So for the second time tonight I headed down the corridor of memorabilia, striding so furiously that my footsteps were almost as noisy as Rose’s boots had been.
“Goddamn Frenchman!” I said aloud as I stomped along. “Goddamn baseball, goddamn cleaners.”
I checked my watch. Ten o’clock, definitely too early for the cleaners.
Why do I bother writing up schedules if people won’t—
From somewhere down a side passage, I heard a door close. Damn. Was that some wandering guest, and had he or she heard me swearing to myself like a madwoman? I waited, wincing, to see if they were coming or going, but all was silence. Going, then. Good.
I continued on my way along the curve of the corridor, mouth safely shut, staring at the photos and plaques and headlines as I went. But when I came to a point where I could see down to the end of the hallway, I stopped.
A man lay sprawled grotesquely on the floor, and he wasn’t moving.
The dark leather soles of his shoes were facing me, and as I heard myself breathing in short, shallow gasps, beginning to hyperventilate, I focused on the shoe soles and tried not to see anything else.
But I couldn’t help it. As my eyelids quivered in shock and my gaze flickered upward, I could tell that the sprawled figure was Digger Duvall. And that the man standing over him was Boris Nevsky, gripping a blood-smeared commemorative baseball bat in one massive hand.
Chapter Six
“He was coming back to apologize!” I paused to gulp at my coffee, rapidly cooling in the morning breeze, then returned to pacing up and down the narrow deck of my houseboat. “I kept telling that idiot detective, Boris was on his way back to the party to apologize. He only picked up the bat to move it so he could see if Digger was still alive.”
“That’s what Boris told you,” said Lily, sipping from her own mug. She was bundled in a fuzzy purple sweater and perched sideways on a lounge chair that I hadn’t yet stowed away for the winter. “You didn’t see it yourself, so it’s hearsay.”
“Hearsay!” I yelped. “You’re saying Boris was lying? And besides, what about that door I heard closing? That was probably the real murderer getting away!”
“Calm down, Carnegie, please. It won’t help to—”
“I will not calm down!”
Lily James was my best friend and a reasonable woman, but I wasn’t ready to listen to reason. I’d been up half the night being grilled by cops and smoothing the ruffled feathers of VIPs whose big event had been so rudely interrupted by murder. Beau had removed himself from the stadium the minute he could, leaving me with the fuss, and now it was a toss-up who I was madder at this morning, him or Detective Sergeant Kenneth Starkey.
But of course that was no reason to bite Lily’s head off. I looked at her contritely.
“Sorry. But you don’t really think Boris Nevsky is a cold-blooded killer. Do you?”
“Of course not. I’m just trying to see things from Ken Starkey’s point of view.”
Lily was familiar with a homicide detective’s viewpoint, being married to one herself. Michael Graham, the world’s most sensitive police officer, was her husband of only a few weeks. He was also Starkey’s boss.
“It wouldn’t have been cold-blooded,” she continued. “It could have been a sudden angry impulse during an argument. You did say Boris was drinking a lot.”
I quit pacing and leaned on the rail of the deck, picking at a splinter that stuck up from the weathered wood. Sweet old Mrs. Castle, my landlady, wasn’t big on repairs, but at least she kept my rent down. I pried the splinter free and dropped it into the deep cold water of Lake Union. As it drifted away I drew in a mouthful of salt-tasting air, cool and moist. I was home, and Boris was in a jail cell. Lily watched me and waited.
“That’s the line the police are taking,” I said at last. “A drunken argument that turned nasty. But they’re wrong. I know Boris, and I saw his face. He was just as much in shock as I was to see a corpse lying there. He was horrified.”
I chewed at my lower lip, remembering Starkey’s reply to that. So would you be horrified, miss, if you’d just killed a guy. His gruff manner and cynical attitude were worlds away from Mike Graham’s quiet thoughtfulness. But Mike wasn’t on this case, and Starkey was. When I’d made the mistake of mentioning my friendship with Detective Lieutenant Graham, Starkey had turned even gruffer. That’s very interesting, miss. Now just answer the questions and let us draw the conclusions.
