Wedding Bell Blues Read online

  “Where did she disappear from?” I said.

  “Home,” Jeanette said with a sniff and dabbed her nose with a tissue. “She was living with us to save money and commuting to the University of South Florida in Tampa.”

  “Is her car missing, too?”

  Her mother nodded.

  “Did she say why she left?” I asked.

  Jeanette rolled her eyes. “She said she wants to find herself. After a B.A., M.A., and a Ph.D. in philosophy, how much more self-discovery does she need?”

  “What’s your take on this?” I asked Wanda.

  The wedding planner frowned. “A year ago, when we started making plans, Alicia was enthusiastic, excited. You have to begin making decisions well in advance to carry off a wedding this massive, you know.”

  I nodded with a grimace. “So my mother and sister have told me. But lately, had Alicia’s attitude changed?”

  Wanda nodded. “The last few weeks, she seemed different.”

  “Reluctant?” I suggested.

  “Distracted.”

  “She was finishing her dissertation,” Jeanette insisted. “Of course she was distracted.”

  “What was the subject of her dissertation?” I asked.

  Jeanette waved her hand. “Transcendentalism, spiritualism, some such nonsense. She tried explaining it, but I didn’t understand a word. But then Alicia’s very bright, much smarter than me.”

  “In the voice mail she left,” I said, “was there any sign of coercion in her tone?”

  Jeanette shook her head. “She sounded more elated than anything.”

  “Was her farewell note typed or handwritten?”

  “She wrote it on her personal stationery.”

  “Any signs of tension or anything out of the ordinary in her handwriting or the words she chose?”

  Jeanette shook her head. “That’s another reason the police won’t get involved.”

  “So you feel reasonably certain her disappearance is her own doing and not the result of kidnapping?”

  “Not totally,” Jeanette said and added with a frown, “because it doesn’t make sense. Alicia wants to marry Garth. Why would she leave? And why won’t she answer her phone to talk to Garth or her father and me?”

  “Just to be clear,” I said, “you want me to find Alicia only to make sure she’s all right?”

  Jeanette nodded.

  I patted Roger, who was getting restless and looking longingly at Wanda’s bare, tanned legs. “If I find her, I can’t promise she’ll come home to go through with the wedding.”

  Jeanette looked pained. “Understood. But her father and I have to know that she’s okay.”

  She looked even more anguished when I quoted my hourly rate. Wanda, however, seemed unperturbed. Whether I found Alicia or not, the wedding planner’s nonrefundable fee was already in the bag.

  CHAPTER 2

  A few hours later, I paused inside the front door of Dock of the Bay and searched for Bill. The rustic restaurant with its knotty pine walls, decorated with sea-shells, crab traps and fishnets, overlooked Pelican Bay Marina where Bill lived aboard his cabin cruiser. A blast of cold, air-conditioned air hit me, a welcome change from the stifling heat and humidity that continued to build outside. An afternoon thunderstorm was the only hope for breaking the stifling conditions.

  The lunch crowd had barely begun trickling in, but the old Wurlitzer in the bar was already in full swing with Joe Nichols crooning “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.” The lyrics made me smile. Some liked country music for its melancholy. I loved its sense of humor.

  Bill waved from our usual booth and flashed a welcome with the blue-eyed expression that had won my heart two decades ago. I slid onto the bench across from him and ordered raspberry iced tea from the waitress.

  I’d spent the remainder of the morning at the office with Jeanette Langston, making lists of Alicia’s friends and acquaintances and their addresses. Then I’d taken Roger to my waterfront condo for a walk before settling him in his favorite doggy bed while I joined Bill for an early lunch. This afternoon I would begin the search for the elusive Alicia.

  Bill, with his thick white hair, muscular physique, and Beach Boys tan, although ten years my senior, had grown more handsome with age, but I loved him as much if not more for his good heart and happy disposition. We were polar opposites, I an introvert with insecurities and pessimism rooted in my childhood, Bill an extrovert and perennial optimist. No wonder I was consumed with premarital jitters, even though the wedding was months away.

  “Busy morning?” he said with that smile that could make me promise him anything.

  I filled him in on the runaway bride.

  “You think she’s lost her nerve?” he asked. “Or is maybe mentally unstable?”

  “No hint of mental illness from either her mother or the wedding planner, but, according to her mother, her behavior’s definitely not normal. I should have a better take on why she took off after I talk to her fiancé and some of her friends this afternoon.”

  I sighed.

  Bill narrowed his eyes and studied me with an intensity that made me squirm. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”

  I could never hide anything from Bill. He read body language better than I read English.

  “What makes you think something’s wrong?” I hedged.

  “Is your mother still on your case about a big wedding?”

  “I’ll deal with it. As soon as I can screw my courage to the sticking point and confront her.”

  One part of me yearned for my mother’s approval and unconditional love, withheld my entire life, and, illogically, considered the possibility that going along with her wedding plans might produce the desired results. The smart part of me knew better.

