“Dorothy Fenner handled the final details,” I said blandly. “We're working together.”
“And why is that?” Corinne cocked her head flirtatiously. “Why couldn't you handle it all?”
“Well, a society wedding like this one is such a big job, as I'm sure you know. Dorothy has been invaluable, she's got so much experience with formal events.” I took her by the arm and steered us both down the steps, just a couple of good old gals sharing a special moment.
“But didn't I hear that there was a tiny bit of trouble between you and the Parrys?”
“Now, Corinne, where would you hear a thing like that?” I silently consigned Grace Parry to the circle of hell reserved for liars and backstabbers. But then I remembered—how on earth could I forget?—the hell she was already in over the fate of her stepdaughter. So what if she gossiped a bit.
“Look, Corinne, I've got a lot to do, and Nickie needs my help.” I dropped her arm. “I don't mean to cut you short, but I have to go back inside, OK?”
She smiled an icy Southern smile. “Just one more thing—”
“Oh, look, it's Boris!” I'd never been so pleased to see him, at least not since well before the lamb episode.
“Corinne, have you ever done a story about Boris? He's absolutely the florist to the stars, you know. Boris, over here!”
I left them standing on the steps together, like a grizzly bear grinning down on a poodle, and returned to the dressing room. Only Julia was left. She was picking up a hand mirror, framed in tortoiseshell plastic, from the floor near the sofa. Someone had stepped on it, making a spider's web of cracks.
“It's mine,” I said. “I loaned it to the bridesmaids earlier on.”
She handed it to me, and I gazed at my splintered reflection. Two haunted hazel eyes, more crooked than Grace Parry's, looked back at me from the crazed surface. I could hardly recognize myself. And I doubted Holt could either, now that my reputation was shattered. Would the seven years of bad luck be inflicted on the owner of the mirror, or only the person who broke it? Oh, lord, maybe Nickie broke it, or her captors, as they fought to steal her from her family and steal her wedding day from her. I went to drop the mirror in the wastebasket, but paused when I saw Nickie's pearls, the sad counterfeits, coiled at the bottom. I lifted them out, resolving to keep them against her safe return, and let the mirror fall. It made a muffled clang and a tinkle of glassy shards.
“Have they gone?” I asked, for something to say.
“Yes. They brought all the cars around back here, in case anyone was watching, so it would seem like Nickie was getting into one of them. Such a strange charade, isn't it? They're going to tell Mariana what happened, and the driver, I don't remember his name—”
“Theo.”
“Yes, that's it. But no one else, and they'll give the rest of the staff some time off.”
“How much time?”
She shook her head bleakly. “That's what we don't know, isn't it? Doug and … and his wife will wait at home until they hear something.”
“But you're not going to wait with them?”
She looked at me, not defenseless but bravely undefended. No makeup, no hair dye, and no illusions. “I wasn't welcome. And this is hard enough for Doug without any additional strain.”
“She'll be all right, Julia. She'll come home.”
“I hope so. Dear God, I hope so.” Finally, with my arms around her, Julia Parry allowed herself to weep.
THAT NIGHT, THE FIRST NIGHT OF NICKIE’S CAPTIVITY, MY SLEEP was invaded by the hands of silent, faceless men. Again and again, in my dark dreams, their hands tore fragile roses from the earth. Smashed a stone into the bloody carcass of a dog. Clamped a poisonous cloth over a gray-haired woman's face. Grabbed at a young bride, hurt her somehow, carried her off away from her family. And then, in a final apparition, the men's hands seized one hand of the bride's, pulled off her diamond ring, spread her fingers flat, and brought a chopping knife whistling down, faster and faster—
“No!” I sat bolt upright in bed, my own fingers clutching the sheets that tangled around me and draped to the floor. Panting and shuddering, I looked at the coldly glowing numbers on the clock radio: 5:07 A.M. Better to get up and face the demons of the day. The strain of waiting for news, and the lesser tensions involving Eddie and Holt and my business, were far preferable to those hands in the darkness.
