Bride and Doom

by Deborah Donnelly

  The locksmith was fast. By midafternoon there were big heavy deadbolts on my doors, and I was standing on the corner of Fifth and James gazing up at the King County Jail. I’d never paid it much attention before. It looked so ordinary, just a twelve-story gray building with the usual street trees and parking spaces. Just a building full of people, the innocent and the guilty. I shuddered and went inside.

  Soon, having been politely but efficiently searched, I was being ushered into an area that looked like an ordinary rec room, where denim-clad men sat in murmured conversation with their wives and friends and even children. It might have been a dormitory lounge, except for the varying ages of the residents—and the armed guards at the door.

  Boris rose from a chair in the corner and stood watching me approach, his lips clamped tight and his body rigid with self-consciousness. I wasn’t feeling too relaxed myself. I went over and took both his hands, afraid that an embrace would draw the guards’ attention.

  “Are you all right, Boris? I’ve been so worried about you. Your lawyer came to see me—”

  “Trofim, bah!” he rumbled, as we sat down. “He does not believe me, my Kharnegie. But you believe me, no?”

  “Of course I do. I told him that. I was hoping to raise your bail, but I’d have to borrow—”

  “Nyet!” Boris shook his head and his black beard quivered. “It is too much, and I will not permit. I say this to Sergei also.”

  Most of Boris’s assistants seemed to be named Sergei, so I didn’t ask which one.

  “We just want to help. How are they managing without you at the studio?”

  “Is bad, I think.” His broad shoulders dropped. “I give Sergei instructions when he comes to see me, but is not the same.” Then his brow creased in sudden alarm. “You will not fire Nevsky Brothers from baseball wedding?”

  Boris had had a little trouble pronouncing McKinney/ Gutierrez, so this was our unofficial designation.

  “Absolutely not! Beau and I wouldn’t do that to you.” Actually, Beau would have done it in a hot minute, but all the flowers were ordered already and we couldn’t possibly find a substitute florist so late in the game. But there was no point in saying that. “You know we’re all behind you, Boris.”

  “Even your man Aaron Gold?”

  I smiled a little and fibbed a little. “Even Aaron.”

  “Good.” Boris breathed deeply and rested his chin on his fist, like an especially thoughtful Kodiak bear. “I must consider this Aaron Gold. He is honorable man?”

  “Y-yes. Yes, he is.”

  “You are sure you wish to marry him?”

  There was no fibbing about this one. “Absolutely.”

  Boris lifted his right hand, held it suspended for a moment, then dropped it heavily onto my shoulder.

  “Then I am sure also, my Kharnegie. I give you my blessing.”

  “Oh, Boris!” I was caught between laughter and tears. “That’s very—very honorable of you. It means a lot to me.”

  The Mad Russian nodded solemnly. “Of course it does. Now, tell me more. When do you marry? I will make flowers for you, the finest I have ever made! Waterfall style, I think. You are long woman, you can carry long bouquet. Perhaps lilies, but not stargazer lilies, they are too common.”

  And so, with no further mention of murder or prison or any other dark realities, Boris Nevsky and I discussed my wedding flowers until visiting hours were through.

  Chapter Twelve

  I devoted the rest of Sunday to chores and fretting. My topsy-turvy rooms were easy enough to put to rights—though fingerprint powder really is a bitch to clean—but my fears for Izzy and Boris and my unease about the break-in just got worse the more I brooded on them. Finally, as evening closed in, I double-checked my deadbolts and resorted to extreme measures: coffee ice cream, chocolate chips, and channel surfing.

  Ironically enough, after all the fuss I’d made, I ended up watching game two of the World Series. I figured that Aaron would miss it and I could fill him in, only the Twins pounded the Cubs 16–3 and nobody needs details about a tragedy like that. But I stuck with the Cubbies to the bitter end anyway, then went to bed in a sugar coma.

  Aaron called again Monday morning, at a far more reasonable hour this time, and the word from Miami was far better than the news from Chicago.

