Charlotte Douglas - Wedding Bell Blues

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.