I’d been avoiding Mother’s calls for days.

She was anxious to finalize her plans for my elaborate wedding, and I’d hoped by putting her off that she would finally cease and desist.

Guilt prompted me to pick up the phone and face the consequences.

“Good morning, Mother. How are you?”

“I’m perfectly fine, but I was beginning to worry that you’d fallen off the face of the earth, Margaret. It’s a relief to know you’re alive and well.” Mother cloaked her sarcasm in such a soft, sweet tone it took a few seconds to realize I’d been zinged.

“Business is booming.”

“Not too booming for you to have lunch with your mother today, I hope?”

When she referred to herself in the third person, I knew I was in trouble, so I bit the bullet. “Of course not. Just the two of us?”

“There’s someone at the door,” Mother replied without responding to my question. “I’ll see you at noon.”

With a feeling of foreboding, I hung up the phone. I feared the wedding-planning trap had been sprung.

Charlotte Douglas

USA TODAY bestselling author Charlotte Douglas, a versatile writer who has produced over twenty-five books, including romance, suspense, Gothic, and even a Star Trek novel, has now created a mystery series featuring Maggie Skerritt, a witty and irreverent homicide detective in a small fictional town on Florida’s central west coast.

Douglas’s life has been as varied as her writings. Born in North Carolina and raised in Florida, she earned her degree in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and attended graduate school at the University of South Florida in Tampa. She has worked as an actor, a journalist and a church musician and taught English and speech at the secondary and college level for almost two decades. For several summers while newly married and still in college, she even manned a U.S. Forest Service lookout in northwest Montana with her husband.

Married to her high school sweetheart for over four decades, Douglas now writes full-time. With her husband and their two cairn terriers, she divides her year between their home on Florida’s central west coast—a place not unlike Pelican Bay—and their mountaintop retreat in the Great Smokies of North Carolina.

She enjoys hearing from readers, who can contact her at charlottedouglas1@juno.com.

Wedding Bell Blues
Charlotte Douglas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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From the Author

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Pelican Bay! This month Maggie is inundated by all things bridal.

She and Bill Malcolm are hired to find a runaway bride and to provide security for a wedding reception. At the same time, Maggie struggles to convince her mother and sister that she doesn’t want them to plan for her “the biggest wedding Pelican Bay has ever seen.” But all is not beribboned bouquets and white lace as Maggie and Bill’s search for the missing bride-to-be turns into a full-blown murder investigation.

My mail has been filled with requests for Maggie and Bill to tie the knot. Will their marriage finally happen in Wedding Bell Blues? Or will commitment-shy Maggie balk again? Relax, smell the orange blossoms and enjoy Maggie’s latest adventure.

Happy reading!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

“Good morning, Maggie—if you like this hot, sticky weather.” Darcy Wilkins, my secretary-receptionist and jill-of-all-trades, dropped the mail on my desk.

“Like it or not,” I said, “it’ll be this way for the next six months. Thank God for air-conditioning.”

Darcy handed me a jumbo French-vanilla latte from the bookstore coffee shop downstairs and settled on the sofa in my office. Cupping a mug of green tea in her capable dark hands, she propped her feet on the coffee table and waited for further instructions.

In the far corner of the sofa, Roger, the pug I’d inherited from a former client, slept undisturbed, his legs straight in the air in the dying cockroach position, head hanging backward over the cushion’s edge. His snuffling snore mixed with the rumble of traffic on Main Street one storey below where the morning rush could be heard, even through closed windows and above the hum of central cooling.

I sorted through the stack of envelopes and set aside the utility bills for Darcy to handle. My morning started going downhill at the sight of an oversize white linen envelope addressed to Miss Margaret Skerritt, Pelican Bay Investigations, Pelican Bay, Florida. In the same elegant script, the return address indicated the plump package was from Mrs. Philip Skerritt, my mother.

Knowing what I’d find, I slit the envelope and dumped its contents on my desktop with a sigh.

“June is busting out all over,” I said to Darcy, “and I’m running out of places to hide.”

She arched an eyebrow in question. Roger snored louder.

“Hide?” Darcy said with a hint of disbelief. “I wouldn’t think you, a tough ex-cop and Pelican Bay’s finest female private eye, would hide from anything.”

