Charlotte Douglas - Wedding Bell Blues

I exited at the cloverleaf at Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard and turned left onto another six-lane nightmare. Between tourists who hadn’t a clue where they were going and the over-ninety retirees whose licenses should have been revoked years earlier, my commute reminded me of the bumper-car rides at the county fair, minus the element of fun. I said a silent prayer of thanks that my old Volvo was built like a tank and considered the odds. I’d been rear-ended two months ago, so statistically I wasn’t due for another crash soon, unless I turned out to be one of those unfortunate anomalies.

With a sense of relief, I parked in Hooters’ lot and turned off the engine. Every time I survived a drive through the county, I felt the urge to carve a notch in my steering wheel.

The Hooters parking lot and restaurant were almost empty at mid-afternoon. The lunch crowd had left and happy hour hadn’t started. I stepped into the dim interior and inhaled the odor of stale beer, fried onions and cooking grease while my eyes adjusted. A large-screen television over the bar was tuned to a golf tournament with the commentary muted. Raucous music blared through the sound system. The place lived up to its slogan of “Delightfully Tacky Yet Unrefined.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“Can I help you?”

Perky was the only word to describe the waitress who greeted me. About five foot five with long legs, tiny waist and generous breasts, all accentuated by the Hooters uniform of hip-hugger shorts and cropped, tight T-shirt, she could have been a cheerleader for the NFL. With long, straight hair, however, this was no dumb blonde. Intelligence shone in her clear gray eyes.

“I’m looking for Julianne Pritchard.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Maggie Skerritt, a private investigator. Jeanette Langston hired me to find Alicia.”

“Oh.” Uncertainty replaced her welcoming look.

“Is there a booth where we can talk?”

“Why do you want to talk to me?” Reluctance edged her voice, not exactly the response I’d been expecting.

“Garth Swinburn said you and Alicia are close. I thought you might have some clue to where she’s gone.”

She looked over her shoulder, then back at me, obviously uncomfortable. “I could lose my job, talking to you here.”

I glanced around the room, empty of patrons except for a middle-aged man, drinking beer and eating pretzels at the bar. “I’d hate to be a stumbling block in your illustrious career.”

“This job is only temporary, but I need it until I get a permanent one. I have an accounting degree,” she added, getting huffy, “and have interviewed with several firms.”

Take that, you lowly private investigator.

Unintimidated by the budding number cruncher, I plowed on. “This won’t take long.”

With a sigh of resignation and the apparent realization that I would stick to her like a tick on a dog until I got answers, Julianne led me toward the rear of the dining room and called to the bartender, “I’m taking my break.”

I slid into a booth in the back corner and Julianne sat opposite me as if on springs, ready to bounce off at the first excuse. Her gaze flitted to the wall behind me, out the window, down to the floor. Anywhere except looking me in the eye. I didn’t have to be a trained investigator to know a guilty conscience when I saw it.

“So,” I said in a casual tone that I hoped would put her at ease, “tell me about Alicia.”

“What about her?” Julianne’s gray eyes narrowed with belligerence.

“Her mother and Garth claim you’re her best friend.”

“So?” She packed a truckload of hostility into one little word.

“So any idea where she may have gone?”

“Not a clue.” Her glance to the right, again avoiding my eyes, assured me she was lying through her lovely pearly whites.

For a moment I said nothing, allowing the falsehood to hang in the air and watching Julianne fidget.

“Okay,” I said after letting her stew in her fib until she looked ready to jump out of her skin, “let’s cut the crap. I don’t have time for this and you have to get back to work. You know where she is, don’t you?”

Julianne jutted her chin upward. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Fine.” I shrugged with a no-skin-off-my-back attitude. “As long as you’re certain she’s safe.”

Julianne’s bravado evaporated. “What are you saying?”

“I’m not a cop now, but I was one for twenty-three years. I’ve seen the terrible things that can happen to a young woman when she’s cut off from her family and friends.” I shrugged and started to push to my feet. “But as long as you’re convinced she’s okay.”

“Wait!”

I eased back onto the bench.

Julianne looked ready to cry. “I promised Alicia I’d keep her secret.”

“From everything I’ve been told, Alicia is a caring young woman. Why would she want to keep her whereabouts secret from those who love her most?”

“They made her sign a covenant that she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“They?” I watched Julianne’s inner debate between ratting on her friend and worry over Alicia’s safety play out across her face.

Finally, she exhaled a deep breath, the battle won. “Grove Spirit House.”

I knew where it was, in the middle of one of the last remaining orange groves in Pelican Bay, but other than the fact that it was some type of religious retreat, I knew nothing about the recently built facility. Most folks in town had been relieved when the new owner hadn’t cleared the grove for development. After learning that the greenbelt would be spared, interest in the property and its owner had faded.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you’d better start at the beginning.”

The front door opened and a crowd of young men entered and staked out two tables in the middle of the room.

Julianne stood. “I have to get back to work.”

“Can I talk to you later?”

Her attitude seemed torn, but whether between the desire to get rid of me or to share her concerns about her friend, I couldn’t tell.

“My shift ends at eight,” she said. “I’ll be home by eight-thirty.”

“I have your address. I’ll see you then.”

To avoid further thrills on U.S. 19, I took Old Coachman Road after leaving Hooters, then threaded my way along backstreets into the eastern fringes of Pelican Bay and the entrance to Grove Spirit House. The twenty-acre enclave of orange trees was surrounded on three sides by subdivisions and the fourth by a large lake. The only access was a driveway of crushed shells that had once led through the groves to a rustic fruit stand, roofed in palm fronds, where the previous owners had sold fresh citrus, jellies and orange-blossom honey.

Today an eight-foot chain-link fence ringed the entire property, and I doubted its purpose was to discourage fruit theft. Although unripe oranges adorned many of the trees, the branches weren’t pruned, and the rows between the trees, filled with high weeds, clearly hadn’t been cultivated in years. Whoever owned Grove Spirit House had a serious chunk of change, because the undeveloped land alone, a scarcity in the county, was worth millions, whether the grove was productive or not.

I parked in front of an electronic gate that blocked the entrance to the drive and got out of the car. An intercom was attached to the right of the gate, and I caught sight of a surveillance camera mounted on a nearby utility pole. I punched the call button on the intercom and waited a few minutes, but no one answered.

I pushed the call button again.

“Yes?” The voice was female, low and throaty.

“I’m here to see Alicia Langston.”

“Who?”

“Alicia Langston,” I repeated.