Wedding Bell Blues. Charlotte Douglas
Читать онлайн книгу.
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