“I’m the city’s only woman P.I.,” I said, “and if you had my mother, you’d be looking for a bolt hole, too.”

I indicated the pile of brochures and magazine and newspaper clippings heaped on my desk. “Everywhere I look are articles on planning weddings and ads for brides’ dresses, florists, caterers, and honeymoon travel packages. The newspapers are filled with wedding announcements. And, to make certain that I don’t miss something, Mother gathers them all up and sends them to me.”

“But you’re not getting married until Valentine’s Day. That’s more than eight months away.”

“Right.”

“And I thought you and Bill had agreed on a small wedding?”

“We have.”

She pointed to the small mountain of materials on my desktop. “Then why the bridal blitz?”

Why, indeed? “Mother dear, who has ignored me my entire life, had a change of heart in April after she suffered what might have been a fatal stroke. Now she’s determined to compensate for her former neglect by throwing me the biggest wedding Pelican Bay has ever seen.” I shuddered. “And when she and Caroline put their heads together, you can bet they’re planning an extravaganza to rival the distant nuptials of Charles and Diana. The only thing missing will be global television coverage.”

Darcy shrugged. “Can’t you just say no?”

“Mother’s selectively deaf when she doesn’t want to hear something.”

“And your sister?”

“Caroline thinks I’m being coy. My sister can’t believe there’s a woman on earth who doesn’t want a huge, elaborate wedding. It involves shopping, after all, Caroline’s raison d’être.”

“And what does Bill say?”

I shook my head. “He’s no help. He says he’ll go along with whatever I decide.”

“And you’ve decided?”

I nodded. “No big wedding.”

“Then there’s no problem.”

“Except breaking that news to my mother and sister, who refuse to accept the fact. They’re pushing me now to sign up for bridal registries.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“But we don’t need anything. I have my furnished condo, and Bill’s family home in Plant City is full of his parents’ antique furniture and his mother’s china, silver, and crystal.”

“There must be something you want.”

I thought for a second. “I could use a new sidearm.”

“There you go,” she said with a grin that exposed perfect white teeth. “Register at Cole’s Gun Shop.”

“And give my mother another stroke? I don’t think so. I couldn’t live with the guilt.”

“Where’s your groom-to-be today?”

“Helping the Pelican Bay Historical Society by running free background checks on their volunteers.”

Darcy looked surprised. “They research their volunteers? Aren’t most of them little old ladies?”

“The museum docents present several programs a year for children. The director figures he can’t be too careful.”

Darcy nodded, her expression solemn, and I guessed she was thinking what I was. Our last major case had involved a pedophile who had murdered three young girls in Tampa. Checking out anyone who worked with kids was no longer optional. It was a necessity.

Darcy drained the last of her tea and pushed to her feet. I handed her the bills to pay, and she went into the reception area and closed the door behind her.

I picked up the wastebasket and swept my arm across the top of my desk to file Mother’s latest correspondence. I wished I could dispose of my reservations about my rapidly approaching marriage as easily.

Bill Malcolm, my fiancé and co-owner of Pelican Bay Investigations, had been my first partner when I’d joined the Tampa Police Department twenty-three years ago. He’d also been my best friend almost that long, even when I transferred to the Pelican Bay Department after seven years with Tampa. Last Christmas, he’d proposed. I loved him, without doubt, but whether I was marriage material remained to be seen. I’d led a schizophrenic life. Raised in privilege and wealth, I’d changed course at twenty-six to become a police officer when the love of my youth, an ER doctor, had been murdered by a crack addict. I’d dived headfirst from the height of society into the underworld of crime.

Earlier this year, after more than two decades as a police officer, I’d retired from the force. But as a private investigator, I still straddled both worlds, belonging in neither. Police work had been all-consuming, and I’d had no time for diversions, no hobbies and very few friendships, besides Bill. I’d grown solitary, withdrawn, and set in my ways. Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten how to enjoy living. My first career had been as a librarian, yet over the years, I’d rarely taken the opportunity to read, which at one time had been one of my greatest pleasures.

