Holidays Are Murder

by Charlotte Douglas

  “Was Alberto here yesterday?”

  The waiter shook his head. “Nah, nobody signed up for tennis lessons on Thanksgiving. I didn’t see Alberto all day yesterday. He was here earlier this afternoon, but he’s already left for the day.”

  This guy was a fountain of information, so I decided to push my luck. “You ever wait tables when Mr. and Mrs. Lovelace dined together?”

  “Couple of times. It was sad.”

  “Sad?”

  “They barely spoke to each other and he always took off before the dessert course. Left her sitting alone over coffee. Didn’t need to be a mind reader to tell it broke her heart.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded again. “I’m sensitive to feelings. Mrs. Lovelace wanted a heck of a lot more attention than her husband was giving her.”

  Enter Alberto and his new boat. “Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

  When I arrived home, my answering machine indicated two messages. The first was from my mother, reiterating her displeasure over my treatment of Samantha. The second was from Bill. He sounded as excited as a kid.

  “Come over as soon as you’re off work, Margaret. I have something to show you. And I’ll fix you dinner.”

  I’d tried contacting Lovelace’s secretary again and Dan Rankin and Alberto Suarez without success, so, with nowhere to go at the moment with my homicide investigation, I jumped at Bill’s invitation. I didn’t want to spend the evening alone with my mother’s reproaches ringing in my ears. And, culinarily challenged, I’m a sucker for anyone who’ll cook for me.

  But first I placed a call to my sister Caroline.

  “Margaret?” she answered in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

  I swallowed my pride and almost choked on it. “My investigation of Vincent Lovelace’s death has hurt Mother’s feelings, and I want to make nice.”

  Dead silence greeted me on the other end of the line. Undeterred, I plunged ahead. “Will you take me as your guest to the Christmas tea at the club tomorrow?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Is that a no?”

  Caroline didn’t say anything.

  “How many times,” I said, “have I ever asked a favor of you?”

  “Face it, Margaret, you act as if you don’t belong to this family. Never have since Greg died.”

  “I know you don’t approve of me, but I’m still your sister.” I didn’t dare admit that I wanted to attend the tea as much to glean from the club’s rumor mills about the Lovelaces and Alberto Suarez as to appease Mother. I’d face Caroline’s icy disdain any day if it helped solve this case before the chief got back. “Will you help me or not?”

  “Do you own a dress?”

  I ignored her sarcasm and pictured the utilitarian navy number that I wore for court appearances. “No.”

  “You’ll make Mother even angrier if you embarrass her in front of her friends.” She was quiet again, but I could hear the wheels turning in her brain. She’d given in, but I would have to meet her terms. “I’ll take you to Neiman Marcus first thing in the morning so we can shop.”

  Caroline lived to shop, and the prospect of a spending excursion made her sound downright cheerful.

  I considered the time it would take to drive to Tampa and also the depleted state of my checking account. “What about the Macy’s here? Or Dillard’s?”

  Or better yet, JCPenney or T.J. Maxx? I tried to imagine Caroline at the last two and drew a blank.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, “we’ll try Macy’s, but you’ll have to agree to keep shopping if we don’t find something suitable there.”

  “The tea is at four o’clock. We won’t have much time.”

  “Less than you think. I have a hair appointment at two. I can get Andre to squeeze you in, too.”

  A styling by Andre would cost as much as my dress. I considered adding both to my expense account, then pictured the chief’s reaction. “Thanks, but no time. I’m supposed to be working tomorrow.”

  “I’ll meet you at Macy’s at ten in the morning then?”

  “Thanks, Caroline. I owe you.”

  “You certainly do,” she said in a voice exactly like Mother’s and hung up.

  Warm air rolled across the fifty-six-degree waters of the Gulf and created a blanket of fog that reduced visibility to almost zero. I inched my Volvo along Edgewater Drive to the Pelican Bay Marina and parked in a visitor’s space. Darkness and fog obscured Bill’s boat at the end of the dock, but pounding noises, muffled by the fog, emanated from that direction.

