Frank spoke up. “Then Sharise gave him the second dose of Devil’s Breath close to midnight. When he passed out, Marty admits to carrying him into the boardroom. Together they undressed him, strung up the rope, put his neck in the noose, and kicked the ladder out from underneath him. Marty being a weight lifter, he did the heavy work himself, under the careful supervision of Sharise. Then they left the way they came, by the back stairs.”
“Leaving him hanging in his underwear,” added Gurn. “Just to humiliate the man. Unbelievable.”
“Her big mistake,” I said, “was not realizing the Read-Out implant would record the Scopolamine in his body. That tipped off the police right away. But what did it for me was him being stripped of his clothes, and leaving them on the conference table. That didn’t sit right. It just felt plain ghoulish.”
“But why would she want to steal the prototype and computer chips?” Katie gave me a perplexed look.
“The same reason she wanted Collier to be seen half naked, hanging in the boardroom.” I said. “Not only did she want him dead, she wanted to make him a laughing stock; set him up to ridicule. Plus the thefts and supposed suicide were smoke screens for what was really going on, the murder of D. H. Collier for his money.”
“I’m surprised Marty knew enough to help Sharise decode the video cams on the garage in Sunnyvale,” Gurn said. “He didn’t strike me as the type. But, of course, I only met him briefly this morning and not under the best of conditions.”
“Neither Sharise nor Marty needed to know anything,” I said. “In Collier’s zombie-like state, they made him program the codes into the security cameras, himself.”
“Marty admitted to using a hammer on the video cam in Redding,” Frank said. “And Sharise used the two computer geeks, Jerome and Ronnie, to do any technological jobs. She promised them ten thousand dollars if they helped her. Instead, she killed them.”
“Those poor, stupid kids,” muttered Gurn.
“I know,” I said. “Sharise seemed to have had no conscience at all.”
“Or maybe she was just plain insane,” offered Frank.
“It’s all so cold-blooded,” Katie said.
“Yes, it is,” Gurn agreed. “But you’d be surprised at just how many cold-blooded people there are in the world.”
Katie set down her fork and looked at each of us. “I don’t know how much of this I want Skye to know. No matter what she says, Sharise is still her mother.”
“I suspect she knows much more than you think, Katie.” Chef Walt’s voice was firm but kind. “She’s the one who insisted her father’s killer was Sharise in the first place.” He smiled at Katie then patted her hand. “But like all mother hens, you want to protect your chick. Sharise may have given birth to her, but you are her mother in every sense of the word.”
* * * *
An hour later, Gurn and I stood by the front door, saying our goodbyes to Katie. Frank had headed out to Tiburon to check with local authorities on the progress. The chef was cleaning his kitchen, a task he preferred to do alone.
“Thanks again for all you did,” said Katie. “You risked your life to find David’s killer. Thank you. You’ll send me your bill, right?”
“You can count on it, Katie. It’ll be in the mail Monday or Tuesday, and Merry Christmas. I’m sorry we have to leave before Skye wakes up, but Gurn’s parents just flew in and we need to meet them. We thought their flight might be delayed with the rain, but the skies appear to have cleared for the moment.”
“Maybe it won’t rain for the wedding,” Gurn said, looking up at the dark clouds on the horizon.
I turned to the man in my life, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I hate to burst your bubble, but Mom says it’s going to rain for the next three days and she’s never wrong.”
“That’s right,” Katie said, eyes wide in comprehension. “You two are getting married Christmas Eve. How romantic.” She let out a sigh, crossing her arms about her, probably more from the recent events than the damp cold. “It’s such a fun thing, a wedding. I wish you both the best. And Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“Thank you.” Gurn gave her a ready smile. “I’m looking forward to getting it over with, so we can go on our honeymoon.” He turned a warm, loving smile in my direction.
“Say, I’ve got an idea,” I said, feeling inspired. “One of my bridesmaids had to back out at the last minute. Her father had surgery and she flew to Boise yesterday to be with him.”
