Wedding Bell Blues Page 7

  I gave myself a mental shake and a sharp reminder. Mother’s issues were rooted in the disappointments and insecurities of the early years of her marriage and had nothing to do with me, except that I made a handy target. I was trying to learn not to take her attitude personally.

  “How many for lunch?” I asked

  “Miz Skerritt told me to prepare for four.”

  “Caroline coming?”

  Estelle nodded and arranged romaine leaves on crystal salad plates.

  “Who else?”

  “Don’t know her name, but Miz Skerritt says she’s coming all the way from New York City. Miss Caroline is picking the lady up at the airport.”

  Hope surged. If the guest was one of Mother’s old college friends or someone she’d met while working on her multitude of charities, I was off the hook. My very proper mother wouldn’t discuss family business in front of a guest.

  “Can I give you a hand, Estelle?”

  “Shoo, child. I can handle this. You go on in and see your mama. I know she’s been missing you.”

  I didn’t correct Estelle’s delusion but braced myself and left the kitchen by way of the butler’s pantry. I passed through the dining room, and the front door opened. Caroline stepped in and stood aside for the woman from New York to enter.

  One glance at the haute couture of my sister and her companion convinced me that I, in my white cropped pants, leaf-green pullover and matching flip-flops, appropriate for almost any other venue in Pelican Bay, was seriously underdressed.

  Mother, also dressed and coiffed suitably to have tea with the Queen, entered the hall from the central courtyard. “Madame Lapierre, how kind of you to come.”

  “I am honored to be invited,” the woman replied, her speech lightly peppered with accents of her French origins. “The drive across the bay on the causeway was magnifique.”

  “You know Caroline, of course,” Mother said, then caught sight of me. Her face fell as she took in my apparel. “And this is my younger daughter, Margaret.”

  “Ah,” Madame Lapierre said, “so this is the bride-to-be?”

  “Actually,” I said with a smile, “I prefer to think of myself as a private investigator.”

  Mother grimaced as if I’d just announced I was bi-sexual, but Madame Lapierre seemed impressed.

  “You must have many stories to tell, no?”

  “If ethics allowed,” I said.

  “Moi, aussi. I have many stories, but a loose tongue would destroy my business.”

  With a sense of impending doom, I asked, “What business are you in?”

  Caroline gripped my elbow as if afraid I’d cut and run. “Madame Lapierre is New York’s premier wedding planner.”

  I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. “How nice. And you’re here on vacation?”

  “Mais non.” She appeared momentarily confused, then assumed a hopeful expression. “Your maman must have arranged my arrival as a surprise. I am here to plan your wedding.”

  I shot Mother a tight smile, more like a grimace. “Well, it worked. I’m definitely surprised.”

  Estelle appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Luncheon is served, Miz Skerritt.”

  Mother herded us into the dining room, seated me on her left and Madame Lapierre on her right. Caroline took a chair opposite Mother at the end of the antique refectory table that had once graced a Spanish monastery.

  Estelle served a Waldorf salad, baked fillets of mahimahi and a medley of summer vegetables, all prepared in her inimitable delicious style, but I couldn’t eat. I was too busy trying to figure how to thwart Mother’s plans without making her look bad in front of her guest, an unpardonable sin.

  “So, Margaret,” Madame said. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

  “Small and uncomplicated.”

  “Vraiment?” Madame turned a puzzled gaze on Mother, who was busy glaring at me.

  “Margaret’s such a kidder,” Caroline said with a nervous laugh and a pointed stare in my direction. “Mother’s planning on eight hundred guests. That’s not exactly small.”

  “Or uncomplicated,” I added.

  Madame’s eyes met mine across the table. Her dark eyebrows arched above her questioning eyes. I threw her a helpless look. She seemed to register my reluctance because the gaze she returned was sympathetic. Rather than raise Mother’s ire by dragging my feet further, I concentrated on cutting my mahimahi into cubes of equal size and allowed the conversation to flow around me. I’d ask for Madame’s card before I left, on the pretext of refining details, then call to tell her I wouldn’t be going through with Mother’s plans.

