Died to Match Page 23

  “All right, Patty,” I called to the sisters, now waiting at the theater’s doorway. “You’ll be next. Listen for your cue from the trio…. OK, nice and slow… now Burt, you take Elizabeth’s arm…”

  We made it through the processional, and Paul delivered his poem in a rushed, impersonal voice; the last line—“Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams”—was certainly ironic, given Elizabeth’s demeanor tonight. After he finished, there was a long pause, as she stood facing him but not meeting his eye, her lips tight, too irritated to speak words of love.

  “Elizabeth?” I prompted.

  “I’ve rehearsed it already,” she snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Elizabeth, if there’s something you’re not happy about concerning the ceremony, please say so now—”

  “Hi, guys! Sorry I’m late.”

  We all looked back, startled, toward the doorway. Aaron’s sudden entrance set off a barrage of reactions: Paul and Zack erupted in laughter, the fathers grinned, the mothers gasped, and the bride boiled over.

  “How am I supposed to be happy with that?” she wailed.

  She was referring to Aaron’s face, and she had a point. Aaron was sporting a black eye of spectacular magnitude, swollen almost shut and positively pulsating in shades of deep purple and olive green.

  “What happened?” Chloe and I asked simultaneously, but by now Aaron was chortling as well and couldn’t answer. Howard and Burt joined in the hilarity, and even the musicians looked entertained.

  “They were playing football in the office,” said the bride venomously, over the men’s howls of laughter. “Like a bunch of children.”

  “Honey,” Paul managed to get out, “be a sport, would you? It’s no big deal—”

  “It is to me! You’ve ruined everything!”

  And with this histrionic pronouncement, Elizabeth stalked up the aisle, past Aaron, and out of the building, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake. Everyone looked at me uncertainly.

  “Well…” I said. Why is it again that I love weddings? “Well, I think we’re done for this evening. Good night, everyone.” Then, as the room emptied, “Aaron, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He came down the aisle, looking a bit guilty, and then a bit irked as he tried to kiss me and I turned my face away. “Hey, is it my fault if I fumbled a pass?”

  “Shut up and listen,” I told him. “There’s going to be a stylist here tomorrow, an hour before the ceremony. I’ll tell her to bring stage makeup for you, so for God’s sake, be on time.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not wearing makeup just so some self-centered bride can—”

  “Self-centered! You think she’s self-centered? Tomorrow is one of the most important, most public moments of Elizabeth’s life and everyone will be looking at you. She’ll have photographs she’ll want to show her grandchildren, and all they’ll want to know is the story behind your goddamn eye. Grow up, Aaron.”

  “Grow up? You of all people—”

  “What about me of all people?” I’d been restraining myself all evening. If he wanted to fight, I was more than ready. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Aaron looked away, and I could see the muscles in his jaw go taut. Then he turned a cold gaze back to me. “Forget it. It’s not worth the trouble.”

  And he walked out, leaving me to stew in my own complicated juices. Forget his objection to makeup? Or forget about him and me? I jammed my clipboard into my tote bag and pulled on my coat, muttering savagely under my breath all the while.

  “How did it go?” Rhonda Coates, the EMP’s chic and ultra-efficient coordinator for private events, poked her head in from a side door. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Only if you’ve got a magic wand to wave, I thought. “We’re all set, Rhonda, thanks.”

  “Are you going to stay tonight and cruise the galleries? There’s a new exhibit on honky-tonk artists—”

  “Wish I could,” I fibbed, “but I’ve got more paperwork to do tonight. You know how it is.”

  “All too well,” she said. “Break a leg tomorrow.”

  “That or somebody’s neck.”

  She grinned and said good night. I walked up the aisle to the theater exit, and gave a silent groan when I opened the door: Zack was waiting for me right outside, slouching against the wall with his arms folded and his brow furrowed. He perked up visibly when he saw me—a warning sign right there if I hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice. “Are you all done now? We could have dinner in the café here.”

  “Oh, I’ve already eaten. But thanks, Zack.”

