a hug. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“Can you handle half the civilized world? So far Mother’s guest list is at eight hundred.”
Bill’s confident expression wavered. “I need a drink. Bring Roger. I know just the place.”
I sipped a vodka-and-tonic slowly to make it last. Since I was driving to interview Julianne Pritchard after supper, one drink was my limit.
Roger curled in my lap while I lounged in a teak reclining chair on the rear deck of the Ten-Ninety-Eight. Bill manned the grill. Upon retiring from the Tampa Police Department several years ago, Bill had bought the cabin cruiser, named it for the police code for “mission completed,” and moved aboard. After we’d closed on our house, a renovated Cape Cod in Dave Adler’s neighborhood, Bill had suggested we move into it together, but I’d insisted we wait until after the wedding. My decision was one part knowing how much Bill loved living on his boat, another part my belief in old-fashioned values, and the biggest part my continuing reluctance to take that last giant step toward commitment.
The tantalizing aroma of grouper and an assortment of vegetables mixed with the briny scent of the breeze off the water. Bill turned the food on the grill, grabbed a beer and settled into the chair beside mine. His customary contented expression had disappeared, and the grim lines in his face made him appear older.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t let Mother and Caroline go through with their plans. It’s a long time until February and eventually they’ll get the message.”
“I know.” He leaned back in his chair and stared across the sound toward the barrier islands and the rapidly descending sun, but his dark mood remained.
“Then what’s troubling you?” With a jolt of panic, I wondered if Bill was having second thoughts about marrying me. My reluctance to commit was rooted in my feelings of inadequacy, but I’d never doubted how much I loved him. Losing him would be more than I could bear.
He sighed. “I got a hit today on the background checks I’ve been doing for the Historical Society.”
A mixture of relief and surprise rushed through me. “One of your little old ladies has a record?”
He took a long pull at his beer and nodded. “Shoplifting.”
“Have you told the museum director?”
Bill shook his head. “And I’m not going to.”
“Why?” Bill was the most ethical person I knew, so his refusal didn’t make sense. “Isn’t that what we volunteered for?”
He leaned toward me with pain-filled eyes. “I talked to her. Bessie Lassiter is eighty-four, lives with her hundred-year-old sister, Violet, and has only their paltry Social Security checks as income. She was caught shoplifting in a grocery store. She was stealing food because she’d run out of funds before the end of the month.”
“And some heartless judge convicted her?”
“But let her off with a warning and probation.”
“That’s so sad. Is there something we can do for her?”
“She won’t accept help,” Bill said with a shake of his head. “I tried to give her money, but she said her pride is all she has left, and she refuses to accept charity. I hate to think how many elderly are out there in her situation, not having enough money for housing, utilities, groceries and medicine. And the irony is, the food she stole wasn’t for herself but for her sister. She said she would have done without, but she couldn’t let her sister starve.”
I felt sympathy for the old ladies and wanted to do something. “Give Darcy all the info you have on the women tomorrow,” I suggested. “Have her check into government assistance programs for seniors.”
“I doubt they’ll accept help.”
“I’m sure they’ve paid taxes all their lives,” I said. “We’ll convince them that they’re entitled.”
He spanned the distance between us and squeezed my hand. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try it. Now tell me about your day.”
I related Antonio Stavropoulos’s desire to hire Pelican Bay Investigations for security for the Burns-Baker wedding reception, and Bill frowned again. “Sounds like one huge domestic disturbance.”
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