Bride and Doom

by Deborah Donnelly

  Once on stage Rose stopped laughing and turned her back to the crowd. People began to quiet down. She struck a straddle-legged stance, plucked a microphone from its holder, and pointed one finger at the ceiling, keeping that pose until the silence was complete but for the muted buzz of voices from the barroom. The three musicians already on stage watched her, their instruments stilled.

  We waited.

  Rose McKinney was gone now. Honeysuckle Hell’s arm swung down like a hammer, she snapped her head to one side to give us her profile, and then she lifted the mike to her curling lips and sang.

  It was a song I didn’t recognize, here at this club where I didn’t belong, and I was transfixed. Hot, thick, quivering at the edge of control, Honeysuckle’s voice lashed over us like the slash of a cat’s claws.

  The song was the cry of a woman betrayed, and she poured out phrase after phrase of furious defiance and reluctant lust. Then her voice sank into an anguished purr, a surrender, in words of love and longing.

  The tempo picked up, Honeysuckle’s left heel marking the time, and as she turned toward us, the drummer followed her lead with an insistent and hypnotic beat. Both guitarists filled in with chords, but only as a backdrop to that black velvet voice. Two more verses, a chorus, then the instruments fell away again as Honeysuckle unleashed a final crescendo, held the closing note impossibly long, and bowed limply from the waist, her passion spent.

  The crowd went crazy. I’m pretty sure I did too, because my throat was sore the next day. I know that when Nick threw his arms around me—everyone in the place was embracing—I gave as good as I got, and when we separated, we were both grinning like two people who’ve run a race together.

  “Amazing,” I croaked out. “Just—amazing.”

  “Yeah, that’s the girl. She’s too good for us, really, but don’t tell her I said so.”

  Nick and I watched as Honeysuckle descended into Gordo’s arms and the band on stage was replaced by another. As the euphoria of her singing ebbed away, my thoughts returned to the bombshell Nick had just dropped on me.

  “So you were saying that JD and his father didn’t get along?”

  Nick shrugged, indifferent. “That’s why he won’t use a last name. He’s just JD. You know, like Bono or whatever. The old man was loaded, but he wouldn’t front us a dime when we were starting up the band. Cheap bastard.”

  “I, um, heard that Digger was pretty rough on Rose in his column. The band must have been unhappy about that too.”

  Another shrug. “Who cares what some lame sports guy says? Rose and the rest of us, we just laughed about it. Even Gordo shrugged it off. But yeah, JD was pretty pissed. He’s had the hots for Rose from day one. Like she’d even look at him. How clueless can you get?”

  A rhetorical question, so I didn’t reply.

  “Speaking of names, Carnegie’s a cool name.” Nick took a long pull on his beer. “Real unusual, like your hair. You got real pretty hair.”

  He reached out to touch it, and I stepped away, keeping my distance this time. But this was a young man unused to refusal.

  “Can I get you a drink, Carnegie? C’mon, have a drink with me.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got one coming.”

  As if on cue, Juice arrived and passed me a sloshing tumbler.

  “They’re out of wine glasses. I drank my whole beer on the way, it took me so long to get through the crowd. Hey, you’re lead guitar!” This to Nick, who was looking at her appraisingly—especially her QUEER AND PROUD button. “I love the Fiends, man. You gonna play tonight?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Nick. Then he gave me the same appraising look. “Sorry, Carnegie. I didn’t realize.”

  “Realize what?” I wondered as he moved away.

  “He thinks you’re with me!” Juice sniggered and poked me roughly in the ribs. “Want me to go tell him you’re available? He looks like your type.”

  “You just leave well enough alone.” I sipped doubtfully at my wine. It was warm and sour, and that helped me make up my mind. It would be nice to see more of Rob, but even so…“Listen, Juice, I’m off duty after all, and I don’t think I can take the noise level in here much longer. Would you mind if I left early?”

  “Nah, go ahead.” She looked around in satisfaction. “This is the best party I been to in ages. I really owe you one.”

