Charlotte Douglas - Wedding Bell Blues

“I’ll deal with it. As soon as I can screw my courage to the sticking point and confront her.”

One part of me yearned for my mother’s approval and unconditional love, withheld my entire life, and, illogically, considered the possibility that going along with her wedding plans might produce the desired results. The smart part of me knew better.

“Something has you restless and uneasy.” He nodded toward my left hand and the engagement ring he’d given me last Christmas, three aquamarines, my birth-stone, set in yellow gold. “Having second thoughts?”

“You know I love you.”

He nodded and reached across the table for my hand. “And I know the idea of marriage scares you senseless. If that’s what’s bothering you—”

“No.” I shook my head, then flashed a rueful grin. “I’m willing to give marriage my best shot and praying that my best shot will be good enough.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve been wanting to marry you for twenty years.”

I squeezed his hand and released it when the waitress returned with my tea. Bill waited until she’d taken our order and left before continuing. “So, what is bugging you today?”

I tried to get a handle on the vague dissatisfaction I felt so I could put it into words. “I think I need a career change.”

He sat back in the booth as if I’d hit him. “You want out of the business? We only started the P.I. firm a few months ago.”

I was doing a lousy job of expressing how I felt, primarily because I couldn’t really put a name to my discontent.

“Look at us,” I said. “You doing background checks on someone’s great-aunt Agatha and me chasing down runaway brides. When I was a cop, I at least had the satisfaction of knowing that what I did made a difference.”

Bill shook his head. “How quickly you forget.”

“What?”

“The futility of being on the job. Long boring hours on patrol or surveillance, following one dead-end lead after another, cases we couldn’t crack, and the criminals we collared, only to have them released on technicalities. We didn’t always win the good fight for truth, justice and the American way.”

“At least I felt useful.” My mood had blackened this morning with the arrival of Mother’s package and worsened with the story of Alicia Langston. I was sliding downward into depression and unable to put on the brakes.

Worry filled Bill’s blue eyes. “When’s the last time you had a checkup?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then it’s been too long. Schedule one, okay?”

“But I feel fine.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve been through a lot recently. A string of murder investigations, the police department’s closing, your mother’s illness. That much stress can take its toll.”

“I’m fine, really. Just having a bad day.”

“Then have a checkup for my peace of mind, okay? So I won’t worry about you.”

My late father had been a cardiologist and a firm believer in preventive medicine. As little as I liked being prodded and poked, I knew Bill was right. “I’ll schedule a physical, although I don’t relish an examination. My current doctor looks younger than Doogie Howser.”

Taking me at my word, Bill nodded. “Now, about this career thing.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

His eyes lit with devilment. “Have you considered exotic dancing?”

“I’m a bit long in the tooth for that.”

“Believe me, my lovely Margaret, no one would be looking at your teeth.”

“And I’d meet a whole new class of people.” His teasing was already brightening my mood. I couldn’t be around Bill for long without feeling better.

“If you’re missing police work,” he said with more seriousness, “you could apply with the sheriff’s office. And Tampa’s short a detective now that Abe Mackley’s retired.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” My depression was lifting, only to be replaced by paranoia.

He shook his head. “I’m happy to be working with you, but I want you to be happy, too.”

“You’re right about the dark side of police work. I’m too old for the long hours and fed up with the political infighting rampant in every department.”

“You’re forty-nine,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “going on twenty-three. Young enough to do whatever you want. I take it library work is out?”

I’d graduated from college with a degree in library science. When I’d abandoned books and entered the police academy to fight crime, I’d never looked back. “The shock of the peace and quiet of a library job might kill me.”

“You could teach at the academy. Or sell real estate. That’s hot right now.”

Neither profession had any appeal. I shook my head. “I don’t have the patience for either.”

The waitress returned with our order, and Bill dug into his burger. After chewing and swallowing his first bite, he said, “The bookstore beneath the office is for sale.”

“Really?”

“The owners want to move back north. Last year’s hurricane season spooked them. You could buy them out, be your own boss.”

I paused with a French fry halfway to my mouth. “You’re not serious?”

“You love books. You’d be surrounded by them every day.”

I considered his suggestion. “And spend all my time directing customers to the cookbook and self-help shelves?” I shook my head. “Where’s the challenge in that?”

“Where’s the challenge in being a private investigator?”

“It’s like working puzzles, such as where is Alicia Langston and why did she run away?” A light dawned as I realized what he’d done. “I’m addicted, aren’t I?”

“To solving puzzles? ’Fraid so. More than two decades as a cop will do that to you, a permanent case of ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’”

“Which is why I’d never be happy doing anything else.”

“I didn’t say that,” he protested.

“But you’ve made me recognize it.” I dug into my burger with gusto, feeling as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders. Bill was my North Star, helping me find my way, especially when frustration caused by my mother knocked me off course.

Bill’s cell phone rang and he answered it quickly.

“That was Darcy,” he said after he flipped it shut. “Antonio Stavropoulos called the office. He wants to hire us.”

“For what?”

“He didn’t say, just that he wanted to talk to you about it.”

“More work is good,” I said with conviction, “as long as it has nothing to do with weddings.”

After lunch, I walked from the Dock of the Bay on the south side of the marina across the city park to Sophia’s on the north side. Although the temperature had risen into the nineties, an onshore breeze laden with a fresh briny scent made the trek bearable, and I arrived at the upscale restaurant without dissolving into a puddle of sweat.

Sophia’s, built to resemble a Venetian palazzo in imitation of John Ringling’s Sarasota mansion, perched in pink-stuccoed splendor on the water’s edge and brought back a flood of memories. Last fall the restaurant’s owner had been one of several victims in a series of murders. Dave Adler, my young partner on the Pelican Bay Police Department, and I, along with help from Bill, had solved the crimes. The last time I’d seen Antonio Stavropoulos had been at Thanksgiving, when he’d asked me to stop by for a box of pastries, a gift of thanks to the department for their hard work.

In the lobby, crowded with patrons waiting to be seated in the luxurious dining room that served world class food, I looked for Antonio, but the maître d’s station was empty. I snagged the elbow of a passing waiter, asked for Antonio, and he pointed me down a hall to the manager’s office, formerly occupied by Lester Morelli, now awaiting trial for murdering his wife Sophia, among others.