Death by Marriage

by Blair Bancroft

  “But your beautiful costumes . . .”

  “They’re fine. Artemis’s orange fur blends right in with the lion.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Royal Willie’s captor turn away to hide his twitching lips.

  “Animals!” Evelyn huffed. “Come, Jeffrey. I’ll never find anything suitable in this madhouse.” The couple who had inadvertently let Artemis in, perhaps feeling guilty, followed them out.

  Our dear Miss Letty began to cry. “I’ll pay you for the lost sales, Gwyn. I’m so terribly sorry, my dear, I can’t imagine what got into Willie.”

  It took a while to convince her that no harm had been done. That, no, I would not take her money, absolutely not. Royal Willie was welcome any time. Well, perhaps next time his leash should be tied to something.

  Crystal, still murmuring words of sympathy and reassurance, escorted Miss Letty to the door. I turned to our sole remaining customer. Royal Willie’s captor—Boone Talbot, Chief of Police.

  Chapter 3

  I’d met Boone Talbot for the first time last night. Until now, the paths of DreamWear and the Golden Beach police might as well have been on two separate planets.

  Of course Talbot had been Chief of Police only three months. Many long-time residents of Golden Beach had wanted a native son to replace our retiring chief, and they mocked the youngish Deputy Chief from Grand Island, Nebraska, as having “corn husks behind his ears.” They also complained that the town council had somehow managed to hire a man from a state as far from a large body of water as it’s possible to get for Chief of Police in a town bordered on the west by the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway and on the east by the Arcadia, a river officially designated by the state as “wild and scenic.”

  Of course, making fun of our new Chief was a handy tool for obscuring the fact that he’d been hired after an embarrassing accounting scandal rocked the reign of our blissfully entrenched Chief Brannigan. That’s right. Jeb Brannigan’s father. Small world.

  Chief Talbot wasn’t a strikingly handsome man, but when I’d seen him up close and personal last night, using a battery-powered megaphone to corral the milling boats into some semblance of order, issuing firm commands to police and EMS on his radio, and still finding time to question the most immediate witnesses, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Of course boat captains were probably easier to herd than cows. Or maybe not. These were mostly Yacht and Country Club types, unaccustomed to taking orders.

  By the light of day Boone Talbot was even more impressive. After introducing him to Crystal, I gave him a leisurely once-over while the two of them exchanged a few polite words. Last night I’d thought his wavy hair was white. Instead, it was the color of sand mixed with cornsilk. The lines on his craggy face added character, not age. His sharply intelligent blue-gray eyes didn’t look nearly as intimidating as they had under the quickly rigged portable spotlights last night. Or maybe it was the three-piece suit. Outside of law offices and funerals, we didn’t see many of those in Golden Beach. This was a town where you can wear shorts and sandals to the finest waterfront restaurants. According to the town council, Golden Beach is one big resort. A fun place. Live to one hundred and enjoy every moment.

  We were a striking contrast, the Chief and I. A rangy blond Nebraskan whose pale skin carried the reddish tint of someone who is never going to tan, just burn and peel under the unrelenting Florida sun. And Gypsy me. I’m a good six inches shorter than Golden Beach’s top cop. I have perfectly straight long black hair, chocolate eyes, and skin that screams of some ancient Mediterranean origin—Italy, Spain, Greece, Morocco, maybe even Egypt, the legendary origin of the Gypsies. I’ll never know the answer unless I decide to track my birth parents, and that doesn’t seem likely. My looks have been described as “exotic.” A definite plus in the fashion business, a bit awkward in a town like Golden Beach.

  Chief Talbot was staring at me with the amused tolerance of a man who’s been given the once-over a time or two before. “Sorry if I’m intruding,” he said, “but I finished all the interviews at the station. Thought I’d drop by and save you the trip.”

  That’s all he said, but something about the warm glint in his eyes, the ever-so-slight tilt of his well-formed lips, plus an aura of male pheromones that was probably a figment of my imagination, and I swear I heard a click inside my head. He might as well have uttered that old shocker, “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi?” Butterflies kamikazied my stomach lining. My toes curled. I’d been celibate for more than five years, dating only when my mother nagged me into it or when that insidious little voice inside my head reminded me I wasn’t getting any younger. I was a living example of the old adage, Once burned, twice shy. Actually, it was more like Once burned, forever shy. Yet here I was, giving the Chief’s left hand what I hoped was a subtle once-over.

