Bride and Doom Page 19

“Cheers!” they chorused in varying tones, and we directed our attention to the menu.

  We were still debating appetizers—prawns with vermouth and garlic, or the Maine lobster claw with foie gras demi-glace?—when a familiar, and to me most unwelcome, voice came trilling across the dining room.

  “There they are, over there!”

  We looked up to see a buxom blonde sailing toward us, with a dour-faced brunette and an attentive waiter in her wake.

  “Kimmie!” said Owen, rising to embrace his daughter. “And Adrienne, what a wonderful surprise. Remember, Lou, how I invited the girls but they couldn’t make it? Just wonderful. Waiter, if we could get some chairs…”

  With the deft service that was a trademark of Canlis, the newcomers were seated and more champagne flutes appeared. Shoulder to shoulder to shoulder with the Bitch Sisters, I knocked back my first glass and held it out for another.

  “We knew you’d miss us, Carrie,” said Adrienne in her gravelly voice, turning her trademark red eyeglasses toward me. Dree, as the family called her, wore a chopped bob hairstyle and a sardonic smirk. “Especially on this historic occasion. So you finally popped the question, Aaron. Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

  There wasn’t a good answer to that, and Aaron didn’t answer. In any case he was distracted by Kimmie and her so-called dress, a strapless scarlet number that barely contained her charms. Picture two scoops of vanilla ice cream in an undersize red dish, and you’ve got the general idea.

  “It’s just too thrilling,” she breathed, leaning forward to give him the full effect. “Just think, Aaron, you and I will be related. Won’t it be fun? We’ll see each other all the time!”

  Over his dead body, I thought. And yours too, sweetheart.

  “Show the girls your ring, Carrie,” said Owen, oblivious. “It’s really something special.”

  I complied, and Adrienne gave my impromptu necklace a dismissive glance.

  “How odd.” Owen cleared his throat, and she amended, “Unique, I mean. Very—unique. So, what’s for dinner?”

  Dinner began reasonably enough, since the wine was flowing freely and the menu made a safe topic of conversation. And once we were done discussing the scallops with coriander butter, and the lamb chops with couscous and chard, and of course the Kobe-style wagyu tenderloin, the men resorted to baseball and the women to travel.

  Specifically, last night’s World Series game, and Dree and Kimmie’s upcoming jaunt to a destination spa in Belize. As our plates emptied and our glasses were refilled—the Riedel crystal was a revelation, the merest film between one’s mouth and one’s wine—the talk grew loud and lively.

  “…this detoxifying seaweed wrap and then a body polish…”

  “…should have pulled Laventhol in the fifth inning…”

  “…sort of French-Caribbean cuisine, organic of course…”

  “…Cubs don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell after that fiasco…”

  I didn’t contribute much, but Aaron tried to coax me into responding to Owen’s jab at his favorite underdogs.

  “Don’t write the Cubs off yet,” he said. “Carnegie and I are still betting on them. Aren’t we, Stretch?”

  “Are we?” I snapped. Mom was gazing at me with concern, so I tried to muster up some manners. But my reply still came out with a sharp edge. “I guess so. You never know, do you? You never know about anyone.”

  An uneasy silence followed. Even Owen sensed the tension now, but his attempt to defuse it led to further trouble.

  “So tell us about your wedding, you two. Lou and I are running off to Italy like a couple of crazy college kids, but what are your plans?”

  “We’re still working on them,” said Aaron smoothly. “But we got our license today, so we’re official. I have to tell you, Louise, my grandfather was so delighted to give Carnegie that ring…”

  He went on to recount a warm and amusing story about Izzy and Bella, which led to reminiscences about Owen’s grandparents, and I realized with a pang of conscience what Aaron was doing. Unable to figure out my sulky mood, he was pouring on the charm, trying to make peace with me by playing up to my mother and soon-to-be-stepfather. He even included the Bitch Sisters, calmly answering Dree’s brusque questions about his family and inviting them both to be wedding guests.

  My conscience was panging like crazy by now, pointing out that Aaron was acting the gracious grown-up here, and me the sullen child. But he lied to me, I told myself over and over. How can I trust him if he keeps lying to me?