Although I’d committed to marry Bill—we’d even closed last month on a house we had bought together—I feared I didn’t have what it took to live the rest of my life with another human being, even one as wonderful as Bill.

Especially one as wonderful as Bill.

My biggest concern was that I would either drive him nuts or out of my life entirely.

I looked at Roger, still sleeping peacefully, if not quietly. I had committed to owning a dog and surprised myself by enjoying it. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

A knock sounded, and Darcy slipped into my office and closed the door behind her.

“You’ve got visitors.”

“Clients?”

She hesitated. “I think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“It’s Wanda Weiland.”

My heart stopped. “The wedding planner?”

She nodded and flashed an apologetic smile. “As in Weddings by Wanda.”

My fight-or-flight response kicked in, raising my pulse and respiration rate, as I considered the possibility that Wanda had been sent by my mother. An ambush on my own turf.

“She’s not alone,” Darcy added.

“Please tell me my mother’s not with her.” I gazed at the second-story window and contemplated a jump as my only means of escape.

Roger, now wide awake and on alert, watched me with an eager look, as if reading my thoughts. He flashed his full-focus grin and wagged his tail. If I jumped, Roger would follow. The crazy pooch was game for anything.

I considered my options. The fall probably wouldn’t kill me, but I might break a leg, so I couldn’t run. Unable to flee, I’d be completely at Mother’s mercy. I abandoned the idea of a header onto Main Street and sucked up to face the music.

“The other woman isn’t your mother,” Darcy said. “She’s younger than your mother, but older than you.”

“Not Caroline?” I could probably get rid of the wedding planner, but I didn’t want to be double-teamed by my persistent older sister.

Darcy shook her head. “I’ve met Caroline. It’s not her, but whoever she is, she’s too distraught to give her name.”

Distress could be real or an act. I wouldn’t put it past Mother and Caroline to stoop to a ploy to reel me in, but I could handle Wanda and a stranger, who’d be more reasonable than my family members. Everyone was more reasonable than my relatives. I told Darcy to show them in.

Darcy went to fetch them, and I called Roger and set him on my lap. He’d never met a leg he didn’t love, and his humping could be bad for business, so when clients arrived, I kept him on a short leash.

Wanda Weiland breezed through the door, looking as fresh and blushing as a bride herself in a clingy floral dress, strappy sandals and makeup that gave her a perfect healthy glow. Her long auburn hair swung as she walked, and she flung it off her shoulders with a snap of her head and took a chair across from my desk. She looked to be in her late thirties or possibly even forties. These days it was hard to tell whether a woman had good genes or an excellent plastic surgeon.

In contrast, the woman with her looked like an emotional wreck. Although she was neatly dressed in tailored slacks, a silk blouse and pearls, her complexion was splotched from crying, her eyes red-rimmed. She clutched a damp Kleenex in one hand, her purse in the other. She stopped just inside the door and appeared dazed and disoriented. She didn’t sit until Wanda patted the seat of the chair next to her.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Wanda said.

“It’s an emergency,” the other woman added with a shiver, her voice hoarse from tears. “My daughter’s missing.”

“I read about you in the newspapers,” Wanda said, “how you solved Senator Branigan’s murder. I told Jeanette you could help us.”

“Jeanette?” I said.

“Jeanette Langston,” the distraught woman introduced herself. “I hope you can help me. I don’t know where else to turn.”

“You’ve been to the police?” I asked.

Jeanette nodded. “I spoke with the sheriff’s department. They told me there’s been no sign of a crime, and since Alicia left messages assuring us that she’s all right, they won’t get involved.”

I eyed Jeanette and estimated that she was older than me, somewhere in her mid-to-late fifties. Years ago, I would have assumed her daughter to be a grown-up, but with current advances in medical science and women having babies later in life, I took nothing for granted.

“Tell me about Alicia,” I said.

“She’s supposed to be married at the end of this month,” Jeanette said with a hitch in her voice.

Unless something kinky was going on, that fact made Alicia an adult. And it also explained the presence of Wanda, the wedding planner.

“Here’s her picture.” Jeanette slid a four-by-six photo across my desk.

I picked it up and studied the pretty girl posed on a seawall, long blond hair flowing in the wind, hazel eyes smiling at the camera. Tall and slender, she had an air of seriousness lurking beneath the happiness on her face.

