Death by Marriage by Blair Bancroft Page B

anything but business. At three o’clock things quieted down enough that I could take the time to call Miss Letty, who promptly responded that she would be delighted for us to pay a Holiday call. Tea at four on Wednesday? I quickly agreed. In late afternoon I’d have no problem getting one of our part-time students to babysit the store, and our Santa check-outs for Christmas Eve weren’t until Thursday.
    So far, so good. Crystal was happy, but Martin Kellerman’s death still nagged. Martin. Velvet Santa suit . My thoughts took a jog to the practical. “I left a message on Badermann’s machine on Saturday,” I told Crystal. Badermann was our primary costume and accessory supplier. “Hopefully, they’ll overnight a new Santa today because the velvet suit is booked for Christmas Eve.” Along with every other Santa suit we owned.
    Back to my Martin problem. Deb Ellis could probably arrange for me to talk to Vanessa Kellerman, but what excuse could I use? Pardon me, ma’am, but could you please answer a few questions because I think maybe you killed your husband.
    Ah-hah! Hospital Auxiliary . I called Mom. No, Vanessa Kellerman had not been invited to join. No surprise there. But for a good cause, I wheedled? Mom grumbled, but authorized a probationary try-out if that was really the only luncheon excuse I could come up with.
    I called Deb Ellis, who was grimly gleeful about any maneuver that might bring about Vanessa Kellerman’s downfall. She called back a short while later to tell me she’d set up a lunch date at the Yacht Club for tomorrow at one.
    “You’re in over your head,” Crystal warned. “If she’s innocent, she’ll sue you. And if she killed him, you could be next. Whatever ails Miss Letty, it isn’t going to get you dead.”
    So much for Crystal’s clairvoyance.
     
    On Tuesday morning I slipped into a marine blue shirtdress, accessorized it with a silver necklace and earrings by a Sarasota designer, pulled on pantyhose, slid my feet into conservative navy pumps with three-inch heels, and dropped a few essentials into a small, matching clutch purse. The other women at the Golden Beach Yacht Club might be more casual, but I was representing my mother and the Hospital Auxiliary, and I needed to look the part.
    The Golden Beach Yacht Club suits it nautical setting. No ornate draperies that might shut out the view. No fancy chandeliers or gilded wood. No thwack of tennis rackets or golf balls. The Club sits on a narrow peninsula leading down to the jetties. Its broad windows offer a panorama of blue water and boats of every description. Space is limited, but the Club managed to squeeze in a parking lot, a pool, a Tiki bar, and docking facilities for forty-seven boats. In addition to the spectacular view, the main dining room oozes serene. The wait staff is friendly and efficient; the food, excellent. Mom kept offering to sponsor me, hinting about the advantages of the Club’s Singles events. I usually responded that my childhood rubber ducky didn’t count as a yacht.
    Deb Ellis, the consummate hostess, was already in place. At a table next to the windows, of course. Deb looks like a well-dressed dumpling. Round face, round arms, round hips. Rubens would have loved her. But when you get to know her, you discover her mind is sharp, and so are her teeth. She can sink her fangs into the jugular with the best of the sharks. Sometimes I suspected she was head of the pack. I was nervous, not looking forward to my interview with Vanessa Kellerman at all. Deb was. I could feel it.
    Deb’s eyes sparkled as she motioned me toward the chair with the best view of the water. “I can hardly wait,” she chortled. “Have you got your questions ready?”
    “I’m here to invite her to help with the Auxiliary’s fund-raiser, remember?” I unfolded my large navy blue napkin and draped it over my lap.
    “Aren’t you the one? You and Jo, as devious as they come.”
    I debated leaping to counter this aspersion on