Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (14 page)

Jenny squealed, “That’s perfect. Mark and I love this place. You and Marlee will too, Mike. If they have the date open.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Tiffani said and headed toward the kitchen in search of Skip and JoAnn. In a matter of moments, she was back with the siblings in tow. Skip was carrying a magnum of champagne.

“It will work,” Tiffani said. “We can have it here. Isn’t that fabulous?” “We’re thrilled to have you,” said JoAnn. “We had a corporate booking for Stroll weekend, but got an e-mail today that they have to reschedule to the spring.”

“We were worried we’d have no bookings for Stroll weekend,” Skip added. “Since we have such a short time to advertise. But this will work out perfectly for all of us.”

He opened the bottle of champagne and poured generous servings into fresh glasses.

“Here’s to Stroll weekend. And a wonderful wedding,” Jim said, caught up in the festivity of the moment.

“I’m so excited,” Jenny said, beaming at Mark. “The Grey Gull Inn is just perfect for our wedding.”

As I sipped my champagne (delicious), a random thought, unbidden, wiggled its way into my consciousness.

I bet this was Tiffani’s plan all along.

Chapter 18

My husband’s idea of a hot date is a joint doctor’s appointment.

It was a dark and foggy night. No kidding, it really was. Nantucket is known for its fog. It’s not called The Little Grey Lady for nothing.

Mike and Marlee had signed off Skype right after we’d made the decision to use the Grey Gull Inn for the wedding. Well, to be accurate, Mike had signed off Skype then. Marlee had disappeared from the computer screen right after the haircut discussion, but I presumed that she was aware of – and approved of – the venue choice.

I hoped I hadn’t offended her with my reaction. All I needed was a daughter-in-law with an attitude problem who refused to let me see my grandchildren. Not that grandchildren were on the immediate horizon, you understand. But I do like to plan ahead.

After a delicious meal personally prepared by Skip – there apparently was no end to the guy’s talents – and much more wine than I’m used to drinking, we ended dinner with the Grey Gull Inn’s special dessert – a chocolate concoction called The Seven Deadly Sins. I don’t know what was in it, but I felt like I should go to confession after cleaning my plate. Catholic guilt lives forever.

The younger people excused themselves right after they polished off the dessert. Tiffani wanted to show Jenny some photos of bridal flowers she’d gotten from the Nantucket florist. And I think there was also some discussion about combining a bridal veil with a floral headpiece. I figured they didn’t need my input at this stage. I was confident Jenny would share her thoughts with me before she made a final decision. At least, I hoped she would.

Mark mumbled something about not wanting to intrude on the women, and said he was calling it a night. Skip had already cleared the table and headed for the kitchen.

That left Jim and me, nursing cups of coffee. I hated the thought of getting up – it seemed like so much effort. By the time we left the table, I could barely waddle – I mean, walk – up the scary staircase to our room, gripping the hand rail tightly to steady myself on what seemed like an endless trek to the second floor.

Jim and I were both exhausted. It had been a long day, starting with rising before dawn, a long car trip, a ferry ride, and then traipsing all over Nantucket looking at possible venues for the wedding. Plus the drama of Bob and Tiffani. Topped off by an unusually rich meal and far too much vino. I decided to skip my usual nighttime rituals and fell into the four-poster bed without even brushing my teeth.

If you’ve known me for a while, you probably remember that I have trouble falling asleep in a strange bed. As a matter of fact, I often have trouble falling asleep in my own bed, especially if Jim is snoring his head off beside me.

So you’ll be happy to know that I fell asleep almost instantly. That’s the good news.

The bad news is, I didn’t stay asleep. After about 30 minutes – I could tell by checking the lighted dial on my cell phone – I was wide awake. And regretting with all my heart that I had decided to forego my nightly ritual.

Because my bladder was calling me. And demanding attention. More and more.

Rats.

Well, what’s a (late) middle-aged woman to do, but obey the siren call? Even if she has to tread ever so carefully to a bathroom at the very end of a darkened hallway, and pass by a circular staircase that scared the daylights out of her.

So I eased my way out of the comfortable warm bed, found my robe and slippers, grabbed my zipper travel case with my toothpaste and toothbrush, and carefully opened the door. The hallway was dimly lit, but I could see well enough to inch my way, with my back to the wall, toward my salvation. And I tried not to think of that lovely young woman who had lost her life on this very staircase so many years before.

Below me, I heard the sound of the inn’s front door open, then close.

Odd. Who’d be leaving the inn at this late hour?