  “Where should we go, then?” He fell in step beside me as I cut through the EMP gift shop, crowded with visitors, on my way to the Fifth Avenue exit and Vanna.

  “Go?” I said absently. “I’m going back to my office.”

  Our way forward was blocked by a couple of teenagers, oblivious in their headphones at a demo kiosk for CDs. We were surrounded by shelves of souvenirs, coffee-table books, T-shirts and leather jackets, all celebrating rock and roll in one way or another.

  As I edged my way around the teenagers, Zack stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You said on the phone that you’d, like, see me tonight. We have a date.”

  He looked so hopeful, and vulnerable, that I bit back an irritated reply and said patiently, “When I said that, I meant I’d see you at the rehearsal, that’s all. I thought we agreed that we’re just friends.”

  He frowned stubbornly. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  Oh, lord. “Zack, I’ve got a screaming headache, and a million things to do before tomorrow evening. Let’s talk some other time, OK?”

  He began to protest, but I turned my back and fled. I’d filled my quota of ill-tempered individuals for the day, and something told me that the Lamott/Wheeler wedding was going to set a new record.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  WHAT’S A WEDDING MORNING WITHOUT ONE LAST DISASTER?

  Friday night, after a grueling round-robin of tactful phone calls, I persuaded Paul to apologize to Elizabeth on Aaron’s behalf—Aaron himself being incommunicado—and then got Elizabeth to accept the apology and simmer down. By Saturday morning I was checking off details and hitting on all cylinders—food, flowers, liquor, limos, table linens, glassware, music, parking, coat check, gift table, everything, even Corinne’s dress—when I got a call from Todd, the cake baker, at his studio on Queen Anne Hill. The ordinarily terse Scotsman was overflowing with apologies, anxiety, and bad news.

  “I never screw up, Carnegie, you know that. I keep my truck tuned like a bloody piano. I’ve got Triple A here, but they can’t start it either, and once they tow it to a garage there’s no telling when I’ll get it back. I’ve been calling round to borrow a vehicle but—”

  “No need,” I told him. “I’ll come over there myself. Vanna should be just big enough.”

  “Who’s Vanna?”

  “Sorry, I mean my van. If you can help me secure the cake in the back?”

  “Aye, I’ve got all sorts of padding and tie-downs, we’ll make it work. You’re a bloody angel, Carnegie.” As he said it,

  I could picture the relieved smile on Todd’s long, freckly face. “This is the grandest piece I’ve ever done, and I want those on-site photos.”

  “You’ll get them,” I promised. “Will you ride down to the EMP with me?”

  “I’d rather follow you in my car so I can go tend to my truck afterwards.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there in half an hour.” I put down the phone and turned to Eddie, who was knee-deep in printouts and happily gnawing an unlit cigar. “Looks like I’m on cake patrol. I might as well stay at the EMP once I’m there, and just run back home later to suit up.”

  “I meant to mention,” said my partner, his voice oddly casual. “I’d, ah, kinda like to see you in that gown.”

  “Why, you sentimental son of a gun! Sure, I’ll model for you. We’ll get a picture of the two of us and send it
to Mom.” Eddie was still one of my mother’s oldest and dearest friends. “Lily’s coming by at five to help me dress, you can come down then.”

  Eddie turned suddenly brusque and bashful. “ ’Course I might not be in the office that late. Probably will, though. Say, you better keep that cake dry, sister. It’s raining again.”

  It was indeed, a slanting ice-water rain that popped off the wooden surface of the outside steps as I descended them. I wished, for the millionth time, that my houseboat had interior stairs between my home and office, although I knew full well that a stairwell would eat up half the floor space of both. I darted into my kitchen, grabbed my old goose-down parka with the more-or-less waterproof shell, and then rushed out again. Straight into Zack Hartmann.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I said. “Oops, sorry—”

  Zack bore a cellophane-wrapped bundle that slipped to the ground in our collision. He retrieved it while I unfurled my umbrella, and handed it to me: a sorry-looking supermarket bouquet of desiccated carnations and skeletal mums. The poor things would have done better out in the rain.