“Alicia’s disappeared?” I said.

Jeanette nodded. “Four days ago. She left a note saying not to worry about her. And a voice mail a day later, assuring me that she’s okay. But I’ve tried calling her cell phone and she doesn’t answer. Garth, her fiancé, hasn’t heard a word from her, either.”

“So she’s a runaway bride.”

Even I, who never went to the movies and seldom turned on a television, was familiar with the Julia Roberts chick flick. I’d watched it late one night in the throes of insomnia and had felt a special kinship with the character who couldn’t commit.

“She’s not a runaway,” Jeanette said with obvious conviction.

Wanda, so far, had nothing to add but a reassuring pat of Jeanette’s hand.

“Not cold feet?” I said. “You’re sure?”

Jeanette shook her head without ruffling a strand of her honey-colored dye job. “Alicia loves Garth. They’ve been engaged for three years. A year ago they began planning this wedding to take place when Alicia finished graduate school.”

“Still,” I said reasonably and with a strong degree of empathy for Alicia, “she could be having second thoughts.”

“She did say in her note to cancel the wedding plans,” Wanda interjected.

“Big wedding?” I asked.

Wanda nodded. “Six bridesmaids, flowers by the truckload, and 250 guests, including a sit-down dinner with a string quartet and a deejay at the Osprey Country Club.”

“Refundable?” I pried.

Wanda shook her head. “Not at this point.”

I turned to Jeanette. “That must hurt.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” she insisted, then paused. “Although we’re not that wealthy, and we’ve had to borrow money for college, graduate school, and the wedding. But I’m scared for Alicia. This behavior isn’t like her.”

“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 was 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.”

CHAPTER 3

“You don’t need security,” I said with conviction. “You need Delta Force. Maybe CentCom at MacDill will rent them out.”

Antonio’s expression fell.

“If you knew about their feud,” I asked, “why did you agree to host their reception?”

“I did not know. Mrs. Burns exhibited tension and made some hints of disagreement when she came in to book the banquet room and select the menu, but strain is often present between prospective in-laws. I thought nothing more about it until my sous-chef recognized the names on the calendar and alerted me. He lives down the block from them and has witnessed their neighborhood turf wars.” Antonio spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “By then, the contract was signed.”

“I hope it includes a healthy damage deposit.”

“So you cannot help me?”

I suppressed a sigh. What was the point of being in business if we couldn’t meet the client’s needs? “When’s the reception?”

“The last Saturday of the month.”

I thought for a moment. With Bill and me and Abe Mackley, who’d indicated an interest in working with us after his retirement, I’d have a force of three. And Adler, with one toddler and a new baby on the way, might want to earn some extra cash.

“How many guests did you say?” I asked.

“Two hundred.”

“Are you serving liquor?”

Antonio’s face paled. “Champagne and an open bar.”

Fifty people apiece, in varying stages of hostility and inebriation, for us to keep tabs on. “And exactly what would you expect security to do?”

“Mingle with the guests. Watch for signs of problems. Escort troublemakers from the room to cool off. If they do not, bar them from reentering. And, but only as a last resort, call the police. Sophia’s has a reputation to maintain.”

Recalling the long history of bad blood between the two families, I recognized the very real potential for someone being seriously hurt, not to mention damage to the restaurant.

“Give me a day or two. I’ll see if I can put together a team. If not, I’ll find a good security firm to recommend.”

Antonio’s relief was palpable. “Thank you, Detective Skerritt.”

“Just Maggie now,” I said and headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

After leaving Sophia’s, I returned to the Dock of the Bay for my ancient Volvo and drove north on Alternate Nineteen. Just south of the country club, I turned into an older and less elegant neighborhood, filled with Spanish-style homes from the thirties and forties with stucco exteriors and clay tile roofs. With almost every square inch of property already built out in the county, these houses, which would once have been affordable to the working class, now sold for over three hundred thousand. Garth Swinburn, Alicia’s fiancé, had either inherited his or earned a generous income.

