. Just give me a day or two, okay? When’s the wedding?”

“Letty hasn’t said. A few weeks yet, I think. She’s planning on something more than a JP, maybe even a church ceremony. After all, it’s her first.”

At the rate I was going, I’d be seventy-some before my first wedding. Maybe not even then.

Which, sadly, led me back to the “what next” on the list I was forming in my head. “If I bring you lunch from the deli, can you handle the shop for the rest of the day? I’d like to get started on finding the answers to all the questions chasing around my head.”

“No
problem.
”

I clasped my hands under my chin and stared at Crystal, willing her to understand. “We need help,” I said. “Even if I ignore Basil Janecek, there’s Scott’s problem and Letty about to jump off a cliff. That’s way more than we can handle and still keep the shop run—”

“You know I can take care of DreamWear, Gwyn
ie
. You’re the one who knows how to ask questions, not me. Go out and get ‘em, girl!”

“Thanks,” I murmured, “but you may not like the help I have in mind. Or you may misinterpret—”

“Help’s help. You got somebody you want, go for it.”

My long broomstick skirt brushed the rug as I unfolded myself from the wrought iron ice cream chair that had never been intended for prolonged sitting. “It probably won’t work out,” I said, “but keep that thought in mind in case he says yes.”

Crystal’s curiosity finally got the better of her. “He who?” she demanded.

“Chad Yarnell.” I zipped through the bead curtain, grabbed my purse from the drawer behind the counter, and charged toward the back door before Crystal recovered from her shock.

I hadn’t really believed I’d do it until his name popped out of mouth. But the truth was, I was desperate for help. And at the moment Chad didn’t appear to be doing anything at all. Maybe, just maybe . . .

I peered in the driver’s mirror on the back of the Malibu’s visor, applied lipstick, tucked in strands that had strayed from my ponytail, which was fastened at the nape of my neck with a bow that matched one of the multiple shades of turquoise in my skirt. I called Mom for directions to Scott’s houseboat, took another look in the mirror.

Okay, so I didn’t just need help, I was desperate. I removed the turquoise bow and shook out my hair. Long straight strands of black fell almost to my waist. Gwyn Halliday, Gypsy. Or Spanish dancer. Off to work her magic on a sick, surly, emaciated,
impossible
male whose only meaningful exchanges with her in twenty years were a tirade about not shooting wild pigs on Yarnell land and implications that a septugenarian was having sex with a man fifteen to twenty years younger. Great, just great.

If only a bit of magic from Crystal’s ball had rubbed off on me . . .

Chapter 15

Mom’s directions were vague—she hadn’t actually seen it herself, but Sherry had included meticulous instructions in the rental file. I dutifully scribbled each twist and turn in the little notebook I always carried in case a design idea struck while I was out and about.

The first part was easy enough—over the drawbridge to Needle Key. The long, narrow island began on the north side of the Golden Beach jetties and extended six miles farther north toward Sarasota, with a narrow bay and the Intracoastal Waterway on one side, the Gulf of Mexico on the other. There were only two bridges to the key, each about a mile in from the northern and southern tips. I crossed the south drawbridge and turned left toward the jetties, traveling Needle Key’s sole road, a narrow band of asphalt, edged in sand.

According to the experts, the whole concept of barrier islands is to protect the mainland from storms. But Florida’s central
Gulfc
oast had been spared high-cat hurricanes for so many years—until Charlie—that the keys along the coastline had become prime real estate, a mecca for the seriously wealthy, particularly those who craved privacy. Scattered among the startlingly elaborate mansions clinging to sandy soil between the narrow road and coastal setback regulations were a few homes built as far back as the fifties, their owners refusing to give up their bit of paradise to the next towering McMansion.

“Look for an old Florida ranch,” Mom had said, “on the left, almost to the end of key. Tucked back behind a lot of trees and bushes. Right after that, there’s a sandy trail just wide enough for a car. The houseboat’s on th
e bay side, of course, not the G
ulf. Supposedly, the trail leads to a parking area, and then you have to follow a foot path down to the dock.”

I missed it the first time and had to drive another hundred yards to the public park that was on the opposite side of the jetties from the marina and Scott’s
Sea Tow
. I paused for a moment, enjoying the stunning view and pondering for the umpteenth time how the restaurant, the imposing boats, and South Jetty Park could be so close, but require a seven-mile drive to get from one to the other.

I circled the park and came back on the same side of the road as the alleged driveway leading to Chad’s houseboat. Fortunately, there was no one behind me and I was able to creep at a snail’s pace, keeping my eyes peeled for a sandy trail into the ubiquitous Florida greenery. There! I hung a right and was instantly surrounded by jungle. At this point Needle Key was about as wide as the length of a football field, so the clearing that passed for a parking space came up fast. I don’t know what I expected Chad to drive, but it wasn’t a Ford station wagon that was old a decade ago. A loaner from the ranch, I guessed. Yet Chad Yarnell could buy any vehicle he wanted . . .

But all he wants at the moment is to be left alone.

Undoubtedly my inner voice was right, but that wasn’t going to keep me from following the overgrown path that led toward the bay. I needed help, I told myself as I got out of the car. And, besides, I’d never caught more than a glimpse of the sleek fiberglass houseboats anchored near the Yacht Club. And Mom said this one was wood, more house than boat.

Which didn’t account for my pulse suddenly revving up to take-off speed. Great. Just when I needed to be cool and professional, it was teen crush time again. And far more misguided now than then.

I tucked in my chin, fixed a determined scowl on my face and plunged into the jungle.

After ten or twelve feet of barely visible footpath, the sand under my shoes changed to a wooden boardwalk. Mangroves formed an impenetrable barricade around me, their octopus-like roots rising out of the shallow edge of the bay on either side, their shiny green leaves hiding any view of the bay. The boardwalk made a slight jog to the left . . . and there it was. A houseboat, constructed of wood, painted battleship gray, and at least twice the size of any houseboat I’d ever seen. Obviously never intended for navigation, its shape was rectangular, towering two stories high, with a deck on top. Not sleek, not pretty, but a true floating house.

The last section of the boardwalk, with wooden railings on both sides, stretched over open water. A sign attached to one of the end posts stated in large black letters: PRIVATE, NO TRESPASSING. At the end of the boardwalk nearest the boat was a flexible ramp that could move up and down with the tide. At the top of the ramp, a gate. I sighed. Even if I ignored the sign, I bet the gate was locked.

I hadn’t driven all this way to turn tail now. I followed the boardwalk over water so shallow I could see the shell-flecked muddy bottom and walked up the steeply angled gangplank (it was high tide). I tried the gate, it didn’t budge. Beyond the gate was a short step-down onto a broad patio deck, most of it roofed over by a balcony jutting out from the houseboat’s second-story. Sliding glass doors provided access from the patio deck to the inside.