Love Kills by Edna Buchanan Page A

glared at a driver trying to inch his PT Cruiser in front of me and called her, but now all I could reach was a busy signal.

CHAPTER FIVE
    â€œLottie’s looking for you,” said the assistant city editor I briefed on the Spencer York story.
    Moments later I scooped up the persistently ringing phone on my desk.
    â€œBritt?” It was her voice.
    â€œI’m sorry too,” I blurted.
    The silence was deafening. “Hell,” she finally said, stretching the word into two syllables. “I ain’t apologizing for nothing. You’re the one didn’t answer my messages.”
    â€œYou’re not sorry?”
    â€œNo way.” Before she hung up, she said, “Check your mailbox.”
    I did. Nothing special. Mostly routine press releases from the police public information office, artfully composed to impart as little information as possible, and an alert from the Coast Guard on two missing boaters….
    I almost spit up my coffee.
    A U.S. Coast Guard air and sea search was under way for newlyweds from Boston. The couple and their forty-foot trawler, Calypso Dancer , had vanished on their island-hopping honeymoon.
    The faces beneath the MISSING banner made my heart skip. The golden couple who had lost their honeymoon photos to the sea were now lost themselves.
    â€œOh, my God!”
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Britt?” Ryan asked from behind me.
    I waved the flyer. “I know these people!”
    His eyes widened. “Who are they?”
    â€œNewlyweds. From Boston. I mean, I don’t actually know them, they’re the people whose camera we found.”
    Now we had names to match the faces: Vanessa Holt, twenty-six, and her husband, Marsh Holt, thirty-two.
    The narrative stated in stilted Coast Guard jargon that nothing had been found: no wreckage, oil slicks, or reported sightings. There had been no distress calls. The search was hampered by the fact that no one was certain how long the couple had been missing. They had filed no precise itinerary, and friends and family had not been immediately alarmed.
    Maybe no news is good news, I thought, staring at their faces. My phone interrupted.
    â€œDid you see it?” Lottie demanded impatiently.
    â€œIt’s them,” I said urgently. “It’s them. I’m on it. Make copies of the best pictures for the city desk.”
    â€œDid that.” She paused. “I hope they’re not dead, Britt.”
    â€œMe too.”
    I called the Coast Guard, then Boston.
    â€œDid they find anything?” Norman Hansen, the father of the missing bride, asked when I identified myself. The fear and anguish in his voice were palpable.
    â€œNot yet. I just spoke to the Coast Guard. The search area is huge, but we have some photos that may help narrow it down.”
    â€œSomething terrible happened.” His voice trembled.
    In the background his wife asked, “Is it the airline?”
    â€œNo, Molly, a reporter,” he said. “In Miami.”
    She picked up an extension. I could hear her labored breathing.
    â€œThis is not necessarily terrible,” I said. “They may have simply lost track of time; you know how honeymooners are.”
    â€œNo,” he said firmly. “Nessa’s not like that. She’s extremely reliable. When she didn’t come back to start rehearsals, we knew it was something terrible.”
    â€œRehearsals?”
    Vanessa, it seemed, played first cello for the Boston Symphony, quite an accomplishment at age twenty-six. The radiant girl with the long hair was a talented musician. Their pride was evident despite their panic and anxiety. The newlyweds had been due back in Boston on Friday. Rehearsals began on Monday. The weekend had come and gone without a word, a call, or a message.
    â€œShe devoted her whole life to music, to the Symphony,” her father said, “until she met Marsh. He’s a wonderful young man. We were so happy. But when they didn’t