  No wedding ring. And I hadn’t heard any rumors about a wife and kiddies. Oops. I’d been speechless for too long. The Chief was softly smiling. He didn’t have to be much of a detective to know he’d scored.

  Boone Talbot took up the slack. “I was wondering if you have any mustaches,” he said.

  Mustaches? “Mustaches?” I repeated as if I’d never heard the word before. Get a grip, Gwyn!

  Right. “We have some frankly fake ones on the wall rack,” I managed. “The better ones are here in the case.” I pointed my finger to the glass shelves under the counter. “You’ll need spirit gum for these.”

  One glance and the Chief announced he’d take them all, except the Hitler one. Plus spirit gum. “You may think Golden Beach doesn’t have much crime,” he explained, “but we’re doing our share of undercover operations. I’d like my detectives to have some sort of disguise so their faces aren’t instantly recognizable later, while they’re out shopping with the wife and kids.”

  “I could order some male wigs,” I offered. “I know a place in New York that does really good work.” I shrugged apologetically. “Not cheap, but you might want to consider it. I keep the catalog at home. I could bring it to your office if you’d care to look it.” How obvious could a girl get? Inwardly, I slapped myself upside the head.

  “Great. I’d appreciate that.”

  Crystal had been listening to our conversation with considerable interest, waggling her brow and smirking behind Boone Talbot’s back. Later, she’d probably tell me she’d seen my aura go neon.

  It probably had.

  Absurd.

  “I imagine the Chief wants to talk to you about last night,” Crystal said. Why don’t you two talk in my cave? I’ll handle the counter.”

  “Cave?” Chief Talbot, obviously scenting the unusual, appeared amused. And intrigued.

  Crystal waved a hand toward the midnight-velvet curtains. “I tell fortunes sometimes,” she said. “Just for fun. The Cave also doubles as a dressing room. Gwyn’s brother Scott built it,” she added. “Maybe you know him. Scott Wallace. Runs Sea Tow?”

  The Chief didn’t bother to hide his surprise. I could only hope he knew Scott because of his sea rescues or his role in last night’s disaster, not for more–ah–professional reasons. Scott was really good on the job, but when time hung heavy on his hands and he was bored . . .

  Let’s just say the Golden Beach police, the Sheriff’s Department, and the Florida Highway Patrol were all familiar with Scott’s antics. And tolerant. I hadn’t yet had to bail him out, but I feared it was only a matter of time.

  “Not much alike, are you?” Boone Talbot said.

  “I’m adopted. Scott isn’t.”

  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to pry.” Oh yes, he did. That’s what policemen do.

  “I’m the Gypsy, Scott’s the redneck. We’ve never figured out how the adoption agency stuck my parents with a dark cuckoo like me, but we’ve learned to live with it. Fortunately, when I was growing up, this was still a small town and everybody knew, so mom didn’t have to explain me to anyone but the snowbirds.”

  The Chief actually blushed. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, given his ag
e and his profession. “Does that make me a snowbird?” he asked. “An inquisitive, insensitive one at that?”

  “Just a stranger,” I told him. “Snowbirds fly home. I assume you’re here to stay.” My eyebrows rose in question.

  “Took one look at the ocean and knew this was it. Unless they throw me out,” Boone Talbot vowed, “I’m here to stay.” The look that accompanied his reply made it my turn to blush. The butterflies that had settled to a steady flutter, went kamikaze again, frantically attacking the pit of my stomach.

  Crystal shooed us into her cave, the tinkle of the glass beads obscuring my drumming pulse. I dove behind the small table holding Crystal’s ball—at the moment covered with a white satin cloth fringed in gold—and settled myself into Crystal’s white wrought iron ice cream chair, using the table as a psychological barricade to keep my rampant hormones in check. Down, girl! But it didn’t help much. Not even when Boone Talbot was no longer towering over me, having folded his near six feet into the customer chair on the other side of the table. The light filtering through the bead curtains was dim; the atmosphere, intimate.