“Boris didn’t do it, Lily. I know he didn’t. I tried to stay calm and explain that last night, but—” I shivered, suddenly chilled to the core. “God, it was so awful. Digger’s head was…it looked like…”
My best friend was at my side at once, detaching the coffee cup from my trembling hands and folding me into a hug. Lily is a statuesque black woman, even taller than me, and it was comforting to lean into her shoulder and let myself cry.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “It’ll be all right.”
“But what if it’s not? What if they use my testimony to convict Boris?” Snuffling, I searched in my pockets for a handkerchief. I carry three when I’m working but couldn’t find one now. “I want so badly to help him, but I don’t know what to do.”
“You can’t do anything right now,” said Lily, in the level but commanding voice that she used with Marcus and Ethan, the two little boys from her first marriage—and sometimes with her patrons at the public library. “He’s not even arraigned yet. I’m sure Boris will call you if he needs help finding a lawyer or whatever, and meanwhile you’re freezing out here. Come inside and get warm.”
My houseboat is moored at the end of a dock with a million-dollar view of the lake, from downtown Seattle at the south end to Gas Works Park at the north. I can see it all: one wall of my living room is glass, with sliding doors out to a narrow deck. From the deck a planking ramp leads down to a little floating platform, right at water level, that’s perfect to swim from.
I used to barbecue down there in summer—until one day the lake got choppy, the platform rocked, and my grill went over the edge and straight to the bottom. Boris was with me that day, and how we’d laughed…
“Come on.” Lily scooted me through the sliding doors and slid them shut behind us, then gave me a nudge toward the couch.
As I sank into the cushions, I noticed her canvas tote bag lying there. When she’d shown up for our Saturday morning coffee date, I’d been too distraught to notice anything. The bag, one side of which proclaimed that LIBRARIANS ARE NOVEL LOVERS, was spilling over with glossy magazines.
“What’s all this?” I asked dully.
“We were going to look at wedding gowns today, remember? Before we start browsing the shops at lunch on Monday?”
“Oh, that’s right. I can’t even think about that now.”
“Of course you can’t,” she said. “More coffee?”
I nodded, and as she headed for the kitchen, I chafed my chilly fingers and gazed at the topmost magazine. The cover model had huge pillowy lips and that typical blank high-fashion stare, the one that looks like the girl’s been smacked in the back of the head with a two-by-four. Or a bat…I shuddered and looked away.
“What does Aaron think?” said Lily, returning with refills.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him last night, with the police there and everything. I mean, they kept me later than anyone else. And he’s out doing interviews today. He’s on deadline, so he’s really busy. He’ll probably be working tonight too. Definitely tonight, in fact…”
I heard myself babbling and trailed off. Lily was grinning at me.
“Was it bad?” she asked.
“Was what bad?”
Her eyes sparkled over the rim of her mug. “The fight that you and Aaron had last night.”
“What makes you think we had a fight?”
Lily has this amazing laugh. It’s deep and throaty, and you can’t help laughing along. Or at least smiling sheepishly, which is what I did now.
�
��Am I that obvious?”
“Girl,” she said, “you are an absolute pane of glass. And you two are as prickly as a pair of cactuses lately. So what happened this time?”
I told her about the plan to choose a wedding date tonight, and Aaron’s ridiculous fixation with the ballgame. It was better than thinking about my inability to help Boris.
Lily set her mug aside and frowned. “You want Aaron to miss the World Series?”
“Don’t you start on me! I’ve listened to nothing but baseball since he came back from Boston, and he promised—”
“Carnegie, it’s the Chicago Cubs. I don’t even follow the game, and I’ve heard about the Chicago Cubs.” She shook her head. “Besides, what are you going to do when you’re married—banish baseball?”