I parked in the driveway beneath the shade of a spreading live oak bearded with Spanish moss and followed a mosaic-tile walk to the front door. With its walls a cheerful Tuscan gold and roof of terra-cotta, the house had a lush lawn and attractive, tropical landscaping. Although decades old, it had been well maintained and had a welcoming appearance, a home most brides would appreciate, so I doubted that disapproval of the real estate had played a part in Alicia’s flight.

I rang the doorbell and waited. Jeanette had told me Garth would be here, since he ran his computer consulting business from home. I was beginning to think he’d left to make a house call, when the heavy wooden door with its tiny wrought iron-covered window swung open.

Standing on the threshold was a tall, gangly man in his mid-twenties. His sandy hair stood in unruly peaks, as if he’d recently run his fingers through it, his feet were bare, and he was dressed in khakis and the most obnoxious plaid shirt I’d ever seen. His eyes were glazed with the look of someone who’d just awakened or been pulled from the depths of concentration. With his thick glasses, he reminded me of guys who, in my youth, would have worn plastic pocket protectors and carried slide rules on their belts. Nerds, we’d called them. I didn’t know if the term was apt in today’s lingo, but Garth definitely had a geeky air about him.

Until he smiled. His welcoming look brightened his face and exuded warmth. The kid was a charmer.

“Ms. Skerritt?”

I nodded. “Garth Swinburn?”

“Come in,” he said. “Mrs. Langston said I should expect you. Have you found Alicia?”

He sounded so hopeful, I hated to disappoint him. “I don’t work quite as fast as those computers of yours. This may take a while.”

“Of course.” He blushed until the tips of his ears turned red. “Silly of me. I was just hoping—”

“Can you answer a few questions?”

“Sure. Anything to help. Come in.”

I stepped through the open door into a completely bare living room. Not even draperies on the windows, just a high sheen on the hardwood floors. He must have seen the surprise in my expression.

“The only room that’s furnished is my office,” he said. “I even sleep there. I’m waiting for Alicia to decide how she wants to decorate.”

From the way he spoke her name, I could tell Garth was crazy about his fiancée.

We crossed the living room, passed through a newly remodeled kitchen and stepped into a sunny family room at the back of the house. Every flat surface was covered with monitors, computers, piles of software, boxes of parts and rolls of cables. The only uncluttered spots were a rolling stenographer’s chair and a sofa topped with a pillow and blanket.

Garth tossed the sofa bedding to one side and offered me a seat, then settled into the chair. “I’m worried sick,” he said.

“You still haven’t heard from Alicia?”

His shoulders drooped, and he shook his head. “I can’t believe she’d just walk out without saying something. She’s not a callous person.”

“According to her mother, her note said she was trying to ‘find herself.’ Maybe she has to figure out what she wants to do.”

Garth looked doubtful. “I don’t get it.”

“You had no clue she was unhappy?”

“She wasn’t unhappy,” he insisted. “Just the opposite. She seemed to be walking on air. I figured she was glad to be finishing her dissertation and looking forward to our wedding. That’s why I’m so worried. I don’t believe Alicia left of her own free will.”

“How do you explain the voice-mail message and the written note?”

He scratched the tip of his nose. “Someone could have forced her to leave them.”

“Did Mrs. Langston share them with you?”

He nodded. “I insisted we call the police.”

“You think Alicia left the messages under duress? Could you hear it in her voice, tell it from her writing?”

Garth thought for a moment, then shook his head. “She sounded normal, and her handwriting looked typical.”

“Then why your conviction that someone’s taken her against her will?”

He confronted me with guileless brown eyes. “Because Alicia wouldn’t do this to me or her parents. She knows how much pain it would cause. Like I said, she’s not a thoughtless or selfish person.”

“When did you last see her?”

“The night before she disappeared. We had dinner at Angellino’s.”

“What did you talk about?”

His face reddened again. “I did most of the talking. I was excited about new software I’m developing for user-friendly multi-computer interfacing with business applications and told Alicia all about it.”

That conversation might have put the girl into a deep sleep but not necessarily on the run. “And what did Alicia talk about?”

“Alicia’s not like most girls.”

“How do you mean?”

He scrunched his face as if searching for the right words. “She isn’t into fashion and trends.”