  Then Aaron went a step too far and complimented Kimmie on her dress. She immediately ramped up her flirting, and grew more girlishly animated the more I retreated into resentful silence. We had reached dessert by then, and Kimmie insisted that Aaron taste her chocolate lava cake.

  “Just one bite,” she giggled, reaching across the table with her fork. “Honestly, you should serve this at your wedding!”

  Aaron leaned forward to accept the dark morsel, licked his lips in appreciation, and said, “Wow, good suggestion.”

  “I’m full of good suggestions,” said Kimmie, with a wicked little glance at me. “And I’d just love to help with your wedding, you know. Why, Dree and I could be bridesmaids!”

  My eyes bulged with horror at the thought, but Aaron was still determined to be charming, the moron.

  “What a terrific idea,” he said, and beamed at me like a dog who’s dragged in something slimy from the backyard and expects to be praised for it.

  Meanwhile Owen, the other moron, chimed in, “Now wouldn’t that be nice? A real family affair. What do you say, Carrie?”

  My mother, perhaps noting the smoke issuing from my ears, offered me a graceful way out. “It’s still so early in your planning, isn’t it, dear? You’ll be making all those decisions later.”

  But Dree, ever the willing co-conspirator in her sister’s nasty schemes, said quickly, “Oh, it’s never too early to pick your bridesmaids. We’d be happy to do it, Aaron, thanks for asking. So now that we’ve got that settled, Carrie, what are your thoughts about our dresses?”

  I opened my mouth to share my thoughts, no doubt in terms that I’d regret later on. But I was saved from embarrassing my mother and alienating my step-family by an eruption of male voices from the lounge behind us.

  “To freedom!”

  “Da, to freedom!”

  “To Borya!”

  Borya? I craned around to look, and there indeed was the Mad Russian, standing in the lounge with half a dozen Sergeis. They were all in black turtleneck sweaters, raising their vodka glasses and looking cheerfully inebriated—especially Boris. But if I’d just been cleared of a murder charge, I’d be drinking too. In fact, vodka sounded awfully good just now…

  “Excuse me,” I said, rising. “I see a friend of mine.”

  “Kharrnegie!” Boris stepped away from the bar to hug me so hard that my ribs protested. “Such news! They know who was killer, they know it was not me. Come, celebrate!”

  The next half-hour made for a considerable improvement in my evening. Boris was joy personified, and I got to kiss each and every Sergei, some of them more than once. And who knew that Stolichnaya Elit would go down so smoothly?

  “Stretch?” came a voice through the rumble of Russian hilarity. Aaron sounded irked but patient, and he was holding my coat and shoulder bag like a dutiful date. “Come on, we’re leaving. Or are you staying?”

  “I might,” I said haughtily, snatching my belongings from him. “I just might. I could take a cab home, I’ve got the cash…”

  I fumbled in my bag, but things were a bit out of focus, and there seemed to be endless zippers and compartments. At one point my fingers slid right through the torn seam of a pocket, and I finally located my wallet lurking down beneath the bag’s lining. But as I fished it out through the tear, I stopped, dumbfounded. Then I searched again, but not for the wallet this time, and came up empty.

  Digger Duvall’s notebook was missing.

  Chapter Thirt
y-one

  “Why do you keep calling it lying?” Aaron rose abruptly from my couch, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared out through my living room windows across Lake Union. You could see the lights of Canlis over there, if you knew where to look. “Barbara had a layover at the Miami airport and she came by to see Izzy. No big deal.”

  “That’s not what Frankie said,” I retorted, though without much spirit.

  It was almost midnight, and we were both weary from arguing. And I was seriously distracted by the thought of Digger’s missing notebook—which Aaron knew nothing about. But still I kept on nursing my grievance.

  “Frankie,” I said stubbornly, “made it sound like a joyful family reunion.”

  “I told you, she’s a big fan of Barbara’s, and she doesn’t like the idea of my taking up with a shiksa. Frankie’s hobby is making trouble.”

