Died to Match Page 22

  “Would you really? You’re my hero.”

  “That’s what they all say. Listen, before I forget, you’re still coming for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” I always spent Christmas in Boise with my mother, and she always traveled to either my home or my brother’s for Thanksgiving. This year she’d be at Tim’s house in Illinois, so I could eat turkey with Lily and her boys.

  “How are you and Aaron doing? I was wondering if he’d like to come, too.”

  That gave me pause. “It’s nice of you to offer, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it might seem kind of like bringing him home to meet the folks, or something.” I leaned back in my chair and stared out the window. The silver expanse of Lake Union offered no guidance on the matter.

  “The reason I ask,” said Lily in a too-neutral voice, “is that I’ll have a friend there myself.”

  “You mean a friend of the male persuasion? Lily, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone! Who is he?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she said. “It might jinx things. Besides, he might not even make it that night. But think it over about Aaron, OK?”

  I promised I would, then got back to work myself—nailing down minor assignments like tending Elizabeth’s guest book, which Valerie Duncan had offered to do. I could have asked her to distribute the corsages and boutonnieres, too, once Boris delivered them, but I couldn’t resist just a tiny bit of matchmaking: I assigned flower duty to Corinne. Maybe if Boris saw her all dolled up in pink, he’d have second thoughts? I only remembered the wife in St. Petersburg after I’d made the calls. Oh, well.

  Some event services were already provided for; we’d use EMP employees to check coats, stash gifts, and bus tables in the restaurant and lounge. But because it was my first wedding at this venue, I tried to double- and even triple-check every little detail. Except for one detail—inviting Aaron for Thanksgiving. I mulled that one over all Wednesday evening, coming to the firm, decisive conclusion that I’d wait until I saw him in person at the rehearsal, and then wing it from there.

  On Thursday I started making the really dicey phone calls, not to any of the vendors but to the guests who had written in their children’s names on their RSVP cards. This was an adults-only affair—a fact that certain doting parents had trouble understanding.

  “But little Mason won’t be any trouble,” one mother told me.

  “It’s not a question of his behavior,” I said easily, having rehearsed my script. “It’s just part of our contract with the Experience Music Project. They’re giving us special access to all the exhibits, and we’ve agreed to have no guests under eighteen.”

  Which was true enough, though the EMP would have been flexible on the issue if we’d pressed it. The strict decree had come from the bride, whose thoughtful rationale had included the phrase “no screaming brats underfoot.” But Mason’s mother didn’t need to know that. She also didn’t need to know that she and Mason’s dad had barely missed the cut for the A-list. Two hundred guests would actually attend the ceremony in the EMP’s small but sophisticated theater, and four hundred more would come an hour later for the reception.

  And what a reception it would be. How often do you have 80,000 popular music artifacts to look at while you sip your champagne? Not to mention the Sound Lab, where you could seclude yourself in a soundproof booth and play guitar, bass, keyboard, or drums, all interactively wired to help you along. Or the Sky Church, the great hall of the EMP

  The Sky Church, I had read in the visitor’s guide, was built in homage to Jimi Hendrix’ vision of communion through music. It was dominated by the world’s largest video set-up, forty feet high and seventy feet across, which could be fragmented into different projections or treated as one huge screen for concert footage and video art.

  For the wedding, the sound man had orders to keep things hot, fast, and loud. He had awesome equipment to work with: a 24-channel sound system that created layers of amazing sound throughout the vast space, dozens of speakers hanging from the Sky Church ceiling like futuristic chandeliers, and four towers of spotlights, two rising up on either side of the screen and two more flanking his control balcony on the opposite wall. I had been on that balcony during one of my planning visits, and marveled at the dizzying drop to the dance floor and the complexity of the space-age consoles. This was going to be some dance party.

  Although the planning for this extravaganza rivaled a space shuttle launch, one of my tasks was actually simpler than usual. Joe Solveto’s delectable food would be served buffet-style, and the seating would be casual, with suit-yourself clusters of tables in the restaurant and lounge areas, and scattered throughout the exhibits as well. So I had no place cards to design and no seating charts to develop, except for the head table. Which, inevitably, turned out to be the stickiest wicket of all.