  Mother would lose her deposit and Madame’s travel expenses, which was bad enough, but better in her book than losing face in front of a guest.

  When Estelle served the crème brûlée, I excused myself. “I have a meeting scheduled with a client. I’m sure Madame understands how that is.”

  The Frenchwoman’s commiserating nod implied that she understood the subtext of what I was saying, and, despite the disapproving clucks and frowns of Mother and Caroline, I made my escape.

  I killed time by taking Roger for a walk and returning him to Darcy at the office before I met Terry Pender in Largo outside the entrance to the county jail.

  Once inside, after a search of Terry’s briefcase and my purse and the surrender of my weapon, we were admitted to a small, windowless room, furnished only with a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs.

  Terry, wearing a brilliant red power suit, paced the cell. At only five feet tall, less than a hundred pounds, and with her blond hair close-cropped in a waifish Peter Pan cut, she looked as if a puff of wind could carry her away. Many a prosecutor had been lulled into complacency by her nonthreatening demeanor and had lived to regret it. Having seen Ms. Pender in action in the courtroom, I knew that bright red suit packaged the full explosive power of C-4.

  “The judge denied bail at this morning’s arraignment,” Terry said, “as expected. But I’m worried about this kid. Alicia’s fragile and cerebral. She’ll be eaten alive in this place.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Interrogate her as you would any suspect,” Terry said.

  “That can get rough.”

  Terry sighed. “She’ll have to learn to handle rough before all this is over.”

  “Especially if she’s convicted.”

  “Bite your tongue, Maggie. I don’t intend to lose this case.”

  A key turned in the lock, the steel door swung open, and Alicia stepped into the room. She looked so different from the girl I’d seen yesterday that I took a moment to recognize her. Her face was swollen and splotched from crying, her long hair wild and tangled, and her willowy figure engulfed by pants and a blouse that, except for their bright orange color, resembled hospital scrubs.

  A guard removed her handcuffs, and Terry, with amazing gentleness, led Alicia to the table and one of the metal chairs. Terry motioned me to take the chair across from Alicia.

  “This is Maggie Skerritt, a private investigator,” the attorney informed her client. “She’s here to help you and has some questions. I want you to tell her everything.”

  Alicia nodded, but the girl appeared so wounded, I wondered how much she actually comprehended.

  Terry retreated to a corner, leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Tell me what happened yesterday,” I said to Alicia.

  She lifted her head at the sound of my voice and studied my face with a frown. “Do I know you?”

  “I was at Grove Spirit House yesterday morning.”

  Comprehension flitted across her tear-stained features. “You look different.”

  “So do you.”

  Her lips lifted slightly in a rueful smile. “Are you going to help me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you killed Willard Ashton.”

  Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks and her
shoulders shook with a sob. “The Teacher? Why would I kill him? He was wonderful.”

  “He was very good at what he did,” I hedged. “Now tell me about yesterday.”

  “Everything seems like such a blur.”

  “Take your time, but don’t leave out anything. Even the smallest details can be very important.”

  “You’re going to get me out of here, aren’t you?” Her tone was pleading, desperate.

  “You’ll have to stand trial first,” I said. “If Terry can prove your innocence, you’ll be released. But for her to defend you, we need to know everything. Let’s start with yesterday.”

  Alicia took a deep breath, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and nodded. “It was almost exactly like every day I’d spent there.”

  “You had a routine?”

  “The Teacher said I needed discipline in order to join with the Universal Spirit.”

  I nodded and waited.

  “Yesterday,” she continued, “I got up at daybreak—”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “In one of the tiki huts by the lake. It was scary at first with no walls and all those bugs, but I was getting used to it. The Teacher said I had to learn to shut out this world—”

  “To commune with the Universal Spirit.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice, but Alicia didn’t seem to notice.

