May the Best Man Die Page 8

  He led me up a narrow set of steel stairs to a glassed-in office overlooking the roasting floor. The glass walls were hung with venetian blinds, swiveled open at present, and the single large desk in the middle was surrounded by panels of dials, lights and switches, and three different computer monitors.

  “We've got a PC at every workstation,” said Bauer, “and Lou Schulman here is the network mastermind. Aren't you, Lou?”

  The brawny, broad-shouldered young man named Lou looked up from his work. He wore a dingy sweatshirt, a Habitat baseball cap on backward, and, once he saw me, an expression of intense surprise.

  Well, well, well. I took in the lantern jaw, the beady eyes, and the thick-fingered hands that lay slack on his keyboard. If it isn't Mr. Garlic from the bachelor party.

  “You've met?” said Bauer into the uncomfortable silence.

  “Briefly.” No point embarrassing the guy. And besides, if Lou was a friend of Jason Kraye's as well as Frank Sanjek's, then he'd just had some bad news. What's a little drunken groping, compared to murder?

  The network mastermind rose from his rolling desk chair in a clumsy fluster. Apparently, all the leering bravado of Sunday night had come out of a retsina bottle. In the daylight, he looked older than I had thought—thirty at least, maybe more.

  “I-I heard about Jase.” He was blinking rapidly, and he spoke in an awkward mumble. “I heard that you, that you were the one—”

  “I identified the body,” I said gently. “Were you and Jason close friends?”

  “No!” The vehemence of the denial startled me. Lou began to fidget with the coiled cord of his telephone, not meeting my eyes. “I mean, we were friends, but not real good ones, you know?”

  Kevin Bauer glanced from his employee to me and back again, his wide brown forehead creased in concern. “A friend of yours died? Listen, if you want some time off, you just—”

  “No,” said Lou again. “I'm telling you, I barely knew him.”

  He lifted his hands in protest, but his fingers were still tangled in the phone cord. The cord lassoed Lou's empty coffee mug, yanking it to the edge of the desk, and the mug did a half-gainer off the edge and landed right at my feet. Instinctively, I reached down to try and break the fall.

  Too late. Instead of the mug, my fingers met the spray of broken fragments that ricocheted from the concrete floor. When I stood up again, I had a deep gash on my left hand, and blood gushing all over my best dove-gray suit.

  Chapter Twelve

  “HELL AND DAMNATION!” I SAID, AND I'M AFRAID I DIDN'T STOP there. My father was in the merchant marine, after all.

  Both men reacted instantly. Lou gave a horrified shout of alarm and shrank back from the gore. Kevin Bauer, in contrast, whipped out a folded handkerchief, pressed it to my palm, and raised my arm above shoulder level, to stem the blood flow. I just stood there and let him, while continuing to express my displeasure in the language of the sea. I'm an awful baby about pain, and my hand hurt like a bitch.

  “I'll call 911!” said Lou, coherent at last.

  “Don't be silly,” I snapped. “It's just a cut.”

  But a crimson stain had already soaked through the handkerchief. Bauer let go of me and rummaged in a nearby locker for a first-aid kit. Some gawking workers appeared in the office doorway but he waved them off, and let the blue plastic kit clatter to the floor as he grabbed out a roll of sterile gauze.

  “Let me see . . . no, don't move the handkerchief, just keep this on top of it . . . Can you hold it there while we drive?”

  “Drive where?” But I knew where. I had a rendezvous with some needle and thread.

  Fiona, the pleasant post-hippie from the office, did the actual driving, while her boss sat in back with me and held my hand. Literally. I had stopped swearing by then and gone into stiff-upper-lip mode as I stared unseeing at the woods and the ticky-tacky houses rushing by. I was chiefly aware of two things: the determination not to cry, and the warm, reassuring feel of Kevin Bauer's hands clasped around mine.

  “Here we are,” Fiona announced, pulling into a shopping plaza near the freeway. “It's small, but they know what they're doing.”

  The Snohomish Community Clinic was a storefront squeezed between a running-shoe emporium and a discount eyeglass place. Once inside, Fiona sat with me in the examination room while her boss filled out paperwork at the front counter.