  “You can give me a break on my wedding cake.”

  I said it without thinking, but Juice gave me a startled glance. “You’re getting married?”

  “Is that so surprising?”

  “No! No way. Who’s the lucky hetero?”

  “Aaron Gold. He’s a reporter. I don’t think you’ve met him.”

  “Well, good for you!” Juice slapped me on the back hard enough to spill my wine. Not that it was much of a loss. “I’ll make you a terrific cake. When’s the date?”

  “We don’t have one yet. Aaron’s out of town right now so—”

  But Juice was no longer listening. She was gazing past me at a foxy little green-haired girl in a tuxedo, and the girl was returning her gaze with compound interest.

  “Whatever. See you later this week, Kincaid?”

  “Later,” I said to her retreating back. “Have fun.”

  As I edged my way through the mass of bodies, heading for the door, I thought about the people Digger Duvall had left behind. A wife he neglected and a son he treated with contempt, at least in my brief observation. Colleagues who despised him, and ballplayers who feared the reach of his poisoned pen. Presumably Digger’s audience would miss him, but would anyone else?

  Gordo was standing near the front door as I approached it, although the tight-packed mass of bodies made my approach a slow one.

  “Leaving already?” he asked. “Here, let me help.”

  With his amiable smile and a hearty “Comin’ through!” he plowed a channel through the crowd and held the door open for me.

  “Thanks, Gordo. Tell Rose good night for me, would you?”

  “Sure thing, Carnegie. It’s good that you parked close. This isn’t a great neighborhood.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “See you later.”

  It was blissfully cool and uncrowded on Second Avenue, and even the traffic noise seemed muffled after the din inside the club. Or maybe the ringing in my ears drowned it out. I hurried along the sidewalk toward Vanna, eager to get home. At least I wasn’t saturated with cigarette smoke, so I wouldn’t have to shower and then go to bed with wet hair.

  Washington State had made the national news when it banned smoking in all public places, even bars. The ban was an economic blow for certain businesses, but heaven sent for people like me who—

  If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with that thought, and so busy fumbling for my keys, I might have noticed right away that the passenger door on my van was slightly ajar. And I might have heard the person coming up behind me.

  As it was, a violent shove between my shoulder blades took me completely off guard. As I crashed painfully onto my hands and knees on the pavement, I was barely aware of my purse being torn from my shoulder, and of the pounding footsteps that raced away into the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s an unfortunate coincidence, I’ll give you that.” Detective Kenneth Starkey had lank ginger hair, a long sardonic face, and heavily freckled forearms revealed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He folded his arms now and raised his ginger eyebrows at me. “But I don’t see what it’s got to do with the Duvall homicide.”

  “Coincidence!”

  I slapped a palm on the edge of his desk, then snatched it back with a little hiss of pain. Both my hands were raw from where they’d scraped along the sidewalk last night, and my left knee had a bruise on it the size of a CD. To use my mother’s exasperated phrase from my unruly childhood, I was in No Mood. I took a deep breath, counted to ten by tens, and tried to make my point again.

  “Look, on Friday night I discovered a murder victim. Sunday my home was ransacked, and l
ast night my van was broken into and my purse was snatched. You can’t possibly think those are unrelated incidents.”

  Starkey took his own sweet time about consulting a paper on his desk. “Says here that your vehicle was unlocked, but nothing was missing or damaged. You sure you didn’t just forget to lock it?”

  “Of course I’m sure! The killer must have been searching for something he thought I had, something that wasn’t in my houseboat when he broke in there.”

  “And that would be what, exactly?”

  This was the question I’d been asking myself all night—in between phone calls to cancel my credit cards and my cell phone service. I didn’t have an answer.

  “OK, I’m not sure. But whatever it is must be connected with the murder somehow.”