As I stared out the kitchen window at the lake I wondered if I would actually hear the news when it came. In the melting, misty light, a flotilla of geese arrowed across the smooth water, their rippling silver wake stretching far behind them to the tarped-over sailboats and the silent docks. It would be a cloudy day, cool and still, a long, shadowless progression of hours to wait through until nightfall. Would Holt call me when they heard from the kidnappers? And should I tell him my suspicions about Crazy Mary's death, or did any of that even matter now?
Perhaps Julia would keep in touch with me, or Ray, but it was Holt I yearned to hear from. I wanted him to tell me that I had imagined the doubt in his eyes, that he had simply lost his temper in a moment of stress. That now, on reflection, he couldn't possibly imagine any link between me and Nickie's disappearance, even if he could imagine me as a cheat. And I swore to myself that I would not call him. I was ashamed of myself for thinking about him at all, at a time like this, but at least I wouldn't call him. Not today, anyway.
And I wouldn't call Eddie, either, much as I wanted to. What was there to say? My fury at him had shrunk into a hollow sourness. Sure, he was in the wrong and I was in the right, but I would have given anything to have my old Eddie back. Even more than Holt, I realized, I missed Eddie.
The teakettle screamed behind me, and I tried to get on with my morning. After letting one cup of tea, and then another, go cold while I stared absently out the window, I turned to my one reliable sedative: housework. Scouring the kitchen floor would be especially therapeutic, I decided, so I got down on my knees and stripped off the old wax, scrubbing ferociously in tight, hypnotic circles, and used an old butter knife to scrape up petrified spills that had lain undisturbed for months, maybe years. The helpless anger I felt over Nickie's plight transformed itself into an absurd determination to clean that damn floor. Finally, I sluiced it with clear water, mopped it dry, and spread the new wax with scrupulous care, as if it mattered. As if it would help.
Then I vacuumed the hell out of the rugs, and dusted every horizontal inch I could reach. I even thought about nailing up a shelf to display the miniature cast iron stove. But I would have had to leave the houseboat—and the telephone—for the wood, so I set the little toy on the kitchen table, centered just so on one of my grandmother's crocheted doilies. I spent hours cleaning and arranging and fussing, and the phone never rang. Had Douglas heard anything? Would he break down and call the police?
I could picture Grace and Douglas in their living room, Julia at her hotel, Ray and Holt at their apartments, all staring at their telephones, waiting. Or had they gathered at the Parry estate, to pass the time in assuring each other that Nickie was far too valuable a hostage to harm? I wondered, with stubborn, morbid curiosity, what was happening to Nickie right this minute. She must know that her father would do anything to get her back. Hold on, kiddo. I clenched my hands and sent her my thoughts, wherever she was. Hold on, don't despair.
Finally, in late afternoon, I took a long hot shower, telling myself that if I stayed in long enough, the telephone would break its endless, unrelenting silence. Sure enough, when I twisted the faucets shut I could hear it ringing in the bedroom. Had it just started, or was that the final ring? Wait, don't hang up. Naked, scattering droplets everywhere, I ran to answer. Maybe they'd found her, maybe she was already home—
“Carnegie, this is Aaron Gold … Are you there?”
I sank down on the bed and pulled the coverlet around me. “What do you want?”
“Nice to talk to you, too. Don't worry, this is strictly business.” He spoke quickly, getting it all in before I coul
d stop him, but I didn't have the strength. And his voice, aggravating as it was, made a change from the silence. “Listen, I wouldn't be calling you at all, but the Parrys won't talk to me and that Fenner woman isn't at her office or her house. I just need to verify some facts. Can we do that?”
“Maybe.” I was light-headed from skipping lunch, and from the hot water. I lay back on the bed, feeling my hair soak the pillows, and closed my eyes. “Stick to yes and no questions, all right? No multiple choice, no essays. No quotes.”
“OK, then, Niccola Parry's wedding was canceled, right?”
“Right. Well, postponed.”
“Postponed,” he echoed. “Until when?”
“No date yet.”
“And the reason for the postponement was the bride's flu?”
“Right.”
“Nothing to do with Douglas Parry's health? Or a bomb threat from the people connected with Guthridge?”
