Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  “She invited him to the wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “Goddamn the man.” Then, searching for another topic, he said, “But today is going fine, Carnegie, just fine. And Nickie says she loves the dress you found her.”

  “It suits her perfectly,” I told him, as we walked back to the terrace. A high white haze was beginning to obscure Mount Rainier and soften our shadows on the grass. “She'll be lovely.”

  “You should have seen Julia on our wedding day,” he said quietly. “She was a picture.”

  Not Grace, but Julia. Interesting. I couldn't find an answer to that, but he didn't seem to need one. We walked past the buffet tent, where the waiters had cleared away the shrimp to make way for the ice cream and strawberries. The guests were lining up for dessert and more wine, leaving the senator to his interviews.

  “Have you eaten?” Douglas asked me, weary but courteous.

  “I'll get something from the kitchen, thanks.”

  “Fine, fine.” He was focusing on the senator, gauging the tone of the press questions. Guthridge was forgotten, at least for the moment. I climbed the terrace stairs, past the now vacant bench, and went around to the side door to the kitchen. I heard Mariana laughing inside, and cheered up at the thought of some food and some uncomplicated company. But then I opened the screen door and lost my appetite.

  Leaning against the refrigerator, drinking beer and speaking a foreign language and obviously charming the socks off Mariana, was Aaron Gold.

  WHEN IT COMES TO MEN, THE FIRST THING I REGISTER IS height. Aaron Gold was shorter than me by a couple of inches, and probably younger by a couple of years. His crow-black hair was not so much badly cut as infrequently, and his lightweight tweed jacket fought a losing battle with the plaid of his shirt. Baggy corduroys and grass-stained sneakers completed the ideal party-crasher's ensemble.

  “You must be the wedding lady,” he said, in a fast-paced East Coast accent. His smile showed neat, perfectly white teeth below chocolate brown eyes and a hooked nose. He took a swig of beer and smiled again. “Mariana told me you had beautiful red hair.”

  What's a bouncer supposed to do with a remark like that? Mariana giggled and carried a dinner tray out of the kitchen and down the hall to her apartment.

  “I'm Carnegie Kincaid, and I'm helping to run this event,” I said coldly. “And if you're Aaron Gold, I've been asked to escort you out of the house. You were not invited.”

  Gold held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor. But it's society's fault, not mine. I had an unhappy childhood. So how's the fund-raising going?”

  “None of your business.” After putting up with Grace all day, it was a relief to be rude. “Are you going to leave, or—”

  “Or what?” he said. “You'll call the cops?”

  “Something like that.” I thought fondly of Theo and his muscles, and not so fondly of the scene Gold would cause if he put up a struggle. “Look, be reasonable. Your newspaper was specifically asked not to send you.”

  He shrugged. “They didn't get the message. What a shame. Are you on the staff here? What does Parry pay for a full-time hostess?”

  “I'm not on the staff. I'm a wedding and special events consultant. What does the Sentinel pay you for invading people's privacy?”

  “Touché. But Mariana invited me in, you know. I wasn't interrogating her. Just having a friendly chat about Brazilian cooking.”

  I knew I should cut this off, but my curiosity got the best of me. “You speak Portuguese?”

  “In my part of Massachusetts, there are more Azoreans than there are left in the Azores. Those are islands off the coast of Portugal, you know.”

  I didn't know. “You sound like New York to me.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “You people! Everything east of the Continental Divide sounds like New York to you. So what exactly do you consult about? The daughter's getting married soon—is that your job, too? Wait, where are my manners. You want a beer?”

  “I want you to stop asking questions and leave!” I did want a beer, and some shrimp, and some peace and quiet. “I'm trying to do my job.”

  “And I'm trying to do mine.” He sat down at the butcher block table and pulled out a notebook. “Give me your phone number so I can call you later. Or are you in the book under Wedding Lady?”

  Fortunately, the screen door opened at that point. Unfortunately, it was Grace Parry. She looked at Gold, then at me, with equal disdain.

  “I asked you to get rid of him, and you're serving him drinks.”