  “There wouldn’t be any trouble if you’d told me about this in the first place.”

  “Are you sure?” Aaron returned to the couch and took my hands in his. That lock of hair fell across his eyes, and I wanted to smooth it down. I wanted to hold him and have him hold me. “Honest to God, Stretch, the only reason I didn’t mention Barbara is that I thought it might upset you. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “Well, you weren’t.”

  “No kidding.”

  He grinned, and though I tried to resist, I couldn’t help softening a little. But I had a point to make.

  “Seriously, Aaron, can you see why this is bothering me?”

  He put the grin away. “Yeah, I suppose I can. Better to keep everything out in the open. So, full disclosure from now on. Deal?”

  “Deal. But you still owe me an apology.”

  “Forgive me, fair lady!” Aaron flung himself flat on the couch, his head in my lap, and cried piteously, “Don’t throw me in the dungeon again! The rats keep stealing my bread and water!”

  “Quit clowning,” I said with an unwilling laugh, and pushed him upright. “This is serious.”

  “No, it isn’t. I told you, Barbara just happened to be—”

  “I don’t mean her. I mean—” I drew in a deep breath, then took the plunge. “Listen, there’s a problem about Digger’s murder. I don’t think Nelly Tibbett did it.”

  “What?” Aaron went blank, and then his brows drew together and his focus sharpened. “But it’s so clear cut. He confessed to you, and—”

  “But did he really? Nelly said he was sorry, sure, but he didn’t say exactly what for. And he’s the one person who couldn’t have taken Digger’s notebook from my bag, so—”

  “Wait a minute, what notebook?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you about it, but now I suppose I’d better. Actually, I should tell Eddie too.” I frowned, trying to think straight. It had been a long day. “I mean, tell him that someone took the notebook. He already knows it exists.”

  Aaron snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Carnegie! You’re zoning out on me, Stretch. Never mind what Eddie knows—I don’t know anything. Start at the beginning, would you?”

  So I started, beginning with the morning that my houseboat was burgled, which seemed like the distant past by now. I went over each step I’d taken, from testing out alibis with Eddie, to scoping out Digger’s son, to trying to convince Starkey that the purse-snatching outside NocNoc was not some random urban crime.

  “You got mugged and you didn’t tell me?” Aaron pulled me to him, his hands tangled in my hair. It felt very good. “Oh, sweetheart. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “Only my pride. After that I was determined to solve this thing and clear Boris. So I went to see Judy Duvall. She showed me Digger’s old notebooks, and I started wondering about the latest one…”

  I went on to recount my theory that Digger had been working on an incriminating story, and described the way Betty Buckmeister had suddenly produced the notebook.

  “And I suppose it never occurred to you,” Aaron asked blandly, “that this was crucial evidence that should be turned over to the police?”

  I shifted on the couch cushions. “Sure it did. But they were so convinced that Boris was guilty, I thought I’d better take a look through it myself.”

  “You’re incorrigible. Do you understand that you’re incorrigible?”

  “Whatever. You want to hear this or not?”

  “Keep talking, I’m listening.”

  Aaron listened ever more intently, as I told him about decoding Digger’s notes, and getting background on steroids from Holly Crider, and hearing from Boris about Leroy Theroux’s cryptic remark to Digger not long before the murder.

  “The notebook said ‘LT knows,’” I said, “so I figure that Theroux must know something about one of his players taking steroids.”

  “And you think he killed Duvall to protect the Navigators?” Aaron asked.

  “No, not Theroux. He might have known about the drugs, but he couldn’t have known that I had Digger’s notebook. Gordo did, though. He saw it in my knapsack during our hike.”

  “You still had it after the hike, though?”

  “Right, I transferred it to my shoulder bag. But Gordo could have followed me from the Batter’s Box over to Yesler Field and taken it while I was out on the concourse with Nelly.” I kneaded the back of my neck and sighed. “If only I still had that notebook. It’s the one link between Gordo and steroids. So now I’ve got nothing to show the police, and tomorrow Rose might be marrying a killer!”