  “I don't think it's too bad,” she ventured, watching me wiggle my fingertips beyond the gauze pad.

  “Just a flesh wound,” I said, mock-heroic. “At least I didn't bleed in the coffee. He would have thrown me out on my ear.”

  “Kevin's not quite that fanatic.”

  “But almost?”

  “It's his life,” she said simply. And then, gingerly testing our newfound camaraderie, “You're from MFC, aren't you?”

  I was caught off guard. “That's supposed to be—”

  “A secret, I know. But you can't have a series of nighttime meetings with the great Ivy Tyler and not have it get around!”

  “Fiona, I'm sorry, I can't talk about this.”

  “I don't expect you to, really. We all know what's coming. There have been rumors for months, and everyone's worried about layoffs.” She smiled tolerantly. “We figure Kevin's waiting until after Christmas, so everyone can have their holiday and get their year-end bonus.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “He's a nice guy. Did he tell you how he got into the business?”

  “No, how?” She was trying to distract me from my injury, I could tell, but I was quite willing to be distracted.

  “About ten years ago he got an inheritance from his grandfather, and went bumming around South America for a while. He'd done graduate work in ornithology, so he was interested in songbird migration and the whole biodiversity issue. When he got back, he wanted to do something practical to help, something beyond research.”

  “Something like Habitat?”

  She nodded, her braids swinging. “He used the rest of grandpa's money to buy a roasting plant and convert it to a strictly shade-grown operation. He's absolutely passionate about it.”

  Passion for a good cause; very appealing. But I needed information about a less appealing man. “And Lou Schulman, is he a crusader, too?”

  Fiona grimaced. “Only for beer and women. He was the star techie at some dot-com that went under, and according to Kevin, he's a brilliant programmer. But he's Clueless Lou in the social skills department. Kind of crude, in fact.” Then, trying to be fair, she added, “He's an asset to Habitat, though, and that's what counts. And he felt terrible about your accident.”

  “Tell him I'll live.”

  That was the doctor's opinion, too. One tetanus shot and a fancy bandage later, with the throbbing in my hand nicely blunted by a stiff dose of painkillers, I was ready to go home. Fiona went out to warm up her car—it was almost dark already, and quite cold—while Kevin paid the clinic bill and helped me on with my coat.

  “I called Ivy,” he told me. “She said she'll be waiting for you at her apartment, in case you need anything tonight.”

  “I'll be fine. It didn't even need stitches. If you could just drop me back at my van—”

  “Fiona will drop both of us,” said Kevin Bauer in a no-nonsense tone. “I also called a friend of mine who lives in Snohomish and commutes to downtown Seattle. He'll give me a ride back up here after I deliver you and your van to Ivy's place. No, no arguments. I'm driving you home.”

  I might have resented the take-charge tone if I'd been feeling better. And not exiled from my houseboat. And not on the outs with my best friend. As it was, I had no objection to someone else taking charge, at least for the next hour.

  Traffic was heavy, as it always is on I-5 these days, and between the glare of oncoming headlights and the warmth of Vanna's heater, I was half-asleep for most of the trip. My chauffeur drove skillfully and kept a companionable silence—a skill in itself—until we exited the freeway.

  “Where shall I park?
”

  “What? Oh, there's an overnight garage on First Avenue. I'll show you.”

  He docked the van neatly in her new berth, and insisted on paying for parking and walking me to my door. We even made some small talk, admiring the Christmas lights that twinkled all around. I paused at the entrance of Ivy's building, not sure if she would welcome a business associate like Kevin inside her personal domain. Kevin and I stood facing each other on the sidewalk, suddenly awkward.

  “Well,” I said intelligently.

  “Well,” he concurred.

  “Thanks for the ride, and the tour . . .”

  Kevin laughed out loud, a nice deep laugh. “And the blood and the pain? Thank you for being so reasonable. Of course, you're stealing company property . . .”

  He reached out a hand, as if to touch my face, and I held my breath. What's happening here? And do I want it to happen? Then he slid the forgotten hair net off my head, and slipped it into his pocket.

  I laughed myself, a little nervously, and shook my hair loose. “You should talk! I could sue you for dangerous factory conditions.”