  I gulped, put on my best professional façade, folded my hands on the table, and asked, “What do you want to know?”

  Mine wasn’t the only transformation. The Chief was all business now, leaning back in his chair as if we were only having a conversation between friends, but his eyes were sharp, his ears on the qui vive, and I could almost see the steel trap lurking beneath all those beautiful silky blond waves of hair.

  “Tell me what you saw. Every detail, no matter how little.”

  Every detail. I had a horrible feeling last night would be etched in my mind forever. Rainbow’s End, dead in the water about fifty feet south of where Martin Kellerman went into the water. His beloved boy toy—engines off, anchor out, the Christmas Tree on the bow now as dark as the surrounding water. Roped to the yacht’s port side—the side toward the deep-water center of the broad canal—was the Golden Beach police boat, its flashing blue and white lights seeming more dirge-like by the moment. Nowhere could anyone in the crowd, now pressed tight to the banks on both sides of the canal, see flailing hands, churning feet, or any sign of a human being in the water, alive or dead.

  The now incongruously festive arrays of lights on the other boats helped illuminate the scene of the disaster. But nothing moved out there, not so much as a ripple. Nothing but Scott, a member of Golden Beach’s volunteer dive team, as he searched for Martin Kellerman. Or what was left of him. Scott hadn’t join the rescue team for the extra money. He truly loved saving people.

  But not this time, I thought, as minutes dragged by without a sign of Martin. Screaming ambulances arrived, forced to park a block away, while the EMS teams used the bike path along the Waterway to roll two stretcher units into place. Giant mobile spotlights, the size of satellite dishes, came next, their harsh glare illuminating what was looking more and more like the scene of a tragedy. Other divers joined Scott’s efforts, but the minutes turned into hours with no sign of a body, alive or dead.

  On the Chief’s orders, the boats on the north side of the canal began a series of tight U-turns, slinking back toward the Golden Beach Yacht Club at a snail’s pace, their lights winking out one by one as the captains acknowledged the possible tragedy they were leaving behind. The boats to the south, however, were trapped for the duration of Search and Rescue. Which was, of course, what we still hoped it was.

  If you’re wondering why they were trapped, the next outlet to the Gulf of Mexico was twenty miles south. Any boat choosing to go home that way would be caught in a forty-mile round trip, including trekking back to Golden Beach Harbor at night via a choppy gulf. Having set out for a happy event of less than four miles round trip, most boats probably weren’t even carrying that much fuel. So the boat captains switched off their music and powered down to idle. After the huge spotlights sprang into life, the captains turned off their now forlorn Christmas lights, threw out anchors, and shut down their engines.

  As the low throb of motors dwindled to nothing, I realized the truth of the old saying that silence is deafening. Hushed conversations from the many spectators still lining the banks ceased as abruptly as the boat engines. With the eerie sound of silence, hope faded.

  Minutes turned to hours, the crowd dwindled, and the divers began to show fatigue as they heaved themselves back onto Scott’s dive platform for a rest. Search and Rescue had become Recovery. We all knew it. But I stayed. I told myself I wanted to be sure Scott didn’t stay down too long and have to be rescued himself, but truthfully there were so many police and EMS experts present, the chances of a second disaster were slim.

  I was caught in the moment, like the others who didn’t have to be there. Part respect for a man I’d known and liked and part—inwardly, I groaned. Never would I admit to ghoulish curiosity. But I wondered . . . was there some atavistic urge, born in us all—or maybe just in some of us—that made us want to know, to somehow comprehend how and why tragedies happen. There were people who would condemn me as a voyeur, but this was high drama, and I couldn’t turn away.

  Until Scott found what was left of Martin Kellerman. And the horror of it made cowards of us all. Except the police, who had no choice. And Scott, who had to deal with the remains up close and personal.

  “Miss Halliday?”

  Startled, I realized I was sitting there, staring at the white satin cover over Crystal’s ball and keeping Chief Talbot waiting. Zoning out from lack of sleep. “Sorry,” I muttered, and began my account from the moment I spotted Martin and his wife standing beside the Christmas Tree on the bow of Rainbow’s End, gaily waving to the crowd.

