I gave the sketches a perfunctory going-over before initialing my approval, and just for fun I took some snapshots of them with my new phone, thinking to send them to Beau and Rose later on. But Boris and I had more than flowers on our minds. As he rolled up the drawing paper, I told him about Digger’s notebook, choosing my words carefully and trying not to exaggerate its possible importance in solving the murder.
After all, Boris needed to hope, but it would be cruel to raise those hopes too high. I didn’t get into the steroid issue; he wouldn’t know anything about that. But there was something he might know, something the police might not be asking about.
“You spent some time alone with Digger at the party,” I said. “How did he seem?”
“Seem?” Boris hoisted broad shoulders in a puzzled shrug. “He seemed like good fellow at beginning, before he makes insult at you. He asked for drink of Stolichnaya, I gave to him, we drank.”
Frowning, I sipped at my own tea, winced, and put it down. I kept forgetting that battery acid was smooth compared to what came out of that samovar.
“I don’t suppose Digger said anything about a story he was working on?” I asked, but Boris shook his head. “Well, did anyone else come and talk to him at your table?”
The Mad Russian knit his brows. “Pretty blond girl tells him she goes to ladies’ room, and sad-looking man asks if we want anything from buffet.”
“Digger’s date,” I confirmed, “and Nelly Tibbett. Anyone else?”
“No—yes! Leetle black man, I think he is official with baseball team.”
“Leroy Theroux!” I said eagerly. “I saw them looking daggers at each other earlier on in the party.”
Boris looked shocked. “They had knives?”
“It’s just an expression, Boris. Forget it. What did Leroy say?”
“He said, ‘Later, Duvall.’”
“Just that?”
“Da. ‘Later, Duvall,’ and then he goes away. Is important, you think?”
“It could be. Leroy’s initials are in the notebook, but I’m not sure why. I’ll have to think about it and maybe talk with him myself. I could make up some excuse, a question about the wedding preparations—”
Boris covered my hand with his own massive paw. “You are good to try and help me, my Kharnegie. I should do this for myself, but Trofim says I must not talk to vitnesses.”
“He’s right about that. The police might think you were trying to influence the case somehow, and revoke your bail.”
“Revoke?”
“Put you back in jail.”
He shuddered. “This I could not bear. But be careful! If you think leetle man is killer, you should stay away from him.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him, as I signaled Mom that I was ready to leave. “I’ll be extra-careful. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I couldn’t very well chat about murder over lunch with my mother, so instead it was back to weddings. Hers, mine, and Rose’s.
We started with Rose’s, because Juice spotted us on our way into By Bread Alone and beckoned us back to a far corner of the kitchen. There between the flour bins and the oversize dough mixer, out of the way of the bustling cooks, she had us sample various cheesecake recipes that might be used for the giant baseball.
“I like the Jamaican rum raisin,” I said, licking my fork. “But I’m not sure everybody would. What do you call the marbled one again?”
“Three-Chocolate Thriller.” Juice pointed at one of the plates from the row of five on the stainless-steel work counter. “Milk, bittersweet, and white. Real crowd-pleaser. But what does Honeysuckle want? Rose, I mean.”
“She told me to go ahead and pick, so let’s use the chocolate. Don’t you think, Mom?”
My mother lifted her mesmerized eyes from the tattooed dragon between Juice’s breasts.
“What? Oh, the cinnamon-citrus would be my own choice…but everyone likes chocolate, don’t they?”
“Good enough,” said Juice, making notes on her clipboard. “I gotta tell ya, Louise, your new haircut is totally cho.”
“Why, thank you, dear.” Mom gazed in wonder at Juice’s hair, which was currently a poisonous green—just like the cute girl in the tuxedo at NocNoc. “It’s nice to make a change, isn’t it?”
“Too friggin’ right. You guys having lunch here? Come on, I’ll get you set up.”
