Death by Marriage (2 page)

There! The flashing blue and white lights of the local police boat leading the parade winked in the distance. I could feel a smile spreading across my face. Golden Beach was a town where we were never too old or too sophisticated to enjoy a parade. We did the Fourth of July well also, and never forgot the other holidays either. (Something that hadn’t hurt business at DreamWear, I had to admit.)

And every last one of the old-timers like me missed the days when Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey wintered here. For thirty years the residents of Golden Beach turned out to welcome the circus train and watch the animals being walked the quarter mile from the train to winter quarters, situated at one end of our small airport. When I was an awe-struck thirteen, Gunther Gebel Williams, leading the parade as always, had noticed me as I stood in my prized position at the south drawbridge over the Intracoastal. He smiled and said, “Good morning, miss.” I’d treasure that golden moment forever.

But the train tracks deteriorated beyond anyone being able to raise enough money to fix them, and the circus now wintered in Tampa. A real loss. I mean, how many towns get to have real camels bring the Wise Men to the Christmas tableau? And llamas in place of sheep?

The crowd cheered as the police boat glided by. The men on the boat—one wearing a DreamWear Santa suit—waved. I’d have to keep an eye out for Scott. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t comment on his decorating efforts. Scott is my younger brother. Among his efforts to keep the wolf away from the door, he runs a Sea Tow business. You’re twelve miles out and your motor breaks down, call Scott for a tow. In Season, it’s a good living. From May to October—like most of Golden Beach’s year-round residents—unless you’ve saved up your seasonal pennies, you could starve. I close DreamWear every August. It isn’t worth the effort to keep it open.

God bless the snowbirds. Particularly the ones who begin to show up by mid-September.

I’d have to look sharp to spot Scott because his boat is about half the size of others in the parade. He has a powerful motor, but that’s about it. His
Sea Tow
would be dwarfed by the stately array of cruisers and sailboats that looked only slightly smaller than the
Nina
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa Maria
. They glided by me, their gaily dressed crews waving to the crowd, speaker systems blaring holiday songs, and adorned with a panoply of lights, Christmas trees, and banners impossible to describe. There was a prize for the best-decorated boat, but I suspect
ed
the owners
participated in the parade
for the same reason I designed costumes. It was creative, it was festive, and it gave pleasure. For a few moments in time life was good.

I waved to Scott and, knowing where I was going to be, he actually spotted me and waved back. As did his latest bit of fluff—oops, I didn’t even know this one. What happened to Jill, or was it Kim? Obviously, I needed to raise my head from the drawing board and practice more frequent family interaction.

Three more boats glided by, one with all white lights and classic Christmas carols floating through the sharp night air, two with flashing colored lights and holiday tunes approved by the ACLU, turning the electronically enhanced music into a cacophony of consumerism versus religion.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
versus
Oh Come, All Ye Faithful
. I winced. Okay, so even in Golden Beach, not everything is perfect.

And there at last was Martin Kellerman in DreamWear’s finest Santa suit. Truthfully, I recognized the outfit, not the man. The beard and mustache of our best Santa is so full and realistic that Mr. Kellerman was unrecognizable behind it. I also recognized our one and only sexy Mrs. Santa. And—oh, my!—the new Mrs. Kellerman, at least twenty years Martin’s junior, certainly did justice to it. Front-laced bodice and all.

Mr. Kellerman had a
trophy wife
? Well, why not? I might be of an artistic bent, but I was also a businesswoman. Martin Kellerman was entitled to what his money could buy. But as a female, the concept bothered me. I liked to think women had  risen above being empty show pieces for rich old men.

Look who’s talking!
My conscience mocked me. Costumes weren’t a year-round business any more than Scott’s
Sea Tow
. I designed other things, some blush-worthy enough to bear a different designer label. In Golden Beach we did what we had to, so we could continue to live in paradise.

