May the Best Man Die Page 2

  At least I was saving some rent, which I needed for the down payment on Vanna Too. After the original Vanna was totaled, the insurance company's measly payout had simply added insult to my minor injuries. But rental savings aside, the prolonged disruption to both my business and my personal life was stressing me out in a serious way. Even my partner, Eddie Breen, who's a champion grumbler himself, was walking on eggshells around me. And Eddie's one of my favorite people on earth.

  At the moment, as I left the Hot Spot and headed back across the Fremont bridge, the award for my least favorite person on earth was a split decision between Serpula lacrymans and Jason Kraye. Of all the nerve!

  Beyond the effrontery of it, Kraye's outrageous demand for delivery service had pulled me away from an important task: a last-minute search through Made in Heaven's relocated files. I was trying to unearth a particularly nice photograph of one of my brides, to show at a television appearance tomorrow morning.

  I'd never been on TV before, so naturally I was nervous. Not that I expected the third degree; this was just a segment about wedding planners on a local early-morning show, with a perky interviewer and some softball questions about my job. But my fellow guest would be Beau Paliere, the very, but very hot wedding designer from Paris by way of Hollywood, and I didn't want to come across as a local yokel.

  Beautiful Beau, as the celebrity mags called him, was in Seattle to attend a one-day-only trunk show by a prominent wedding gown designer—and to keep the media spotlight blazing away on his business and his charms. Beau Paliere was major league, with movie-star clients and plenty of TV experience.

  I had failed to wangle an invitation to Mariella Ponti's trunk show—and the chance to hobnob with the wealthiest brides in the Northwest—but a TV appearance with Beau could be priceless publicity for Made in Heaven. If I carried it off well. Local Girl Makes Good was the general idea, not Local Girl Freezes Up With Famous Frenchman.

  My performance anxiety had to channel itself somewhere, so earlier this evening I became suddenly and unreasonably convinced that my on-screen success hinged on having the camera pan across this one damn photo. I'd riffled through each of my files at least twice, and now the minutes were counting down to zero hour. I had to be awake, dressed, and mascara'd by five A.M.

  How do TV people do it? I wondered as I drove back through Fremont. They must sleep in their makeup. As I stopped for a light, another Santa—presumably legitimate—used the crosswalk in front of Vanna, his beard flaring white in the headlights. And I could see yet another Claus clone ringing a Salvation Army bell on the opposite street corner. The neighborhood was thick with Saint Nicks.

  Joe Solveto's catering business was in a sleek new building on the north side of the Ship Canal, with kitchen and tasting room on the first floor and offices on the second. I stopped in the kitchen first, scribbling a note—“from Carnegie, other stuff still at Café”—and leaving it, with the ceramic platter in its bin, for the dishwasher to find in the morning.

  Then I took the elevator up to Joe's storage room on Four. Eddie hadn't unpacked since our move, and his single file box was stashed up there. Maybe it held the photo I was seeking; I'd looked everywhere else.

  The fourth floor was empty and dark, and my footsteps echoed in the corridor like the soundtrack of a bad horror movie. Once inside the storeroom, I locked the door behind me, switched on National Public Radio just for company, and looked around to get my bearings.

  I was surrounded by treasure.

  Like most caterers, Joe relied on cheap, unbreakable dishes and glassware. But his buffets and serving stations always featured a signature Solveto's flourish from Joe's personal collection: exquisite and eye-catching pieces of hand-painted Italian ceramics, like the piece I'd just rescued, or vintage English silver, or glittering Depression glass. Joe got to write off his exotic vacations as merchandise-buying trips, and his clients loved the results.

  As the NPR folks intoned about some weighty topic or other, I marveled at the splendid assortment of platters, pitchers, trays, and tureens, any one of which would grace the most upscale table. Reflections from the overhead lights winked across a massive gilt candelabra, sparked from a scalloped cake stand of cobalt-blue cut glass, and lost themselves in a voluptuous clay urn, probably Turkish and undoubtedly valuable.