Juice set us up at the same window table where I’d sat with Rose, and soon we were enjoying BBA’s chard and lentil soup and the organic greens with roasted garlic vinaigrette. While Mom mused aloud about the vagaries of obtaining a marriage license in Italy, I mused silently about Digger’s notebook and Leroy Theroux.
LT knows. If Theroux knew that his home run champion had been on steroids, Digger Duvall would be the last person he’d tell. But maybe Digger was pressuring him somehow, maybe that’s why they were glowering at each other at the party…
“Carrie? You’re miles away.”
“Sorry, Mom. What were you saying?”
She gave me a long, considering look—the look that used to ferret out my adolescent secrets. “I was saying that you don’t seem terribly excited about your own wedding, somehow. Are you and Aaron having problems, dear?”
“Of course not. What makes you say that?”
“Oh, sometimes he doesn’t seem quite as smitten with you as I’d like. But then I’m biased, aren’t I?”
“Maybe just a little. But he’s smitten all right. He turned down a chance to see some World Series games, just to be with me.”
I told her about Holly’s extra press pass, and Aaron flying back to Seattle instead. But was she thrilled with that? She was not.
“That’s quite a sacrifice,” she said in a carefully neutral tone. “Especially since you could always go hiking another day.”
“But this nice weather isn’t going to last! And he promised me a whole day for us to talk about the wedding.” I heard the defensiveness in my own voice and shifted my ground. “Of course I’m excited about it. I’m not sure about how large and formal to go. I mean, I know big weddings inside and out, but planning one for myself feels like…”
“Like what, dear?”
“Like work!” The word just popped out, but the minute I said it, I knew it was true. “I keep thinking I should dive into all the details, but then it starts to feel like just another job. And I’m not sure what Aaron wants.”
“I expect he just wants you,” she said, and gave me a reassuring pat on the hand. “Men don’t care that much about weddings. You’ll work it out, Carrie. I’m just glad you’ve found someone who suits you. Oh, look at the time! I don’t want to keep Owen waiting.”
We hurried back to Vanna, and I dropped Mom at the bank building across Madison from the huge weirdly faceted chunk of glass and gleaming metal that is the Seattle Public Library. Not that I was thinking about architecture, though. As I left downtown and drove up Eastlake, I was thinking about Aaron, and sacrifices. And my own selfishness.
Aaron wasn’t just a baseball fan, he was a baseball fanatic. And this wasn’t just the World Series, it was the Chicago Cubs in the World Series. He must have longed to accept Holly Crider’s offer. But did he turn it down because he wanted to spend tomorrow with me, or because he knew I’d go ballistic if he didn’t?
I knew the answer to that question, and it didn’t do much for my self-esteem. The more I thought it over, the more anxious I was to talk to Aaron. I don’t like phoning while I drive—too many near-misses on the freeway—so the minute I pulled into the houseboat lot I called him.
“Hello, it’s Aaron—”
“Aaron, it’s me!”
“—Gold. Leave a message, and don’t talk faster than I can write.”
Feeling deflated, I waited for the beep. Then I started again.
“Aaron, it’s me. Listen, Holly told me about the extra press pass for the game tonight, and if you can get to Minneapolis this afternoon, you should use it! You s
hould definitely go to tomorrow night’s game anyway. We can go hiking some other time.”
I hesitated, then went on, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch about baseball lately. I’m just, I don’t know, I’m just preoccupied about Rose’s wedding and our wedding and”—I caught myself before I mentioned Boris—“and everything. So get yourself to those games, have fun, and we’ll rendezvous on Friday. I can’t wait for that surprise! I love you.”
As I climbed the stairs to the office, dazzled by the sunlight throwing sparks off the water, I began to regret my noble decision about Snow Lake just a little bit. I hadn’t been out of town in what seemed like forever, and I was suffering the Seattle syndrome: the conviction that any given sunny day might be the last one for months.