  The fuss started late Thursday afternoon, barely forty-eight hours before the big moment, when my meeting with the bride turned into tea with Great-Aunt Enid. Elizabeth was putting up all the out-of-town guests at the Alexis, a bijou luxury hotel near Pioneer Square that was swankier than anywhere I’d ever stayed in my life. The formidable Enid was presiding over a tea table in her suite, with Paul, Elizabeth, and a nurse in dutiful attendance.

  Monica, in fawn-colored cashmere that set off her chestnut hair, sat stiffly on a needlepoint chair looking like she wanted a cup of something stronger. Burt wasn’t there; he and his errant wife were doing a Clark Kent and Superman act, never to be seen together.

  “So you’re the big-deal wedding expert.” Enid was as short and tough as a tree stump, with a wide flat face rayed with wrinkles and square bony hands that trembled badly. Nothing trembling about her gaze, though. She surveyed me like a horse trader assessing a decidedly sub par nag. “In my day, a girl had her mother to help her get married, not some expert. I bet you charge a fortune.”

  “But Monica is helping me, Aunt Enid,” said Elizabeth. She and her mother had apparently called a truce in the face of this larger threat. “It’s just such a big wedding that we need Carnegie to handle some of the details.”

  Enid made a rude noise. “What kind of a name is Carnegie, anyway? And who has hair that color?”

  “Well, I do,” I said, sitting down and smiling. After all the diplomacy entailed by my job, there was something appealing about Enid’s rough candor. “My dad was a redhead, and I can promise you that he didn’t dye his hair.”

  The old lady nodded, satisfied. Or maybe she was just tired. After a few minutes’ chat, she turned to the nurse, a sturdy Jamaican woman with a good-humored manner.

  “Time for a little lie-down, don’t you think, Irene?”

  “Just a little one,” Irene agreed, and helped her shuffle slowly into the bedroom.

  We rose to leave, but Monica beckoned us across the hallway to her own suite, whose luxurious furnishings she had nearly obliterated with scattered clothing and fashion magazines. There were no chairs clear, but Monica had a stand-up conversation in mind.

  “Lizzie,” she said, “I went through those notes you gave me, and I’ve changed my mind.”

  “But you already agreed!”

  “I just can’t do it. I cannot sit next to that man.”

  Was it my imagination, or was that smoke rising from Elizabeth’s ears? “ ‘That man’ is still your husband. And if you call me Lizzie one more time I’ll—”

  “Elizabeth, honey,” said Paul, while he telegraphed me a look that said Mayday. “I’m sure we can figure this out—”

  “There’s nothing to figure,” said Monica crisply. “Put him at one end of the table and me at the other.”

  “That would look ridiculous!” Smoke, and possibly flame. “If you think you’re going to make a big dramatic statement at my wedding—”

  “Isn’t this wedding dramatic enough?” flared Monica. “You could feed a third-world nation with what you’re spending.”

  “At least
I’m spending my own money,” said her daughter, “which is more than you’ve ever—”

  “You know,” I said loudly, “I think it’s time for Plan B.”

  The three of them looked at me blankly.

  “What Plan B?” demanded Elizabeth.

  “The table for two, of course.” I smiled my very best back-me-up-here smile at the groom. “You remember, Paul, we talked about this?”

  “Y-yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”

  “Of course you do. It’s a European tradition, Monica, that’s becoming quite popular at sophisticated weddings back East. The bride and groom have a flower-decked table for two, very romantic, and the guests stop by their table to wish them well. Much less stuffy than a reception line.”

  “But then where would I sit?” asked Monica, intrigued but not won over.

  “Well,” I said, “maybe you could do me a favor. Let’s talk about it over a drink in the lobby, shall we? Paul, it was lovely to meet Enid. I’ll call you two tomorrow, all right?”

  Once Monica and I were alone with a couple of gin-and-tonics, I gave her my pitch.

  “Paul’s publisher is a man named Roger Talbot—”

  “Oh, I met him!” she said. “When Paul showed me around at the Sentinel. He’s very attractive.”