“Annette, right?” Gurn looked at me, remembering a past conversation. “She mentioned her father was ill. I hope he’s is going to be all right.”
I turned to him. “She says he’s going to be fine. His spirits have lifted considerably now that she’s there.”
“Then it was a good thing she went,” he said.
“You betcha.” I turned back to Katie. “But here’s my idea; her pulling out like that leaves me with a bridesmaid’s dress and a hole in the lineup. I think the dress would fit Skye; they’re about the same size. Do you think she’d like to do it? It doesn’t involve much; just marching down the aisle with a lot of other bridesmaids and then we all get to eat afterward.”
“Oh, Lee, she’d love it,” Katie gushed and snatched at my hand, clasping it to her in a dramatic gesture I didn’t think she was capable of. “This might be just the thing for her; a nice diversion from the horrors of what’s been going on.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said, “and hoped.”
I looked at Gurn for approval. Like the love bucket he is, he usually goes along with anything, and confirmed my invitation with a big grin.
“Sounds like a plan. And why not bring Chef Walt? I think the chef might like to meet Lee’s uncle, Tío. He ran the kitchens at Las Mañanitas Restaurant in San Jose before he retired.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Doesn’t Mrs. Alvarez have a set guest list and menu?”
“There’s nothing set about this wedding, Katie, believe me.” I threw my head back and laughed. “And we’d love to have Skye be part of the ceremony. The dress is still at Angela’s. Her shop is on Arastradero Road, about twenty minutes from here. I’m sure Angela can fit the dress on Skye sometime this afternoon or tomorrow. I’ll call her for a time and get back to you.”
“This is wonderful, just wonderful,” Katy gushed then hesitated again. “You’re sure about this?”
“Completely; there’s no use in having that lovely dress go to waste. Besides, you know Mexican food. There’s always more than enough.”
* * * *
“I thought the caterer was doing French cuisine,” said Gurn as an aside, when we were getting into his car. “I know I can’t pronounce half of what we’re having.”
“If you think Tío isn’t going to make a few thousand traditional Mexican canapés for the occasion, you don’t know my uncle.”
“I thought he was doing the wedding cake.”
“It’s done. He finished decorating it yesterday. Wait until you see it. I snuck a look at it when he wasn’t around. Remember when I told you I asked him to do a rustic Mexican folk art design on white fondant?”
“Not really. I don’t even know what fondant is. But as long as it tastes good, that’s all that matters to me.”
“Sometimes you’re such a man, Gurn.”
“Thank you…I think. While I’m being a man, let’s discuss how Marty got the prototype that you have neatly stored in your cleavage. I didn’t want to bring it up in the kitchen, your having stolen it.”
“Only long enough to get it back to Read-Out.”
“Why did Marty have it? I don’t get it.”
“An added inducement to do Sharise’s bidding. She gave Marty the chip the night she took it from Collier’s safe. It’s worth a couple of million dollars to the right people.”
“So the prototype chip was with Marty the entire time?”
“Yup,” I said. “Maybe he was going to try to sell it back to Read-Out when things died down a little or to one of their com
petitors. We’ll never know for sure. But he was aware that a locator chip was attached to the box and not the chip, itself. That’s why the box wound up at Ty Deavers’ place, to throw everyone off. Smoke and mirrors.”
“And when found, it incriminated the band manager.” Gurn grinned at me. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Very Machiavellian.” I could see the gears shifting in his head. “But enough about them. So what is fondant? Maybe I ought to know so I can be appreciative of Tío’s workmanship.”
“Ahhhhh. That is so thoughtful. Fondant is the smooth icing that covers the cake used as a background for decoration. Our cake has lots of colorful birds and flowers on a white background. It looks like a three-layered painting; simply stunning. I had forgotten what an incredible artist Tío is. But he has all today to make canapés, if he wants. And I know he wants.”
“Well, you can be the one to tell your mother about the three new invites. And try to do it when I’m out of the room.”