  Along one wall, under a bank of windows, a sturdy worktable was stacked neatly with bubble wrap and bins for transporting these treasures, like the one I'd just left downstairs. A huge silver punch bowl sat ready for packing, with a pad of inventory forms beside it for recording which items were in use, and where. Joe was brilliantly creative, but strictly organized.

  Eddie's file box sat underneath the table. I hauled it on top and lifted out the first layer of hastily-packed items: a squat steel pencil jar, a favorite oversized coffee mug (none too clean), and a framed photograph of the freighter Eddie had sailed on, back when he and my late father were cadets together in the merchant marine.

  Tim Kincaid and Eddie Breen, my mother says fondly, were the scourge of the seven seas.

  Eddie's seagoing past explained the next item in the box: a pair of small but powerful binoculars. Back on the houseboat, he used them to survey the pleasure boats and sea planes that crisscrossed Lake Union. I set them carefully aside, pulled out the stack of file folders at the bottom of the box, and sat down at the table to search.

  No luck. There were checklists for the Tyler/Sanjek events, a detailed timetable for Bonnie Buckmeister's Christmas-themed wedding next week, and notes on all our current marketing efforts, including my TV appearance tomorrow. But no photos.

  Sighing, I propped my chin on one fist and stared absently out the window. I'd just have to manage without the picture. I had others I could use: a wedding cake, a clever arrangement of place cards, one of our bridal couples dancing. And, of course, the Made in Heaven logo, in its curly copper lettering, which I would try my hardest to get on camera.

  But first I had to get some sleep.

  As I stood up to repack Eddie's box, something across the Ship Canal caught my eye: a brightly lit window, with a small figure in scarlet clothing moving back and forth across it, an erratic actor on a garish stage. I hadn't realized it before, but Joe's building was directly across the Ship Canal from the Hot Spot Café.

  From my upper-story vantage point, I could see right into the Café, where Santa was strutting her stuff. Not that I wanted to see, of course. I swept up all the files I'd opened, tucked them back into the box, and set the mug and the pencil jar on top of them.

  Then I picked up the binoculars.

  Hmmm . . . It occurred to me that maybe I had knocked the glasses out of focus, or out of alignment, or whatever it is you knock binoculars out of. And how else could I check except by aiming them at something? That brightly lit window, for example, would be a perfect way to test out . . .

  Whoa. Nothing wrong with the focus. With the lenses at my eyes, the Hot Spot's rear window leapt into brilliant clarity, as did the Saint Nick chick. She had shed the padded red trousers and the beard, and while I watched, fascinated, she strutted back and forth, moving to music I couldn't hear, in just her fur-trimmed jacket, tasseled red hat, and sky-high heeled boots. If I were a young man—or an old one, or one in between—I would have said she had thighs to die for.

  Santa's audience, mostly cut off from my downward view by the edge of the Café's roof, seemed not to realize that they were sharing the show with any passing sailboat—or any hidden observer. But in fact, you'd have to be up in a crow's nest, or up where I was, to get just the right angle.

  If the bachelors had thought of that, they sure didn't care. As I watched, Frank Sanjek sat heavily on the floor at his comrades' feet. One of his friends, invisible to me from the waist up, poured a stream of beer on Frank's head. He didn't appear to notice.

  I could understand why. Dipping and swaying, always in motion, Santa dropped her jacket down from one smooth bare shoulder, then the other, each time letting the white fur b
order inch lower and lower down the curves of her breasts.

  Then, perhaps responding to some climax in the music, she suddenly turned her back to the boys and her front to me, bent forward, and flipped the jacket up behind. If Ms. Claus was wearing much of anything under the jacket, it was too small for the binoculars to pick up. Frank fell over sideways.

  I was hastily putting the binoculars down—honest, I was—when my phone rang again.

  Chapter Three

  THE CALLER WASN'T SALLY THIS TIME, BUT MY ERSTWHILE innkeeper, wondering when I'd be home for the night.

  “Oh, jeez, Lily, have you been waiting up for me?”

  “No, but Mike just left and I'm going to bed soon. I just wanted to make sure you have your key.”