In October that is actually true. Once the rain starts down here, the snow will start up high, and Snow Lake isn’t someplace you can ski into. I could always go by myself, I thought. It was an easy drive and a safe trail. But I’d never been crazy about solo hiking. And even if she wanted to go, Lily could rarely get time off at the last minute. Oh, well.
Inside, my partner was already at his desk and gnawing a cigar. Eddie’s not big on small talk. He looked over at me and said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
He hmphed. “Well, how are the McKinney flowers, and have you thought of anything new about the Nevsky business?”
“New…” My mind was still on Aaron, but I shifted gears and dug into my bag for Digger’s notebook. “How’s this for new?”
“Holy moley,” said Eddie, flipping the pages. “Where’d this come from? Did you figure out what Duvall was working on before he died?”
I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning. A lot’s happened since yesterday.”
I told him about Boris being out on bail—which prompted a brief digression about Rose’s flowers—then about the mentions of steroids and Gordo in the notebook, and my conversation with Holly Crider.
“So you think Gutierrez might be the killer?”
“I don’t want to, but it’s a possibility.” I propped my chin on my fists. “Poor Rose. Maybe I should try and stop the wedding.”
“Are you nuts?” Eddie’s cigar waggled furiously. “What if you’re wrong? The Navigators would sue you from here till next week, and so would that Frenchman.”
“But I can’t let her marry a killer! Rose is just a kid, Eddie, and she’s had a rough time. If I’m right about this, it’s going to break her heart.”
He brought the notebook over and laid it on my desk. “You’re forgetting something, sister.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe she already knows.”
“What? You think she’s covering up a murder for Gordo’s sake? Impossible.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Eddie stabbed at the notebook with one weathered forefinger. “Even if she doesn’t know about the murder, I bet she knows about the steroids. You should talk to her, see what you can find out.”
“Just casually ask if her fiancé takes drugs?”
“Course not! Work your way around to it. Girl talk, that kind of thing. Can’t you spend some time with her before the wedding?”
“Actually, she did say she had a personal question for me…” The light dawned, and I stared at Eddie openmouthed. “That must be what it was! Rose is suspicious of Gordo, and she wanted to ask to me about it. Why didn’t I realize that?”
“More likely she wants to fuss about her dress or her flowers,” said Eddie, who had a low opinion of brides in general. “Why don’t you take her out for a beer and ask her?”
“Forget beer. I’ve got a better idea.”
While Eddie watched, I called my bride and proposed a little day hike. She accepted immediately.
“That would be awesome, Carnegie! You sure you’re not too busy?”
“Not at all,” I said, flinching with guilt at her girlish enthusiasm. Her trust in me. “Something else fell through, so I’ve got all day free. We can talk about that question of yours. If you still want to?”
“Y-yeah.” She sounded doubtful at first, then more decided. “Yeah, I do. But will we be back in time for the World Series?”
“Sure. The drive’s only an hour or so, and it’s not that long a hike.”
“Cool. A bunch of Navs got a private room at the Batter’s Box to watch the game.”
The Batter’s Box was a big new sports bar and microbrewery near Yesler Field, where Beau and I had met with the Navs management a couple of times.
“Sounds like fun,” I told her. “We’ll make sure to get you back for it.”
We settled the details—Rose driving, me bringing lunch, and directions to the houseboat—and after I hung up, I turned to Eddie.
“Satisfied?”
He hmphed again. “Just be careful up there in the mountains with nobody around.”
“Oh please, Eddie. You think she’s going to stab me with a Swiss Army knife? It’s Gordo I’m worried about, not Rose. And I’m going to steer clear of him until we know for certain who killed Digger.”
“Yeah, but he’s the groom,” Eddie grumbled. “You’re bound to be together some, and if Gutierrez thinks you’re on to him—”
“Don’t worry! He’s safely out of town for now, and when he gets back, I’ll make sure I’m always with Beau or someone.” The thought of that bloody bat—and the idea of Gordo wielding it—lent conviction to my words. I zipped the little notebook back into my bag, determined not to let it out of my reach for a minute. “Now I’m going out for picnic supplies. See you later.”