  “Uh-huh.” He tipped back his desk chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Watch a lot of television, do you, Ms. Kincaid?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sometimes people go looking for clues and connections where there aren’t any. They work up a theory and get all excited about it, and then they expect us to—”

  “This isn’t theory, it’s fact! Boris and I both came onto the scene of a murder just after it happened. He’s in jail, but I’m still being watched and burgled and mugged in the street. Doesn’t that suggest to you that the killer is still on the loose?”

  Big sigh from the long-suffering detective, and the chair legs bumped back to the floor.

  “What this suggests to me, Ms. Kincaid, is that you’ve been the victim of two extremely common urban crimes. Like I said, an unfortunate coincidence. Now I know you think your Russian buddy is innocent, but—”

  “Boris Nevsky is an American citizen,” I said crisply. “And as I understand it, he’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited but got no further reply.

  “So I assume,” I went on, “that you’re working hard to find out who else might have killed Duvall. Aren’t you?”

  “Night and day.”

  Starkey had been humoring me, no doubt because I was a friend of his boss’s, but now the sarcasm came through. He stood up and glanced at his watch.

  “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to it. We’ve got your statements about the burglary and the assault, and we’ll contact you if there are further developments.”

  Further developments my ass, I thought furiously on my way back to the houseboat. That’s the last time I’ll ask him for help. I’ll figure this out myself and make Starkey eat crow. I had an uneasy thought about my promise to Aaron, but I shoved it aside. He was my fiancé, not my father, and this was my decision, dammit.

  Tuesday was another remarkably warm Indian summer day, but the sunshine was lost on me. I was still in No Mood as I entered the Made in Heaven office, which made me less tolerant than usual of Eddie Breen’s debonair charm.

  “Where the hell have you been, sister?” He scowled over from his desk in the work room. “Half the morning’s gone. You going to spend all your time playing bride now?”

  “I’ve been busy getting mugged, if you want to know,” I snapped. “I spent half the morning at police headquarters.”

  “You what?”

  My desk was piled with paperwork. I lifted the uppermost folder from a toppling stack, then flung it down again.

  “I don’t have time for this, dammit! Boris is rotting in jail, and Rose’s wedding is this weekend, and that Starkey was so snotty with me—”

  “Don’t, Carnegie. Don’t cry.” Eddie was at my side, offering a huge and spotless handkerchief. “Are you hurt? You need a doctor?”

  “I’m not crying.” I swabbed the tears from my face and blew my nose noisily. “And I’m all right, I just got b-banged up a little. He shoved me and I fell.”

  “Son of a bitch. Well, sit down, for crying out loud. You look like something the cat dragged in. Did you get a look at him?”

  I sat. “No, I didn’t see him, and neither did anybody else. So I suppose the police can’t do much with that. But I can’t convince them that Digger’s murderer is still out there. They won’t even look for him!”

  Eddie set his fists on his hips. “Then we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  “We?” I gave a final sniffle. “You’ll help me with this? And not for just two hours?”

  “Whaddya talking about, two hours? Of course I’ll help you.”

  “Thank you, Eddie. Boris will really appreciate it.”

  “Never mind Boris,” he grumped. “You think I’m going to let some son of a bitch get away with hurting you?”

  “Oh, Eddie.”

  Dismayed by my detour into sentimentality, my partner stared out the window and worked his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Then he said to the glass, “Well, what are we waiting for? You want me to make more of those phone calls?”

  I shook my head. “That’s a dead end. Dozens of people had the opportunity to follow Digger into the hallway that night. So we’ve got to look at motive instead. I just heard about a new one last night.”

  As Eddie rolled his chair over to my desk, I told him about Digger’s son and his reputedly neglected wife.

  “The trouble is, JD left the party long before the murder, and Judy wasn’t there at all. Besides, Digger’s being a lousy family man would have been going on for years. Why pick that night to kill him?”

  “Or that place, either,” said Eddie. “Just as easy to do it at home. No, I’m betting the murder had something to do with this guy’s work.”