  Picking my way carefully along the wet planks, I reached the Ten-Ninety-Eight. Bill had named his boat after the radio code for “mission completed.” He had finished his tour as a police officer, but Bill was never idle. Tonight, in spite of the encompassing fog, was no exception. Judging by the sounds coming from the bow, if Bill hadn’t already had a boat, I’d have sworn he was building one.

  “Hello!” I shouted at the first lull in the hammering.

  Bill’s head appeared around the end of the cabin. “Over here.”

  I moved to the end of the catwalk opposite the bow. Bill hopped off the boat, gave me a hug, then pointed to the front of the boat with beaming pride. “What do you think?”

  At that moment, a gust of wind cleared the mist that had swirled around the bow. I blinked in surprise and words failed me. Starting at the top of the flying bridge and progressing in brightly painted wooden pairs that extended over the prow were eight prancing…flamingos?

  “Well?” he prompted.

  Still stunned, I was finally able to speak. “I think you have way too much time on your hands.”

  “Aw, Margaret.” He practically deflated before my eyes. “I really hoped you’d like it.”

  I felt bad that I’d burst his bubble. “Maybe I’ll like it better if you tell me what it is.”

  “The Christmas Boat Parade is Sunday night,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “You’ve never entered before.”

  “I decided this year we should have some fun.”

  “We?”

  “I need your help to pull this off.”

  “I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation!”

  “All the more reason for some comic relief.”

  I eyed the bigger-than-life flamingo flock that glowed neon-salmon, even in the fog. “You got the comic part right.”

  “Wait right there,” Bill said with all the excitement of a kid at Christmas. “You can’t get the full effect without the lights.”

  “I don’t know if my heart can take the full effect.”

  He grasped me by the shoulders, planted a sloppy kiss on my lips and gave me the smile that never failed to make my knees weak. “Lighten up, Margaret. I’m going to teach you how to have fun again.”

  He released me as suddenly as he had grabbed me, scampered back onto the boat with the agility of a much younger man and disappeared behind the cabin.

  “Ready?” His voice floated to me on the fog.

  “Ready,” I said without much conviction, since I had no idea what I was supposed to be ready for.

  Blinding light flooded the boat, surprising me so much that I stepped backward and would have gone off the dock if I hadn’t grabbed a piling.

  The flying bridge, ablaze in white twinkle lights, rose above me, transformed into a bamboo Santa’s sleigh, whose reins, illuminated by more strings of lights, harnessed the eight flamingos, lighted by spotlights. On both the bridge and the bow, stood stylized palm trees of painted plywood with twinkle lights outlining each frond. Once on the water, away from the glow of marina lights, the bulk of Bill’s boat would disappear, leaving the illusion of Santa’s sleigh, pulled by the gawky birds, skimming the dark waters of the sound.

  Bill reappeared on the deck in front of me and offered me his hand to tug me onboard. “What do you think?”

  I thought he’d taken tackiness to new heights, but I managed to restrain myself. “I’ve never
seen anything like it. It’s remarkable.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He looked immensely pleased with himself and took my words as praise.

  “How did you do…this?” I asked.

  “I made everything in Fernandez’s wood shop.”

  “Fernandez has a wood shop?” Fernandez, a former Tampa detective, had taken early retirement several years ago, claiming the victims of his homicide cases haunted him. Literally.

  “His therapist thought a hobby would help with his problem,” Bill explained. “This display is nothing compared to what Fernandez built for his own front yard. He did the entire North Pole, Santa’s workshop and all.”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “Come inside,” Bill said. “There’s more.”

  “You’ve decorated inside, too?”

  He shook his head and pulled me along the deck toward the sliding-glass doors at the stern.

  Bracing myself for the worst, I stepped inside. But the tiny cabin looked the same as always, compact and shipshape. Not a single pink flamingo or twinkle light in sight.