The Kellermans were smiling and waving from the bow of their forty-footer, while an anonymous shadow inside the cabin handled the steering. A Christmas tree with twinkling colored lights rose up out of the forward hatch. Mr. and Mrs. Santa stood near the front of the tree, one on each side, with the thick branches close enough to provide support, if necessary. There were whistles for Mrs. Santa from some of the rednecks in the crowd. I had to agree with them. No matter what the libbers say, Mrs. Martin Kellerman was well worth a whistle.

I was just turning toward the next boat in line when out of the corner of my eye I saw Martin stagger, grab for the tree. I sucked in a shocked breath as he clung for a moment, left hand on the tree, right hand scrabbling for . . . something, or perhaps simply flailing the air, trying to maintain his balance. The cruiser plowed into the wake of the boat in front. Martin stumbled forward, plunged over the side. There was no way the boat could stop in time to keep from running over him.

Mrs. Kellerman screamed.

Chapter 2

On Saturday morning the light shining on the dust motes in DreamWear’s front window elicited no rainbow glints. Fittingly,
the cloudy day matched my mood.

I hadn’t planned to come in today, but there was no way I was going to allow my chief assistant, Crystal King, to handle this morning’s returns—and the inevitable hushed and horrified remarks—all alone. The look on my mother’s face when I told her about last night’s disaster and Scott’s role in it had been enough to make me realize that Crystal needed back-up. I mean, Jo-Ann Wallace is unflappable, queenly serene no matter what happens, but she’d gone paper white. One more Scott episode to add to an already staggering list, not to mention the effect of a violent snowbird death on Wallace Realty, which Mom ran with style, panache, and extreme competence. I escaped, pushing myself away from the breakfast table and heading upstairs to get dressed.

Now, a half hour later, I snapped on the shop lights, pausing for a moment to stare at the strings of glass beads that marked the entrance to the velvet-hung enclosure known as Crystal’s Cave. Crystal King wandered into DreamWear at the height of the winter season three years ago, a bag lady splotched against the array of snowbirds in their winter white resortwear like a splash of mud on a snow bank. Short and somewhat plump, the woman with the unlikely name could have been any age from thirty to forty-five. Her short brown hair, self-cut, was marked by a broad streak of white. Among her very few possessions was a large crystal ball. I suspected it was the inspiration for her name.

I had no difficulty empathizing with Crystal’s situation. Just another runaway who’d chosen Florida as the place to flee from whatever they wanted to leave behind. Been there, done that. I’d simply been more fortunate because I’d had family to run to.

Crystal looked around the shop—from the bulging racks of costumes to pegboards filled with everything from makeup kits to angel wings and clown hats—and stayed to talk. She told fortunes, she said. Light-hearted fortunes only.

Responding indignantly to my ill-concealed amusement, she said, “You think I’m going to tell some guy he’s going to drop dead from a heart attack the next day?”

My smile faded fast. “Can you actually see that?” Ever polite, I struggled to keep my skepticism to myself.

Crystal ducked her head, gave a brief shrug of her well-rounded shoulders. “Sometimes,” she mumbled. Defiantly, she looked up. “But mostly I just go on body language. Catch the vibes. Tell people what’ll make ‘em happy. Don’t worry, it’s all smoke and mirrors. I’m not going to scare off the customers.”

The Season was in full swing, and I needed extra help. “Are you willing to learn the costume business?” I asked. “Can you be meticulous about details? It’s not all fun and games.”

Her amber eyes glowed. Solemnly, Crystal assured me she could. I hired her on the spot.

I also guessed Crystal had reached the end of the line. Literally. Golden Beach was as far south as her bus money had lasted. She had no place else to go. So I took her home with me.

Crazy? Probably. But, for once, luck was with me. In one burst of Good Samaritanship, I acquired my chief shop assistant and best friend. There are times, however, when I experience a frisson of wonder over Crystal’s “gift.” All smoke and mirrors? Not quite.

“Wasn’t it
awful
? Were you there? Did you
see
?” Debbie Ellis, the mayor’s wife and one of our regulars, heaved her husband’s Santa suit up onto the counter and plopped her Mrs. Santa (with long skirt, apron and mobcap) on top. Eyes wide, she glanced from Crystal to me, then back again.