“I was hoping you’d do it.” I air-smacked kisses in his direction.
“Fat chance.”
You might call me a tech intermediary. I know how to talk
to the people in Silicon Valley and then take that information
and explain it to everyone else.
Marc Ostrofsky
Chapter Thirty-eight
Four pm, Christmas Eve. My wedding day, and finally alone. The previous day had been one of rest, spent canoodling with Gurn and the cats. Even the bags under my eyes had started to recede.
I studied my reflection in front of the full-length mirror. I actually looked pretty good, all things considered. True, the wedding dress was a bit over the top and I felt a little like an iced vanilla cupcake. But it was the gown Mom wanted. Lady Guinevere Does California.
If I held the bouquet in my right hand, the black and blue bruising was covered by flowers and lace. If I stood perfectly still or only walked a short distance, I didn’t need my crutches. My floor length skirt hid both feet, i.e. the boot encasing my sprained ankle and my other foot, comfy in a white tennis shoe.
A tulle veil clipped to the back of my head not only diffused the light, making any bride look lovelier, but in my case, would cover my face and running makeup as I bawled my way down the aisle. It was all good.
I turned my focus away from my image to the full-length, light oak framed beveled mirror I’ve loved since always. I remember playing dress-up in front of it as a little girl. It had been carried down from Mom’s second-floor bedroom and placed in the butler’s pantry, a long narrow room off to one side of the kitchen and dining room.
The pantry was serving as my dressing room and supposed sanctuary. But at times like these, peace and quiet are hard to come by. Mom, Tío, Richard, Vicki, and people I knew or didn’t know kept traipsing in and out during the past two hours. If it wasn’t family, it was a lost guest or confused last-minute hiree, all catching me struggling with my pantyhose. Not being the sharpest pencil in the pack, I’d come up with the idea of locking the doors only moments before. At least now intruders had to knock.
The cozy room smelled of decades of lemon polish, pungent enough to block out all other scents. Even the aroma of Tío’s heavenly mini Chicken Chimichanga appetizers frying in the kitchen had lost the competition. I looked around. I was glad when my parents moved into the house, they decided not to modernize the butler’s pantry, a room that came from a time when there were butlers who buttled.
A built-in, ceiling high storage unit ran the length of one side of the room, ending at a tall but slender closet. The closet stored an old-fashioned ironing board and other wrinkle-eliminating paraphernalia from days gone by.
The unit was divided into three sections. At the top, wood cabinets were painted a glossy white and inset with glass. In the center, a deep marble counter was mirrored at the backend. In the old days, the counter held silver salvers, teapots, and other bits and pieces of a more proper era when formal gatherings were all the rage. Now it was crammed with equipment used by Tío in his cooking for shelter residents, of the two-footed and four-footed variety.
Beneath the counter, rows of deep drawers held Irish linens and stuff long out of use, but held onto for sentimental reasons. I scanned the weighty and massive piece from left to right. It remained as it was since the house was originally built, a monument to another time.
I noticed the ironing board was out now, tucked in a corner. An incident involving it came to mind, something happening when I was five-years old. I’m not saying Mom never ironed, but when she took the board out and set it up, I remember turning to her and asking, “Mommy, what’s that?”
My mother, being a disciple of the wash and wear or dry clean only school-of-thought, chose her words carefully. “This is something I use to put office files in order when I bring them home.” Then she proceeded to spread out files and alphabetize them on the makeshift counter. Talk about unclear on the concept.
I never saw the board out again until my prom night. I’d hauled out the iron and ironing board in an effort to spruce up the bows on my prom dress, only to succeed in singeing them but good. As far as I knew, the board hadn’t been out of the closet since that time. But here it sat now, no doubt used by the seamstress to iron my wedding dress which, fortunately, wasn’t singed. Talent will tell.
