Love Kills by Edna Buchanan Page B

come back and didn’t call, we knew.”
    His wife choked back a sob. “We feel so helpless…. We’re trying to book a flight.”
    â€œWe’re coming down,” he said, “to look for them.”
    â€œDon’t be so quick to assume the worst.” I tried to comfort them. “Island time is different. Things move more slowly. They may have engine trouble, could be marooned somewhere. Maybe adrift. Coast Guard Search and Rescue is good. They’ll find them. Last week they rescued several boaters who’d been adrift for five days. Wait a day or two. It’s a big ocean. There’s not much you could do here now. When they do come home,” I added cheerfully, “this will be a story you’ll tell your grandchildren someday.”
    â€œPlease God.” His wife choked.
    I asked how to reach Marsh’s parents.
    â€œHe lost them at an early age,” Molly Hansen said. “He has little family, but he fit right in with us. He’s the son we never had. We love him and he loves us.” An engineer from the Midwest, he had met Vanessa shortly after his transfer to Boston and he had swept her off her feet: love at first sight, or something close to it. He proposed only months after they met, after first asking her parents’ permission.
    The wedding was lavish and rich in music. Fellow musicians had performed; others were members of the wedding party. Marsh had rented the Calypso Dancer for their romantic two-week island-hopping honeymoon.
    The parents sounded sweet and scared silly. Vanessa was their only child.
    â€œDon’t panic,” I said again. “No news is good news at this point. No distress calls went out. There have been no reports of a boat in trouble. No wreckage has been spotted. I’ll stay on it and call you the minute I hear anything.” The Hansens, in turn, promised to lend the News one of the couple’s wedding pictures. Lottie arranged for a Boston service to pick it up at their home and transmit it.
    The frightened parents sounded temporarily reassured by the time I hung up. Now I regretted my initial envy of Vanessa and Marsh, husband and wife for less than four weeks. How random fate and Mother Nature can be, I thought. How quickly life can turn on a dime.
    Had the newlyweds been swallowed by the shadowy seas of the Bermuda Triangle? Were they targeted by pirates or drug smugglers? Or are they simply still out there, I wondered wistfully, sipping daiquiris and making love on a palm-lined stretch of sugar-white beach, having lost all track of time?
    The last option had my vote.
    Between calls to the Coast Guard, I contacted local feminists and politicians for reactions to the fate of the Custody Crusader. The once-outraged prosecutor was now a prominent criminal defense attorney. The deposed judge, caught up in a career-crashing whirlwind of criticism and controversy for releasing Spencer York on low bond, was beyond mortal reach, dead for more than a year. Too bad, I thought. He would have felt vindicated. When Spencer York failed to appear for trial, it was not the fault of a too-lenient judge. An unknown killer was the culprit.
    Whoever murdered York and hid his corpse had effectively killed the judge’s career and reputation as well.
    The voices now were not as strident as at the height of the controversy. Laws had changed. Miami was a different city. The most vocal critics had moved on to other issues, other outrages. Some had left South Florida, others were gone from the planet. Miami is known for its short memory, which may be why we keep making the same mistakes.
    He was no longer politically controversial, but the legend of Spencer York’s disappearance had now morphed into a murder mystery, a good read. It was time to introduce the Custody Crusader posthumously to a whole new generation of Miami News readers.
    I called York’s sister, Sheila, near Waco. She hung up. Unlike her brother, she obviously