Died to Match Read online

  “Roger, if you’d rather not be there—”

  “I promised Paul I’d meet his parents. And I don’t want people to think”—Mercedes’ name hung in the silence between us—“… to think anything. But I just can’t do it. I’m not sleeping, I can’t seem to pull my thoughts together.”

  “Don’t worry about it, really,” I said, privately grateful that he wouldn’t be at the Salish. He was hardly the ideal dinner guest at this point. “You can spend some time with Chloe and Howard at the reception.”

  “I knew you’d understand. You’re the only one who knows what I’m going through. Thank you, Carnegie.”

  First an unwilling confidante to Mercedes, and now a reluctant co-conspirator with Roger. This wasn’t the role I signed up for. Mindful of Eddie’s presence—he claimed he didn’t eavesdrop but I knew he did, and he knew I knew—I made a brisk and businesslike farewell, and reached for my next phone message slip, from Pete the mechanic. But Eddie couldn’t resist a comment.

  “Talbot bailed out, huh?” Before I could come up with an explanation, he provided his own. “Delayed reaction to his wife dying. It happens. Your mother went along fine for a couple of months, keeping up a good front, and then she kinda folded up for a while. Probably the same for Talbot.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Eddie. Excuse me.” I punched in Pete’s number. The news was not good.

  “We’re looking at twenty-five, twenty-seven hundred here, Carnegie!” Pete had to shout over the din of engines, tools, and the Christian radio channel that blared eternally in his tiny office next to the garage. “Then there’s that rear right fender. You want that in the estimate, too?”

  “How did I know this would be three thousand?” I mused aloud. I might as well just sign over Elizabeth’s check.

  “Can’t hear you!” he said.

  “Never mind. Estimate the whole thing, including the fender, and fax it over, OK?”

  “Okeydoke!”

  Then I got on e-mail and reviewed Eddie’s new hobby of chart creation for fun and profit. He was right, the new software would save us some time, and provide a nice professional format for keeping our clients updated on budgets, vendors, and guests. In my previous life—doing public relations work for a bank—I’d been project manager for some fairly major publications and events, but none of them held a candle to the logistical complexities of a large formal wedding like Bonnie’s or Elizabeth’s. For instance, very few executives throw hissy fits about who they’re seated next to at the annual stockholders meeting.

  A jaunty rap on the outer office door announced Joe Solveto. He let himself in, along with a gust of saltwater air and the cries of gulls.

  “Victory is mine, boys and girls! I hold in my hand the final menu for Lamott/Wheeler, and it is a triumph of the culinary arts.”

  “If you do say so yourself?” I smiled. “Good to see you, Joe.”

  Joe was always good to see. For one thing, he was a beautiful man, from his cunningly mussed sandy hair, down past his diligently sculpted dancer’s physique, to his impeccably polished, hand-crafted Italian shoes. Joe and his partner, Alan, made a lovely couple. They also made a lot of money. Alan was a media buyer for the biggest ad agency in town, and Joe had built up Seattle’s premiere catering firm. I loved it when my clients could afford Solveto’s; he was a prince to work with, and they always adored his food. I accepted the menu he offered with my mouth already watering.

  “Let’s see… spinach salad with feta and golden raisins, the haricots verts you told me about, Penn Cove mussels… ooh, crab cakes with dried cherries and cilantro, topped with chile aioli? That sounds scrumptious.”

  “It is scrumptious.” He folded himself elegantly into a visitor chair. “As is the peppercorned New York strip on foccacia with arugula and Parmesan. Oh, and I’ve had an epiphany for the Buckmeister/Frost entrée, the vegetarian one.”

  “Tell, tell.”

  “Two epiphanies, actually. Number one is a torta di ver-dura, and—”

  “What the hell is that?” Eddie wasn’t quite as fond of Joe as I was. Back in his day, on the high seas, men didn’t admit to homosexuality unless they were very good swimmers. But Joe answered him with perfect courtesy. He had told me once in private that he found Eddie’s attempt to embrace diversity quite touching.

  “Torta di verdura is a ‘cake of greens,’ in this case brioche stuffed with spinach and citrus-scented ricotta.”