  “Something has you restless and uneasy.” He nodded toward my left hand and the engagement ring he’d given me last Christmas, three aquamarines, my birth-stone, set in yellow gold. “Having second thoughts?”

  “You know I love you.”

  He nodded and reached across the table for my hand. “And I know the idea of marriage scares you senseless. If that’s what’s bothering you—”

  “No.” I shook my head, then flashed a rueful grin. “I’m willing to give marriage my best shot and praying that my best shot will be good enough.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve been wanting to marry you for twenty years.”

  I squeezed his hand and released it when the waitress returned with my tea. Bill waited until she’d taken our order and left before continuing. “So, what is bugging you today?”

  I tried to get a handle on the vague dissatisfaction I felt so I could put it into words. “I think I need a career change.”

  He sat back in the booth as if I’d hit him. “You want out of the business? We only started the P.I. firm a few months ago.”

  I was doing a lousy job of expressing how I felt, primarily because I couldn’t really put a name to my discontent.

  “Look at us,” I said. “You doing background checks on someone’s great-aunt Agatha and me chasing down runaway brides. When I was a cop, I at least had the satisfaction of knowing that what I did made a difference.”

  Bill shook his head. “How quickly you forget.”

  “What?”

  “The futility of being on the job. Long boring hours on patrol or surveillance, following one dead-end lead after another, cases we couldn’t crack, and the criminals we collared, only to have them released on technicalities. We didn’t always win the good fight for truth, justice and the American way.”

  “At least I felt useful.” My mood had blackened this morning with the arrival of Mother’s package and worsened with the story of Alicia Langston. I was sliding downward into depression and unable to put on the brakes.

  Worry filled Bill’s blue eyes. “When’s the last time you had a checkup?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Then it’s been too long. Schedule one, okay?”

  “But I feel fine.
”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve been through a lot recently. A string of murder investigations, the police department’s closing, your mother’s illness. That much stress can take its toll.”

  “I’m fine, really. Just having a bad day.”

  “Then have a checkup for my peace of mind, okay? So I won’t worry about you.”

  My late father had been a cardiologist and a firm believer in preventive medicine. As little as I liked being prodded and poked, I knew Bill was right. “I’ll schedule a physical, although I don’t relish an examination. My current doctor looks younger than Doogie Howser.”

  Taking me at my word, Bill nodded. “Now, about this career thing.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  His eyes lit with devilment. “Have you considered exotic dancing?”

  “I’m a bit long in the tooth for that.”

  “Believe me, my lovely Margaret, no one would be looking at your teeth.”

  “And I’d meet a whole new class of people.” His teasing was already brightening my mood. I couldn’t be around Bill for long without feeling better.

  “If you’re missing police work,” he said with more seriousness, “you could apply with the sheriff’s office. And Tampa’s short a detective now that Abe Mackley’s retired.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” My depression was lifting, only to be replaced by paranoia.

  He shook his head. “I’m happy to be working with you, but I want you to be happy, too.”

  “You’re right about the dark side of police work. I’m too old for the long hours and fed up with the political infighting rampant in every department.”

  “You’re forty-nine,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “going on twenty-three. Young enough to do whatever you want. I take it library work is out?”

  I’d graduated from college with a degree in library science. When I’d abandoned books and entered the police academy to fight crime, I’d never looked back. “The shock of the peace and quiet of a library job might kill me.”

  “You could teach at the academy. Or sell real estate. That’s hot right now.”

  Neither profession had any appeal. I shook my head. “I don’t have the patience for either.”

  The waitress returned with our order, and Bill dug into his burger. After chewing and swallowing his first bite, he said, “The bookstore beneath the office is for sale.”

  “Really?”

  “The owners want to move back north. Last year’s hurricane season spooked them. You could buy them out, be your own boss.”

  I paused with a French fry halfway to my mouth. “You’re not serious?”

  “You love books. You’d be surrounded by them every day.”

  I considered his suggestion. “And spend all my time directing customers to the cookbook and self-help shelves?” I shook my head. “Where’s the challenge in that?”

  “Where’s the challenge in being a private investigator?”

  “It’s like working puzzles, such as where is Alicia Langston and why did she run away?” A light dawned as I realized what he’d done. “I’m addicted, aren’t I?”

  “To solving puzzles? ’Fraid so. More than two decades as a cop will do that to you, a permanent case of ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’”

  “Which is why I’d never be happy doing anything else.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he protested.

  “But you’ve made me recognize it.” I dug into my burger with gusto, feeling as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders. Bill was my North Star, helping me find my way, especially when frustration caused by my mother knocked me off course.

  Bill’s cell phone rang and he answered it quickly.

  “That was Darcy,” he said after he flipped it shut. “Antonio Stavropoulos called the office. He wants to hire us.”

  “For what?”

  “He didn’t say, just that he wanted to talk to you about it.”

  “More work is good,” I said with conviction, “as long as it has nothing to do with weddings.”

  After lunch, I walked from the Dock of the Bay on the south side of the marina across the city park to Sophia’s on the north side. Although the temperature had risen into the nineties, an onshore breeze laden with a fresh briny scent made the trek bearable, and I arrived at the upscale restaurant without dissolving into a puddle of sweat.

