Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
About the Author
Also by Deborah Donnelly
Praise for Deborah Donnelly’s Wedding Planner Mysteries
A Note from the Author
Preview of Veiled Threats, Died to Match, May the Best Man Die and Death Takes a Honeymoon
Copyright Page
To Betty Sanjek,
with love and gratitude
Acknowledgments
San Juan Island is a real and delightful place, and most of the locales in this story—including the Afterglow Vista Mausoleum—can be found there just as I’ve described them. But Lavender and Lace, the Owl’s Roost, and ZZ Nickles’s BBQ are imaginary, and I’ve taken drastic and entirely fictional liberties with the personnel of the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office.
As I was writing the book, Detective Judith Eckhart of the City of Portland Bureau of Police was generous with her expertise and encouragement (thanks for that hot cartridge, Judy!), while islanders Sally and Stu Stern made admirable research associates. My gratitude to them, and also to Frederick K. Dezendorf, Patron of the Arts.
My love to Steve, always, and special thanks to my own Lily, Bridget Dacres.
Chapter One
HAPPY B-DAY 2U!!! Doing something fun today?
Physical therapy. Whoopee.
Oh, sorry. I thought maybe your sister would be taking you out?
She’s got enough to do taking me to doctors.
Right. Well, tell her hi for me, would you? I don’t suppose she could come with you to the wedding. You haven’t RSVP’d, but you are coming, aren’t you? If you feel up to it. Let me know so I can make arrangements, OK?
(No new messages . . . )
(No new messages . . . )
(No new messages . . . )
I sighed and hit SEND/RECV one last time. Nothing. Some days Aaron was his old wisecracking self, some days he was a bad-tempered stranger. It probably depended on how much his injured arm was hurting him, but I couldn’t know that for sure because the son of a bitch wouldn’t tell me. I swore under my breath, shoved away from the computer, and stomped over to the picture window.
The back-room office of Made in Heaven, Elegant Weddings with an Original Flair, is anything but elegant, with plain steel desks for Eddie and me and a row of secondhand file cabinets. But our location has flair to spare, because we’re perched up on the second floor of my houseboat on the east shore of Lake Union. Beer furniture, champagne view.
I shielded my eyes against the mellow gold of a late-September afternoon. With a single sweep of my gaze I could take in the skyscrapers of downtown Seattle to the south, then the sparkling blue expanse of the lake, and then north to the Ireland-green of Gasworks Park. All very scenic, but my teeth were still clenched and my other hand was still balled in a furious fist.
“Let me guess,” said Eddie Breen, my not-very-silent partner. “Gold’s giving you crap again.”
“It’s not his fault,” I insisted, as much to myself as to him. “Aaron has a lot to deal with.”
Eddie, hale and hearty for every day of his seventy-some years, gave an impatient snort and returned to his invoices. He and my late father were in the merchant marine together, back in the day, but while Dad stayed at sea Eddie left the briny deep for a long career in public accounting. Now he was semiretired, working part-time as Made in Heaven’s business manager and full-time as a commentator on my personal life.
What was left of my personal life, now that my guy had fled the scene. But I kept trying not to be angry with Aaron. I kept telling myself that he deserved patience and yet more patience. After all, the man had taken his own personal self-guided tour of hell.
Back in June, Aaron had been airlifted from a car crash in the midst of a forest fire on an Idaho mountainside. He’d suffered third-degree burns on his chest and face, and a right forearm whose bones had made a break for the open air. Now he was recuperating at his sister Gail’s apartment in Boston and being very guarded—as in stone walls, spiked battlements, and moatful of crocodiles guarded—about when he was coming back to Seattle. Or even if.
I’m not a nearly six-foot redhead for nothing, and patience has never been my strong suit. When I want something I want it. And just now I wanted Aaron at my side a week from tomorrow when my best friend Lily said “I do” to Michael Graham, the world’s most sensitive police detective.
And if Aaron felt like saying “I love you” while he was at my side—something he hadn’t said in a very long time—that would be just fine too. Even if he didn’t, Aaron was friendly with Mike and very fond of Lily, and according to Gail he was well enough to travel again. So why the hell wouldn’t he come to the wedding?
Because he doesn’t want to see you, said a snarky little voice in my head. It’s all over and he just hasn’t told you yet.
“Anybody home?” called a most unsnarky voice, as the bride herself appeared at our door. Lily was all in purple, her favorite color, from the pale lilac scarf in her hair to the burgundy leather clogs on her feet. In between, a plum-colored sweater and slacks set off her ebony skin and voluptuous curves. I’m a beanpole myself, so I envied those curves.
Eddie nodded at her. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Nice to see you too,” she replied, accustomed to the notorious Breen charm. “And it’s Saturday, in case you hadn’t noticed, so why are you two at work?”
“Just clearing up some paperwork,” I said. “So what brings you here? Want to talk about the weather? Politics? Wait, don’t tell me you want to discuss your wedding?”