  “Oh,” said Eddie, embracing away. “Well, that sounds pretty good. What’s number two?”

  “Baby arugula salad with figs. And polenta rosemary breadsticks to go with. The torta has dairy, the salad’s completely vegan.”

  Eddie nodded grudging approval and went back to his reports.

  “Joe, you’ve done it again,” I told him. “I wish you were doing the rehearsal dinner, too.”

  “Oh, the Salish will do you proud,” he said. “Even if the food was bad, the location is divine. And actually, the food is quite good.”

  The Salish Lodge overlooked Snoqualmie Falls, a Northwest beauty spot that’s higher than Niagara, though not as broad. I’d reserved a private room for the dinner, with a fireplace and terrace, and French doors we could open to join the after-dinner dancing in the foyer.

  “That’s high praise, coming from you,” I said. “I’ll be sure to bring my appetite.”

  Joe cocked his head. “You’re attending?”

  “I’m an attendant.” I told him about the bridesmaid bribe.

  “Goodness! For that kind of money I’d put on a pink dress myself.” That was aimed at Eddie, who snorted faintly. “Well, be sure and order the duck breast salad with blood orange vinaigrette. Their venison is excellent, too.”

  As I made a note about that, Joe pulled his chair closer to my desk. “Carnegie, I heard that you found Mercedes.”

  “You know her? I mean, knew her?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. But her kid brother Esteban works for me. She moved him and her mother up here from Mexico a while ago. Bought them a nice house in Renton, and helped them both get citizenship.”

  “Oh, God. They must be devastated.”

  “Yes, indeed. Stebbie’s English isn’t that good, so he asked me to ask you something—”

  “She didn’t suffer,” I said, for the second time. “It must have been over very quickly.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell him. It’ll mean a lot to his mother. How are you holding up after an experience like that?”

  “I’m fine. Well, not fine, but OK.”

  “You take care of yourself, Carnegie.” His slender fingers tapped on the menu—which he could easily have faxed to me instead of coming by in person. Joe was a good guy. “I’ll send you this with a cost breakdown. By the way, have you found a cake yet for the Killer B’s?”

  “Buckmeisters,” I said automatically, though it was a losing battle. “Yes, I think so. Juice Nugent.”

  His high-boned, theatrical face twisted in dismay. “That bizarre child at BBA? Oh, please.”

  “Have you seen her cakes? She’s quite talented.”

  “She’s quite Martian, if you ask me. She keeps calling me for referrals, and I tell her to put on a wig and a dress and I’ll think about it.”

  “You’re a snob, Joe.”

  “And a good one.” He stood up. “I’ll be in touch. Strange as it may seem, I’m convinced that Lamott/Wheeler is going to be a huge success.”

  “I hope so. It certainly can’t get any stranger than it has already.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  WEDNESDAY PASSED UNEVENTFULLY, EXCEPT FOR THE BAD news that Vanna would be dry-docked at Pete’s for at least a week. At least I didn’t have dresses or cakes to transport this week, as I sometimes did. And I’d always meant to take a yoga class someday; folding myself into the soup can rental car was a good warm-up

  Thursday the Buckmeisters descended upon us again like a plague of cheerful, indecisive locusts. This time I was in better shape to handle them, so I l
et Eddie escape to lunch. Buck, Betty, and Bonnie had yet another wonderful new idea for the reception: Christmas carol karaoke.

  I kept a straight face and lobbied for chorals rather than solos, and they agreed that Aunt Min doing all twelve days of Christmas by herself might be a bit much. That was a relief. I’d met Min, and based on her speaking voice, I figured the lords a-leaping would leap right out a window if they had to sit through the swans and the golden rings. Then I solved a little etiquette problem for Betty. Bless her heart, she had a tender regard for the feelings of every single guest

  “It’s the table numbers,” she explained. “Everyone expects the head table to be One, of course, and then the family sits at Two and Three, but then the people who get put at Nine and such might feel like they came lower down in our hearts, do you see what I mean? And they’re all our friends.”

  “ ’Cept for my business buddies,” Buck rumbled. Today’s bandanna was an unbusinesslike international orange, with pink paisley swirls. “They’re not exactly friends, but I still want to treat ’em right. What about it, Carnegie? What’s the official way to do it?”