  Sophia’s, built to resemble a Venetian palazzo in imitation of John Ringling’s Sarasota mansion, perched in pink-stuccoed splendor on the water’s edge and brought back a flood of memories. Last fall the restaurant’s owner had been one of several victims in a series of murders. Dave Adler, my young partner on the Pelican Bay Police Department, and I, along with help from Bill, had solved the crimes. The last time I’d seen Antonio Stavropoulos had been at Thanksgiving, when he’d asked me to stop by for a box of pastries, a gift of thanks to the department for their hard work.

  In the lobby, crowded with patrons waiting to be seated in the luxurious dining room that served world class food, I looked for Antonio, but the maître d’s station was empty. I snagged the elbow of a passing waiter, asked for Antonio, and he pointed me down a hall to the manager’s office, formerly occupied by Lester Morelli, now awaiting trial for murdering his wife Sophia, among others.

  At the end of the hall, I knocked at the door and noted Antonio’s name engraved on a brass plate. The maître d’ had moved up in the world.

  “Enter,” a masculine voice with a thick Greek accent called.

  I stepped into the office, and Antonio bounded from behind the desk to greet me and offer a chair. The tall, elderly man was dressed as usual in a well-tailored suit with a continental cut and an impeccable white shirt and conservative tie. His gray hair and snowy mustache were neatly trimmed.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “We have a…ah…situation.”

  “You’re the manager now?” I settled in the chair across from the desk.

  Antonio nodded, circled his desk and sat. “Manager and part owner. I bought a half interest from Anastasia Gianakis. She is my silent partner.”

  Anastasia, Sophia Morelli’s aunt, a secondary beneficiary, had inherited the restaurant when I’d proved Lester, Sophia’s husband and heir, had killed his wife. The creep, who’d counted on getting everything his dead wife had owned, might end up instead with a death sentence.

  “From the crowd in the lobby,” I noted, “I’d guess business is good.”

  “Business is excellent,” Antonio said with a nod of satisfaction. “And I want to keep it that way. This new firm of yours, do you handle security?”

  “It depends. What kind of security do you have in mind?”

  Antonio leaned forward and clasped his long, slender fingers on the desktop. “You have heard of the Montagues and the Capulets? The Hatfields and McCoys?”

  I nodded, wondering where he was headed.

  “Well, I have a dinner for two hundred scheduled for the Burnses and the Bakers.”

  For a moment I drew a blank. Then memory served. “The Pineland Circle Burnses and Bakers?”

  He nodded solemnly. “The very same.”

  “They’re having a dinner together?”

  He nodded again with a grimace. “And I need your help to assure that they do not kill each other and destroy our banquet room in the course of the evening.”

  “Why would the Burnses and Bakers schedule a dinner together?”

  Antonio cocked his head in interest. “Do you know the history of these feuding families?”

  “During the time I was with the department, our officers probably responded to more signal twenty-twos at Pineland Circle than all other addresses combined.”

  “What is this ‘signal twenty-two’?”

  Police jargon came so naturally to me, I often forgot others weren’t fluent. “A disturbance. To put it mildly.”

  I shook my head. “And it all started over a grapefruit tree.”

  “Someone wa
s stealing fruit?”

  “If only it had been that simple.” I could still picture the scene on what should have been a quiet residential cul-de-sac fifteen years ago, with twelve little urchins, all under the age of twelve, six in each family, who seemed to believe their sole purpose on earth was to torment each other. “The children from each family would stand in their respective yards and taunt each other by calling names. The first blow in the battle was struck when the Burns kids began pelting the Baker children with rotten grapefruit from the Burnses’ tree.”

  “Where were their parents?”

  “Unfortunately, more often than not, standing on the sidelines, egging them on.”

  “And the police put a stop to this?”

  I shook my head. “Events escalated. The oldest Baker boy chopped down the Burnses’ grapefruit tree. The Burnses filed charges. It might have ended there, but the Baker children retaliated by slashing the tires on Mr. Burns’s truck and scrawling graffiti over their driveway and sidewalk. The adult Burnses filed more charges, while their kids soaped the Bakers’ windows and rolled their trees in toilet paper. Then the Bakers filed charges. This back-and-forth went on for years, often with physical confrontations between the children. It was like gang warfare, but without knives or firearms.”

  “And the parents continued to encourage it?” Antonio asked in disbelief. “Why did they not move away?”

  “The whole situation became a test of wills.” Patrol officers had answered calls on Pineland Circle right up until the department had disbanded last February. “The family feuds became a reason for living, a challenge to see who blinked first.”

  Antonio leaned back in his chair. “How ironic.”

  “This dinner of yours,” I warned, “it’s more likely to be World War III.”

  “That is why I want your firm to provide security to keep the attendees under control.”

  “Why are they having a joint dinner anyway?” I asked.

  “I did not tell you?” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was going to say. “Linda Burns is marrying Kevin Baker and both their extended families will be present at the wedding reception here.”