“Of course not.” Lily might still be a newlywed, but she’d been married once before. She knew about the ups and downs of marriage, the give and take. I only knew about gowns and cake. Avoiding her eye, I flipped open the magazine with the pillow-lipped model. “I just want to enjoy being engaged, that’s all. I’ve worked for enough other brides—now I just want to be one. This bias-cut number is kind of cute…”
Lily joined me on the couch. “But do you want to go that slinky? You’re so nice and slim, you could carry off a Princess Di style. Look at that white satin—it’s got just a hint of blue in it.”
“You don’t think that’s too cold a shade for me?” I turned a page, from one fantasy to the next. “Ooh, flutter sleeves. Chiffon is so romantic.”
“Kind of bare for a winter wedding, though.” She tapped a purple-polished fingernail on the glossy page. “If it’s going to be in winter. How long will you need to pull this together?”
“Depends on our venue. I thought about having it on board the Virginia V or some other cruise boat, but that means summer, and summer’s so far off. Of course all the really nice places book up months ahead anyway. If only Aaron would focus—”
“He will when he’s ready,” she said. “Just give him some space. Tell me, do wedding planners work faster or slower on their own weddings?”
“You’re playing peacemaker, you know that?”
“Sure I know it. Now answer the question.”
I laughed. “That will depend on how many other brides I’ve got coming up. I know the vendors I want already. Joe Solveto for the catering, and Boris for the—”
I caught myself, and we looked at each other in dismay. Boris might never create another bride’s bouquet. He might never—
The phone interrupted this dreary thought, and speak of the devil, it was my latest bride. Or rather, Beau’s and mine. Rose McKinney sounded like a different person from the hellion at the party.
“Carnegie?” she quavered. “I, um, don’t exactly remember what I said last night, but I guess I’m sorry. I mean, I am sorry.”
“That’s all right,” I said, surprised and disarmed. “How are you feeling today?”
“Not too good. But I’m supposed to have a final fitting at that dress place downtown.” She hesitated. “I sort of wondered if you could come? Beau said he could be there if I want, I guess he’s big buds with the owner or something, but it seems kind of, you know…”
“Kind of strange to have a man helping with your gown?” I filled in.
“Yeah.”
“I’d be happy to be there, Rose. What time?”
“Well, now, I guess.”
“Now?” I rolled my eyes at Lily, who was following the conversation with interest. She grinned and took our coffee cups back into the kitchen. “Give me half an hour.”
I hung up and called Beau. He always stayed at the Alexis, a small deluxe hotel right downtown between Pioneer Square and the Pike Place Market. It made a convenient and prestigious base when he was working and of course a comfy little nest for his various amours. But he didn’t answer his room phone or his cell, so I left a message that I would take care of the dress fitting.
“I took care of the cleaning crew last night too,” I added sardonically, “since you weren’t around. Oh, and I gave the police your room number in case they need you. Have a nice day.”
It was only as I was walking Lily out to her car, before climbing into my own van, that I realized something odd. Rose McKinney didn’t seem to know that her engagement party had ended with violent death. Which meant that I was going to have to tell her.
Chapter Seven
Le Boutique was an exclusive bridal shop in the heart of downtown, and Beau Paliere was indeed big buds with the owner, an utterly un-French woman named Hazel Cohen. Hazel barely acknowledged my existence, but then I didn’t bring her bouquets of roses or vials of French perfume—or lucrative orders from celebrity brides.
Seattle was enjoying a remarkably balmy October, and downtown was full of grateful tourists and Saturday shoppers. I found Rose on the Seneca Street sidewalk, fixed in place like an obstinate little rock with the chattering stream of pedestrians parting and re-forming around her. She was clad entirely in black leather, including the spiked collar around her neck. It contrasted nicely with her hangover.
Up in its haughty second-floor location, Le Boutique had a row of display windows peopled with white-gowned mannequins. Rose was squinting up through the sunshine at them.