  “It was all so perfect,” I said. “The lights on the flying bridge, the tree, the costumes, their smiles. I remember feeling proud I’d had a small part in it. I order the Santa suits from a catalog,” I confided, “but I make all the Mrs. Santa and Elves myself.” For a moment Boone Talbot’s professional stone face wavered. A slight nod acknowledged my words. Idiot! He couldn’t care less. Get on with it.

  “As I said, everything was fine. And then Mr. Kellerman swayed a bit. Standing on the bow is a bit tricky, but I knew he had the tree to grab. Then he staggered . . .” I frowned, closed my eyes. Thought hard. “He grabbed the tree with his left hand, his right was . . . I’m not sure, maybe reaching for support that wasn’t there. His knees began to buckle, he stumbled forward, sort of in slow motion.”

  “And?”

  This was the tricky part. I was certain about what I’d seen. The picture in my mind was photo clear, but I also knew memory could play tricks. What if that’s what mine was doing?

  “Miss Halliday . . . Gwyn?” Those steel blue policeman’s eyes probed my brain. My soul. The man wanted answers.

  The man had been interviewing all morning. He already knew the answers. He was looking for confirmation. And if I didn’t give it, I was left in a place I didn’t want to go.

  “I thought his wife would grab him,” I offered. Then paused again. I really had to get this part right. Had to make it clear that I couldn’t be certain.

  “I was shocked, of course,” I said slowly. “Maybe I don’t remember the next part as clearly as I should . . . but it looked like his wife just stood there, probably too startled to take in what was happening. And then Rainbow’s End made a slight jog, just enough for a bad bounce off the wake of the boat in front. The bow shuddered, Martin was pitched off. He probably would have gone off anyway,” I added lamely.

  “And Mrs. Kellerman was where during all this?”

  “About two feet away, on the other side of the Christmas tree. Afterwards, on her knees. Screaming.”

  “Did she at any time reach out to help him?”

  “I was watching Martin,” I said. “I–I’m really not sure.”

  Yes, I was. She’d had one hand on the tree and one to her mouth. It was her motive that I found open to question. Shock or deliberate abandonment?

  “We can leave that for the moment
,” Chief Talbot said smoothly. “I assume you know Jeb Brannigan?”

  “Pretty much all my life.” Unfortunately.

  “Knows his way around a boat better than most?” the Chief suggested. I agreed. “Under the circumstances, do you think him capable of keeping his head and holding the boat steady?”

  There was no other answer but yes. Jeb Brannigan didn’t startle easily. As much as I disliked him as a person, at the helm he was steady as a rock. “He’s not my favorite person, but he’s one of the best captains around. Runs a charter fishing service as well as Sea Rescue.”

  Boone raised one blond eyebrow. “Any mysterious trips? There must be some reason you don’t like him,” the Chief added with an apologetic shrug that didn’t fool me for one minute. Boone Talbot was a pretty polished fisherman for someone who grew up in landlocked Nebraska. “He doesn’t smuggle,” I shot back, surprised to find myself defending my old high school nemesis. “Not drugs, not people. If he did, believe me, I’d have heard about it. If we discount the snowbirds and the year-round retirees, this is still a pretty small town.”

  Chief Talbot just looked at me, his gaze unwavering. Expectant.

  “Jeb does his best to beat Scott to an emergency,” I conceded. “He added Sea Rescue during a slow season only two years ago.”

  The Chief was still waiting, his rather nice mouth and fine eyes quirked askance. “Okay, so Jeb’s an octopus,” I admitted. “He’s made a few moves I had to put down, and not just in high school.”

  “Umm.” The fingers of the Chief’s right hand drummed against the table. There I was, the poor little costume designer, skewered like a butterfly on a pin. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the small table, the gold-fringed white satin square covering Crystal’s ball the only barrier between us. “Do you know Vanessa Kellerman?”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  He ran a long index finger over the white satin. “Heard any rumors?”

  “Not until this morning.” Again, he waited, his silence drawing words from me as easily as I drew thread from a spool.