Died to Match Read online

  Actually, I knew it was. Boris Nevsky—Lily called him Boris the Mad Russian Florist—had given me the gory details as we planned Paul and Elizabeth’s wedding flowers. “She vanted to get merried!” he’d announced, mournful and astonished, shaking his shaggy Slavic head over the parrot tulips and the hellebores. Having dated Boris a couple of times myself, I was astonished too, but there’s no accounting for taste.

  “I wondered about that,” said Aaron. “Corinne claims she dumped him, but she’s awfully depressed about it. And I think this wedding stuff is making her feel extra-single. Funny how weddings do that to women. Us bachelor groomsmen feel just fine.”

  “I bet you do.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, I meant to ask you, aren’t the bridesmaids supposed to be close friends of the bride? I didn’t know Corinne and Elizabeth were such buddies.”

  “Sorority sisters at the UW, along with Mercedes,” I said. “Though frankly, I think Elizabeth’s main criterion was looks. She’d already picked out these slinky bridesmaids’ dresses, she just needed bodies to fill them. Says she doesn’t have time for girlfriends.”

  “Too busy cashing out stock options at the top of the market. So it’s Mercedes the bitch and Corinne the goddess, and who else?” He glanced around as he spoke, keeping watch for Corinne. “I know you told me the lineup, but I keep forgetting.”

  “Funny how you remember batting averages but not bridesmaids’ names.”

  “Matter of priority, Slim. Help me out here, in case I miss the rehearsal. I go in by myself, and then out with a bridesmaid, but which one? Tell me it’s not Mercedes.”

  “No, it’s not, but why should you miss the rehearsal? This is important, Aaron.”

  “I know, I know. But I might have to go back East on short notice. So who’s my partner?”

  “Well, we’re matching you by height, so you go with Corinne, and Paul’s brother Scott gets Mercedes.”

  There’s often a glow of romance around the paired-up bridesmaids and groomsmen. Aaron and Corinne would be walking arm in arm, dressed to kill, up the aisle through the beaming crowd. I wasn’t crazy about it.

  “Great,” he said. “And who’s the lucky girl who gets young Zack?”

  “Angela Sims,” I told him. “She was Elizabeth’s assistant at Microsoft. Angela’s the pregnant nun tonight, you can’t miss her. She looks like Princess Di and talks like a trucker. She was the life of the bridesmaids’ luncheon.”

  There was still no sign of Corinne, so we drifted back to the champagne bar. I figured I could take my break there and check the Dome room later. The harried barman set a bottle in front of us and returned to his customers. It’s nice sometimes, being the boss at a party. Aaron poured for us both, touched his glass to mine, and took a sip, gazing at me over the rim of the glass. He really could be charming, when he tried. And he could look sexy without even trying. So why did I get cold feet every time he got hot hands?

  “You were at the bridesmaids’ luncheon?” he prompted.

  “Oh, I was there all right. It was supposed to be a working lunch, to talk about dresses and hairstyles and manicures. But instead, we ate fajitas and drank tequila shooters for about three hours. Even Patty got happy.” Patty Lamott, Elizabeth’s older sister and maid of honor, had missed tonight’s party, claiming a schedule conflict, and Elizabeth had shrugged off her absence. No love lost on either side, apparently.

  “Wait, wait, I heard about this,” Aaron was saying. “The famous purse-snatching incident at La Corona? The newsroom was still talking about it when I got back from my last trip to Boston.”

  “That was it.” I shivered a little and sipped some bubbly. “This creepy-looking guy grabbed Elizabeth’s bag. It had the wedding rings in it, she’d just picked them up at the jewelers. We all froze except Angela, who went sprinting after him like a racehorse. He sprained his ankle tripping over a trash can, and we all stood around guarding him and talking hemlines till the police came.”

  Aaron laughed. “What a story!”

  “Well, it seemed funny at the time, after all that tequila, but really, what if he’d pulled a knife or a gun or something? You should have heard the disgusting things he said, sitting there on the curb. And now we’ll have to testify at his trial. He had tattoos on his skull, for God’s sake.”

  “Take it easy, Slim. Lots of people have tattoos. I’ve got a tattoo.”

  “You? Where?”

  “If you were more cooperative, you’d know that by now.” He grinned wickedly and reached out to take my hand. “I could arrange a viewing tonight….”