  “We can't have that. Can I bribe my way out of it?” The streetlight made a spark in his blue-gray eyes. “Say, with dinner tomorrow night? I'll bring my own car this time.”

  I took a deep breath, and exhaled some of the tension that had been building up somewhere between my shoulder blades ever since Sunday. “I'd like that. I'd like that very much.”

  “Wonderful. I'll meet you here at seven.”

  “Sounds good. Although . . .” I said impulsively, and then once the word was out I had to keep going. “Although if you came earlier, we could walk around and listen to the carolers? Tomorrow's the Figgy Pudding event, it's a fund-raiser for the food bank?” Hell, I'm talking like a teenage girl. “People dress up in costumes and sing on the street corners, and then there's a big finale on an outdoor stage. It's really fun, I mean, it is if you like Christmas, because if you don't like Christmas, I guess it's kind of corny . . .”

  “I was born corny,” said Kevin Bauer. “And I love Christmas. See you at six.”

  Ivy had given me a spare key to her apartment, but being one-handed, I just knocked, still smiling about Kevin's last remark. Ivy drew me inside with a warm but careful hug, the mentor giving way to the mother.

  “Here, I'll take your briefcase. Does it hurt? Let me get you a drink, you poor thing . . .”

  She steered me to the living room, and my smile froze. Ivy's angular steel coffee table and her eggplant-colored couch were strewn with files, photographs, and newspaper clippings. Sitting there in the midst of the them, shutting off a tape recorder and tapping rapidly away on a laptop, was Aaron Gold.

  “Hello there, Carnegie.” He glanced up at me, outwardly friendly, but his chocolate-brown eyes were expressionless. “Ivy mentioned you were staying here. I was just telling her that we have some friends in common. Sorry about your hand.”

  “Small world, isn't it?” said my hostess. She seemed quite pleased about it.

  “Very small. I . . . need to change my clothes. Excuse me.”

  When I returned, in jeans, Ivy was emerging from the kitchen with a round teak tray. It held a plate piled with sandwiches, a bottle of expensive-looking Scotch, and three generous glasses of ice.

  “New Zealand cheddar,” she announced, “from De Laurenti's downstairs. And a single malt, much deserved after all this talking. Aaron, my friend, I'm talked out. Let's call it a night. Carnegie, did I tell you that Aaron's doing a book about Meet for Coffee?”

  “I think you did, yes.” I lowered myself into a chair that matched the eggplant sofa. Pain meds or no, a drink suddenly seemed like a good idea. “It must be quite a saga.”

  “With quite a main character.” Aaron grinned at Ivy. He seemed perfectly at ease, but then, he'd been forewarned I was coming, the bum.

  I sipped some Scotch and attempted some ESP. Go away, Aaron. Finish your drink and go home. I don't want to see you or think about you. Or think about us. Go away. That's the trouble with being a guest; you can't throw the other guests out.

  “Remember,” said Ivy, “some of those stories don't go in the book. Like the one I just told you about the governor . . .”

  They chuckled and ate sandwiches and chatted, winding down from their interview for what seemed an interminable time. I'd lost my appetite, so I went on sipping and beaming thought waves. No dice. The man was rooted to the sofa—as I seemed to be myself.

  Finally they were done eating, and Aaron pulled a pack of cigarettes and his trusty stainless-steel lighter from a shirt pocket. I hated his smoking, and he knew it, but I was surprised at his discourtesy to Ivy. Then Ivy surprised me by holding up two fingers in a V. Aaron lit a cigarette and gave it to her, then lit one for himself. They'd obviously done this before. Ivy caught me watching them.

  “I'm trying to quit,” she said sheepishly, “but you know how it is.”

  “I don't think Carnegie does know,” said Aaron, with a damnably innocent expression. “You don't smoke, as I recall?”

  “No, I don't. What a good memory you have.”

  I meant it as an exit line, but as I began to excuse myself, Ivy got a call on her kitchen phone. The moment she left the room, Aaron set down his glass and spoke to me urgently.

  “Stretch, we need to talk.”

  “We're done talking,” I said. “And don't call me that. Acquaintances don't have nicknames.”

  “Well, what did you want me to tell her? That I've never heard of you?”