  “You’re probably right.” I powered up my computer. “Tell you what, let’s go online and look at Digger’s columns. Maybe he trashed somebody who was at the party.”

  “What about this bride of yours? You said he got snide about her, and anybody can swing a bat.”

  “Rose is out,” I said, my fingers clicking over the keyboard. “She left before the murder too. I put her in a cab myself. OK, here’s an archive of his articles and radio transcripts.”

  Sportswriting is a language of its own, with specialized jargon and inside jokes and the assumption that if you didn’t know the language yourself, you wouldn’t be reading it in the first place. But even as an outsider, as we skimmed through screen after screen, I could tell that Digger Duvall was a talented columnist and a perceptive observer of the sport.

  He was certainly opinionated enough, and cocksure about every single one of his opinions—no matter who got hurt. With no room for doubt, let alone compassion, Digger had dissected and then ridiculed the recent performances of a coach for the Yankees, a catcher with the White Sox, and most of the Detroit Tigers’ starting lineup. He was an equal opportunity critic, eviscerating careers in the American League and National League alike.

  The phone rang as we were reading, and I picked it up absently.

  “Mon dieu, are you mad?” said a rich, resonant, and unpleasantly familiar voice.

  I rolled my chair away from the computer and gestured at Eddie to keep skimming the columns.

  “What’s the problem, Beau?”

  “There is no problem except you! I have planned this wedding perfectly, all goes perfectly, and then you ’arass Monsieur Theroux’s guests with your idiotic phone calls!”

  I winced. Apparently the alibi-checking Eddie and I did yesterday had filtered back to my temporary boss.

  “I was only trying to—”

  “To what? To do the work of the police?”

  “Beau, you know Boris Nevsky. You don’t think he’s a murderer, do you?”

  The Frenchman’s voice rose half an octave. “I have a wedding to conduct. I do not think of him at all! And you must stop thinking also. Do you wish to be terminated?”

  This was a serious threat. I gripped the phone. “You owe me money, Beau, and I expect—”

  “There will be no money if you do not cease to ask about the murder. Is that understood?”

  “All right, all right. It’s understood.”

  I understand, I just don
’t agree. I hung up the phone and rolled my eyes at Eddie. “Remind me never to work for him again.”

  “I already told you that!”

  “Tell me again next time, only louder. Find anything else?”

  “Just these mentions of Honeysuckle Hell.” Eddie worked his cigar some more. “What’s he got against the girl, anyway? It’s one thing if he doesn’t like her singing. I bet I wouldn’t either. But this sounds like a personal grudge.”

  “Knowing Digger, I’d guess that he tried to impress her, and she blew him off. He’d hate that.”

  I leaned back from the screen and ran my pencil around Digger’s name on the pad in front of me. It had a few other names on it, Leroy Theroux and Walter McKinney and a handful of ballplayers from other teams who hadn’t even been at the engagement party. Mostly the sheet was covered with doodles. Discouraged, I let the pencil drop.

  “We aren’t much farther along, are we? We know that the slurs about Rose infuriated her father. Maybe Gordo too, although he didn’t seem upset with Digger at the party. And your idea about only a weak person using a bat for a weapon lets Gordo out anyway.”

  “I dunno,” said Eddie doubtfully. “Would insulting the girl really push her father to murder? And why that particular night? The columns about her ran weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, way in the past. But…wait a minute—” I grabbed up the pencil again and drew a big question mark. “But what about the future?”

  “Huh?”

  “What about the columns that Digger hadn’t written yet? What if he was planning a story that would damage someone at the party, and they found out about it?”

  “That’s your best idea yet,” said Eddie. “Somebody killing Duvall to protect themselves, not just to get back at him for something. Trouble is, how do we find out what kind of stories he was working on?”

  “By using my next best idea.” I reached for the phone book and pulled it open to the D’s. “I doubt that Digger discussed his work with his son. So I’m going to pay a sympathy visit to Mrs. Duvall.”

  Chapter Seventeen