Holidays Are Murder. Charlotte Douglas
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Bill said. “It suits you. Very regal.”
Mother did appear regal in her floor-length skirt of black taffeta, a high-necked, white silk blouse with long sleeves, a cummerbund in gold-and-black plaid, and her snowy hair piled high like a crown.
Leaving me trailing in their wake, she escorted Bill deeper into the courtyard to meet the usual suspects. My sister, Caroline, looking like a younger clone of Mother in both dress and hairstyle, although her tresses were a golden bottle-blond, sipped a martini and eyed Bill with interest over the rim of her glass. Her husband, Huntington Yarborough, a big man whose usual florid complexion had turned an even deeper red after a few drinks, rose from his seat by the fountain where he was nursing what looked to be a double Scotch.
Michelle, their oldest daughter, and her husband, Chad, hovered in a far corner with my nephew Robert and his wife, Sandra. My four great-nieces and great-nephews were conspicuously absent, either at home with a sitter or farmed out to their other grandparents. Mother was adamant that small children had no place at social functions, not even family holiday celebrations.
Bill, well-versed in my family tree and its twisted branches, met and greeted each of my relatives with his usual ease. A waiter appeared and took our drink orders.
“So,” Bill said to Hunt, “Margaret tells me you’re in the insurance business.”
I suppressed a groan. Once Hunt began talking business, there was no stopping him. I’d dozed through many of his dinner-table monologues.
Hunt pounced on Bill like a puppy on a bone. “You name it, I insure it. Property and casualty, life and health, annuities. I can do all your financial planning—”
Someone grasped my elbow and a familiar voice said, “How are you, Margaret? I haven’t seen you in too many years.”
Seton Fellows, Daddy’s best friend, smiled down at me from his extraordinary height of six foot five. The best neurologist in the Tampa Bay area, the man was a giant in the medical profession, as my father had been. His thinning gray hair matched his deep gray eyes, but the age that lined his face hadn’t affected his erect posture or his usually sunny disposition.
“What a nice surprise, Dr. Fellows. Mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“It was a last-minute invitation,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Your mother needed an even number at the table.”
Bill’s last-minute inclusion had thrown off Mother’s seating arrangement. “Lucky for us,” I assured him. “How have you been?”
His gray eyes clouded. “Lonely. This will be my first Thanksgiving without Nancy. So it’s good to be with friends.”
“You’ve known Mother and Daddy a long time, haven’t you?”
He nodded and sipped his drink. “Philip and I were in medical school together.”
Across the courtyard, Mother and Caroline hung on Hunt’s every word, and somehow even Bill managed to appear interested. With Dr. Fellows as my captive audience, I had found someone who might satisfy my curiosity about my parents’ early years, a time neither had discussed, at least, not with me. Their large wedding portrait hung in the sitting room of the master suite, but neither Mother nor Daddy had ever talked about the few years prior to or immediately following their marriage.
“What were they like then?” I asked Seton.
“Your parents?”
I nodded. “Before Daddy became Pelican Bay’s best cardiologist.”
The lines in his face crinkled with amusement. “Philip, as all of us, worked long, hard hours.”
“And Mother?”
His hesitation was brief but notable. “She organized the wives’ association. Not many female medical students in those days. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “They were so different from each other. I never could understand the attraction.”
“They complemented each other, like yin and yang. Your mother took charge of everything outside of work, which freed your father to be the brilliant doctor that he was.”
“Did they love each other?”
“They were married for almost fifty years.”
“Were they happy?”
“Happiness means different things to different people.”
He had sidestepped my question, but before I could rephrase it, Mother rang a small silver bell with all the drama of a stage production, and Dr. Fellows hurried to escort her into the adjacent dining room.
The florist and caterers had transformed the room. I pictured a television reality show, “How the Rich and Famous Celebrate Thanksgiving,” as I observed the towering topiaries of chrysanthemums, colorful autumn leaves and deep green ivy that marched down the center of the massive refectory table that had once graced an ancient Spanish monastery. Gigantic cornucopia, overflowing with fruits and gourds, flanked the silver serving dishes on the matching sideboard. The table was set with Mother’s heavy silver flatware and engraved napkin rings and covered with enough white damask for a circus tent.
We stood behind our chairs, waiting for Mother to be seated. I thought longingly of the weathered pine table in the sunny kitchen and wished Bill and I could share our meal there with Estelle.
Mother rang her silver bell again. “Dr. Fellows will say grace.”
Before I bowed my head, I caught a sympathetic look from Bill, who had been assigned the seat across from me.
“Heavenly Father,” Dr. Fellows began.
The beeper on my belt shrilled, shattering the room’s quiet.
“Really, Margaret,” Mother said with no effort to hide her disapproval. “Can’t you turn that thing off?”
Dr. Fellows smiled, but Caroline, Michelle and Sandra glared with as much disapproval as if I’d just stripped topless.
“I’m on call, Mother. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll use the phone in the foyer. Please, go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”
I’d have felt relief at being snatched from the jaws of social responsibility, but I knew a summons on a holiday had to be bad news.
I was right.
Darcy Wilkins answered at dispatch when I phoned the station. “We’ve got a drowning at a private residence on the beach.”
“Accidental?”
“It’s your call,” she said. “The M.E.’s on her way.”
She gave me the address. I braced for Mother’s disapproval and returned to the dining room to announce my regrets.
CHAPTER 4
Bill dropped me off at my condo, where I picked up my car for the trek to the beach. As I drove across the causeway, I saw that the city crews had already strung Christmas lights and decorations, and their festive glitter provided an ironic contrast to my mission. Even if the reported drowning turned out to be accidental, one family would have their future Thanksgiving holidays marred forever by memories of tragedy.
The causeway emptied into the commercial district of the beach, high-rise hotels and condos, restaurants, fishing piers and dozens of shops crammed with T-shirts and tacky tourist souvenirs made in Taiwan. The streets were crowded with out-of-state and rental cars and the sidewalks filled with folks who had forfeited the traditions of home for a holiday in the sun.
I turned north and the asphalt of the commercial district gave way to ancient brick streets. Homes, modest in size and style but worth a small fortune because of their beach location, lined the roadway. The street ended at a huge wrought-iron gate, more symbolic than obstructive, since it always stood open. It marked the entrance to the beach’s most upscale residential