“Then why the big wedding with all the bells and whistles?”

He grimaced. “Her mother’s idea. You know how it is.”

Boy, howdy, did I ever. I nodded and tried to ignore the sympathetic clenching in my gut. “So she wasn’t looking forward to it?”

Garth shook his head. “But she didn’t really mind it too badly. She wants to make her mother happy. Alicia’s like that, always thinking of others. And always looking inward, as if material things don’t matter.” He flushed again. “Since I’m usually neck-deep in my work, we make a good pair. Not exactly social butterflies.”

So good a pair that she left? “You were about to tell me her topic of conversation that night.”

“Right.” He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his ankle resting on his knee, giving me an eye-level view of his bare size-thirteen foot. I contemplated popular mythology and wondered about their sex life but was smart enough to know what not to ask.

Garth leaned forward. “Alicia was expounding on one of her favorite themes that night—who am I and why am I here? You ever ask yourself those questions?”

“Only when I’ve had too much to drink.”

He flashed his boyish grin again, reminding me of Adler, another point in Garth’s favor. “Until our dinner at Angellino’s, Alicia had worried that she’d never find the answers. But that night she said she thought she’d discovered the key.”

“Did she say what it was?”

“Nope. Said she didn’t want to talk about it further until she was sure.”

“Did she say where she’d been, what she’d been doing, who she’d been talking to?”

“Like I said, we talked mostly about me.” His expression spasmed with distress. “God, it just hit me. You think that’s why she ran away? Because I talk too much about myself?”

I felt sorry for the kid. “I don’t know enough about Alicia to form an opinion yet.”

“I should have paid more attention to her.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.” He was male, after all. His self-absorption was in his genes. And his jeans. “And don’t jump to conclusions. Wait until you’ve talked to Alicia.”

“You have to find her.”

“I’m planning on it.”

“Have you talked to her friends?”

“Mrs. Langston gave me a list. Anyone in particular I should start with?”

“Julianne Pritchard.” He lifted his hand and crossed two fingers. “She and Alicia are like this.”

“Have you talked to Julianne?”

Garth nodded. “She says she doesn’t know where Alicia is.”

“She might know other facts that will help. I have her address.”

Garth checked his watch. “Julianne’s probably still at work. She waits tables at Hooters in Clearwater.”

His worry was palpable, so I tried to reassure him. “Julianne may know something that will lead me to Alicia.”

“I hope so.” His expression turned grim. “If not, my gut tells me Alicia’s in real trouble.”

CHAPTER 4

I left Garth’s house, headed east to U.S. 19, then turned south. What had, in my childhood, been a bucolic drive along a country road through pastures and citrus groves was now six lanes under construction of wall-to-wall traffic hell. Our local politicians referred to it as progress. I figured for every minute I spent on that route, another hair on my head turned gray.

I exited at the cloverleaf at Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard and turned left onto another six-lane nightmare. Between tourists who hadn’t a clue where they were going and the over-ninety retirees whose licenses should have been revoked years earlier, my commute reminded me of the bumper-car rides at the county fair, minus the element of fun. I said a silent prayer of thanks that my old Volvo was built like a tank and considered the odds. I’d been rear-ended two months ago, so statistically I wasn’t due for another crash soon, unless I turned out to be one of those unfortunate anomalies.

With a sense of relief, I parked in Hooters’ lot and turned off the engine. Every time I survived a drive through the county, I felt the urge to carve a notch in my steering wheel.

The Hooters parking lot and restaurant were almost empty at mid-afternoon. The lunch crowd had left and happy hour hadn’t started. I stepped into the dim interior and inhaled the odor of stale beer, fried onions and cooking grease while my eyes adjusted. A large-screen television over the bar was tuned to a golf tournament with the commentary muted. Raucous music blared through the sound system. The place lived up to its slogan of “Delightfully Tacky Yet Unrefined.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“Can I help you?”

Perky was the only word to describe the waitress who greeted me. About five foot five with long legs, tiny waist and generous breasts, all accentuated by the Hooters uniform of hip-hugger shorts and cropped, tight T-shirt, she could have been a cheerleader for the NFL. With long, straight hair, however, this was no dumb blonde. Intelligence shone in her clear gray eyes.