  “Gosh, look at the time,” I retorted, but I didn’t take my hand away. “I’ve got to go supervise. If I see Corinne I’ll tell her you’re waiting for her.”

  “Thanks, Wedding Lady,” said Aaron. He ran his fingers in little circles across the inside of my wrist. I could feel my blood shifting. “Save a dance for me, OK?”

  “I’ll save two.”

  What’s wrong with this picture? I asked myself as I pushed open the ladies’ room door a short while later. I’m at a party, Aaron’s at the same party, and what am I doing? I’m keeping an eye out for his date. What a world. Still, I felt for Corinne. Weddings are hard when you’re brokenhearted, and I’m a sucker for broken hearts. That’s why I started Made in Heaven, I suppose. What better business for a hopeless romantic who likes to throw parties?

  Inside the rest room, preening in solitary glory, was Mercedes Montoya. I wondered if Syd Soper was outside somewhere, resting his scythe and hoping for another dance. If so, he was a patient man; a fortune in designer cosmetics lay spilled across the counter, and Mercedes was employing all of it. No wonder the camera loved her. She obviously loved herself.

  “The wedding planner!” she announced gaily, shaking back her midnight hair. Her eyes, meeting mine in the mirror, were suspiciously shiny and hugely dilated. Was it only alcohol flying her kite, or a little something extra? I really didn’t want to know. “I was just thinking about you! About hiring you.”

  “Really? I didn’t know you were getting married. Who’s the lucky man?”

  Mercedes clapped a hand to her lips. With the other hand she clutched my arm, tight enough to hurt. “No! It’s a secret! You can’t tell a soul. Not a single Sentinel soul!”

  She gave a long peal of melodious laughter, then blinked vacantly and seemed to forget why she was laughing. Definitely something extra. I retrieved my arm. “I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Good,” she murmured. “Good. Roger would be furious.”

  “Roger?”

  She gasped again. “How did you know? You have to keep it secret!”

  “Keep what secret, Mercedes?”

  She leaned close, her ropes of beads clicking and swaying.

  “I’m going to marry the mayor!”

  I thought I’d heard her wrong. “Mayor Wyble’s already married.”

  “Not him. Roger Talbot! Roger’s going to be mayor next year, after I help him beat Wyble.” Mercedes was suddenly cold and shrewd. She was cycling through moods like a kaleidoscope. “We’ll have the wedding right before the primaries. The grieving widower finds happiness. People will eat it up.”

  Apparently the widower wasn’t all that grieved, not that it was any of my business. Brides were my business, but I wasn’t sure I wanted this volatile prima donna as a client.

  And yet, I thought, while Mercedes went back to fluffing her hair and humming a Motown tune. Landing another big-budget, high-profile wedding could put Made in Heaven in the news, maybe even in the trade magazines, and definitely in the black. I was still several thousand dollars in debt from starting up my business, and the dock fees on my rented houseboat were killing me. Well, time for those calculations later. I couldn’t very well hold her to a decision made under the influence.

  “Congratulations,” I said, wondering if she’d apply my comment to the engagement or the election. Probably both. “But there’s plenty of time to plan. You don’t want to choose a bridal co
nsultant on a whim. Think it over.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she pouted. Mercedes had a superb pout. She slid a hand down her ragtag gypsy bodice and drew out a long gold chain with twisted herringbone links. Suspended from it, swinging inches from my astonished eyes, was a monster diamond on an ornate platinum band. “You’ll believe a girl’s best friend, won’t you?”

  “Mercedes, that’s stunning!” I wanted to get away from her and her secrets, but for a moment I was mesmerized. The diamond swung back and forth, like a hypnotist’s watch. “It must be nearly three carats! Is it antique?”

  “Family heirloom,” she said complacently, and lowered the treasure back into its cozy hiding place. X marks the spot. “It was his grandmother’s engagement ring, and now it’s mine. I told Roger, I’ll keep our secret, but I have to have something to put under my pillow, don’t I?”

  “It’s a wonder you can sleep.”

  She laughed. “I sleep very well. Roger makes sure of that.”