  As I poured a second cup of coffee and set my breakfast dishes in the sink, he told me that Izzy had rallied and that his great-aunt Frances, Izzy’s sister, was on her way to Florida to tend the patient. He sounded so relieved and happy that I decided to save my burglary news for later.

  I admit, I had an ulterior motive on that point: I was starting to wonder if the burglary might be related to Digger’s death. I couldn’t see how, really. I just had this funny feeling about it—and Aaron might interpret that feeling as getting involved in the murder case.

  So I skipped the burglary and focused on Frances. “Can she really take care of him? She must be elderly herself.”

  “Nah, Aunt Frankie’s the baby of the family,” Aaron said. “She’s only seventy-three. Plays tennis every day! She’ll boss Izzy around, and he’ll love it.”

  “That’s wonderful. So how long will you be down there?” I almost reminded him about Friday’s dinner with Mom and Owen, but I’d done enough nagging about that. So instead I just added, “I miss you.”

  “Not for long, you won’t. I’ll be back late on Wednesday night.”

  “Really? That’s great!” I was tired of sleeping alone. “I mean, if Izzy can spare you.”

  “He’s just glad I could come in the first place. And Frankie gets in tomorrow, so I can visit with her too before I leave.” A different note came into his voice. “Stretch, could you take Thursday off?”

  “Well, I’ve wrapped up just about everything for Beau, so yes, I think so. Why?”

  “Let’s take a day together just for us. You’re right, we do need to talk about the wedding, and we need some time alone. Besides, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” I said, imagining his leer. “My place or yours?”

  “Seriously, can you take the day?”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” I said, smiling all over my face and bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. “My calendar is pretty full, but I might be able to fit you in.”

  “As long as you fit me into your bed,” said Aaron, and the conversation degenerated along those lines for a while. I missed him a lot.

  “So what else shall we do Thursday?” he said at last. “Your choice, Stretch. Lunch and a matinee, or a drive in the country? I’ll even look at china with you, if that’s what you want.”

  “Whoa, what’s all this? What have you done with Aaron Gold?”

  “Well, spending time with Izzy has got me thinking—I mean, about what’s really important, and…” He was sounding more sheepish by the minute. I loved it. “Well anyway, what would you like to do?”

  “Snow Lake!” I said. “The weather is fabulous this week, and we could do the whole hike and still be back in time for game five.”

  “Did I hear you say game five? What have you done with Carnegie Kincaid?”

  “Izzy must be using ESP. So is a day hike all right with you?”

  “Are you kidding? It sounds great, and I promise I’ll spend every single minute talking about the wedding. Besides, if it gets me out of shopping for china, I’ll climb Mount Rainier. I hate china.”

  “I’m not that fond of the stuff myself.”

  “I thought all women wanted formal china and silver and shit.”

  “I am not all women,” I said loftily. “And the sooner you get back here, the sooner I’ll prove it.”

  “You already have. Game five is going to be the pitching duel of all time, and I really want to see it. You’re a sweetheart, Stretch.”

  “You bet I am. Now tell me more about this surprise.”

  “Hey, gotta run,” he said mischievously. “Busy, busy. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Love you, Stretch
.”

  “Love you,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

  Aaron’s call left me curious but more cheerful, and I headed upstairs to the office whistling “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Burglaries happen, after all, and I was unharmed and had lost nothing of serious value. In fact I was surprised not to feel more distressed than I did.

  The weather continued to boost my spirits. It was another misty morning, with another fine autumn day to come. Once again the sun was burning off the fog, and through the picture window of the office I could catch glimpses of the lake and even a peek at the Olympic Mountains on the western horizon. They say Seattle with its rain is like a beautiful woman with a bad cold, but this week there was only beauty.

  A fine day, and I’d come up with a fine plan to help Boris. Or rather, I thought, mindful of my promise to Aaron, to find out who had burgled my houseboat. I couldn’t help getting involved in that, could I? And if the burglar and the murderer turned out to be the same person, that wasn’t my fault.

  My plan was to call all the engagement party guests, on the pretext of making sure everyone was all right after the shocking finale to our evening. But I’d really be trying to figure out who had been absent from the party at ten o’clock on the night of the murder.