  Gold stood up and smiled. His nerve was astonishing, or maybe chutzpah was a better word. “Mrs. Parry, nice to meet you. Aaron Gold, from the Seattle Sentinel. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about your husband's role in the Guthridge trial? He hasn't returned my calls.”

  Grace might have been deaf. “You're needed at the dessert table,” she told me. “A s soon as possible.”

  She left the kitchen, and the temperature rose back to normal. Gold drummed the tabletop with his fingers. I hate fidgety men. “Have I gotten you in trouble?”

  “It could have been worse,” I said. “You could have gotten Mariana fired.”

  “Is old Grace really that much of a bitch?”

  “Grace is hell on wheels. But she's not that old.”

  He shrugged. “Fifty ain't young.”

  “Fifty? Grace Parry? She can't be.”

  “Fooled you too, huh?” He grinned and tipped back the last of his beer. “She makes a big deal of being Parry's younger second wife, and dressing like the daughter, what's her name?”

  “Niccola.”

  “Yeah, like Niccola's sister. But the little-known fact of the matter,” here he consulted his notebook, “is that she'll be fifty-one next October. Gossip says she's vain about her age, faithful to her husband, and she didn't object to signing a restrictive prenuptial agreement because she's so good at making money herself.”

  I shook my head. “Fifty, that's amazing. But why are you collecting gossip?”

  “I'm not. I'm just following the Guthridge case, rounding up stray facts, and seeing a lot of strange stuff along the way.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as two old friends threatening each other at a garden party. What was that all about, anyway? To testify or not to testify?”

  “More or less,” I said, then caught myself. That's right, Carnegie, chat with a reporter about your client's personal affairs. Aaron Gold may have struck out with Grace, but he was insinuating himself into my confidence with embarrassing ease. “It was just a conversation. A private conversation. And now you'd better leave.”

  I opened the screen door and waited. He walked past me, the top of his head level with my eyes. When he paused on the terrace, I looked nervously around for Douglas Parry, but everyone seemed to be down on the lawn.

  “Don't you care whether Parry is a criminal?” Gold asked me.

  “Of course I care! But he's not. And for all I know, Keith Guthridge isn't, either. What about innocent until proven guilty?”

  “Let me tell you something, Wedding Lady. Keith Guthridge has connections with some very guilty types of people.” Aaron Gold smiled and cocked his head. He might have been talking about the fine weather, or paying another glib compliment. “You think that organized crime just stood back and let the civilians make all the money in the savings-and-loan scams? Parry is blowing the whistle on a dangerous man.”

  “Are you saying Guthridge is involved with organized crime?” His old man's voice echoed in my mind: You'll regret this, Parry, I swear to God. Suddenly the anonymous threats Douglas had been receiving seemed far more ominous, and the car crash seemed anything but accidental. Why hadn't I held on to Crazy Mary?

  “I'm not saying anything until I can prove it. But I'll prove it. Meanwhile, can I use a phone? I came by cab.”

  “There's a pay phone at the general store down the road,” I said, and escorted him resolutely around the house to the front entrance.
To keep him from lingering, I walked with him down the front drive, past the luxury cars and SUVs and luxury SUVs under the colonnade of madrona trees. Some of the guests were leaving, and they roared past us without a look.

  Gold strolled after me, hands in his pockets. “Do you always walk so fast?”

  “I've got work to do.”

  “Must be tough, helping rich girls get married.”

  I halted and faced him, feeling all the aggravations of the past week coming to a head, and more than a little upset by his talk about crime and criminals. “Where do you get off criticizing my job? I'm planning Nickie Parry's wedding, and she's wealthy, so you assume that she's a spoiled brat and that I—”

  “That you get paid to pick out cakes and flowers? Well, don't you?” The little twerp smiled. I'd risen to his bait.

  “Yes,” I said carefully, “yes, I do, among other things. And I'm good at it, and a number of people, not all of them wealthy, appreciate my help. The general store is that way. About a mile.” I glanced up at the early-evening sky, which was not going to rain on him. Too bad. “Have a nice walk, Mr. Gold.”

  He sighed and set off, but turned back almost at once. “One last question.”

  “What is it?”