“I’m looking for Julianne Pritchard.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Maggie Skerritt, a private investigator. Jeanette Langston hired me to find Alicia.”

“Oh.” Uncertainty replaced her welcoming look.

“Is there a booth where we can talk?”

“Why do you want to talk to me?” Reluctance edged her voice, not exactly the response I’d been expecting.

“Garth Swinburn said you and Alicia are close. I thought you might have some clue to where she’s gone.”

She looked over her shoulder, then back at me, obviously uncomfortable. “I could lose my job, talking to you here.”

I glanced around the room, empty of patrons except for a middle-aged man, drinking beer and eating pretzels at the bar. “I’d hate to be a stumbling block in your illustrious career.”

“This job is only temporary, but I need it until I get a permanent one. I have an accounting degree,” she added, getting huffy, “and have interviewed with several firms.”

Take that, you lowly private investigator.

Unintimidated by the budding number cruncher, I plowed on. “This won’t take long.”

With a sigh of resignation and the apparent realization that I would stick to her like a tick on a dog until I got answers, Julianne led me toward the rear of the dining room and called to the bartender, “I’m taking my break.”

I slid into a booth in the back corner and Julianne sat opposite me as if on springs, ready to bounce off at the first excuse. Her gaze flitted to the wall behind me, out the window, down to the floor. Anywhere except looking me in the eye. I didn’t have to be a trained investigator to know a guilty conscience when I saw it.

“So,” I said in a casual tone that I hoped would put her at ease, “tell me about Alicia.”

“What about her?” Julianne’s gray eyes narrowed with belligerence.

“Her mother and Garth claim you’re her best friend.”

“So?” She packed a truckload of hostility into one little word.

“So any idea where she may have gone?”

“Not a clue.” Her glance to the right, again avoiding my eyes, assured me she was lying through her lovely pearly whites.

For a moment I said nothing, allowing the falsehood to hang in the air and watching Julianne fidget.

“Okay,” I said after letting her stew in her fib until she looked ready to jump out of her skin, “let’s cut the crap. I don’t have time for this and you have to get back to work. You know where she is, don’t you?”

Julianne jutted her chin upward. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Fine.” I shrugged with a no-skin-off-my-back attitude. “As long as you’re certain she’s safe.”

Julianne’s bravado evaporated. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not a cop now, but I was one for twenty-three years. I’ve seen the terrible things that can happen to a young woman when she’s cut off from her family and friends.” I shrugged and started to push to my feet. “But as long as you’re convinced she’s okay.”

“Wait!”

I eased back onto the bench.

Julianne looked ready to cry. “I promised Alicia I’d keep her secret.”

“From everything I’ve been told, Alicia is a caring young woman. Why would she want to keep her whereabouts secret from those who love her most?”

“They made her sign a covenant that she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“They?” I watched Julianne’s inner debate between ratting on her friend and worry over Alicia’s safety play out across her face.

Finally, she exhaled a deep breath, the battle won. “Grove Spirit House.”

I knew where it was, in the middle of one of the last remaining orange groves in Pelican Bay, but other than the fact that it was some type of religious retreat, I knew nothing about the recently built facility. Most folks in town had been relieved when the new owner hadn’t cleared the grove for development. After learning that the greenbelt would be spared, interest in the property and its owner had faded.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you’d better start at the beginning.”

The front door opened and a crowd of young men entered and staked out two tables in the middle of the room.

Julianne stood. “I have to get back to work.”

“Can I talk to you later?”

Her attitude seemed torn, but whether between the desire to get rid of me or to share her concerns about her friend, I couldn’t tell.

“My shift ends at eight,” she said. “I’ll be home by eight-thirty.”

“I have your address. I’ll see you then.”

To avoid further thrills on U.S. 19, I took Old Coachman Road after leaving Hooters, then threaded my way along backstreets into the eastern fringes of Pelican Bay and the entrance to Grove Spirit House. The twenty-acre enclave of orange trees was surrounded on three sides by subdivisions and the fourth by a large lake. The only access was a driveway of crushed shells that had once led through the groves to a rustic fruit stand, roofed in palm fronds, where the previous owners had sold fresh citrus, jellies and orange-blossom honey.