  “Isn’t he? And very prominent here in Seattle. The next mayor, everyone says. Well, he recently lost his wife, and I know he’s going to feel all at sea at the wedding. Could I possibly prevail on you to have dinner with him, keep him company a little?”

  Monica glowed at the prospect, as I hoped she would. “I’d be glad to. Poor man…”

  Now I just had to ask Roger to do me a favor and tend to Monica, and we’d be all set. I drove home feeling highly self-satisfied, and pleasantly hungry for a real dinner, a meal beyond pea pods. But when I entered the office and picked up the ringing telephone, my appetite vanished.

  “Carnegie, it’s Corinne,” she said in a quavering voice. “I’m in terrible trouble!”

  Chapter Thirty

  AS I STOOD THERE, ALONE ON MY DARKENED HOUSEBOAT, fear rippled over my skin like wind on water. Foy got away, he tracked her down…

  “Corinne, where are you? Is Lester Foy there?”

  “Oh my God!” she gasped. “He escaped! Oh my God—”

  “Calm down and tell me where you are so I can call the police.” I fumbled for my wallet, where I’d tucked Lieutenant Graham’s card. Calling his direct line might bring help faster than 911.

  Corinne said, “I’m at home—”

  “Are you alone? Are the doors locked?”

  “Yes, everything’s locked, but—”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “See him?” she parroted.

  “Lester Foy! Where was he when you saw him?”

  “But I didn’t see him.”

  I sat in my desk chair and took a deep breath. “Then how do you know he escaped?”

  “You just said so! You said he was coming here—”

  “No,” I said wearily. “No, no, no. Do over. As far as I know, Foy’s still in jail.”

  “Thank goodness! I thought you meant—”

  “Yes, I understand what you thought. Now, what’s your terrible trouble?”

  “It’s my dress,” she said defensively, as if this critical topic had been outshone by the mere threat of murder. “It’s too tight. I tried to let out the side seams but one of them tore and now it looks awful. What am I going to do?”

  I could think of several things for Corinne to do, none of them polite, so I moved on to practicalities. “I’ll call Stephanie Stevens at home, and arrange for a quick repair. But I don’t think there’s much fabric in those seams to let out. Can you get the zipper closed even partway?”

  “Oh, the zipper closes all right, but my tummy pooches out and the dress hangs funny.”

  Quelle surprise. You’ve only been eating like a horse for weeks.

  “Well, Stephanie can stitch up the tear,” I said, as if speaking to a child. A dim child. “Beyond that, you’ll just have to suck in your stomach and hope for the best.”

  “But, Carnegie!” Corinne wailed. “I have to look my very, very best on Saturday. It’s important!”

  Of course, I realized ruefully, she wants to dazzle Boris. A matchmaker should be more sympathetic.

  “You’ll look fine,” I soothed. “Honestly, that shade of pink is just gorgeous with your hair and complexion.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. And the neckline is perfect for your… for you. You’ll be irresistible. Try not to worry about it, OK? Just drop off the gown at Stephanie’s tomorrow morning, and I’ll see you tomorrow night at the rehearsal. Everything will be fine.”

  As it turned out, the rehearsal could not have been farther from fine.

  I assembled my motley crew at EMP’s main entrance and led them down to the private theater, with its state-of-the-art seating and display screens. A rather severe background for a wedding, but Elizabeth had vetoed having the ceremony out in the Sky Church, on the grounds that it would be a nuisance to clear the chairs afterwards for dancing. I suspected her real reason, though: in a huge space like the Sky Church, with its 85-foot ceiling, a mere bride would be barely noticeable. In the small, plain theater, her appearance would be electrifying.

  The rehearsal could have used some electricity, or at least a smile or two. I had rarely seen a more disgruntled wedding party. For starters, the bride and groom weren’t speaking to each other. Elizabeth wore that smoke-and-flame expression I had seen at the Alexis, and Paul was maintaining a dogged silence quite unlike his usual affability. Evidently the path of true love had developed a pothole that afternoon, but no one was saying why.

  I considered playing therapist, then let it go in favor of my role as stage manager. Which was tough enough, given my cast of characters.