  “After bathing in the lake, I did my morning meditation in the gazebo. Celeste sounded the gong at ten, the signal for me to begin my chores. I went straight to the kitchen. I was preparing the midday meal when you came in.”

  “And after that?”

  “I served The Teacher in the dining room and returned to my hut for my afternoon studies. Not long after that, I heard Celeste’s screams, coming from the dining pavilion. I ran as fast as I could. The Teacher was on the floor, unconscious.” Alicia started crying again.

  Neither Detective Keating nor the news reports had given cause of death. “How did he die?”

  “I thought he’d taken ill. He’d thrown up, and his skin was covered with a red rash. Celeste called 911, and we waited outside for the paramedics.” She shook her head sadly. “There wasn’t anything they could do. He was already…gone.”

  “What did the paramedics tell you?”

  “They called the police and the medical examiner and told Celeste and me to stay out of the dining pavilion. A sheriff’s deputy stayed with us. After the medical examiner left with…the body, a detective came over and asked who’d prepared the meal. I told him I had. He asked if Celeste had helped.”

  “Had she?”

  Alicia shook her head. “Celeste stayed out of the kitchen. I even unloaded the groceries from her car and put them away after she went shopping. Her job was to take care of all the paperwork, reservations for retreats and bookkeeping.” Alicia shook her head. “When I told that to the detective, he arrested me.”

  “Doc Cline claims Ashton was poisoned,” Terry interjected from her corner.

  “That can’t be,” Alicia insisted, “unless he had some kind of allergy. He’d eaten that same recipe before and liked it. That’s why I fixed it again.”

  Doc Cline, the medical examiner, was good at her job. If she said Ashton had been poisoned, the guy had been poisoned. If I knew how, I’d have a better idea what the hell had happened.

  “Did you eat any of the dish you’d prepared?” I asked.

  “I’d been fasting ever since I entered Grove Spirit House. I was allowed only fruit juice in the mornings and evenings.”

  “Tell me about this meal you fixed.”

  “It was a pea, pesto and penne pasta salad.” Meeting my gaze, she answered without hesitation. If the kid was guilty, she was doing a first-class job of covering herself. She either had a clear conscience or, as with too many I’d encountered in my line of work, no conscience at all.

  “Could anyone have tampered with the ingredients?” I asked.

  Alicia thought for a moment. “I opened a fresh box of whole-grain pasta, a new bottle of olive oil for the pesto. But the packages that contained the basil for the pesto and the peas had been opened and replaced in the refrigerator when I made the salad two days earlier.”

  “So someone could have tampered with them?”

  “I guess. But who? I never saw Celeste enter the kitchen. The only other person around was Hector Morales, the lawn guy, but that was almost a week ago, the first day I was there.”

  Remembering The Teacher’s overt sexuality, I took a stab in the dark. “Did Ashton ever come on to you?”

  Alicia blushed and lowered her eyes. “He held me. But it’s not what you think. He said our closeness represented our oneness—”

  “With the Universal Spirit.” Ashton had been a self-serving creep, but that wasn’t a capital offense. Someone, however, must have thought so. And my gut was telling me it wasn’t Alicia.

  “Any other questions?” Terry asked.

  I shook my head. “Not for now.”

  “Anything you need?” the attorney asked Alicia.

  Alicia, eyes wide with fright, looked about ten years old. “Just to go home.”

  The guard reappeared to take her to her cell and Terry and I left behind her. I retrieved my gun, walked with Terry into the parking lot and stopped beside her car, a gigantic Expedition that made the attorney look like a pygmy.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe Alicia did it,” I said. “At the moment, however, I have nothing to base that on but twenty-three years’ experience and an instinct that’s been right most of the time.”

  “The kid lacks motive,” Terry agreed. “She obviously adored Ashton. His death has traumatized her as much as being arrested. Will you take the case?”