After my grocery run, the rest of the day went along quietly enough. I placed that call to Leroy Theroux, leaving a message that I needed to talk with him about the wedding. But every time my phone sounded, it was only Beau, harassing me with little assignments about McKinney/Gutierrez. I would never work for him again.
Finally Eddie left for the day, and after trying Leroy again I did too. Might as well watch game four and see if the Cubs had any fight left in them.
They did, but barely enough: after lagging behind 2–0 for the entire game, Chicago managed to scratch out a single and a double in the eighth inning. Then a fielding error by Minnesota turned a fly ball into an inside-the-park home run, and the Cubs won 3–2 in the bottom of the ninth.
A squeaker of a win, but it tied the Series two games to two, which made the squeaker a major victory. The Twins fans were filing glumly out of their seats when my phone chirped one last time.
“Hey, Stretch. Guess where I am?”
“Minneapolis?”
“Right up here in the press box! You sure it’s all right about tomorrow?”
“Of course it is. I really need to be with Rose anyway.” I didn’t tell him why. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“Oh, did I ever. I’ll never forget this. You are such a sweetheart. How ’bout lunch at Luigi’s on Friday?”
Luigi’s Grotto was a favorite of ours, an old-time Pioneer Square bistro with a twenty-five-cent perfume dispenser in the ladies’ room and penne alla grappa to die for.
“You’re on.”
I hung up the phone in a glow of virtue and went to get out my daypack and hiking boots for the morning.
Chapter Twenty-four
Morning came early, but I was ready. The gourmet picnic I’d planned for Aaron had scaled down to simpler but still appealing fare: crusty sourdough rolls, a chunk of sharp cheddar, a couple of crisp apples, and my hiking standby, a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. Extra-large.
All this I’d stowed in my pack along with water bottles, my little first aid kit, basic safety stuff like matches and a flashlight—but no topo map since the Snow Lake trail was so familiar—and a rolled-up rain shell in case the weather turned. Not that it seemed likely to. Once again in this remarkable October, the day began in a bright white mist that promised sunshine to come.
I stood out in the parking lot as I’d promised Rose. Despite the damp chill i
n the air, I could see my shadow taking shape on the asphalt as the sun grew stronger. Suddenly the thought of all that sunshine and scenery sent me scampering back to the houseboat to fetch a camera.
It was just a little disposable, one of several made especially for weddings that I was trying out. The stolen camera had probably been fenced by now. I tucked the disposable into the inner pocket where I’d put Digger’s notebook.
The notebook was coming with me for security, and I did plan to question Rose, quite casually, about the recent behavior of her fiancé. But mostly I wanted to counsel her on whatever the personal question was and enjoy my day in the mountains. The prospect of getting back on a trail had me feeling more carefree than I’d been in weeks.
I hummed to myself as I relocked the door, excited about making an escape from the city, taking a break from wedding work, and best of all relaxing a bit from the strain of the last several days. Then a car horn double-beeped from the parking lot, and I hurried back down the dock toward the silver SUV that waited there with a light heart and a wide smile.
But my smile died when I saw the man at the wheel. Gordo Gutierrez, looking large and formidable and almost sinister behind his mirror shades.
“He came back early!” Rose called from the passenger side. In a Fiends T-shirt and no cosmetics at all, she looked very young. She sent me a private shrug and a little grimace. “Isn’t this great?”
“Great,” I said weakly, and climbed into the backseat.
What else could I do, feign sudden illness with my gear all packed? Anyway, if Gordo was guilty, I shouldn’t leave Rose alone with him. But there went our heart-to-heart talk about her personal question—and my chance to question her.
“So,” I went on, “what happened to the trip to L.A.?”
“The commercial fell through,” said Gordo, rotating the wheel with one muscular hand as he reversed out of the lot. “My lawyers started fighting with their lawyers, so I said adiós, I’m outta here. You navigate, OK?”
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