“Bomb threat? Jesus, where do you guys get this stuff?”
“We pull it out of the ether. You have to admit, it makes you wonder. Here's Parry the dangerous witness, up against a guy like Guthridge and his backers, and then here's a church full of people being sent home all of a sudden. What's the real story, Wedding Lady?”
“There isn't one.” There had better not be, for Nickie's sake. “The bride had the flu, period. Corinne Campbell was there at St. Anne's. Why don't you ask her?”
“Yeah, well, there's this slight problem of Corinne being a moron. She believes anything anybody tells her, and she's never heard of Keith Guthridge or King County Savings. Probably keeps her money in her mattress.”
“No comment.”
He chuckled. “By the way, how come you were at St. Anne's? Did the Parrys unfire you?”
“No comment.”
“OK,” he said, his voice turning chilly, “excuse me for caring. I'll forget that you used me as a crying towel on the Fourth of July.”
I winced. “You haven't repeated any of that to anyone?”
The temperature dropped some more. “I am not quite the scum you think I am. I have not sold your personal life to the tabloids. And I hardly ever kick children or dogs.”
“I'm sorry, it's just that—”
“What sorry? This is strictly business, remember? So— there was no emergency, the old man is healthy, the kids are still planning to get married, and everything's normal?”
“Completely normal,” I lied. And I would keep on lying, to anyone about anything, for as long as it took to get Nickie home safe. Having a reporter around this situation was like pointing a gun at her head. “So there's no story.”
“There's still the Parry story,” Gold countered. “I've been digging up some interesting things about—”
“Look, I've got to go. I'm expecting a call—”
“Let me guess, from a lawyer named Holden Walker?”
“Holt Walker,” I said automatically. Then I sat up, my hair slapping coldly against my bare spine. “What do you know about Holt?”
“Not a thing, except Corinne says he's romancing you, and that he's the quote catch of the century unquote. Oh, and of course my shrewd journalistic guess that he's tall, dark and Gentile.”
“What?”
“Forget it. Stupid thing to say. None of my business.” “Boy, you've got that right.” I banged the receiver down so hard that it stung my fingers. Then I got dressed, reheated some soup and ate it, and sat by the telephone with a book that I never opened. The phone didn't ring again that night.
On Monday morning I pulled myself together. I could stare at the telephone spinning nightmares about Nickie for the rest of the year, and it wouldn't do her or me one bit of good. Better to stick with my normal routine, both to keep myself occupied and to convince anyone who happened to care that nothing much had occurred Saturday at St. Anne's. If a headline hunter like Aaron Gold got even a hint of the truth, the police would find out within hours and Nickie's safety would be forfeit. I was hardly Gold's best lead, I knew, but I had nothing else within my power to help her. Business as usual, I told myself. My partner is an embezzler, and my lover thinks I'm capable of committing a heinous crime. And Thursday I'm supposed to do a perky, upbeat interview with Washington Women Entrepreneurs magazine, with a focus on Nickie Parry's wedding. Business as usual.
The first item of Monday's business was to call Joe Solveto. Someone owed him an explanation, however falsified, about the canceled reception. So I told him about Nickie's dreadful flu, and while I was at it, that Eddie had resigned because of poor health. End of both stories.
“This is going to cost her father a fortune, you know,” said Joe. “The booze can go back, but all that food has to be paid for. I donated everything that didn't spoil to the Fremont Food Bank, but I'm not running a charity.”
“I know, Joe. Dorothy Fenner will sort out the details with you later on. She's not feeling too well herself right now.”
“That's the next question. Who's running this wedding, you or dear Dorothy? I'm getting, as they say, mixed messages.”
“Dorothy is. I just helped out with a few things at St. Anne's. She has the account from here on.”
“But how—”
“Joe,” I said hastily, trying for a diversion, “Can I talk to you about Made in Heaven? Things aren't going well, and I could use your advice.”
“Of course.”
I briefly laid out the assets, liabilities, and prospects of Made in Heaven, concluding with, “I only have three other committed clients, and damn few potential ones. I've got cash flow problems, accounting problems, and maybe public image problems. Have you heard any unpleasant rumors?”
