Wedding Bell Blues. Charlotte Douglas
“Right.” He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his ankle resting on his knee, giving me an eye-level view of his bare size-thirteen foot. I contemplated popular mythology and wondered about their sex life but was smart enough to know what not to ask.
Garth leaned forward. “Alicia was expounding on one of her favorite themes that night—who am I and why am I here? You ever ask yourself those questions?”
“Only when I’ve had too much to drink.”
He flashed his boyish grin again, reminding me of Adler, another point in Garth’s favor. “Until our dinner at Angellino’s, Alicia had worried that she’d never find the answers. But that night she said she thought she’d discovered the key.”
“Did she say what it was?”
“Nope. Said she didn’t want to talk about it further until she was sure.”
“Did she say where she’d been, what she’d been doing, who she’d been talking to?”
“Like I said, we talked mostly about me.” His expression spasmed with distress. “God, it just hit me. You think that’s why she ran away? Because I talk too much about myself?”
I felt sorry for the kid. “I don’t know enough about Alicia to form an opinion yet.”
“I should have paid more attention to her.”
“Don’t beat yourself up.” He was male, after all. His self-absorption was in his genes. And his jeans. “And don’t jump to conclusions. Wait until you’ve talked to Alicia.”
“You have to find her.”
“I’m planning on it.”
“Have you talked to her friends?”
“Mrs. Langston gave me a list. Anyone in particular I should start with?”
“Julianne Pritchard.” He lifted his hand and crossed two fingers. “She and Alicia are like this.”
“Have you talked to Julianne?”
Garth nodded. “She says she doesn’t know where Alicia is.”
“She might know other facts that will help. I have her address.”
Garth checked his watch. “Julianne’s probably still at work. She waits tables at Hooters in Clearwater.”
His worry was palpable, so I tried to reassure him. “Julianne may know something that will lead me to Alicia.”
“I hope so.” His expression turned grim. “If not, my gut tells me Alicia’s in real trouble.”
CHAPTER 4
I left Garth’s house, headed east to U.S. 19, then turned south. What had, in my childhood, been a bucolic drive along a country road through pastures and citrus groves was now six lanes under construction of wall-to-wall traffic hell. Our local politicians referred to it as progress. I figured for every minute I spent on that route, another hair on my head turned gray.
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