  I wasn’t going anywhere near that one. “Well, like I said, think it over—”

  “I don’t have to, I want you.” The kaleidoscope was turning faster; now she was sulky and stubborn. She rummaged in her patchwork shoulder bag and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here, take this. For a deposit.”

  “Mercedes, you don’t have to—”

  “Take it!” she said shrilly.

  “OK, OK.” Anything to calm her down. I took the money; there were twenties, and at least one fifty. “Let’s count it and I’ll write you a receipt.”

  “No, no, I trust you. Oh, Carnegie, isn’t it exciting? I’m getting married!” Looking suddenly girlish, Mercedes gave me an impulsive hug, laying her head against my shoulder. Her hair was perfumed, sweet and musky. Then she wrenched herself away.

  “Just remember, wedding planner…” She fixed me with a dark, straight stare—a tiger’s stare. “You keep your mouth shut.”

  Chapter Three

  MERCEDES SWEPT UP HER PAINTS AND SWEPT OUT OF THE room. A black-and-gold powder compact lay overlooked under the balled-up paper towels. I picked it up but didn’t go after her. I’d had enough schizophrenic gypsy glamour for the moment. Instead, I stood pondering this unexpected glimpse into Roger Talbot’s private life. His wife had only been dead a month or so. If Mercedes and Talbot had a whirlwind courtship, it must have blown at gale force, unless they’d gotten involved while Helen Talbot was still alive. A nasty thought. Aaron had mentioned once that Mercedes was constantly in the publisher’s office. Maybe she’d been negotiating more than her salary. Maybe her move to television was really part of Talbot’s campaign. I hated to be that cynical, but— A sudden sound, at once revolting and unmistakable. The room had appeared empty, but someone was in the farthest stall being spectacularly sick. I heard ragged breathing, then a moan.

  “Hello?” I called, sliding the cash and the compact into the ample pocket of my witch’s gown. “Can I help?”

  The stall door swung wide to reveal one very unkempt and unsteady Greek goddess. In wordless sympathy, I ran a paper towel under the faucet and handed it to Aaron’s long-lost date. Corinne dragged it across her mouth, her long fake fingernails a startling crimson against her pale, trembling lips. How much champagne did it take to drown the memory of Boris Nevsky? A double latte had done the trick for me, but then, I never wanted to marry the man.

  “I’m going to die,” said Corinne. She looked at herself bleakly in the mirror—hairdo in ruins, satiny toga crumpled and soiled—and took a long, sobbing breath. “I want to die.”

  “You’ll get over him,” I offered. “You’ll feel better, really you will.”

  She glared at me. Her eyes were a weak, watery blue, almost aquamarine, and the look in them was somehow scarier than Mercedes’. “What do you know about it? How do you know how I feel?”

  “Corinne, I just meant that you’ll find somebody else—”

  Her eyes went wide and rolling, like a panicky horse about to bolt. “I’ll never find anyone like him. Never!”

  Then she pushed past me and was gone. Aaron, I thought, Aaron, she is all yours. While I waited for the gypsy queen and the drama queen to get a good head start, I belatedly remembered Northwest Shores. I radioed Marvin, one of my security guards, and asked him to close it off. Then I left the ladies’ room and went back to my rounds, checking on each of the bars and food stations. The Halloween menu I’d designed with Joe Solveto, my favorite caterer, was definitely a hit, especially the all-chocolate dessert bar. Good thing we had generous reserves; running out of food is an event planner’s highest crime.

  As I worked my way through the party, I could see that Lily was right: people were having a blast. Down in the eerie green gloom of the Underwater Dome room, the dance floor was overflowing. Ropes of thick green weed wavered like ghosts behind the curved glass walls, and sharks floated ominously over the heads of the gyrating dancers. Perfect for Halloween. I stood for a while admiring the DJ in action. Rick the Rocket was a chubby fellow whose bald pate rose from his ring of untidy blond hair like a big pink egg in a nest of straw. His costume matched his hairline: he was dressed as a tonsured medieval monk, with a rough-spun black cloak and a rope belt around his ample middle.

  Rick Royko was new in town, but he was doing a first-rate job for me tonight, gauging the mood of the crowd with skill and accepting requests with a friendly smile. A music-snob DJ can really kill a party, but this guy was good. I know how to pick ’em, if I do say so myself. I watched happily as the dancers outdid themselves to Gladys Knight’s “Grapevine.” What were a few smashed glasses, after all? If we could just get to midnight without a serious mishap, I’d call the whole party a smashing success.