“I’m never going to look like that,” she said, with an odd mixture of defiance and wistfulness. “Never.”
“I don’t suppose you will,” I retorted. “Not being made of plastic.”
A scrap of a smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks for coming.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I had debated with myself on the way downtown whether to tell Rose about Digger Duvall before or after her fitting. There’d been nothing on the news this morning—the police were keeping a lid on the murder for some reason—so I’d decided on after. Why spoil the moment?
As we went around the corner to the building entrance, Rose lifted her face to the sun.
“God, what a day. Makes me want to get up in the mountains.”
“You?” I said, startled.
“Why not?” she said, grinning. “You think I spend all my time in gloomy clubs? Actually, the Fiends do that. They think it’s weird that I like to get outdoors.”
“Oh.”
I pondered that as we walked—and also something that I’d been wanting to tell this particular bride before we went any farther. As we entered the building, before we reached the stairs up to Le Boutique, I drew her over to a bench in the lobby.
“Let’s have a talk, shall we?”
“What about?”
Rose’s dark brows drew together, and her lips set in a stubborn line. She was expecting another lecture, but I was about to surprise her.
“About you and Gordo. Rose, sometimes the preparations for a wedding can take on a life of their own, until the whole thing seems like one huge unstoppable process. And that could be especially true for this wedding, with the Navigators management running things. But it’s not unstoppable, and your wedding day is just one day out of your whole life. It’s not the wedding that’s important, it’s the marriage. So if you—”
“What are you talking about?” She was staring at me with her head aslant, puzzled and indignant. “Are you saying I shouldn’t marry Gordo?”
“It’s not up to me, is it? It’s up to you, Rose. Do you want to marry him?”
“Of course I do!” A transformation came over her face, a melting and a brightening together. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. He’s so sweet and funny, and we go hiking together, and he really gets my music—”
“And you get baseball?”
“Sure I do. My dad’s in baseball, remember? I’ve been going to games since I was a baby. When Gordy was choking up early this season, I sat in with him and Nelly sometimes, and Nelly even said I have a good eye for rotational mechanics.”
“Rotational…?”
“Mechanics. Here, I’ll show you.”
She stood up to demonstrate, drawing s
ome stares from passersby, but I interrupted.
“So you’ll be watching the World Series game with Gordo tonight?”
Rose stared at me, startled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason. Forget it.”
“Whatever.” She took her stance again. “OK, the circular path of your hands transfers your body’s momentum into bat-head acceleration…”
I could see I had a lot to learn—about connecting with the ball, if nothing else—but the wedding gown was waiting, and I had satisfied my conscience. Despite her dubious manners when she drank, when she was sober this bride clearly knew what she was doing. So I interrupted again.
“Some other time, Rose. Let’s go on up.”
I didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but her enthusiasm vanished. She turned away and marched up the stairs like a teenager trying to pretend her mother isn’t really there.
I can’t be more than ten years older than her, I thought in annoyance. OK, maybe twelve. Oh, the hell with it. And as I followed her, I reminded myself again of just how much Beau was paying me for this assignment.
Le Boutique was unoccupied save for its proprietor. Hazel Cohen, all five foot zero of her, stood beside a delicate reception desk with spindly gilded legs. There was nothing spindly about Hazel, or gilded either. Her rigidly permed hair was resolutely gray above a pugnacious face and rectangular figure.
“I know you,” she said in an unmistakable New York accent. “You’re the wedding planner with the funny name.”
With some people I explain that my father named me for Andrew Carnegie, after educating himself in the small-town libraries that the old robber baron endowed. With other people, like Hazel Cohen, I just smile vaguely and press on.
“I’m helping Rose with her fitting,” I said. “Rose McKinney?”
I chuckled as Hazel realized with a start that the tough-looking girl beside me was a paying customer. One of her minions must have handled the original selection of the dress.
Bride and Doom Page 4