Wedding Bell Blues. Charlotte Douglas

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      Antonio leaned forward and clasped his long, slender fingers on the desktop. “You have heard of the Montagues and the Capulets? The Hatfields and McCoys?”

      I nodded, wondering where he was headed.

      “Well, I have a dinner for two hundred scheduled for the Burnses and the Bakers.”

      For a moment I drew a blank. Then memory served. “The Pineland Circle Burnses and Bakers?”

      He nodded solemnly. “The very same.”

      “They’re having a dinner together?”

      He nodded again with a grimace. “And I need your help to assure that they do not kill each other and destroy our banquet room in the course of the evening.”

      “Why would the Burnses and Bakers schedule a dinner together?”

      Antonio cocked his head in interest. “Do you know the history of these feuding families?”

      “During the time I was with the department, our officers probably responded to more signal twenty-twos at Pineland Circle than all other addresses combined.”

      “What is this ‘signal twenty-two’?”

      Police jargon came so naturally to me, I often forgot others weren’t fluent. “A disturbance. To put it mildly.”

      I shook my head. “And it all started over a grapefruit tree.”

      “Someone was stealing fruit?”

      “If only it had been that simple.” I could still picture the scene on what should have been a quiet residential cul-de-sac fifteen years ago, with twelve little urchins, all under the age of twelve, six in each family, who seemed to believe their sole purpose on earth was to torment each other. “The children from each family would stand in their respective yards and taunt each other by calling names. The first blow in the battle was struck when the Burns kids began pelting the Baker children with rotten grapefruit from the Burnses’ tree.”

      “Where were their parents?”

      “Unfortunately, more often than not, standing on the sidelines, egging them on.”

      “And the police put a stop to this?”

      I shook my head. “Events escalated. The oldest Baker boy chopped down the Burnses’ grapefruit tree. The Burnses filed charges. It might have ended there, but the Baker children retaliated by slashing the tires on Mr. Burns’s truck and scrawling graffiti over their driveway and sidewalk. The adult Burnses filed more charges, while their kids soaped the Bakers’ windows and rolled their trees in toilet paper. Then the Bakers filed charges. This back-and-forth went on for years, often with physical confrontations between the children. It was like gang warfare, but without knives or firearms.”

      “And the parents continued to encourage it?” Antonio asked in disbelief. “Why did they not move away?”

      “The whole situation became a test of wills.” Patrol officers had answered calls on Pineland Circle right up until the department had disbanded last February. “The family feuds became a reason for living, a challenge to see who blinked first.”

      Antonio leaned back in his chair. “How ironic.”

      “This dinner of yours,” I warned, “it’s more likely to be World War III.”

      “That is why I want your firm to provide security to keep the attendees under control.”

      “Why are they having a joint dinner anyway?” I asked.

      “I did not tell you?” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was going to say. “Linda Burns is marrying Kevin Baker and both their extended families will be present at the wedding reception here.”

      CHAPTER 3

      “You don’t need security,” I said with conviction. “You need Delta Force. Maybe CentCom at MacDill will rent them out.”

      Antonio’s expression fell.

      “If you knew about their feud,” I asked, “why did you agree to host their reception?”

      “I did not know. Mrs. Burns exhibited tension and made some hints of disagreement when she came in to book the banquet room and select the menu, but strain is often present between prospective in-laws. I thought nothing more about it until my sous-chef recognized the names on the calendar and alerted me. He lives down the block from them and has witnessed their neighborhood turf wars.” Antonio spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “By then, the contract was signed.”

      “I hope it includes a healthy damage deposit.”

      “So you cannot help me?”

      I suppressed a sigh. What was the point of being in business if we couldn’t meet the client’s needs? “When’s the reception?”

      “The last Saturday of the month.”

      I thought for a moment. With Bill and me and Abe Mackley, who’d indicated an interest in working with us after his retirement, I’d have a force of three. And Adler, with one toddler and a new baby on the way, might want to earn some extra cash.

      “How many guests did you say?” I asked.

      “Two hundred.”

      “Are you serving liquor?”

      Antonio’s face paled. “Champagne and an open bar.”

      Fifty people apiece, in varying stages of hostility and inebriation, for us to keep tabs on. “And exactly what would you expect security to do?”

      “Mingle with the guests. Watch for signs of problems. Escort troublemakers from the room to cool off. If they do not, bar them from reentering. And, but only as a last resort, call the police. Sophia’s has a reputation to maintain.”

      Recalling the long history of bad blood between the two families, I recognized the very real potential for someone being seriously hurt, not to mention damage to the restaurant.

      “Give me a day or two. I’ll see if I can put together a team. If not, I’ll find a good security firm to recommend.”

      Antonio’s relief was palpable. “Thank you, Detective Skerritt.”

      “Just Maggie now,” I said and headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

      After leaving Sophia’s, I returned to the Dock of the Bay for my ancient Volvo and drove north on Alternate Nineteen. Just south of the country club, I turned into an older and less elegant neighborhood, filled with Spanish-style homes from the thirties and forties with stucco exteriors and clay tile roofs. With almost every square inch of property already built out in the county, these houses, which would once have been affordable to the working class, now sold for over three hundred thousand. Garth Swinburn, Alicia’s fiancé, had either inherited his or earned a generous income.

      I parked in the driveway СКАЧАТЬ