  I’d heard that hallway door closing at ten precisely, so every person who was in sight of someone else at that time was in the clear. The rest would go on a short list of possible suspects. What I’d do with the short list was another question, but I had to get going right away.

  Sifting all those names by myself could take hours, if not days. I might have to postpone this afternoon’s dress-shopping with Lily, but it was just our first scouting expedition and she would understand. Maybe I’d even ask her to help me work through the guest list, if she promised not to tell Mike what I was doing.

  Eddie wasn’t at work yet—just as well for him, since I’m a terrible whistler—so I settled in at my desk to review my calendar. As I blocked out Thursday for the hike with Aaron, I noticed something scribbled in for today: “HH NN?”

  I was perplexed for a moment, then I remembered with a frown and a groan. HH was for Honeysuckle Hell, and NN was NocNoc, the downtown dance club that Juice had mentioned.

  Some local bands were throwing a party there tonight for Rose and Gordo. Not exactly a bridal shower, but the Navigators were sending a photographer to get some shots of their star player socializing. Beau Paliere had requested—as in demanded—my presence at the event, to keep an eye on our volatile bride.

  NocNoc didn’t sound like my kind of place, and I’d only agreed to attend because I could take Aaron with me for company. I didn’t want to go alone, but with my date in Miami and Lily allergic to loud music in small spaces, who else was there?

  My frown eased. Who indeed but Juice herself? I called By Bread Alone, got the voice mail for her cake-baking business, and left a message explaining the situation. I was just hanging up when the outside door banged open and Eddie Breen blustered in.

  “What the hell is this about a murder?” he demanded, brandishing a copy of the Seattle Times like a cavalry saber above his white-haired head. “Are you getting yourself in trouble again?”

  “Of course not. I’m completely uninvolved here.”

  He snorted. “Fat chance. It’s that Frenchman, isn’t it? Every time he shows up, something goes nuts!”

  I should explain about Eddie, my not-so-silent partner. He and my late father were cadets in the merchant marine together, back in the day. But while Dad stayed at sea, Eddie came ashore for a long career in public accounting. He ended up retiring in Seattle just about the time I arrived, and when I started my business, Eddie was more than ready to offer advice.

  Somehow Eddie’s advice evolved into a job as part-time business manager for Made in Heaven—and full-time commentator on my personal life.

  “This has got nothing to do with Beau,” I said mildly. “He can’t help it if—”

  “Don’t give me that hooey. The man’s a menace.”

  My partner stomped over to his desk and shed his jacket. Eddie dressed the same every day: an immaculate white shirt with the cuffs folded back like origami, and khakis with creases that could slice bread. He opened the paper with a ferocious snap.

  “And what kind of moron claimed to see Boris Nevsky with the murder weapon? Says here ‘an unnamed witness.’ Must have been a blind man.”

  “Huh?”

  I stared at him, astounded. Eddie had never been fond of the Mad Russian, but now he was defending him? Boris was warm and effusive and sentimental, everything Eddie wasn’t. He’d once kissed Eddie on both cheeks in a fit of enthusiasm about something or other, and the old salt had never gotten over it.

  I gathered my wits. “I’m the witness, Eddie. I don’t believe Boris killed Digger, but I did see him holding the bat.”

  He scowled at me fiercely. “Well, what does that tell you right there? A big hulking fellow like Nevsky, going after a man with a baseball bat? Listen, sister, big men don’t use bats. They use their fists!”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “Damn right it makes sense.”

  “In that case…” I gazed in speculation at this unlikely ally. “Eddie, I’ve got an idea about how to clear Boris, or at least how to start. Would you be willing to run through the guest list of that party with me and figure out who has an alibi?”

  Eddie harrumphed. “Is this what you call uninvolved? It sounds like something the police ought to be doing.”

  “They’re convinced that Boris is guilty. Even his lawyer thinks so.”

  I told him briefly about Trofim Denisovich—and about the break-in yesterday. The reaction was classic Eddie: he went immediately to the outside door, yanked it open, and assessed the quality of the new lock I’d had installed. Only after it passed inspection did he rejoin me in the office.

