A Woman to Blame

Florida P.I. Gin Ritchey lives on a boat and takes life easy whenever she can. Trouble is, she never overheard a conversation she didn't find interesting. Her snowbird neighbors from New Jersey, three couples and a widower with a sexy young girlfriend, spend a lot of time outdoors where she can share their lives vicariously.

When the widower dies mysteriously, everyone suspects the girlfriend, but Gin isn't so sure. There's something suspicious about the situation, and when she talks to Bunny (who was born Agnes), she figures out how a seemingly natural death could really have been murder. All she has to do is prove it.

Before Gin can put the puzzle together, another of the snowbirds is dead. Her husband is the obvious suspect in both deaths, but Gin isn't convinced he did it. Her investigations reveal some secrets the snowbirds would have rather kept, but not in time to prevent yet another attempted murder. When she finally learns the reason for the first death, all becomes clear--or does it?

"He's cold, I tell you," Bunny babbled loudly into Vince's shoulder. "Cold. I know what that means. Dead. He's dead, isn't he?"

Vince was less audible. A soothing murmur, ending in "--be all right," was all we could hear.

"No, it's not," cried Bunny wildly. "Everything's not going to be all right. Nick's dead, and nothing's ever going to be all right again! I hate it when people die. I just hate it!" She was beginning to sound hysterical. I decided it was time I got out of the audience and did something.

I slid the glass door open the rest of the way and entered the apartment, to the accompaniment of shocked gasps from the onlookers. I strode over to the tableau by the bed and put my hand firmly on Bunny's shoulder.

"Agnes," I said, "shut up." She broke off in the middle of a wail and stared at me, wide-eyed.

"Not Agnes," she said, momentarily distracted. "Don't ever call me that. My name's Bunny." Then she remembered. "Why should I shut up?" she asked defiantly. "If I can't throw a hissy when Nick's dead, I'd like to know when--"

I looked at Vince. "Is she right about that?" I asked. "Is Nick dead?"

"I don't know," he said impatiently. "All's I know is I came in here after those horrible screams woke me, and this--this girl threw herself at me and started to bawl. I'll just go check--"

He went over to the bed and put his hand on Nick's shoulder as if to shake him awake, then snatched it back again as if he'd been burnt. "Oh, my God," he said in an awed tone. "She's right. He's dead. He's cold and stiff." He shuddered.

"What on earth is going on here, Gin?" Becky, the manager of the apartments, spoke behind me. "We'll have the neighbors calling the police in no time flat. You know how Liz is. I'm surprised we're not teeming with cops already." Liz managed the Captain Kidd apartments next door, and she was a terror when it came to noise, particularly at night. When the people across the canal and two houses down had an outdoor wedding reception and played Madonna CDs at ten Db at eleven p.m., Liz had called the police.

"Okay, Becky, we're going to be all right," I said. "But if Nick is dead, we may have to call in the cops."

"Well, and is he dead?" she asked.

"He's dead," said Vince. "Trust me."