My dress was still loose even after the last fitting. I’d lost more weight at a time when I didn’t want to, proving that in my case you can’t win for losing, literally. I vowed to have two pieces of wedding cake, maybe three to offset the loss. The thought spurred me to get on with the ceremony.
There was a gentle tapping at the door leading into the kitchen.
“Who is it?” My voice sounded more pleasant than I was feeling. Guppy in a gold fish bowl, that was me.
“It is I, Liana, your mother.” Her voice sounded soft, yet echoey, as if she’d put her lips to the crack of the door as she spoke.
“You’re sure?” I said with a laugh, heading toward her voice. “You’re not one of the new staff you hired today barging in here to serve me some hors d'oeuvres or get a look at my underpants?”
“Stop talking nonsense, Liana, and let me in.”
I threw the lock and she pushed her way through the door with more unladylike vigor than I’d seen before. I quickly locked it behind her.
“What news from the Rialto?” I misquoted a line from The Merchant of Venice, Mom’s favorite Shakespearian play. I’d like to say I did it deliberately, but come on.
“What news on the Rialto,” Mom corrected. “Frankly, Liana, I’ve never had so many strangers milling around my house at one time. It’s very disconcerting.”
“That’s what happens when you throw a large wedding, Mom, and invite the world.”
My tone was unsympathetic but I don’t think she noticed. Mom has a one track mind when necessary. She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. She was outwardly unemotional in her distress, but I knew things were lurking deep inside.
“And unfortunately, it is still raining.”
“Buckets?”
“I would prefer to use the word ‘intensely’, but yes. The good news is the tent is holding its own against the wind and rain.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“The outside wall of the family room has sprung a leak. We’ve had to move the Christmas tree.”
“How many people did that take?”
“Six. I believe the problem is the gutters, possibly filled with leaves from the recent storms. I’ve got a call into our handyman who promised to be here within the hour. And the caterer hasn’t arrived yet. Some flooding on 101.”
“Golly. Sounds like chaos out there.”
“We will not let this dampen the day.”
“No, we’ll leave that up to the weather.”
Mom let out a sigh and began to pace the small room. “One must face these things with intestinal fortitude.”
“Sounds like indigestion. Is the groom still here?”
“Of course.”
“So at least there will be a wedding. How do I look?”
She stopped pacing, concentrating on me for the first time. She looked at me and smiled. I returned her smile. She took her time appraising me, but when she finally spoke, her smile turned teary.
“You’re a lovely bride, Liana, truly. I like your hair coiled on top of your head. And clustering the gardenias to the side of your grandmother’s pearl tiara is a perfect touch. You were right. We didn’t need any more gardenias than the ones in your hair and your bouquet.”
It was my turn to study my mother. She was probably the most beautiful mother of the bride ever, dressed in a crushed velvet lavender gown that gave off a hint of indigo when she moved. The color made her blue eyes sparkle even more than usual. Or maybe the sparkle came from finally unloading her thirty-four year old daughter. There was that.
“Thank you, Mom. You don’t look so bad, yourself.”
“You could have phrased it better, but thank you. Do you have everything, Liana? Traditionally speaking?”
I thought for a moment. “Let’s see, something old, Grandmother Hamilton’s pearl tiara. Check. Something new, I’m going with my wedding dress. Check. Something blue, a blue lace garter.” I hiked the hem of my dress up on my left leg, the one that didn’t have a cast on it. A blue lace garter was wrapped around my thigh. “Check. And don’t say anything about the tennis shoe, please.”
“The less said the better. And here’s your something borrowed.” Mom handed me a small box. I opened it and saw the pearl button earrings Dad gave her right before he died. I was overwhelmed, but tried to thrust the box back in her hand.
“Mom, I can’t wear these; you’re never without them. You should have them on for the wedding, not me.”
“I think it would please your father if you wore them. It will seem as if your father is a part of the ceremony.”
“Mom,” I said, tearing up. “Dad’s always a part of everything I do. Always.”
She gripped my arm with a gentle but firm hand. “Then wear them for me.”
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