Wedding Bell Blues

“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.

CHAPTER 5

Emitting a joyous woof, Roger bounded from the kitchen and raced straight for Caroline’s legs, clad in expensive sheer stockings, even in the summer heat.

“Don’t even think about it, pal.” Her commanding tone stopped Roger in his tracks. My sister had been subjected to his amorous ways before and deemed them socially unacceptable.

In her eyes, Roger and I were at least in the same boat. Seven years my senior, Caroline was Mother’s perfect daughter. Refined, elegant and oozing social graces, my sister was everything I wasn’t: married to a wealthy, prominent man, president of the Art Guild, mother and grandmother, and dressed to the nines every time she stepped outside her door.

Caroline also thrived on being in charge and, unfortunately, my distant nuptials now topped her to-do list.

“I don’t have time for this now,” I said. “Bill will be here any minute to take me to dinner.”

Caroline sank onto the sofa and began arranging magazines and fabric swatches on the coffee table. “Good. We can get his opinion.”

Desperate to be rid of her, I pointed to the gowns on the magazine covers. “Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride’s dress before the ceremony?”

Caroline was a stickler for tradition but not to be deterred. “Good thinking. Lock the door, and when he comes, don’t let him in until I’ve hidden what we’ve selected.”

Unconcerned with superstition, I left the door unlatched. To my sister’s credit, however, I had to admit that her heart was in the right place. She just couldn’t get her head around the fact that I couldn’t care less about wedding dresses or any other aspect of an elaborate ceremony. She lived to shop and believed everyone else shared her enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you leave those?” I suggested. “Give me a chance to look through them and get back to you.”

The look she shot me reminded me so much of Mother that I shivered.

“Now,” she said, “back to business. What about white?”

“What about it?”

She cupped her chin in her hand and studied me with a frown. “You are older and probably…uh…more experienced than most brides—” Her expression brightened. “But virginal isn’t a requirement for wearing white these days.”

“Not only do I not want white—”

“Good! That’s a beginning.” She grabbed a magazine from the top of the stack. “Here’s a Vera Wang creation that would suit you. And plum is the hot new color for brides.”

“Plum? As in purple? It turns my skin yellow. If I appear in public in plum, one of Daddy’s doctor friends will place my name on the waiting list for a liver transplant.”

“Not a problem. It comes in other colors.”

Arguing with Caroline was like pushing on a rope.

She thrust the magazine into my hands. “See? What do you think?”

I studied the picture of a skinny model with flawless shoulders dressed in a strapless fitted bodice and enough fabric in her billowing skirt to clothe a small school and shook my head, as much in disbelief as negation. “Much too formal for what Bill and I have in mind, and—my God! Five thousand dollars for a dress?” I struggled for breath. “You’ve got to be kidding. I paid less than that for my first car.”

Caroline waved her fingers in a breezy gesture of dismissal. “Mother’s picking up the tab. She can afford it.”

“Caroline,” I said in my firmest tone, “Bill and I want our wedding to be uncomplicated, simple—”

“Elegant is the word you’re looking for.”

“No, I was going for small. Very small. Try minuscule.”

She looked shocked. “But it can’t be small. Mother’s planning for eight hundred.”

My knees gave way and I sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t even know eight hundred people.”

“They’re Mother’s friends.”

“But this is my wedding.”

“Would you deny your elderly mother the pleasure of seeing her daughter married in appropriate style?” When Logic Fails, Apply Guilt was Caroline’s motto, aptly learned at dear old mom’s knee.

“Appropriate style?” I sputtered with frustration. “What you two have in mind is more like a three-ring circus.”

Anger flashed briefly across Caroline’s perfectly made-up face. She took a deep breath before speaking. “I know you’re suffering from premarital jitters, but—”

“The only thing making me jittery is the prospect of a wedding fit for Donald Trump.” Desperation made my tone sharper than I’d intended and I felt the stirring of hives beneath my skin, usually brought forth only by having to deal with homicide.

Caroline’s smile turned catlike. “Trump’s on the guest list.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands.

At the sound of Bill’s car turning into the parking lot, Roger yelped with joy, bounded to the front door, and did his canine version of a happy dance.

“Bill’s here.” I was thankful for the excuse to give my sister the boot. “No time to hide those bride thingies. You’d better take them with you.”

Caroline hurriedly stuffed swatches into the shopping bag and gathered up the magazines. “We’ll need to reschedule.”

How about twenty years from now? “I’ll check my calendar at the office and get back to you,” I lied.

