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real women. It zoomed tightly around each of her curves. Her heels pushed her well past the six foot mark, and her great mass of auburn hair piled high on her head added another inch or two. A large diamond hung from a thin chain and came to a rest at the peak of her cleavage. She was a structure Louis Sullivan could appreciate.
    "First class," I said looking at the tickets. "Very nice." Mrs. Johnson flashed me a look of amused tolerance. "Will Mr. Carmichael be meeting me here or at the airport?"
    "Mr. Carmichael doesn’t fly."
    "He doesn’t fly?"
    "He doesn’t fly."
    "So I’m going it alone?"
    "No, he is at home packing and will follow in a car."
    "Okay," I said with some doubt. I didn’t want to be flying solo on a mission where I was so far out of my element. I’m all about P/E ratios, yield curves and analyst reports. The love affairs of others? Not my game. Plus, the Finks and the Nottles had a larger-than-average chunk of change with Mr. Carmichael. The fees they paid were sizable. I didn’t want to be the guy closing the valve on that revenue stream.
    "You have any idea what’s going on?"
    "All we know is that three days ago, Daisey Nottle came back from a dinner with her fiancé Gus Fink and announced to her parents the wedding was off. They thought it was cold feet, but her feet are firmly dug in. No wedding. No one knows why. Maybe Gus Fink knows, but he’s not telling his parents. The wedding is supposed to be this coming Saturday.
    I’d met Mr. Walter Fink and Mr. Jack Nottle once during a client meeting. They were best friends since fifth grade who went into business together. They had a large tool-rental company spread out across the Midwest. You want a chainsaw for two hours? You go see them. Backhoe for a month? Scissor lift? Twenty-foot ladder? They've got you covered. Their children, I was told, were sweet on one another since boys and girls get sweet on one another. They’d dated through high school and college and were now set to be married, or at least they were until Daisey Nottle called it quits.
    And Daisey Nottle calling it quits is what caused me to be bumping along this dark South Carolina road at one in the a.m. on a Saturday—strike that—Sunday morning.
    Walter Nottle was waiting for me at the airport. I’d have been more than happy to nab a rental, but there he was, just past the gate with a hand drawn sign reading ‘Jacob Gibb.’ I caught his eye. We shook each other’s hands and asked our how-do-you-dos and we walked to his pick ‘em up truck, where I tossed my hastily stuffed bag into the bed. He was an egg-shaped man about five foot nine inches tall and four foot three across. He let me know I’d be staying at his house.
    While I didn’t like riding in trucks at one in the a.m. or sleeping in a house with strangers, I wasn’t too busted up over getting away from the Cincinnati chill and sampling some warm climate inspired cocktails—a Dark & Stormy maybe, or a Planter’s Punch, perhaps. But by this time, I just wanted a stiff belt of any brown liquor. I’d gotten to the Cincinnati airport late and didn’t have time for my customary pre-flight drinks. Then the airline, in some horrible post-9/11 edict, didn’t serve the least bit of booze. I guess we let the terrorists win that one. I’d have loved to grab a post-flight drink at the Hilton Head airport, but by the time I landed, everything was closed, and Mr. Nottle was standing there holding that sign moistening about the eyes.
    Oh, well, as Scarlett bleated, tomorrow is another day.
    "This has really upset all of us," said Mr. Nottle. "None of us have any idea what is going on. Neither of the kids is saying a word. We tried and nothing. That’s when we turned to Mr. Carmichael. He’s always been a godsend to us."
    I said something about doing our best and was happy when we finally pulled up to the Nottle house—a enormous modern number right on the ocean. Mr. Nottle put the pick ‘em up truck in park then said