Death by Marriage Read Online Free Page A

Peace on Earth.
    I bit off a sigh as two more Santa suits came back, the customers arriving neck and neck, along with gossip flaming into the kill zone. Whew! Golden Beach certainly didn’t like Vanessa Kellerman. If the yacht club set had its way, she’d be hanged from the nearest yardarm. Which likely meant she was guilty of nothing more than marrying well.
    After both customers headed toward for the yacht club, the golf course, the Community Center, or any place else they could spread wild rumors, I sank down on the natural wicker bar stool behind the counter, settled myself into the French blue velvet upholstered seat, and stared into space.
    Could there possibly be any truth lurking among the rumors? Surely not. This was Golden Beach. As far as I could recall, we’d had only one murder since I’d come back to town—a domestic violence that morphed into manslaughter. Womanslaughter. But flat-out premeditated murder? Not. Martin Kellerman had had a heart attack, tumbled off the bow, perhaps dead already, and been finished off by the twin diesels of his ironically named Rainbow’s End . A tragedy, but not murder. And that’s what I would tell the police.
    I transitioned to my ever-reliable professional smile to greet a couple who had just entered the store. Everything about them screamed country club snowbirds, from their fiftyish age to shorts and sandals in December, the labels on their matching polo shirts, their tennis tans, and the expense of their haircuts. In brief, they smelled of money. I broadened my smile. Not because I heard the chink of coins, but because I pegged them as customers who might demand more than my customary courtesy.
    I was right.
    The wife homed in on our check-out rack as if it were a blue-light special. “Jeffrey,” she cried, fingering the long black fringe dangling from one of the Twenties dresses, “this is just what I need.” She turned to me. “You rent these? That’s what I was told.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.
    “Fine. I’ll take this one.”
    “And when did you need it, ma’am?”
    “Tonight,” she snapped, obviously implying I was an idiot not to know that.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but these costumes are all reserved for this evening.” I thought fast. “But I have a very pretty Greek chiton which can be belted up to look exactly like the early Twenties when the hems were still ankle-length.”
    “But I want this one.” The woman’s voice rose to a whine.
    “I’m really sorry,” I repeated, “but all these costumes were reserved weeks ago and are waiting for pick-up for the Bayport Country Club dance tonight.”
    “Jeffrey,” the woman wailed, turning to her husband. “Do something. Buy it, for heaven’s sake.”
    Jeffrey, too much the businessman not to recognize an impasse when he saw it, had the grace to appear embarrassed. “Evelyn, he explained patiently, I can’t buy a costume which is already rented for tonight. Nor, I’m sure, would this young lady sell it.”
    “If you’d come in even two days ago,” I said as gently as I could through gritted teeth, “I would have been happy to make one just for you. In fact, I’d be happy to create one you can buy and wear to as many parties as you’d like. I just can’t let you have this one for tonight.”
    “I should have known,” the woman said, her venomous tone rising to reach other customers who had just walked through the door, “that a small place like this wouldn’t be able to handle the demand of a big party.”
    “Evelyn!” her husband hissed.
    “Oh, well”—the woman sighed dramatically—“you may show me your miserable Greek gown.”
    The glass beads of Crystal’s Cave beat a high-pitched tattoo. “Willie!”shrieked Miss Letty’s disembodied voice from behind the velvet curtains. Jeffrey broke off the soothing murmurs he was whispering in his wife’s ear as something sleek and furry flashed past us. Evelyn