  “Mike” was Detective Lieutenant Michael Graham, Homicide, currently courting Lily with an offhanded gallantry that was charming the socks off her—along with everything else—and making me more than a little envious. My dance card, at the moment, could not have been emptier.

  “I've got the key,” I told her. “I'll try not to wake the boys when I came in.”

  “Did you find your photo?”

  “No, and I should have given up hours ago. Then I wouldn't have been dragged over to the bachelor party.” I told her about Jason's summons, and the arrival of Santa.

  “So did you stay to watch?” Lily inquired archly.

  “Of course not!” I glanced over at the binoculars. The back of my neck was damp. “Why would I do that?”

  “Just kidding. Seriously, though, you didn't happen to see Darwin, did you? I shouldn't worry, but I can't help it, I still feel like he's my baby brother. And he was living so wild before he got this MFC job—”

  Like most of the party guests, Darwin was a coworker of Frank Sanjek's at the corporate headquarters of Meet for Coffee. The MFC chain of espresso shops had been giving Starbucks a run for its considerable money lately, and they were paying top dollar for young talent.

  Frank was a product manager, whatever that meant, and Darwin, until recently an underground comics artist, was now on staff as a graphic designer, juicing up MFC's packaging. Sally Tyler had once dabbled in market research for MFC—that was how she met Frank—but she was now fully employed in being a bitch.

  “Actually, I talked to Darwin,” I told Lily. “He seemed OK. Come to think of it, he was the only one there who seemed sober. Doesn't he drink?”

  “Not anymore. He's been doing AA for almost a year now.”

  This was news to me, and I wasn't sure how to reply. “Oh . . . well, I wasn't at the party for long, but honestly, he was fine.”

  “Forget I asked, OK?” Lily hastened to change the subject. “Did you see Aaron there?”

  “Aaron Gold?” I almost dropped the phone.

  “Is there some other Aaron you're smitten with?” I could hear the grin in her voice. “Darwin said he was invited tonight.”

  “You know perfectly well I'm not smitten with him. I'm not sure I ever was.” Just to prove it, I should have changed the subject myself. But I didn't. “I thought Aaron was still in Boston, anyway. How on earth does he know Frank Sanjek?”

  “I don't think he does, really,” said Lily. “Dar told me that Aaron's on a leave of absence from the Sentinel, to write some kind of book about Meet for Coffee.”

  “But Ivy's my client!” It was an irrational reaction, but I couldn't help it. “I don't want him barging in!”

  Lily wasn't grinning now, she was laughing out loud. “What's it to you, if you really don't care about the man anymore? Besides, maybe he got there first. Maybe he recommended you to Ivy Tyler for her daughter's wedding.”

  “What? Did Darwin tell you that, too? How does he know?”

  “Calm down,” she said, relenting. “Darwin doesn't know anything except that Aaron's working on a book and he's gotten friendly with the guys in MFC's marketing department, so they invited him along to the bachelor party. I guess he didn't go, though.”

  “I guess not.” Unless he was in the back room shooting pool with Jason. I wonder . . . “Um, Lily, I'd better finish up what I'm doing here. This TV thing has really thrown me off-balance.”

  “OK. Good luck tomorrow. I'm not getting up that early, even for you, but I set the VCR.”

  “Thanks, Lily. Sleep tight.”

  The minute I put down the phone, I grabbed the binoculars and focused on the Hot Spot for a second look. Not that I cared whether Aaron was inside. Not that I cared about Aaron at all.

  Not that I could see him, either. Santa had left the lighted window, and the revelers milled aimlessly inside, as if the party were winding down. I spotted Mr. Garlic, but no one else familiar—until a flurry of movement drew my attention to the grassy slope below the deck.

  There in the silvery frost and the tilted shadows, two long-limbed figures were struggling together, dodging and flailing in clumsy counterpoint. I had no trouble recognizing them as the best man and Lily's baby brother. Jason Kraye was obviously drunk; maybe Darwin was the designated driver, trying to take his car keys away?

  But you don't punch people to get their car keys, I thought. And then, Maybe you do, if you're young and male. It was hard to tell if this was a ritual scuffle—elk clashing their antlers—or a serious fight. Either way, I can't say it bothered me to see the supercilious Jason getting knocked around a little.