  His teeth showed white. “How did you get more freckles on one side of your face than the other?”

  “What?”

  “I like it. See you later.”

  Not if I can help it, I told myself, and went back to work. I wasn't really needed at the dessert table, but there was plenty to do. I ate my supper standing up, answering questions, directing the breakdown of tents and tables, and dispersing well-earned tips to the waiters. The June daylight lasted until past nine o'clock. The setting sun threw a sudden wash of rosy gold against low, soft-edged clouds, and a gusty breeze came up, whipping dropped napkins along the ground and snatching at the brims of departing ladies’ hats, turning the tents into billowing monsters that had to be wrestled to the ground. As the sunset faded and the people disappeared, the view from the terrace was transformed from a bright blue-and-green snapshot to a somber oil painting with just a few touches of color against the silver lake and the dim grass.

  One vivid touch was a splash of fuchsia-purple beneath a huge old hemlock tree, on the edge of the narrow belt of woods that separated the lawns from the rose garden. I wandered down toward it, gathering up abandoned napkins and a couple of wineglasses as I went. I might as well save someone's jacket from the dew, and stretch my legs before the drive home.

  Behind me on the terrace, Grace, Douglas, and the senator were moving inside with a select circle of late-staying guests. Including Holt, I supposed. Now that I knew her true age, Grace's coquettish air with her husband's young attorney seemed a bit pathetic. She'd probably complain girlishly about how incompetent I was, letting a hostile reporter invade the house. Or maybe they just talked money, or vacations in Bali. Or, to be fair, Douglas Parry's legal dilemmas.

  As I picked up the purple jacket, lights went on in the house, casting pale rectangles down the lawn and deepening the shadows from gray to black. I could hear fragments of laughter, and the rumble of Solveto's trucks pulling away. A reasonably successful event, despite Keith Guthridge and Aaron Gold. I'd had enough of them, of their threats and accusations. I wanted to return to my world of white dresses and string quartets and chocolate-dipped apricots.

  And roses. I'd had a quick glimpse of the Parry rose garden earlier in the spring, but rosebushes are downright dull when they're not in bloom. Twilight was my favorite time for gardens, and a stroll through the roses would be just what I needed to put myself to rights. I set down my armload of debris—let it spoil Grace's perfect view in the morning—and draped the abandoned jacket across my shoulders as I stepped further into the shadows between the trees. I could have gone around to the clematis arbor and the proper pathway, but these woods were only a few hundred yards deep, and I was sure I could find my way.

  Within minutes, I wasn't so sure. The towering hemlocks and firs blocked out the sky, creating a sudden midnight. Their wind-swayed branches murmured around me as I walked. I stopped abruptly, listening. Were there voices murmuring ahead of me as well? Then I heard a girl's laughter. Of course, I hadn't seen Nickie and Ray go inside with the others. They must be lingering down here, away from the older generation's small talk. I hesitated, torn between the lure of the roses and the possible embarrassment of intruding on an intimate scene. I must be close. I could smell flowers on the evening air, sweet and spicy, strong enough to be almost unpleasant. Discretion won out, and I turned back.

  And screamed. Almost invisible against the night, a dim figure stepped out from behind the black column of a tree trunk, arms upraised. I could sense violence, malice. I jumped backward, but a root caught at my foot like an animal trap. Panicked, I pulled free and whirled around to run. A cracking pain at my temple, a rush of nausea, and then darkness.

  I WAS ONLY OUT FOR A MOMENT. THEN THERE WERE VOICES around me.

  “She's awake!” A girlish voice, breathless and agitated.

  “Don't move her until we know what's wrong.” A young man, speaking calmly.

  “Jesus, I didn't mean to scare her.” Another man, loud and indignant.

  Nickie, Ray, and Theo. I identified the voices, and then the faces, ghoulishly lit by a flashlight in Theo's hand. I was lying flat on soft, scratchy ground, with the three of them kneeling around me in the darkness like surgeons over a stretcher. I tried to sit up, but my skull tried to explode, so with Ray's help I settled for slumping against a tree trunk. Nickie knelt beside me and lifted my hair gently.