Lily’s smile, always high-wattage, gleamed even brighter. “If you’re not too busy?”
“We haven’t been too busy for weeks,” Eddie grumped. Grumping is one of his job skills. “And she’s not getting a damn thing done around here today anyway. Scoot, both of you. I’ll lock up.”
I have a sixty-second commute, down the outside stairs to the front door of the houseboat. So it wasn’t long before I was in my kitchen pouring Lily a glass of white wine and hearing about the latest bridal crisis.
“I can’t believe it!” she said. “We were all set, and then some little brat at the playground told Ethan that flowers are only for sissies.”
Ethan was four, the younger of Lily’s sons from her first marriage. The current plan had him carrying a basket of lavender down the aisle, followed by seven-year-old Marcus as ring bearer.
“I was afraid of that,” I said. “We can certainly skip the basket, but the
n what would Ethan’s role be? I suppose he and Marcus could carry one ring apiece . . .”
We plunged into the details of the wedding, which would take place in just over a week on San Juan Island. Some friends of Mike’s owned an organic lavender farm there, and they’d offered it for the ceremony.
This San Juan has nothing to do with Puerto Rico, by the way. It’s the second-largest island of an archipelago that lies like a handful of puzzle pieces in the deep cold waters between Washington State and British Columbia. Confusingly enough, the island and the archipelago share the same name, so “San Juan” is the single island and “the San Juans” is the whole group.
There are hundreds of islands in the San Juans, if you count all the named rocks, but only a few of them are big enough for roads and tourism and organic lavender farms. And big isn’t all that big. San Juan has fewer than seven thousand year-round residents, and Friday Harbor is its sole official town.
Lily and Mike’s ceremony among the lavender fields was slated for midday Sunday, with a combined rehearsal dinner, reception, and general blowout the night before at a local barbecue joint. On Sunday after the champagne and cake, the bridal couple would begin their weeklong honeymoon at a nearby bed-and-breakfast, while the guests would have plenty of time to get home before returning to work on Monday morning.
A modest affair, compared to the extravaganzas I stage for my paying clients. No squads of bridesmaids and groomsmen, just me as maid of honor and Mike’s oldest friend on the force as best man. No orchestra, just solos by a policewoman with a background in opera. No ostentatious overspending, just a warmhearted celebration of two good-hearted people in love.
“That settles it,” said Lily, after we’d hashed over the boys’ roles in the ceremony. “Two sons, two rings, no sissies. Now, show me this dress you’ve been raving about.”
Lily’s wedding gown was deep purple, of course, long and strapless, with a cascade of ruffles down one hip and a gauzy shoulder wrap in a delicate shade of violet. Which was all very well for her, but purple and I don’t get along, and the very thought of strapless makes me hyperventilate. So, with unbridelike generosity, Lily had urged me to choose any color and style I liked for my maid-of-honor ensemble.
After many shopping trips and much wavering, I’d found a dress that might have been designed just for me. The delicate peach-colored silk was perfect with my coppery hair, and the sweetheart neckline and bias-cut skirt suggested the presence of curves I don’t really possess. I adored it.
I modeled the gown for Lily now, slipping it on in my cramped little bedroom and coming out to the living room to pose and pirouette. I’d be working at this wedding, not just standing still for photos, but I could move in perfect freedom in the three-quarter sleeves—no Cinderella puffs for me—and I loved the feel of the skirt as it slid in fluid ripples around my legs.
“Absolutely gorgeous!” said the bride. “Three thumbs up. Aaron’s going to love it.”
I quit pirouetting. “Um, I need to talk to you about that.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I’ll get changed,” I said, “and let’s take our wine out on the deck. Bring the bottle.”
Chapter Two
The old wooden deck, long faded to the color of ashes, was warm from the afternoon sun. Lily sat on the edge and slipped off her clogs to dabble purple-polished toes in the water. Back in my casual clothes, I sat cross-legged with my wineglass and watched her fondly.
How many hours had my dear friend and I spent out here, listening to the hollow lapping of the waves against the dock and the creaking of the log booms that suspended my floating home? Hundreds of hours, thousands of minutes, deep in conversation on topics vast and trivial, the meaning of life and the tint of a lipstick, what shoes to wear and which man to marry.
I first met Lily at the business desk of Seattle Public Library, where she helped me with my research on starting a small business. Since then Made in Heaven had become a modest success, and the two of us had become the sisters that neither of us was born with.
This summer, four years later, we’d spent much of our deck time discussing two serious questions. First, whether I should keep on waiting for Aaron. And second, whether Lily should keep on looking for a black man to date when she really, truly wanted Mike Graham, who was white.
Lily, having made her decision, was quite content with it. I wasn’t so sure about mine. But it was a comfort to know that no matter how life turned out, I’d always have Lily around to talk it over with.
“I love you.” The thought became words before I realized it, and I took a swallow of wine to smooth down the lump in my throat. “Even if you are obsessed with your wedding.”