  “Of course not,” I conceded. “‘Friends in common' is fine. But let's just leave it at that. I don't want any more arguments.”

  “Neither do I. In fact, I'd never have . . . said what I did, if I hadn't been drinking at that damn party.” He frowned at the memory. “I owe you an apology for barging into Solveto's in the first place.”

  “Apology accepted. So why—”

  “I'm sorry.” Ivy reappeared, her face bleak. “I have to get back home.”

  “Charles?” said Aaron.

  She nodded, and a look of understanding passed between them.

  “Please, stay and have another drink.” Ivy was trying hard to sound matter-of-fact. “Carnegie, will you be all right? I'll touch base with you tomorrow about Habitat. Aaron knows about the acquisition, by the way, so he's safe.”

  That's what you think. I assured Ivy that I'd be fine, and within moments I was left alone with the mysteriously married man.

  “I need to talk with you,” said Aaron once again.

  I shook my head, but the room whirled around me, so I stopped. “I told you, apology accepted. Now if you don't mind, it's been a long day. A long week, for that matter. What's today, Wednesday?”

  “Tuesday. Now would you listen to me? It's about Darwin.”

  “How did you know—?”

  “Lily's my friend, too, remember? She called me this afternoon, half out of her mind. Darwin hasn't been charged with murder, but they found some dope in his car. Not much, but enough to hold him on. She asked me to find him a lawyer.”

  “Oh, Lord.” I put a hand to my now-throbbing forehead. “Is she still blaming me?”

  Aaron shrugged an eloquent Jewish shrug. “Bound to, isn't she? Without your testimony, Darwin's just another guy who drank too much at a bachelor party. Now the police want to know where his clothes went, and whether he owns a knife.”

  “And does he?”

  “He says not. He also says he stuffed his clothes in a trash can because he threw up on them while he was driving around in a stupor. And he put on some new clothes that he just happened to buy the day before and leave in his trunk. And he can't remember where the trash can was. Between a half-assed story like that, and the fight you saw outside the Café, it doesn't look good.”

  “It wasn't that much of a fight. I don't think.” I sighed and closed my eyes. It was difficult to open them again. “But I couldn't lie to the police. I just couldn't!”

  “I understand
that. And Lily probably does, too. She just needs a target right now, and you're it.”

  “But can't she see . . . No, of course she can't.”

  I slumped back in my chair and stared at the little oil painting on the wall above the sofa. It showed a luminous twilight sky in shades of violet over a rocky headland. Within the headland's sheltering arm were a cluster of fishing boats, their hulls glowing lapis and garnet and turquoise against the dusk. Wistfully, I imagined myself sitting at the water's edge, watching the sky darken, listening to the whisper of the waves . . .

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” Aaron was standing over me. “You're fading out on me here. Did they give you pain pills when they fixed up your hand?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “And you inhaled all that booze anyway. Smart. Come on, up you go.” He got an arm around my shoulders and hauled. “I think the bedroom's down here.”

  “Thanks.” I stretched out on Ivy's guest bed, grateful to be horizontal, and didn't move as Aaron slipped off my shoes and pulled the bedspread over me. “Thank you, Aaron. Really. You're being so nice—”

  “Don't mention it. Go to sleep.”

  “First Kevin was so nice, and now you . . .” My voice sounded far away.

  “Kevin?”

  “Someone I'm dating,” I said. In my altered state, it seemed important to be accurate. “I mean, we haven't even had our first date yet. But he—”

  “Frankly, my dear . . .” said Aaron from the doorway. He was silhouetted by the hall light, his face unreadable, his voice cold. “Frankly, I don't want to hear about it. You get some sleep, and tomorrow we'll try and figure out who killed Jason Kraye.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  WAKING UP IN A STRANGE BED—AGAIN—WAS BAD ENOUGH. AT least Ivy's guest room was an orange-paisley-free zone, and I didn't have to check out by ten o'clock. But waking up Wednesday morning still in my clothes, with a sore hand, a worse head, and a vague memory of having said something stupid to Aaron, was considerably disorienting.

  Things didn't get much more oriented once I got to Solveto's, either. My office was full of Buckmeisters.