  “Probably some goddamn kids looking for drugs. Oughta start drafting them—that’d keep ’em busy.”

  I spread the guest list on my desk. “Will you help me?”

  “Aren’t you busy working for the Frenchman today?”

  “I can take some time. For Boris. He’s in jail, Eddie. He could go to prison for life.”

  I’d always insisted on a nonsmoking office, so when my partner needed to think, he chewed on an unlit cigar. He produced one now and gave it a decisive chomp.

  “Two hours. Then I’m going back to work and so should you. You got that?”

  “I got it. Thanks, Eddie.”

  It only took an hour for us to realize that my fine plan was utterly futile. We called the first two dozen guests on the list, and even some bartenders and waiters, but the result was clear: people had been moving in and out of the party all evening, and no one had paid particular attention to the time.

  Besides, proving a negative is notoriously tricky. A few guests remembered a few others who were probably on the scene at ten o’clock, but no one could say definitely who wasn’t there. The roster of possible absentees included everyone from Gordo Gutierrez to Nelly Tibbett to Aaron Gold—and almost anyone else could have slipped out just long enough to kill Digger.

  “This is hopeless,” I said wearily, shutting off my cell. “Anyone could have done it.”

  “’Fraid so.” Eddie hung up his desk phone. “I can make some more calls while you’re out with Lily, but—”

  “Maybe I should cancel with her,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not much in the mood.”

  “Nonsense. You girls are always in the mood for dresses. Go on, do you good.”

  “OK. Listen, if Juice calls—”

  But my phone chirped then, and it was Juice. “Are you freakin’ kidding, Kincaid? A private party at NocNoc? I am so there!”

  “Terrific. I’ll pick you up around nine.” Then I asked a question I had never imagined myself directing at Juice Nugent. “Um, what do you think I should wear?”

  She chortled. “Kinda short on spikes, huh? Got any fishnet stockings?”<
br />
  “Afraid not.”

  “Platform boots?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Bondage gear?”

  “Juice!”

  She sighed. “Just wear black, you’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Have you got a black T-shirt I could borrow?”

  “For yourself?” Lily looked down at her own ample chest, then across the table at my meager one.

  I took her point. “Maybe an old T-shirt that shrank in the dryer? Never mind, I’ll buy one today. I’ve already got black jeans.”

  “What’s this for, a dress-down funeral?”

  “Even stranger. I’m going to a Goth party.” I sighed and cut into one of my almond-crusted sea scallops. “Or maybe it’s punk. Or maybe both.”

  Lily and I had decided to treat ourselves to a fancy lunch at Palomino, a bustling bistro that seems to hang suspended from the mezzanine above the lobby of the City Center building. It was one of my favorite downtown spaces, airy and open with big bright paintings and gorgeous art glass light fixtures.

  Today Palomino was filled with sunshine and voices and the savory smells of roasting. We had even ordered wine, but still I was having trouble getting into lighthearted bride mode. Lily had commiserated with me about the burglary and with Aaron in absentia about Izzy. Now I was trying to lighten up, but without much success.

  “How did I get so behind-the-times all of a sudden?” I complained. “I’m usually cooler than my clients, but this makes me feel like a dinosaur.”

  “A party for Honeysuckle Hell, I assume?” Lily smiled encouragingly. “Maybe it’ll be fun.”

  “Maybe. I’m just so worried about Boris.” As we ate, I explained how Eddie and I had tried to narrow down the list of party guests to possible suspects. “I can see now that we should have started with motives, not alibis. But Digger Duvall was so unpopular, that’s probably a wide field too. Has Mike said whether Detective Starkey is even looking at anyone besides Boris? I’ve actually been wondering about Rose’s father—”

  “Hold on, Carnegie.” Lily set down her fork and the garlic-roasted prawn she had just speared with it. “I’d better say this right now. Mike and I are still working out how much he can share with me about his cases. But one thing we’re sure about is that he has to be able to rely on my discretion. You understand?”