She ignored the joke and leaned over to pat my knee. “I love you too, girl, and I’m sorry Aaron is giving you grief.”
“I’ve asked him about five times if he’s coming to the wedding.” I topped up my glass and jammed the cork back in the bottle. “He doesn’t quite say no, but he never returned the RSVP card and—”
“Give the man a break! If you badger him he’ll just dig in his heels. That’s probably why . . .” She saw my expression and trailed off.
“Why what?” The sting of Aaron’s nonreply sharpened my tone. “Why he went back to Boston in the first place? So now that you’re engaged you’re the expert on men, and you think I scared him off?”
“Don’t you put words in my mouth.” Lily could be sharp herself. “But you have to admit, you came on awfully strong in June about Aaron moving in with you. Look at it from his side. How would he have felt, living in your house, playing invalid to your nurse? A man needs his privacy, Carnegie. And his pride.”
“I was just trying to help! What’s this got to do with pride?”
But I knew the answer, even as I said it. Aaron Gold used to be a cocky guy, young and strong, confident, a little full of himself. Visiting Sun Valley with me, he’d hung out with some smoke jumpers and been smitten with the adventure and camaraderie of their work. Like soldiers without the killing, he’d said.
But then Aaron volunteered to help a smoke jumper with a dangerous task, and they wrecked their Jeep when the fire hooked around them. Instead of adventure, he found himself engulfed by flame and smoke, in peril of dying.
The two men survived, barely, but now Aaron knew he was mortal, a vulnerable being with an intimate knowledge of fear and pain. He wasn’t the old Aaron Gold anymore.
“Oh, Lily,” I said. “I just want him back. I miss him.”
“Of course you do. And I bet he misses you too, even if he won’t say so. Maybe he’ll show up for the wedding after all.”
“I don’t believe it.” I began to peel away a strip of the wine label with my thumbnail. “I’ve even thought about inviting Wayne Joffrey, just so I can have a date. He keeps asking me out, and I keep putting him off.”
“Wayne the videographer? You told me he’s a crashing bore!”
“All right, he’s a little self-absorbed, but—”
“‘Like watching paint dry,’ your exact words. You forget him, and never mind about having a date.” She took the bottle from me and set it aside. “I meant to ask, are you coming on the ferry with me and the boys on Saturday, or do you have to get there even earlier? I feel guilty about all the time you’re spending to organize things for me.”
“Hey, enough of that. I keep telling you, this is my wedding present and I’m happy to do it.” I frowned, thinking about a decision I’d been putting off. “Actually, I might go up to the island a few days early. Remember I told you about Owen Winter?”
Lily nodded. “The man your mother’s been dating.”
“Right. Turns out he owns a place near Roche Harbor, the little village on the north end of the island. Mom’s up there with him now, and they want me to come spend some time with them.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“I’m not. I can’t get used to my gray-haired old mother fluttering around about a man lik
e, I don’t know, like—”
“Like we do?” She grinned. “Louise is not all that old and she has very cool silver hair. Maybe you just don’t like this Owen person.”
“Oh, he’s all right.”
To be fair, Owen Winter was more than all right. He was well read and apparently well off and more than apparently crazy about my mother. He wasn’t my father, but that was hardly his fault.
And I didn’t want Mom to be a single widow forever. In fact I’d once had hopes for her and Eddie, but she’d set me straight on that. Eddie was her oldest friend, but Owen was her boyfriend.
Boyfriend, indeed. Why aren’t there better words for these things? Anyhow, judging from the way Eddie accepted the news about Owen, all this was fine with him. For a wedding planner, I’m not always a good judge of romance.
“He’s all right, but . . . ?” demanded Lily. “Come on, what’s the problem?”
“Not a problem, exactly. I’ve just got a funny feeling about Owen, as if he’s angry inside even when he’s smiling. I can’t quite explain it.”
“And this funny feeling is enough to keep you from visiting?”
“I guess not, but I’m kind of booked up—”
“Really?” Lily gave me The Look, and when she puts on The Look, small boys and rude library patrons shake in their shoes. “Eddie said you weren’t busy.”
I didn’t shake, but I shifted uncomfortably and stared out across the lake. A couple of kayakers, their paddles flashing in the sun, were gaining on a flotilla of Canada geese. Of all my women friends, Lily was the one who really pushed me. Sometimes I even appreciated it.
“Not busy at work,” I waffled. “But I thought I might paint the kitchen before the rainy weather starts . . .”
“Oh, come off it! Your mother may have found her new partner in life, and you’re going to paint?”
“All right, so I don’t want to be crammed into some summer cottage for days on end with a couple of middle-aged lovebirds. Besides, he’s got his two daughters there already. I’d be in the way.”
“I’m sure that’s why he invited you, so you could get in the way.” Lily put down her glass in disgust. “Girl, you almost always do the right thing, but when you don’t, you really don’t.”
You May Now Kill the Bride Page 1