  “But we don’t know for sure…”

  When he’s thinking really hard, Aaron can’t sit still. He began to circle the room, drumming his fingers on whatever surface he was passing, bookcase or door frame or window. Any other time I’d have asked him to quit, but now I could tell he was cooking up an idea—something I was fresh out of. I watched him and waited.

  “Are you certain the notebook was stolen? It’s not possible that you lost it somehow?”

  “Well, maybe.” I had an uncomfortable recollection of the torn lining in that pocket. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Either way, we don’t know for sure,” he said, frowning in concentration, “that the notebook is the only link between Gutierrez and steroids. There could be something else. Some witness besides Leroy Theroux, some evidence that a reporter could track down.”

  “But Digger didn’t find anything else.”

  Aaron gave the bookcase a final rap with his knuckles and turned toward me, his face alight. “He’s not the only reporter around, is he? I don’t usually cover sports stories, but who’s to know I’m not following this one?”

  “You’re losing me,” I said. “The wedding is tomorrow. How are you going to find evidence against Gordo so quickly?”

  “I wouldn’t have to find it, just make it seem that way. Remember the time I leaked the idea that I’d found a secret source about bribery in the governor’s office? Once that got around, I had informers coming out of the woodwork.” He gnawed his lower lip. “If I could provoke Gutierrez into saying something, or making some move, that would be enough to take to the police.”

  “Some move like killing you?” I crossed the room to take Aaron’s arm, as if I could root him to the spot and keep him safe. “You can’t—it’s too dangerous!”

  He gave a shout of laughter. “You’re saying that? After running off to the wilderness with this guy, and prowling around the stadium after dark extorting confessions—”

  We stared at each other, as the same thought struck both of us. I was the one to say it. “If Nelly wasn’t confessing to murder, then what was he confessing to? It’s really hard for me to see him as a killer, but—”

  “Right.” Deflated, Aaron dropped onto the couch again. “Tell me again what he said. His exact words.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering. “Nelly said he was sorry, and that Digger made him do it. He kept saying ‘What else could I do?’”

  “But that could mean lots of things. Maybe he tried to quit drinking and then fell o
ff the wagon. Or, I don’t know, something else, something completely unrelated to the murder.”

  “And the blood on his shirt?”

  Aaron rubbed his head briskly with both hands, leaving his crow-black hair in a mess of cowlicks. “Well, if Boris Nevsky touched the body, maybe Nelly did too. Doesn’t mean he was the killer. Besides, unless you lost it, somebody took that notebook.”

  “True. But using yourself as bait isn’t the way to find out, is it?”

  “Guess I got carried away,” he admitted.

  “You sure did,” I said. But meanwhile I was thinking, Hmm…it’s really not a bad idea…

  “And I don’t suppose Gutierrez will be giving interviews on his wedding morning anyway,” Aaron continued.

  “Absolutely not,” I agreed. “You couldn’t get anywhere near him tomorrow.”

  But I could, I thought. And since Gordo knows I had Digger’s notebook, how does he know I don’t have something else as well?

  To hide these thoughts, and the others racing into my mind on their heels, I opened my arms to Aaron.

  “Speaking of carried away, are you spending the night?”

  “Try and stop me,” he said, his lips against my throat. Then he leaned back a little, smiling mischievously. “I’ve got my shaving kit in the car, but I was afraid to bring it while you were fuming like that. Why don’t I go get it?”

  Perfect. “Yes, why don’t you?”

  The minute the door closed behind him, I whipped out my cell phone. The parking lot had been full when we arrived, so Aaron’s car was a block away. I had to look up the number and work out how to phrase my message, but there should be just enough time…

  “Hi, it’s Carnegie,” I said to Gordo’s voice mail. I only had his home number, not his unlisted cell phone, but that was fine. I didn’t want to reach him tonight anyway. I wanted to talk to him tomorrow, with other people within shouting distance.

  “I need to ask you about something,” I continued. “Digger Duvall was working on a story about steroid use, and I’ve just turned up a tape recording he made. It’s a long story, but I was hoping you could help me decide what to do with it. Let’s talk before the ceremony, OK?”