Caroline bustled out the front door and passed Bill on the walk.

“Hey, Caroline.” Bill greeted her with more warmth than she deserved under the circumstances.

“Hi, Bill. Got to run.” She hunched her shoulders to hide the magazines as if they held secrets vital to national security and scurried to her car.

When Bill came inside, I threw my arms around him. “Thank God. Saved by the Bill.”

He kissed me, then leaned back to study my face. “Still waging the Battle of the Bride?”

I nodded. “It’s a standoff. The enemy won’t admit defeat and I refuse to surrender.”

Bill shook his leg to shed Roger, an equal-opportunity humper. “Maybe you need new rules of engagement.”

“Engagement is what started this war in the first place.”

“We could launch a preemptive strike. Pack your bag. We’ll elope.”

Panic seized me. I wanted to marry Bill, but I wasn’t ready. “Not tonight. I have to wash my hair.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“You think this is funny?” I said. “Today I learned that Mother’s planning to invite Donald Trump to our wedding. They serve together on several charity boards.”

“We can handle Donald,” Bill assured me with a hug. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“Can you handle half the civilized world? So far Mother’s guest list is at eight hundred.”

Bill’s confident expression wavered. “I need a drink. Bring Roger. I know just the place.”

I sipped a vodka-and-tonic slowly to make it last. Since I was driving to interview Julianne Pritchard after supper, one drink was my limit.

Roger curled in my lap while I lounged in a teak reclining chair on the rear deck of the Ten-Ninety-Eight. Bill manned the grill. Upon retiring from the Tampa Police Department several years ago, Bill had bought the cabin cruiser, named it for the police code for “mission completed,” and moved aboard. After we’d closed on our house, a renovated Cape Cod in Dave Adler’s neighborhood, Bill had suggested we move into it together, but I’d insisted we wait until after the wedding. My decision was one part knowing how much Bill loved living on his boat, another part my belief in old-fashioned values, and the biggest part my continuing reluctance to take that last giant step toward commitment.

The tantalizing aroma of grouper and an assortment of vegetables mixed with the briny scent of the breeze off the water. Bill turned the food on the grill, grabbed a beer and settled into the chair beside mine. His customary contented expression had disappeared, and the grim lines in his face made him appear older.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t let Mother and Caroline go through with their plans. It’s a long time until February and eventually they’ll get the message.”

“I know.” He leaned back in his chair and stared across the sound toward the barrier islands and the rapidly descending sun, but his dark mood remained.

“Then what’s troubling you?” With a jolt of panic, I wondered if Bill was having second thoughts about marrying me. My reluctance to commit was rooted in my feelings of inadequacy, but I’d never doubted how much I loved him. Losing him would be more than I could bear.

He sighed. “I got a hit today on the background checks I’ve been doing for the Historical Society.”

A mixture of relief and surprise rushed through me. “One of your little old ladies has a record?”

He took a long pull at his beer and nodded. “Shoplifting.”

“Have you told the museum director?”

Bill shook his head. “And I’m not going to.”

“Why?” Bill was the most ethical person I knew, so his refusal didn’t make sense. “Isn’t that what we volunteered for?”

He leaned toward me with pain-filled eyes. “I talked to her. Bessie Lassiter is eighty-four, lives with her hundred-year-old sister, Violet, and has only their paltry Social Security checks as income. She was caught shoplifting in a grocery store. She was stealing food because she’d run out of funds before the end of the month.”

“And some heartless judge convicted her?”

“But let her off with a warning and probation.”

“That’s so sad. Is there something we can do for her?”

“She won’t accept help,” Bill said with a shake of his head. “I tried to give her money, but she said her pride is all she has left, and she refuses to accept charity. I hate to think how many elderly are out there in her situation, not having enough money for housing, utilities, groceries and medicine. And the irony is, the food she stole wasn’t for herself but for her sister. She said she would have done without, but she couldn’t let her sister starve.”

I felt sympathy for the old ladies and wanted to do something. “Give Darcy all the info you have on the women tomorrow,” I suggested. “Have her check into government assistance programs for seniors.”

“I doubt they’ll accept help.”

“I’m sure they’ve paid taxes all their lives,” I said. “We’ll convince them that they’re entitled.”

He spanned the distance between us and squeezed my hand. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try it. Now tell me about your day.”

I related Antonio Stavropoulos’s desire to hire Pelican Bay Investigations for security for the Burns-Baker wedding reception, and Bill frowned again. “Sounds like one huge domestic disturbance.”

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