  It’s funny how many people believe in the existence of some almighty etiquette bible, handed down on engraved deckle-edged vellum instead of stone tablets, and specifying everything from how to fold the napkins to how much to tip the kid in the parking lot. I kept introducing the principle of Good Sense Plus Thoughtfulness, and clients kept asking for the official rules.

  “Tell you what,” I said, flinging myself into the holiday spirit. “Let’s do away with the numbers altogether. We’ll call the head table Santa Claus, and name the rest of them after the reindeer. Once you get past Dancer and Prancer, no one’s going to remember whether Cupid or Comet comes first.”

  “Well, we would,” Bonnie the bride pointed out, gnawing a rosebud lip. Then her face regained its usual sunny expression. “But that’s just because we love Christmas so much. We’re sort of Christmas experts.”

  “I noticed that. But the rest of your guests will just enjoy seeing the holiday names there on the place card table. If we have more tables than reindeer we’ll use, I don’t know, Snowflake and Icicle?”

  “Perfect!” said Betty. “Carnegie, you’re just wonderful.”

  If only all mothers of the bride were so appreciative. I continued being wonderful for another half hour, and then when Eddie came back with Zack in tow, I ushered the Killer B’s gently out the door.

  Zack, I was surprised to see, didn’t look any better than he had on Sunday. Worse, if anything. His usual shy smile had vanished, replaced by a heavy, stolid silence. His website demo was pretty stolid, too: our logo on a home page, our brochure copy rearranged a bit, and a request form where potential clients could ask for more information. No animation, no razzle-dazzle, no nothing. As Zack himself would say, it was, like, so lame.

  “Well,” said Eddie. “Well. It’s certainly a start. Isn’t it, Carnegie?”

  “Yes, a good start. Zack, if you’re really busy at the Sentinel these days, we could postpone—”

  “That’s OK,” he said dully. “I pretty much quit this morning.”

  Eddie and I exchanged glances.

  “Was there a problem, Zack?”

  He shrugged, looking sullen, and younger than ever. “Um, Carnegie, could we, like, take a walk or something? I kind of want to talk to you.”

  “I could leave you two alone—” Eddie began, but I rolled my eyes at him and he got the message. “Except that I’m awfully busy right now. And anyway, Carnegie’s got a dinner date. With her boyfriend.”

  This time the word was fine with me. The last thing I wanted was to be left alone with Robin Hood. He obviously needed comforting after losing his coworker, but I wasn’t the one to provide it.

  “I sure do,” I said brightly, “and I’d better go change. Zack, you and Eddie do a little brainstorming, why don’t you, and see what else you can come up with. I remember you had all those great ideas at the Aquarium.” Including the bright idea about kissing me. “I’ll see you Friday night, OK?”

  Zack’s face was stony, and he didn’t reply. Downstairs in the kitchen, with more time than I needed to get ready, I poured myself some Pinot Grigio and sat looking out at the lake. It was gray and wintry, the color of November, with brushstrokes of whitecaps out in the middle. A few die-hard sailboats went swooping across my field of vision, but I hardly noticed them. I was gearing myself up for an uncomfortable conversation.

  I’d come to a decision, or rather a nondecision, and tonight I meant to tell Aaron about it. Much as I hated to rank myself among the walking wounded—along with the recently divorced, the perpetually lonely, and the otherwise emotionally traumatized—I had come to realize that I just wasn’t ready for a new lover, after that dreadful tangle with Holt Walker earlier in the year. A silly flirtation with a younger man, sure. But a serious love affair that might turn out to be permanent? Not yet. I had to ask Aaron to give me some time. And I was dreading his answer. What if he wasn’t willing to hang around and wait?

  I refilled my glass and called Lily. The wonderful thing about our friendship was the way we could slide from the big picture to the tiny details of life and back again, like a movie camera smoothly shifting from the far horizon to a single raindrop quivering on a leaf. Lily and I could analyze mortality, mutual funds, and mascara without missing a beat.

  Still, as I heard her phone ringing, I decided not to talk about my nondecision, not till I knew the outcome. So I stayed on safer ground.