  “It’s to, like, apologize for last night,” said a blushing Robin Hood. “I think I made you mad.”

  “Oh, Zack, I wasn’t mad! I was just frustrated by all that fussing around at the rehearsal. These are very nice, thank you. I’ll put them in water, and then I’ve got to run.”

  “I thought we could talk… ?” he began.

  “We will talk, but not right now. I’ve got to get up to Queen Anne and fetch Elizabeth’s cake.”

  He brightened. “I’ll come and help you.”

  “No, that’s not—Actually, yes, I could use an extra pair of hands, to sit in back and keep the cake steady. Better yet, you can drive while I ride shotgun. I’ve still got phone calls to make.”

  “Cool! Good thing I came over, huh?”

  You’d have thought it was me doing Zack the favor. I felt a brief pang at taking advantage of his infatuation, but on a wedding day I’ll dragoon anybody to do anything, just to get the job done.

  I stayed busy on my cell phone the whole way up to Todd’s, raising my voice above the thrumming of the rain on Vanna’s roof. Zack drove in silent concentration, apparently determined to be the world’s best assistant cake picker-upper. But both of us broke into awed exclamations when Todd wheeled out the low cart bearing his tour de force.

  And it was awesome. The confectionary Space Needle was a good two feet tall, and the cake itself covered an area almost three by four. I’d know the Needle if it was carved in Spam, but I was amazed at how instantly recognizable the EMP was, with undulations of rolled fondant re-creating the glistening swerves and curves of the building in silver, gold, red, and bright blue. The final flourish, a marzipan monorail on chocolate tracks, was so cute you could eat it up. So to speak.

  “Todd, this is extraordinary,” I told him. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well,” he said, taking a stab at modesty, “it’s a fairly interesting building to start with. Now, young man, if you’ll get that side of the board…”

  The cake rested on a thick sheet of plywood covered with silver plastifoil, and boxed around the sides with heavy cardboard. No top on the box, though, not with the Space Needle rising high. But Todd’s little loading bay was covered from the rain, and we all stayed dry, including our irreplaceable cargo, while he fussed over the loading like a hen with one chick.

  It took all three of us to lift the thing—I wondered how many thousands of calories we were hefting—and quite a while to secure it in the back of the van. Then I belted myself into the backward-facing seat, where I could hold the plywood steady if we hit any bumps.

  “It’ll do,” said Todd. “I’ll meet you down there, Carnegie. Young man, you drive slower than you’ve ever driven in your life.”

  Zack pulled smoothly away from the studio, while I braced myself in my seat and watched the cake. The Space Needle vibrated ever so slightly, but otherwise all went well, until I realized that Zack was heading down the fearsome slope of Queen Anne Avenue. It’s a twenty-degree grade that was once called The Counterbalance, because trolley cars had to be counter-weighted by a subterranean railcar full of concrete just to descend it safely, or to climb it in the first place.

  As we angled downward, the plywood platform began to shift forward towards me. And were the upper curves of the EMP bulging out as well?

  “Zack, I should have told you to take a different route.” I craned around to look at him, hunched over the dashboard with his knuckles white on the wheel. “You can still turn off, just take any side street. And for heaven’s sakes, buckle your seat belt. You could get a ticket.”

  “I don’t think I better turn when it’s this steep,” he said. “Not too much farther…”

  At least he was heeding Todd’s warning and creeping along slowly, much to the displeasure of the drivers behind us. So far, so good. My cell phone chirped, and I fumbled it out of my bag without taking my eyes from the precious pay-load.

  “Hey, Stretch, it’s me. Eddie gave me your number.”

  “Nice of you to call,” I said acidly. “I was trying to reach you all evening. Are you going to let the stylist paint over that eye, or not? We’ve got one groomsman too many right now, and I promised Elizabeth—”

  “OK, OK!” he said. “I’ll get painted. You’re going to need me in the line-up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re about to lose your not-very-secret admirer, Babyface Hartmann,” he said gleefully. “Guess how old he is?”