I admit it, I’m very curious. Some people – not naming names, you understand – even call me nosy. I couldn’t help myself. I took a cautious peek over the railing of the staircase.

At first, I thought I was seeing things. A ghost, perhaps? But, no.

At the bottom of the staircase lay the inert body of a woman. I could see from the angle of her head that she was dead. And she was wearing a wedding veil.

Oh, my God! Jenny!

Chapter 19

Loose lips sink (friend) ships.

Do you remember the Old Testament Bible story about Lot’s wife? She and Lot were fleeing from their home, and the Good Lord told her not to turn around or He would turn her into a pillar of salt. Well, of course, she turned around and – presto – salt! And, of course, she couldn’t move. Forever.

Anyway, that story pretty much sums up the way I felt, looking over the banister of that creepy staircase at the body lying below. And in case you think I’m exaggerating, imagine how you’d feel if you thought it was your child’s body you were looking at. A parent’s worst nightmare come true.

I could not move. Could not react at all. Could not cry out, or scream. I was just… paralyzed.

And then I heard a sound from the shadows, near the front door. At first, I couldn’t make it out. I thought maybe it was a cat. Then, I realized it was a person. A person in terrible distress. Not crying, exactly. Keening. A word I’d never thought of before. But it fit the sound I heard, like none other in all my life.

“Tiffani, oh my God, Tiffani. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Don’t be dead.”

What? Not Jenny, but Tiffani? Relief surged through my body. Not that I willed Tiffani dead, you understand.

“Who’s there?” I called out into the darkness. Stupid move, I realized a second later.
If this guy’s a murderer, what’s to prevent him from running up the stairs and killing you, too?

A man stepped into the middle of the hallway, near the inert body. He looked up at me, terrified. I could see him clearly.

It was Bob Green.

I opened up my mouth to speak again, and he ran out the door of the inn.

Then I did the only sensible thing I could, under the circumstances. I ran back to our room and woke up Jim.

The next few hours passed in a blur. I remember running down the hall in the general direction of our room. But before I reached our door, Mark and Jenny’s opened and a very sleepy Fairport police detective said, “What’s going on, Carol? Is everything ok?”

I remember babbling about getting up to use the bathroom, taking a quick look downstairs, and then, well, I lost it. My self-control, I mean. I cried all over Mark’s pajama top when I got to the part where I thought it was Jenny at the bottom of the stairs.

By that time, Jim had appeared beside me, and Mark wordlessly turned me over to him and went down to the bottom of the stairs, where poor Tiffani lay.

Jim held me in a tight hug, cradling me and telling me everything was going to be all right. Then Jenny appeared – safe and sound, thank God – and I lost it all over again.

“Oh, sweetheart, I thought it was you at the bottom of the staircase,” I said, sobbing. “Oh, God, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

Jenny threw her arms around Jim and me, and for a good minute the three of us just stood there together, hugging each other, being the precious family unit that we are.

When my sobs finally subsided, Jenny asked me, “Mom, why did you think it was me?”

I remembered the wedding veil, and poor Tiffani. And that creep, Bob Green, practically admitting he’d killed her.

“Oh, God, poor Nancy,” I said, sniffling. “How will she ever get through this?”

This brought on another round of sobs. (From me.) And even more questions (from Jim and Jenny).

I had a flash of who-knows-what, and didn’t mention seeing Bob Green. After all, I could have been mistaken. Maybe.

I think that by this time both Skip and JoAnn were in the hall with us. But I can’t swear to it. I remember Mark coming back, wearing his detective poker face, and ordering us all to a small second-floor sitting area.

JoAnn immediately bristled. “What the hell is going on? My brother and I run this inn, not you. What gives you the right to order us around?” “There’s been a terrible accident,” Mark replied, showing great patience in dealing with the angry innkeeper. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her toward a chair. Firmly.

Then, he addressed Skip. “Are there any other guests in this part of the inn?” Mark asked.

A brief look of annoyance darkened Skip’s handsome face, but he recovered himself quickly. It appeared he’d gotten the people skills in the family.

“There are guests in the new section of the inn. But Tiffani is the only other one in this wing. Her room is at the other end of the hallway. Where is she?” Skip asked, belatedly realizing she was not part of our group.

Without answering Skip, Mark addressed JoAnn. “I’ve put in a call to the Nantucket police. Someone will be here any minute to examine the scene downstairs and take everyone’s statements. As I said before, it appears there’s been a terrible accident.

“Tiffani is dead.”