  “It’s not very pretty, is it?” mused Monica, gazing critically around. “Not like a church.”

  “When’s the last time you were in a church?” Burt inquired sardonically. “You some kind of Swedish Lutheran now?”

  “He’s Norwegian,” she pronounced, as if Burt were hard of hearing. “And I’m just saying that it’s not a very decorative place. I’m the kind of person who—”

  “I think we know what kind of person you are,” snapped Burt, and everyone in the room stiffened, like dogs hearing distant thunder.

  “We’ll have some fabulous flower arrangements, Monica,”

  I said, cheerfully deaf. “And softer lighting, and the music. Now, if you could all just take a seat, we’ll get started in a moment….”

  Monica subsided—at a pointed distance from her husband—and her daughter Patty, red-eyed and pale, sat next to her. Not that Monica seemed to care. Patty must be working night shifts, I thought. Nurses lead a dog’s life sometimes. And so do least-favorite daughters. The maid of honor wore white slacks and clunky white walking shoes, along with a shapeless rain parka that she kept clutched around her, as if to emphasize the fact that she’d rather be elsewhere.

  That was the bride’s family; the groom’s kin was hardly in better shape. Paul’s brother Scott, the third groomsman, was a slight, balding fellow who seemed to be surgically attached to his cell phone. He had barely arrived from Baltimore, jet-lagged and cranky, and his mind was still back in his office three thousand miles away. Howard and Chloe, the groom’s parents, had returned early from Hawaii with the most spectacular sunburns I’d ever seen. Their faces were puffed and scarlet, the skin stretched tight and shiny over the affronted flesh. It hurt just to look at them.

  Chloe merely sat and winced, but Howard had bought himself a digital camera for the trip, and was conquering his pain by annoying his wife and everyone else in a relentless pursuit of close-up candids.

  “Big smile,” he kept saying, as he zoomed in on one victim after another. “Come on now, big smile!”

  I wondered if the lobsteresque in-laws were the source of Elizabeth�
�s pique. In the heady rush of getting everything they desire for their special day, some brides lose touch altogether with the real world, and expect their wedding photos to look like movie stills. But you can’t get friends and relations from Central Casting. At Elizabeth’s orders, the two mothers had bought dresses in harmonious shades of coral—which would now clash with Chloe’s peeling countenance.

  Well, the bride would have to get over it. At least Howard and Chloe had showed up, unlike Aaron, who was inexplicably late. Zack told me that “something, like, happened to him at the newsroom,” which would have sounded ominous except that he smirked when he said it. Zack was the only person present who seemed to be in a good mood, smiling at nothing and almost bouncing in his seat with youthful energy.

  Corinne, meanwhile, sat eating celery sticks from a plastic bag, looking ravenous and despairing. I’d seen brides try to lose weight at the eleventh hour, but never a bridesmaid. I felt for her, but the crunching was getting on my nerves. The three musicians, a hotshot local sax player and two cronies on bass and clarinet, stood in one corner exchanging sardonic remarks and looking bored. Or maybe that’s how jazz players are supposed to look. Their music certainly bores me.

  The ceremony was to be simple enough: jazz stylings for the prelude, processional and recessional, readings by both bride and groom, and brief remarks before the vows from an eminent judge too busy to join us tonight. Much as I disliked the music for this wedding, I loved the readings, which were just as quirky and personal as such things should be.

  Paul was going to recite a Yeats poem, Had I the Heavens’ Embroidered Cloths, and Elizabeth would reply with the lyrics to a charming song from the 1940s, “Come Rain or Come Shine.” Monica thought it was all very odd, which pleased Elizabeth no end.

  “How nice to see all of you,” I said brightly, deciding to press on without Aaron. “This will be an informal run-through, and then you can all go out and enjoy the museum.” Or jump off the Space Needle, for all I care.

  As the music started, I had Zack and Scott practice escorting Chloe and Monica to their seats, and then lining up at the front of the room with Paul. Corinne came down the aisle, stiff and self-conscious, with me following, and with everyone in the room trying not to think about Mercedes and Angela. Tommy Barry made a happier thought; he was home from the hospital, in his daughter’s care, and might actually make it for the ceremony.