Today an eight-foot chain-link fence ringed the entire property, and I doubted its purpose was to discourage fruit theft. Although unripe oranges adorned many of the trees, the branches weren’t pruned, and the rows between the trees, filled with high weeds, clearly hadn’t been cultivated in years. Whoever owned Grove Spirit House had a serious chunk of change, because the undeveloped land alone, a scarcity in the county, was worth millions, whether the grove was productive or not.

I parked in front of an electronic gate that blocked the entrance to the drive and got out of the car. An intercom was attached to the right of the gate, and I caught sight of a surveillance camera mounted on a nearby utility pole. I punched the call button on the intercom and waited a few minutes, but no one answered.

I pushed the call button again.

“Yes?” The voice was female, low and throaty.

“I’m here to see Alicia Langston.”

“Who?”

“Alicia Langston,” I repeated.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “We don’t reveal the names of our guests. And we don’t admit anyone without an appointment.”

“Then I’d like to make an appointment.”

I waited, but the woman made no reply. I hit the call button again with no results. Whoever had answered had either left the intercom or was being purposely incommunicado.

That really ticked me off. When good manners failed to obtain results, I had no qualms about resorting to threats, but I reined in my temper. If activities at Grove Spirit House were nefarious, I didn’t want to raise their defenses before I’d had a chance to snoop further.

I keyed the intercom. “How do I make an appointment?”

Sultry Voice returned. “The office opens at nine tomorrow morning. But appointments are only for participants in our retreats.”

“Can you at least put Alicia on the intercom, so I can assure her family that she’s all right?”

This time, Sultry Voice said nada.

By now, alarm bells were jangling in my brain. The type of exclusiveness practiced at Grove Spirit House was usually one of two things: the privilege of extreme wealth or the secretiveness of something under-handed. Because neither Alicia nor her family was filthy rich, my money was on deceit, and my investigative nose smelled the stench of a cult.

Closing time was fast approaching when I returned to the office. Darcy was clearing the top of her desk.

“Can you check something on Google for me before you leave?” I asked.

A true technophobe, I avoided computers whenever possible. And irritated Bill by refusing to own a cell phone. Now that I was no longer on the police force, I didn’t even carry a beeper. I loved the heady freedom of being electronically disconnected.

Darcy poised her hands above the keyboard. “What do you need?”

“Everything you can find on Grove Spirit House here in Pelican Bay, including a phone number.”

“I’m on it. Your messages are on your desk.”

Darcy concentrated on her monitor and I went into my office. A note from Bill said he’d pick me up at my condo sometime after six to take me to dinner. The second message was from Caroline, who’d dropped by the office while I was out, hoping to discuss bridal gowns. I felt a wave of relief at dodging that bullet.

Darcy came in with a manila folder and handed it to me. “I printed out everything I could find. The phone number’s in there.” She shook her head. “Sounds like one strange outfit.”

“How strange?”

“Fasting, bathing naked in the lake, sitting for hours in a smokehouse, beating drums, communing with spirits. Cleansing, they call it. I call it nuts. Good way to get eaten alive by mosquitoes and alligators.”

According to the signals my gut was sending, mosquitoes and alligators weren’t the only predators at Grove Spirit House. The sooner I found Alicia, the better.

Back at my condo an hour later, I watched Roger scarf the last of his kibble and empty his water dish. How one little dog could drink twice his weight in water, I’d never understand. I’d already taken him for a long walk along the waterfront and planned to read the file on Grove Spirit House while I waited for Bill to take me to dinner.

Before I could make myself comfortable, a knock sounded at the front door. Expecting Bill, I opened it without checking the peephole.

Caroline breezed past, down the hall and into my living room. She clutched a stack of bridal magazines in one arm and held a Neiman Marcus shopping bag overflowing with fabric samples in her other hand.

“Finally,” she said with a note of triumph. “We’ve got to plan this wedding.”

I gazed past her, expecting to see my mother bringing up the rear. The parking lot and front walkway were empty. The only good thing about Caroline’s visit was that she was alone.

With nowhere to run and no place to hide, I followed her into the living room.

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