“I was at the Circus Bridge,” Crystal told her. “Missed the whole thing. But Gwyn was there. Too close,” she added glumly.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “but I can’t talk about it.” At Debbie’s obvious disappointment, I added, “Mr. Kellerman was a customer, a very nice man. As you say, it was awful.”

I’d stayed the whole long night while they searched for the body. What was left after twin diesels passed over it. I could only hope Mr. Kellerman was unconscious from what appeared to be a heart attack before the final moments.

As Crystal checked each item of the two returned costumes against the rental lists, Debbie Ellis confided, “There’s a lot of
talk.
”

“Really?” Crystal, never above a bit of gossip, put down the lists and leaned closer.

Embarrassing as it is to admit, I paused with my hand on the black and white feather boa I was laying out for a Twenties party that evening. My ears stood to attention.

“You’re right about him being a nice man,” Deb said. “Too nice. Swallowed the bait trailed by that tart of a wife hook, line, and sinker. Poor Martin, a quarter century older than Vanessa, but not one bit wiser than a teen panting after his first crush. Brains in his you-know-what, just like every other male.”

On Mr. Kellerman’s behalf, I winced. But Deb had a point. A lonely senior—a
wealthy
lonely senior—was a magnet for females of all ages. But that didn’t make the women’s motivation any more than a search for a more comfortable life.

Crystal sucked in a breath. “You don’t think she—”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Deb returned in a tone that said
but that’s what I meant
. “She’ll be sitting pretty, let me tell you.”

I dropped the feather boa over the top of the check-out rack and stepped closer to the counter. “I was a witness, Deb. He suffered an episode of some kind and stumbled over the edge. His wife never touched him.”

“Exactly!” Deb crowed. “If she’d reached for him, maybe he wouldn’t have gone off.”

“I can see her being a gold-digger,” Crystal said, “but murdering someone in front of hundreds of witnesses, that’s just plain stupid. Makes no sense.”

Deb’s face arranged itself into an ever-so-slightly offended picture of innocence. “I’m not saying it was murder. I’m just saying Martin’s demise was highly convenient for Vanessa.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She was getting pretty cozy with Jeb Brannigan, you know. Or so I’m told. And he was piloting
Rainbow’s End
last night.”

“But she and Martin just got married,” I protested. Stupid remark. Obviously, I’d been back in the Pollyanna atmosphere of Golden Beach too long.

Deb gave me the look.  The one that says,
How naive can you get?

Jeb Brannigan is my brother Scott’s rival in the sea rescue business. During the Season there are enough boating emergencies to keep both services busy. Off-season, it’s often a race to see who gets there first. No one could call Jeb and Scott friends.

Scott is built like a linebacker. Jeb is bigger, every extra pound muscle. I’d known him since grade school, but from high school on, I’d avoided meeting the gaze of his avid brown eyes. Jeb is capable of misinterpreting the intentions of a woman who looks him in the eye. He tends to wear minimal clothing in nearly every kind of weather, displaying his workout-enlarged biceps and his rippling abs as clearly and as often as possible. Frankly, the man looks like he could put a tow rope between his teeth and pull an ailing cruiser home without aid of his boat. I could understand Jeb having a certain appeal to a woman like the French Maid Mrs. Santa I’d seen with Martin last night. After all, what did poor Martin have to offer, other than charm and stacks of cash?

“Sorry, Deb,” I said, “but my brain’s on hold. I didn’t get much sleep last night. All I know is that Martin Kellerman was one of our most pleasant customers, and I’m really sorry to see him go. And even sorrier to hear I may be grieving more than his widow. I sincerely hope that’s not so. And now,” I added briskly, “I’d better finish these check-outs and get down to the police station. I promised I’d drop by this morning and give a witness statement.” I offered my best professional smile and turned away, sliding open the drawer behind the counter that held our long strings of pearls.