“Just a few snide comments here and there. Nothing too bad.”
“But nothing good?”
“Well, people are saying you had a personal problem with Mrs. Parry, personality clash, that kind of thing. Did you?”
“You might say that. I resigned the account at her request.”
“But nothing that would carry over to your work with other clients? I have a good reason for asking.”
“Absolutely not.”
I could hear him thinking it over.
“The reason is, I'd like to invite you to work for me. One of my assistants is pregnant. Cheryl, you've met her. She's quitting in September, and I need someone who can do large-scale event planning. You'd have to come up to speed on the food side, but your organizational skills are sharp, and you're good with society types. Cheryl's always been intimidated by them. I need someone more like me.”
“Joe, I'm flattered.” A job. A paycheck. Safe harbor after all the storms. But no more Made in Heaven. My brain wouldn't hold all this and Nickie, too. “I, um, I need some time to think about it.”
“Of course you do. It's a big decision. You might want to fight it out on your own, and if you do, more power to you. Let me know.”
Maybe it was selfish, but my time out from thinking about Nickie had done me a world of good. I worked my way through the day, and at dinnertime I even ran out for some pizza. When I got back, there were two messages on the office machine. The features editor of Washington Women Entrepreneurs, sounding ever so diplomatic, had called to tell me that my interview had been postponed indefinitely, what with the cancellation of the Parry wedding and, well, circumstances in general. Circumstances, I thought. What an interesting term for the mud being slung at my good name.
The second message banished that thought, and everything else. It was Ray Ishigura, asking for my help.
I BARRELED DOWNSTAIRS TO THE KITCHEN AND MISDIALED twice before I got through to Ray's apartment.
“It's Carnegie. What happened? Have you heard from them? Is she—”
“Nothing. Nothing's happened yet.” His resonant voice was taut and strained, a cello string stretched to the breaking point. “I just need to talk to you about something. Would you mind coming over? I don't want to tie up the phone.”
“Of course.” I scribbled down the address he gave me. “I'll
come as fast as I can.”
“Don't run any red lights with that fine machine of yours.”
His attempt at humor made my heart ache. “I'll keep it under eighty. See you soon.”
The evening traffic was maddeningly slow as I drove under the freeway and up the backdoor route to Capitol Hill. Past the Lake View Cemetery and the stately landscaping of Volunteer Park, the “millionaires’ row” of mansions from the Hill's heyday long ago, and the old brick buildings near Group Health Hospital, where I'd once had a studio apartment myself. I thought Ray lived in one of them, in fact, but his address turned out to be a ramshackle house on the east side of the hill, where it slopes down to the poorer neighborhoods along Madison Street. Garages are rare on that part of the hill, and the average life span of an empty curbside parking space is measured in seconds. I finally found a spot several blocks away.
Ray's apartment was a box with a piano in it. The gleaming Steinway seemed to take up the entire living room, making it clear that the tiny, clothing-strewn bedroom and the even tinier and grubbier kitchen were mere annexes to the musical life. Presumably Nickie would furnish their new home. If they ever had one.
“Thanks for coming,” said Ray. He glanced around as if to offer me a chair, and seemed puzzled to realize that there wasn't one.
“The floor is fine,” I said, and he smiled slightly.
“That's what we've been using.”
“We?”
“Hello, Carnegie.” Holt Walker stepped out of the kitchen. He wore summer slacks and deck shoes, and a loose cotton shirt with blue and white stripes. He was carrying two glasses of iced tea, like the perfect host at a patio party. I wanted to hit him. You don't trust me, I wanted to scream. I was falling in love with you, and you doubted me, first about the fraud, and then about the kidnapping. Who do you think you are?
I looked at Ray. “You didn't tell me—”
“I asked him not to.” Holt handed one glass to Ray and offered me the other, but I shook my head. “I was afraid you wouldn't come. We treated you so badly—no, I treated you so badly at the church. We were all upset, but still it was inexcusable. I can't defend myself, Carnegie, but you have to remember that Douglas and Grace were still angry at you. They don't know it was really your partner—”
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