  “It's not bleeding,” she said, “but it's swelling up. We'll call a doctor.”

  “No, call the police.” My memory sprang into focus: the dark figure, his arm raised to strike. “He's getting away!”

  “Who's getting away?” asked Nickie.

  “The guy who hit me.”

  Ray chuckled, then stopped himself when Nickie glared. “Sorry, it isn't funny. But nobody hit you, Carnegie, except this tree here. Theo saw you fall.”

  “No, a man jumped out—I think it was a man—”

  “It was me.” Theo's flashlight moved, making the shadows on their faces quiver. The wind stirred the scent of cedar bark on the damp air from the lake. “Mrs. Parry sent me down to look for Nickie. I didn't see you till you yelled and fell down. Listen, I'm really sorry. M r. Parry is going to kill me.”

  “It wasn't your fault,” said Nickie kindly. “We don't have to tell him.”

  “Of course we'll tell him,” said Ray.

  “But he has so much to worry about already—”

  “Could somebody worry about me for a minute?” I snapped. Nickie touched the rising lump of pain at my hairline and I pulled away. “No, my head's all right, I'll be fine. But I'm telling you, somebody attacked me. I think?”

  I looked uncertainly at Theo. He wore jeans and a dark sweater, so he would have been dark against the shadows. And he was more or less the size of the figure I saw. But surely I would have recognized his pale hair, his bleached-out face? Maybe not. And was it definitely a man, or could it have been a woman? The memory was blurring. And besides, I thought suddenly, if someone was stalking me, maybe it would be better to pretend I didn't know it.

  “I'm really sorry,” said Theo. “I must have come up right behind you before I saw you were there. You fell sideways and hit your head. You hit pretty hard. You want an ambulance?”

  “No, of course not. Honestly, I'm not dizzy or concussed or anything.” I stood up, with six arms aiding me, and took a step, then another. All systems go. “I just want to get out of these damn trees.”

  Nickie brushed the fir needles from my back, and Theo picked up the purple jacket, its color pallid in the flashlight beam, and handed it to me.

  “My jacket!” said Nickie. “I knew I left it somewhere.”

  I tried to pass it to her, but she insisted that I keep it on as we set off for the house. Halfway up th
e lawn, Theo excused himself with another apology and headed for the garage. Ray offered me a shoulder to lean on as I walked. It was almost unnecessary, but not quite.

  Soon I was sitting in the kitchen, with Mariana providing tea and sympathy, and Nickie preparing an ice pack for my aching head. Nothing else ached, except for a scrape on my left arm where I'd slid along the rough bark. Ray might have been right, of course: I could have glimpsed Theo, mistaken his own startled response for a threat, and fallen. Maybe.

  I had begun to apologize for all the fuss when Grace Parry entered with Ray on her heels. She still wore her gaily-colored party clothes, but her lipstick was gone, and she looked a bit faded, a bit closer to her true age.

  “Carnegie!” No hint of archness now. She was clearly upset. “Ray told me what happened. Are you sure you're all right?”

  “I'm fine, really, thank you. It's just a headache now. I'll be ready to drive home in a minute.”

  “Absolutely not!” she said, with Nickie echoing her. “What if you felt faint on the way? I'd never forgive myself. Theo will take you.”

  “No!” I said, too loudly. No way was I getting into a car with Theo. I was willing to pretend it was an accident, for the moment, but I wasn't suicidal. “I mean, I'm fine to drive, honestly. I don't want to cause any more trouble.”

  The women started to protest, but Ray made a placating sweep with his long pianist's hands. “I need to go back anyway. I'll drive Carnegie home in her van, and take a taxi to my apartment. You can drive my car into Seattle tomorrow, okay, Nick?”

  Nickie gazed at him as if he'd just discovered DNA, and I had the distinct feeling that Grace and I had become invisible. “That's perfect! I'll walk you out to the van. Carnegie, don't get up until you're sure you're all right.”

  “Don't worry,” I said. At this stage in their romance, it would take at least fifteen minutes to kiss good-bye.

  “Run along,” said Grace. “Mariana, thank you so much, but I'll make more tea if Carnegie needs it. Good night.”