  “Guess what, Lily? I’m now officially an older woman.” I told her about Zack. “He’s looking sad and soulful, but I’m relying on Eddie to snap him out of it.”

  “Well, don’t go messing with minors, or I’ll report you to my detective.”

  “Your what?”

  “Lieutenant Graham called me yesterday,” said Lily, “and then came by the library on my lunch hour today. He wanted to know all about you: how long I’d known you, how we met, all kinds of things.”

  I pondered this uneasily. “You think he’s trying to figure out if I’m trustworthy?”

  “I guess. You’re asking him to believe Corinne Campbell, after all, and she is not his favorite citizen. Did you know that detective lieutenants aren’t usually out in the field like this? He was downtown when the call came in about Mercedes Montoya, and then he stayed with the case.”

  “That’s very interesting, but what about Skull and his alibi? That’s who Graham should be checking on, not me!”

  “I asked him, but he was pretty vague. He has this trick of not hearing questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

  “I know that trick,” I said. “Well, I’m seeing Aaron tonight, and he’s got sources in the SPD. Maybe he knows something.”

  “You don’t want me along this time, I take it?”

  “No offense, Lily, but I think I better handle this one myself.”

  “None taken. Have fun.”

  But fun was not in the forecast. Aaron picked me up in his banana-mobile, commented appreciatively on my winter-white wool outfit, and then proceeded to scoff at my theory about Skull all the way downtown. I found myself defending the idea, even though I’d almost given up on it anyway.

  “I don’t care if you think it’s far-fetched,” I grumbled.

  “Honestly, if looks could kill, I’d be lying dead on the sidewalk in front of Stephanie’s Styles.”

  “Well, it must have been humiliating, a tough character like him getting busted by a bunch of bridesmaids. He runs into you on the street, remembers where he saw you last, and glares at you. Big deal. Where should I park?”

  “Right here on Fifth. We’re taking the monorail.” I’d billed tonight’s dinner as a mystery destination, my treat. We continued to argue for the short journey to the Seattle Center, then, as we emerged into the open air, I tried to shift gears. I wanted a calm, friendly atmosphere for the conversation I was planning.

  “We’re dining in the clouds tonight!” I
pointed overhead at the Space Needle, with its glass elevators rising 500 feet up the tapering shaft to the circular observation deck and the SkyCity restaurant, lit up like a flying saucer against the overcast sky.

  But Aaron didn’t follow my script. Frowning, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket and said, “Up there? I heard it’s overpriced, strictly for tourists. You don’t want to go there.”

  “Yes I do, as a matter-of-fact. They revamped the restaurant quite a while ago, and I’ve been meaning to check it out. My clients keep asking about it. Besides, I’ve got a dinner-for-two gift certificate my mom sent me for my birthday.”

  “Look, if you’re short of cash, I’ll pick up the tab tonight,” he said stubbornly. “Let’s go to that café at the EMP.”

  This was bordering on rudeness, and we both knew it.

  “Aaron, what’s going on? It’s just dinner, and I need to do this for Made in Heaven.”

  “Nothing’s going on!” he snapped. “Whatever you want. Let’s go get in line.”

  Sure enough, there was a line of tourists at the Needle, even on a Thursday night in November, but with restaurant reservations, we were ushered right into an elevator. Aaron kept his back to the glass during the stomach-swooping ride to the top, missing out on the gradually widening view of downtown and Elliott Bay. This was a new side of Aaron, this petulance at not getting his way. I hate men who sulk.

  Inside SkyCity things got worse. We lucked into a window table and ordered drinks, but Aaron barely glanced out at the spectacular nighttime scene of city lights strung along Puget Sound like jewels on black velvet. Instead, he looked fixedly over my shoulder, across the room. I tried to regain his attention.

  “Aaron, how’s Tommy doing?”

  “What? Oh, no change. Paul’s been calling the hospital a couple times a day and keeping us all posted.” Then he went back to staring past me.

  “Look, if you’re that unhappy here, maybe we should just call it a night.”

  Aaron shook his head as if to clear it and forced a smile. “Sorry, I’m being a boor. I was just distracted. By him.”