  The third figure was less ambiguous: Frank Sanjek, the bridegroom, was kneeling on the grass near the two combatants and vomiting hideously, his head jerking and lolling. Another male ritual. I smiled ruefully. Time for me to go home.

  But once I went downstairs and gathered up my things, a nagging doubt stopped me from walking out the door. I had assured Lily that her brother was fine, and now he was apparently in the middle of a fistfight. Shouldn't I check on the outcome?

  For that matter, shouldn't I make sure that the amiable, sensible bridegroom wasn't unconscious and abandoned by his drunken friends, out in the freezing night? Eddie tells me I fuss too much about our clients, and maybe it's true. But I was eager to see Sally Tyler walk down the aisle and out of my life on New Year's Eve, and to that end, I needed Frank Sanjek safe and sound.

  So I dashed up to the storeroom, hurried over to the worktable, and raised the binoculars to my eyes for the third and last time.

  There was even less to see than before. Some of the Café's windows had gone dark, making it hard to get a clear view into the shrubbery. But at least Frank was on his feet; I watched him stagger to the sliding door and wrench it open. I didn't spot Darwin, or Jason either, but they might have already left.

  The stripper was just leaving, striding briskly up the sidewalk, head up and shoulders back after a job well done. And someone else was working his way down through the bushes toward the bike path, but I couldn't make out his face, or whether he had a bicycle waiting for him. The guys were supposed to take cabs or buses home instead of driving, but even a bike could be dangerous—

  “Bird-watching?”

  I jumped, and Eddie's binoculars slipped from my suddenly clumsy fingers, to land in the silver punch bowl with a enormous and resounding gonnng.

  I was shocked, and not just because a man had suddenly materialized in the doorway. I was shocked by who it was. Aaron Gold. The man I'd been dating; the man I'd been falling for. The man who only recently mentioned—on the very same night that I decided to give way to passion and invite him into my bed—that he had a wife back in Boston.

  I hadn't spoken to him since.

  Unlike the younger party guests, Aaron wore a tie. But it hung loose from his collar and his crow-black hair was mussed. My former suitor's deep-set brown eyes gleamed glassily, and when he smiled, the familiar swift white grin came out lopsided. Even from where I stood, halfway across the room, I could smell the combination of cigar smoke and retsina.

  So he was shooting pool in the other room. And then afterward, he must have been watching Santa . . .

  “No birds at night,” said Aaron, shaking his h
ead sagely. A lock of hair flopped down into his eyes. “I know! S' Christmas. You're gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Merry Christmas, Stretch.”

  I stood with my back to the reverberating punch bowl and took a deep, shaky breath. I didn't know how long Aaron had been watching me, or whether he guessed that I'd been spying on Santa's striptease earlier. I also didn't know how I felt about him, after the last few weeks of angry silence and unwilling tears.

  And what neither of us knew, and wouldn't learn until the next day, was this: of the three young men I had observed on the grass behind the Hot Spot Café, only two were still alive.

  Chapter Four

  AARON COCKED HIS HEAD. “AREN'T YOU GOING TO SAY MERRY Christmas back? Isn't that what you Christians do?”

  “Merry Christmas,” I said softly.

  It hurt, it actually physically caused me pain, to see him. We'd known each other less than six months, and been parted for less than one. Did I really care for him that much? Do I still? And how the hell did I forget to lock that door?

  I tried for a sterner tone. “How did you know I was here?”

  Aaron hesitated, considering. Not falling-down drunk, but with a certain satellite delay between brain and voice. The fluorescent light cast shadows beneath his high cheekbones, and gave a sickly tinge to his smooth olive skin. Or maybe that was just the retsina.

  “I, ah, took a walk, to clear my head, you know? Your van's out front, and I saw the lights on. I'm a reporter, Slim, I figure things out.” He squinted peevishly at the shelves around us and kept talking. Or buying time. “Looks like a goddamn store. More Christmas shopping! If I see one more how-many-shopping-days-till-Christmas commercial, I'm gonna murder my television. What is all this stuff, anyway?”