  Before I could pat myself on the back any harder, I was accosted by a large leprechaun.

  “Carnegie, you look glorious! Who are you supposed to be, exactly?”

  Tommy Barry, the Sentinel’s legendary sportswriter, was sixty-five or so, and a legendary drinker of Guinness. The costume was appropriate, because when Tommy drank he got very Irish. A shamrock-bedecked hat sat askew on his bush of grizzled hair, and one of his curly-toed leprechaun slippers was missing. I had gently suggested a more reliable best man—and Elizabeth had demanded a more photogenic one—but Paul was adamant. Tommy was his mentor and his pal, so Tommy it would be.

  “I’m supposed to be a witch,” I told him, “and you were supposed to be here at eight. We had to do the toasts without you. The maid of honor is working tonight, so I was depending on you. You will be on time for the wedding, won’t you, Tommy?”

  “Of course, of course. Tonight I gave Zack here a ride,” he said proudly, as if this were quite a feat. In his current inebriated condition, maybe it was.

  Zack Hartmann, the young Internet whiz working on the Sentinel web site, was Paul’s third groomsman. He was sometimes shy and slouching, but not tonight. Tonight Zack was the Prince of Thieves, with a quiver of arrows over his green-cloaked shoulder and a couple of martinis under his belt. Tall and rangy, with crisp fair hair and long-lashed cobalt-blue eyes, he stood next to the sportswriter/leprechaun with his shoulders back and his head high. Maid Marian would have been thrilled to bits.

  “We were a tad late, perhaps,” Tommy was saying, “but now we’re raising the roof and showing the girls a good time, aren’t we, Zack? You go dance with Carnegie, and I’ll just stop by the bar.”

  “I’m really awfully busy,” I began.

  “Nonsense!” he rasped. Tommy had a voice that could strip paint. “Too busy to dance with Robin Hood? Off you go, both of you.”

  I liked Zack, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Sure. Just one dance.”

  As I followed him out onto the dance floor, Rick ended the Motown set and changed musical gears with the Righteous Brothers, “Soul and Inspiration.” I hadn’t bargained on a slow dance, but it had been a long night, and if I couldn’t have Zorro’s arms around me, Robin’s looked like a decent substitute. For a few minutes I even relaxed and
enjoyed myself. But once the song ended I’d have to go check with Donald, the other security guard, up on the observation deck, to make sure no one had gone skinny-dipping with the seals or was feeding pâté to the puffins or some damn thing. Not that my presence would prevent them, but—

  “Is something wrong?” Zack blurted. I realized he was trembling a bit, and there were spots of hectic color on his cheekbones. What I’d taken for head-high confidence was just a rigid façade. Whether it was the drinks or the awkward social situation, Robin Hood was strung up as tight as piano wire.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering how the rest of the party is going.”

  “Well, if you’re too busy to dance with me, I totally understand.” He sounded miffed, and very young.

  “Not at all. You dance very well.”

  Actually, he just danced very tall. Try as I might, slow dancing with a shorter man always made me self-conscious. Aaron had wanted us to go as Rocky and Bullwinkle tonight, for crying out loud. What was he thinking? We were clearly incompatible. Oil and water. Chalk and cheese. High fashion and low comedy. Comedy was the operative word, though. Aaron could always make me laugh. I liked that.

  “Tommy was right,” said Zack, bringing me back to the moment. “You really do look beautiful tonight.”

  Right words, wrong guy. Still, nice words.

  “Thanks, Zack. You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.”

  In the shifting underwater light, I couldn’t quite see him blushing, but I could feel it. He began to reply, then settled for holding me a little tighter, with one large strong hand spread across the small of my back. It felt good, and when I subtly tried to put a bit of space between us, I wasn’t all that sorry when the press of bodies kept us close. I gave up, and peeked over Zack’s shoulder to check the crowd. No sign of Aaron and Corinne, but Paul and Elizabeth were there, clinging as close as they could given the bride’s bronze-and-leather breastplates. Paul’s thin, good-humored face was lit up with laughter, and Elizabeth, with his Indy fedora perched on her long black Xena wig, was smiling dreamily.