  “Help yourself to a beer,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Bill hurried through the galley to the sleeping area. I removed a bottle of beer from the counter-size refrigerator and listened to him opening and closing cabinets and rustling tissue paper.

  Frustrated and exhausted by the lack of progress in the Lovelace case, not to mention my elusive rooftop burglars, I sank onto the love seat, kicked off my shoes and propped my feet on the wicker chest that served as a coffee table.

  I took a long pull on the Michelob.

  “Well,” Bill spoke from the galley, “what do you think?”

  One look and I spewed beer all over my toes.

  A Jimmy Buffett version of Santa had taken over Bill’s body. He wore red Bermuda shorts, red flip-flops, a red-and-white oversize Hawaiian shirt to accommodate his pillowed paunch and a Santa hat. Most remarkable of all, however, was the flowing white beard that matched his thick hair. And sunglasses.

  “If you say ho-ho-ho, I’ll throw this bottle at you,” I said, mopping beer off my feet.

  “Ah, Margaret, where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s fairly obvious you must be drinking yours.”

  The twinkle in his eye was very Kris Kringle. “Does that mean you won’t try on your costume?”

  “My costume? You’ve got to be kidding? Besides, I’m too big for an elf.”

  “But you’re just the right size for Mrs. Claus. A very svelte Mrs. Claus,” he amended quickly before ducking back into the sleeping area.

  He returned almost immediately with a large white box. “Open it.”

  Fearful of what I’d find, I lifted the lid and turned back the layers of tissue. The box held a muumuu in the same red-and-white Hawaiian print as his shirt.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “Yeah. This will save me a shopping trip tomorrow. I can wear it to the Christmas tea at the club. I’ve always wanted to give my mother and sister simultaneous heart attacks.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them. Bill looked like someone whose favorite dog had just died.

  He tugged off his hat and beard and sat across from me. “I’d really hoped you’d like this. I was planning for us to ride together in the parade, then hand out candy to the kids at the marina party afterward.”

  Bill’s generosity and concern for others were qualities that had drawn me to him years ago, and I wanted to kick myself for raining on his parade. I’d let my own troubles with my family and job consume me. Bill was right. My life cried out for some fun—and I should have been more aware of the needs of others. I stood, shook out the muumuu and held it against me.

  “A perfect fit.” I flashed him my warmest smile. “But there’s a problem.”

  “What?” From his hesitancy, I could tell he was waiting for me to hit him with another zinger.

  “Isn’t Mrs. Claus’s hair white?”

  His good humor restored, Bill nodded with a broad grin. “Check the bottom of the box.”

  I removed a layer of tissue paper to reveal a white wig, gold-rimmed granny glasses and red flip-flops in my shoe size. I couldn’t picture myself gussied up like Mrs. Santa, but I couldn’t disappoint Bill, either.

  “You think of everything,” I said.

  Ever sensitive to my feelings, he took the dress from me, returned it to the box and hugged me. “You don’t have to do this, Margaret, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  I shook my head. “You’re right. If we make some kids happy, it should be fun.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “One of the things I love about you is that you’re such a good sport.”

  Curiosity prodded me to ask what other things he loved about me, but I decided now was not the time. I wanted to hear wonderful, romantic reasons, but not from a guy in a Santa suit.

  “Besides,” I continued, “compared to the getup my sister will force me to buy tomorrow, this outfit is much more my style.”

  “You’re going shopping with Caroline?”

  I knew that would get his attention. “To buy a dress for the Christmas tea tomorrow at the club.”

  Concern lit his blue eyes and he stepped back and studied my face. “Are you okay? You’ve always avoided that place like the plague.”

  “I’ll just think of it as going undercover,” I said and proceeded to fill him in on what I’d learned that day about the Lovelaces and Alberto Suarez.