  I nodded grimly. “Alicia’s going to need all the help she can get.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Bill handed me the beer he’d poured into a frosted pilsner and sat beside me on the deck to watch the sunset. Mouthwatering aromas had emanated from the galley when he’d opened the cabin’s sliding glass door, but between lunch with Mother and my jail-house visit with Alicia Langston, my appetite was on hiatus.

  Bill must have noticed my somber demeanor.

  “Your mother and Caroline still on your back?” he asked.

  I took a long drink and shuddered. “It gets worse every day.”

  “What’s worse than eight hundred wedding guests?”

  “Eight bridesmaids.”

  He grinned. “What’s next, ten lords a-leaping?”

  I swatted him on the arm. “You won’t think this is so funny come Valentine’s Day when they have you gussied up in a tux with tails, looking like an overgrown penguin on display to a crowd of strangers.”

  He struggled to straighten his face. “No offense, Margaret, but do you know eight women well enough to have them serve as wedding attendants?”

  “I don’t have to. Caroline and Mother have it all figured out. Caroline will be matron of honor. And Mother plans to ask the daughters of eight of her friends, girls I knew in high school, to be bridesmaids. Mother will probably select your groomsmen, too.”

  “Priscilla is nothing if not resourceful,” Bill said with a touch of admiration.

  “That’s not the half of it,” I said with a sigh. “They’ve reserved the sanctuary of the Presbyterian church, hoping it will be large enough, since it seats a thousand. That will include the riffraff who won’t be invited to dinner. The reception will be held on the lawn at Mother’s, with the ballroom of the Pelican Beach Hilton booked in case of rain.”

  “Sounds like all the bases are covered.”

  I chugged beer, hoping for oblivion. “You should have heard them oohing and aahing with Madame Lapierre over details. They decided the bridesmaids’ dresses will be plum, for Pete’s sake, and their bouquets those god-awful purple orchids. I hate orchids.”

  “Moot point, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  He took my hand and threaded his finge
rs through mine. “Bridesmaids, dresses, flowers. Since you’re not going through with the plans, what do any of them matter?”

  “I’ve been letting my mother and sister steamroller me, which proves what a total wimp I am. That’s what matters.”

  Bill threw back his head and laughed. “You, a wimp? I’ve seen you take down a 250-pound thug, high on crack, with the whack of a baton to the back of his knees. You’re no wimp, Margaret.”

  I felt a glimmer of hope. “You think a baton will work on Mother?”

  “How about a simple no?”

  “My mother doesn’t understand simple. And few people dare say no to her. But you’re right. I have to tell her.”

  “The longer you put it off, the harder it will be.”

  I nodded. “But Mother seems so pleased with me while she’s making these plans. I hate to cause her to revert to her former disapproval. Is that sick, or what?”

  “That’s human. We all want our parents to approve of us.”

  Shamed by my obsession with petty problems in light of Bill’s recent loss, I squeezed his hand. “I know you miss your dad.”

  Bill’s father had died from complications of Alzheimer’s last month, and his death had hit Bill hard. He’d had a terrible enough time handling his dad’s death, but he was also racked with guilt over his sense of relief. Watching the big man, who’d been hale and hearty all his life, deteriorate both mentally and physically had torn Bill apart. He’d both welcomed his father’s death and been devastated by it.

  “I miss Dad,” Bill said, “but I’d already lost him months ago. He hadn’t recognized me in over a year.” He seemed to shake off his sadness.

  I’d never known Bill to remain unhappy for long. His ubiquitous optimism and joy in living were two of the many traits I loved about him.

  A boat entered the row of slips where Bill’s cabin cruiser was docked, and its wake stirred the waters, gently rocking the deck where we sat. The music of the Fifth Dimension drifted across the marina from an oldies radio station, playing on a nearby sailboat. Seagulls flocked overhead as charter boats at the far side of the marina unloaded their passengers and catches of the day. The scene was calm, peaceful, but my insides were tied in knots by events I’d allowed to rocket out of control.