Wedding Bell Blues. Charlotte Douglas

phone rang and he answered it quickly.

      “That was Darcy,” he said after he flipped it shut. “Antonio Stavropoulos called the office. He wants to hire us.”

      “For what?”

      “He didn’t say, just that he wanted to talk to you about it.”

      “More work is good,” I said with conviction, “as long as it has nothing to do with weddings.”

      After lunch, I walked from the Dock of the Bay on the south side of the marina across the city park to Sophia’s on the north side. Although the temperature had risen into the nineties, an onshore breeze laden with a fresh briny scent made the trek bearable, and I arrived at the upscale restaurant without dissolving into a puddle of sweat.

      Sophia’s, built to resemble a Venetian palazzo in imitation of John Ringling’s Sarasota mansion, perched in pink-stuccoed splendor on the water’s edge and brought back a flood of memories. Last fall the restaurant’s owner had been one of several victims in a series of murders. Dave Adler, my young partner on the Pelican Bay Police Department, and I, along with help from Bill, had solved the crimes. The last time I’d seen Antonio Stavropoulos had been at Thanksgiving, when he’d asked me to stop by for a box of pastries, a gift of thanks to the department for their hard work.

      In the lobby, crowded with patrons waiting to be seated in the luxurious dining room that served world class food, I looked for Antonio, but the maître d’s station was empty. I snagged the elbow of a passing waiter, asked for Antonio, and he pointed me down a hall to the manager’s office, formerly occupied by Lester Morelli, now awaiting trial for murdering his wife Sophia, among others.

      At the end of the hall, I knocked at the door and noted Antonio’s name engraved on a brass plate. The maître d’ had moved up in the world.

      “Enter,” a masculine voice with a thick Greek accent called.

      I stepped into the office, and Antonio bounded from behind the desk to greet me and offer a chair. The tall, elderly man was dressed as usual in a well-tailored suit with a continental cut and an impeccable white shirt and conservative tie. His gray hair and snowy mustache were neatly trimmed.

      “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “We have a…ah…situation.”

      “You’re the manager now?” I settled in the chair across from the desk.

      Antonio nodded, circled his desk and sat. “Manager and part owner. I bought a half interest from Anastasia Gianakis. She is my silent partner.”

      Anastasia, Sophia Morelli’s aunt, a secondary beneficiary, had inherited the restaurant when I’d proved Lester, Sophia’s husband and heir, had killed his wife. The creep, who’d counted on getting everything his dead wife had owned, might end up instead with a death sentence.

      “From the crowd in the lobby,” I noted, “I’d guess business is good.”

      “Business is excellent,” Antonio said with a nod of satisfaction. “And I want to keep it that way. This new firm of yours, do you handle security?”

      “It depends. What kind of security do you have in mind?”

      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