  “Aaron, this isn’t a good—”

  “He’s twenty-nine! And he’s got a prison record in Massachusetts, for date rape no less. I knew I’d seen his picture somewhere. Paul brought his folks through the newsroom this morning, and old Howard let me download his digital snapshots from the rehearsal. I e-mailed the close-up of Zack to the Boston police, and I just heard back. His name’s not Zack, by the way. It’s Tyrone.”

  I felt dazed. “Tyrone?”

  The instant I said the name aloud, I knew I’d made a horrible mistake. Zack straightened convulsively and whipped his head around to stare at me. I stared back, seeing a strange light in his shadowy blue eyes that brought back the roar of Snoqualmie Falls and the look in those same eyes when he said, “I killed Mercedes.”

  In the distance, a siren sounded. I began to hyperventilate.

  “Yeah,” Aaron’s voice chattered on, distantly. “And Tyrone Peters broke his parole when he came out here. The SPD’s going to pick him up today, so you’ll have to do without him at your shindig tonight—”

  “Aaron,” I shouted, as Zack turned his back to me and hit the gas. “Aaron, Zack is with me!”

  That was all I got out, because Vanna went barreling down the grade and pancaked at a levelled intersection. The force of the impact flung the phone from my hand and set Todd’s beautiful Space Needle rocking on its foundation. Instinctively, I lunged forward to try and steady it, but the lunge turned into a lurch and my outstretched fingers administered the coup de grace. The Needle toppled backward, still in one exquisite piece. Then it made contact with the edge of the box and smashed itself into a sweet, sad wreckage.

  “Goddammit, Zack!” For just that moment, I was more worried about the cake than my own well-being. “Look what you—”

  But Zack gunned Vanna’s engine and we raced downhill once more. Now I had time to get good and scared. All around me, horns blared and brakes squealed, and the shops and restaurants of lower Queen Anne went whipping past the side windows behind dense silver curtains of rain. That first siren hadn’t been pursuing us, of course, but soon a second one began to wail, and then a third, as Zack tore through one red light after another in his panicky flight.

  “You’re going to kill us!”

  Bouncing and jolting, my head snapping back and forth like a doll’s, I pulled my shoulder belt even tighter and watched in horrified fascination as the inevitable catastrophe unfolded. Todd’
s magnificent cake trembled, shifted, and heaved itself out of its box like some clumsy, primitive beast.

  As the leading wall of the cake smacked against the rear door of the van, deep crevasses opened into its layered innards, panels of fondant shattered into whirling fragments of red and silver, and the little monorail flipped into the air like the victim of some Candyland earthquake.

  Suddenly a whirling blue light strobed across the devastation, and I twisted around to look through the windshield. There was a police car dead ahead, lying in wait for us with its siren snarling. Zack hauled at the steering wheel to throw us into a skidding turn, left and then right.

  The EMP cake—unrecognizable now—disintegrated further as it smashed from one side to the other, bombarding the interior of the van, and me, with flying gobs of mousse and buttercream and tumbling chunks of bitter chocolate cake.

  I scraped sweet goo from my eyes and looked again. We were racing down First Avenue. The sirens had cleared the traffic lanes, so Zack had a clear shot, and he was pushing Vanna to her limits and beyond.

  “Zack, please, this is crazy—”

  “Shut UP!” he yelled, his voice breaking. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  Then his voice was lost in the scream of our tires. A glaring barrier of headlights and police lights lay straight across our path, setting the rain on fire. The lights tilted and swung away as Zack stood on the brakes and hauled at the wheel, sending us spinning and lurching across the road with our side door flapping open like a bird’s broken wing.

  Vanna went careening across the plaza of the Seattle Art Museum—for that’s where we were—spilling her luscious contents as she went, and smacked abruptly against tall, unyielding steel. I screamed, but only in alarm; strapped in tight, I was badly shaken but intact. Zack, however, was thrown from the driver’s seat and ended up on the ground several yards away, unconscious and bleeding. And Hammering Man ended up with pulverized fondant and rain-streaked French buttercream all over his shoes.