  Later Bill, now dressed in his usual attire, walked me to my car. He pointed to the box beneath my arm. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Of course,” I lied. A died-in-the-wool introvert, I hated anything that called attention to myself, and the fact that I was willing to take part in Bill’s Christmas charade was a testament to how much he meant to me. Playing Mrs. Claus would be out of character and uncomfortable, but if it made Bill happy, I’d endure it with a smile.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Depends on how my investigation unfolds. What time should I be here Sunday?”

  “No later than four o’clock. The boats gather at Island Estates in Clearwater, then cruise north after dark along the Intracoastal to the marina park here for the children’s party.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me, crushing the box that held my costume. “Sleep tight, Margaret.”

  Already missing the warmth of his embrace, I climbed into my car and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I saw Bill watch me until I rounded a corner and lost sight of him.

  Tonight I’d had a rare glimpse of another facet of Bill, a boyish, playful aspect that stood in sharp contrast to the hard-core ex-cop with his brilliant analytical mind and zero tolerance of crime. Although I had a hard time relating to his love of fun, deep down, I knew he was good for me. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question remained.

  Was I, with my workaholic tendencies and alienated family, good for him?

  CHAPTER 7

  At seven o’clock the next morning, I stood on the dock at Pirate’s Cove Marina in Dunedin, megacup of Dunkin’ Donuts’ coffee in hand, and watched the sun rise over the palms, pines and acres of zoysia of the golf course at the Dunedin Country Club. With all the golf courses, marinas, beaches, parks and other tourist attractions in the county, you might guess that nobody worked in this retirement area of Florida—until you tried to travel any main road, especially during rush hour. In spite of the holiday weekend and early hour, I’d had to fight gridlock between here and the coffee shop.

  I figured, even on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, Alberto would punch in at the yacht club. Too many members would be spending their weekend there for him to take the day off. If he didn’t show up soon, however, I knew where he lived, just a block away, and I’d pay him a visit.

  Meanwhile, I wandered the docks at the small marina, checking out ski boats. I found only three, all with names emblazoned on their sterns. I ruled
out My Children’s Inheritance and Cheeseburger in Paradise and focused on Grand Slam, as good a name as any for a tennis pro’s watercraft. Obviously new, the boat’s sleek lines indicated high cost and excessive power and speed. And at today’s prices, Alberto had to spend a small fortune just to gas it up. I made a mental note to check into how much money tennis pros raked in. I’d already learned from the marina attendant that the monthly docking fees were more than the mortgages on some homes.

  I stepped onto the catwalk that ran alongside the Grand Slam and knelt to study the boat’s interior. Alberto had to be a neat freak, because the only items visible were the spanking-clean cushions on the seats. No sign of a rake, not even a grain of beach sand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” someone shouted at me.

  I stood and watched an athletic young man approach, his face red and scowling. If this was Alberto, Samantha was robbing the cradle, because if the guy was over twenty-five, I’d eat my Christmas muumuu.

  “Admiring your boat,” I said.

  “It’s private property.”

  “So it is. And I’m not on it. Are you Alberto Suarez?”

  My question was strictly conversational. Judging by his deep tan, white shirt and shorts, expensive top-of-the-line tennis shoes and the bag of rackets he carried, he was my man.

  “Who wants to know?” His dark eyes squinted with suspicion. He was handsome in a dark, swarthy way, but his eyes were too small for my taste. His build, however, reflected long hours of physical training and would probably attract at least passing interest from any woman who still possessed hormones. Sun exposure had streaked his dark hair with highlights and was already beginning to weather his skin.

  I showed him my shield. “Maggie Skerritt. I’m a detective with the Pelican Bay Police Department.”

  His lip curled with a hint of disdain. “A detective, huh? I didn’t think you wanted tennis lessons.”

  Nor any of the other services he was rumored to offer, but I kept that tidbit to myself. “You know Samantha Lovelace?”

  “Yeah.” He straightened his shoulders and appeared to preen for an instant in studly pride. “So what?”