Death by Marriage by Blair Bancroft Read Free Book Online Page B

native sons—a good many of them genuine red necks and crackers, with an occasional adventurous tourist thrown in. Our snowbirds, mostly seniors, never went near the place, but it was jammed six days a week, particularly from seven ’ til midnight. Scott was one of their regulars.
    “Hey, costume lady, don’t tell me you’re taking up pool? Naw, must be Scott left something behind and asked you to pick it up. Though I sure as hell ain’t seen it yet.”
    “Nothing lost,” I told him with a grin. “I don’t suppose you took time off to watch the parade last night?”
    “Ain’t that somethin’! Didn’t leave here ‘til two, but I heard about it. Nasty!” Stan’s brown eyes sharpened. “How come you’re asking questions, pretty lady? Not exactly your line of work, now is it?”
    I told him about Martin wearing my Santa suit and Scott’s part in the recovery. “Guess I’m just curious. Sort of wondering if anyone saw things differently than I did.”
    Stan nodded, evidently having no problem understanding an overactive need-to-know. He wished me good luck.
    The south end of North Bypass Mall could be called the Men’s End. Auto parts, pool, and sporting goods. The only male on the north end of the mall was the owner of Antiques Etcetera, Peter Koonce, and there were those who thought Pete was well-placed at the Women’s End of the mall. But I had one more stop before I crossed into Female territory.
    Erik at Golden Beach Sporting Goods informed me that he was on one of the boats stuck between the Center and Circus bridges until two-effing-thirty a.m. and he’d sat on his effing freezing buns for five effing hours but hadn’t seen an effing thing. Those weren’t quite the words he used, of course. He then apologized profusely and blamed his short temper on lack of sleep. I thanked him and tip-toed out, closing the door softly behind me.
    I waved at the DeFrancos as I passed by. The Closed sign was up at DreamWear, all costumes accounted for. I didn’t even glance at the Credit Union, which was, of course, closed on Saturday. The Second Chance Boutique had a line at the counter, with Iris ringing up and Brigitte bagging. Well, good for them. The two owners of this upscale consignment shop always kept their eyes pealed for vintage clothing for DreamWear, and my Realtor mother was among their most faithful donors, offering her trendy suits for recycling on a regular basis. But now was obviously not the moment for tossing questions at them.
    Things were quieter at Antiques Etcetera, a colorful and intriguing combination of antiques, estate jewelry, and furniture that was often more “used” than “antique.” Today, Peter Koonce was behind his counter-cum-jewelry showcase, perched on a solid oak bar stool more sturdy than the elegant wicker one he’d sold to me. As I entered, the benign smile he was directing toward a couple of browsers blossomed into a beaming welcome.
    Peter is tall, lean, fortyish, and not bad looking. And no matter what Scott says, he’s never given me any indication he’s not interested in women. Then again, he might swing both ways. Today, after telling me he’d spent last night cataloging and pricing new inventory, he kept up a non-stop chatter, pausing only long enough to respond to the browsers’ questions about prices and provenances. Peter is always dressed well—maybe that’s what made Scott suspicious. And he keeps my costume needs in mind, sometimes shooting me hushed phone calls from large auction houses to ask if I had any interest in a certain item.
    Peter was enough of a friend that I’d considered dating him once or twice during the summer season when real estate was so slow my mother turned to nagging me about grandchildren. (I think she was pretty certain she wasn’t going to see any from Scott for some time to come. Legitimate issue, that is. Mom lives in fear of bad news in the other direction.)
    Fortunately, one of Peter’s customers actually wanted to