Sam is no choirboy all right, and I'm determined to prove it, if for nothing else, my own satisfaction.

So what do I really know about my husband? Very little. But I'm not stupid. He owns Metrazzle, his antique shop, and I've seen his inventory. Could Sam and his partner, Ned, merely be ripping off old ladies and reselling their valuables at top price? Sure. But that doesn't explain the extreme fluctuations in cash flow.

Sam loves money, which is strange because he isn't even that materialistic. He just likes to hoard the large bills. He tries to make more money with the money he has by gambling, some legal, most probably not. Sometimes he wins, but more often he loses and loses big. And then he's miserable.

Everything seems better when business is good. Sam wakes up at a decent hour, disappears for most of the day, and returns at dinnertime uncharacteristically chatty. Never about work, though. I work all day! Why would I want to talk about it at home?

But those tolerable times have become fewer, shorter in duration, less pronounced in recent months. It's hard to tell if Sam is short on cash, stuck in a rut of mediocrity, or bored with my company.

The initial search through my house yields nothing of interest. In the garage I don't fare much better, though I do find a canister of keys. One set of three has a white circular label with "shop" scribbled on it in Sam's handwriting. I assume he means Metrazzle, so I pocket the bunch.

I spend the rest of the afternoon on Google. There are articles in at least four languages. Every country seems to have a different name for "Goldilocks." But each case is a subtle variation of the same theme–a wealthy groom, usually sickly in some way, meets a beautiful woman his family doesn't necessarily approve of, a grandiose wedding is planned, and then the bride and groom go missing, and so does the money in the groom's bank account. If the body shows up, it's usually months later in a "mummified" state, the garment bag found in the mother of the groom's closet.

As the afternoon progresses, Toronto news is in an uproar with new developments. The investigators discovered a body in a storage unit rented by a "Teresa Jenkins." She had two units, 55 and 56. Both went on auction the day before for lack of payment. The first one contains the body they believe to be her second victim, Clyde Russell, restaurant entrepreneur, and all of the purchases made for their wedding. Nothing is reported about the other unit, 56.

And then they go on about her first victim. She was actually arrested for his murder, a Jonathan Baxter, the son of two successful medical doctors, both neurosurgeons. The article shows the same mugshot that Detective Mariano had placed on my coffee table. However, after a long court battle, she was found not guilty. Her story that they were trying to spice things up on their wedding night by "enhancing orgasm" couldn't be medically refuted. He died by asphyxiation, yes, with bruises on his neck, but the autopsy also revealed that his blood alcohol level was through the roof and he had a known heart defect. Plus, one of Jonathan's ex-girlfriends testified that he could be "experimental" in the bedroom, and she even supplied photographs.

Since "Rebecca Donovan," the birth name of the bridezilla, cooperated with the authorities from the beginning and had no prior record, she was released and was the sole beneficiary of Jonathan's life insurance policy. But, as soon as the check cleared, she disappeared. She moved on to her second victim and his body was never found . . . until now.