Or something like that, anyway. Eddie would gag at the fairy-tale bit, and I wasn't sure I liked it myself. Still, by the time Madison was done, my brain was hurting, but I was thoroughly impressed. And grateful; you can pay a lot for this kind of advice.
“I can't thank you enough,” I told her at the end of our allotted half hour. “If you ever need a wedding planner yourself, count on me.”
“Doubtful,” she said curtly. But then her poise seemed to waver, and she gathered up our scattered paperwork with inordinate care, not meeting my eyes. “I . . . heard you were at the bachelor party, and that you found the . . . you found Jason. Everyone's talking about it.”
“Well, everyone's got it a little wrong. I was at the Hot Spot that night, but only briefly. And then the next day I identified the body. But I didn't find it.”
“Oh.” Madison drummed a nervous tattoo on the table with the fingers of one hand. Like Ivy, she wore no nail polish, and like me, no wedding ring. She frowned abruptly. “But you saw something that night, something about Darwin, and that's why he was arrested. So you must think he's guilty.”
“Absolutely not,” I told her. “In fact, I'm trying to prove his innocence.”
“And how do you expect to do that?”
How, indeed. “Well, by asking around, talking to people who knew Jason. I know this reporter—maybe you've met him—Aaron Gold. He's got sources at the police department.”
“I want to help.” Madison pushed the papers aside and locked her hands together on the tabletop. “What has Aaron found out?”
“Hang on,” I said. This was moving a little too fast. “Can I ask why you want to get involved?”
“Well, why are you involved?” Her nostrils flared, and her knuckles were white. “What makes you so sure Darwin didn't do it?”
“Because I know him,” I retorted. I wasn't going to tell her I was spying on the Hot Spot that night. “His sister is my closest friend.”
That seemed to take the wind out of Madison's sails. She crossed the room to an easel and began straightening the sketches on it, her back to me. I waited. I had the sense that she was assessing factors unknown to me, with the mental swiftness she had shown in setting out my marketing plan. When she turned back to face me, it was clear she had come to a decision. A difficult one.
“Carnegie, can I be honest with you? In confidence?”
“Of course.”
She returned to the table and sat, closer to me this time. “I believe Darwin's innocent, too. Everyone here does. He puts on a show of being tough, but you can tell what a gentle person he really is. He shouldn't be in jail. Someone else was the killer, and I have to find out who.”
“But why? I mean, why you in particular?”
She swallowed, and spoke in an undertone. “Jason and I were lovers.”
“Oh.”
She hurried on. “We kept it secret because I was his boss. In fact, I hired him. That's not why I hired him, but the whole thing was totally against company policy, and my career is so important to me. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I said slowly.
What I didn't understand was how anyone could feel amorous about Jason Kraye. But if there's one thing I've learned in my line of work, it's that you can never, never fully understand what's going on between two people in love. They're living deep inside the Republic of Two, and the borders are closed. Jason had been repugnant to me, but behind her polished façade, this woman was shaken to the core.
“Madison, I'm so sorry for your loss. You must be devastated, especially if you can't talk about him with anybody here. But listen, now that Jason's, um, gone, maybe you could confide in Ivy. I'm sure she would sympathize—”
“No!” Madison gripped my hand; she was remarkably strong. “I don't want anyone here to know about this, and . . . and gossip about us. I couldn't stand it. I just want to help you find out who killed him.”
How could I deny a need so intense, from someone in such pain?
“All right,” I said. “We'll work on it together. But I'll have to tell Aaron about you and Jason, you know.”
She hesitated, biting her lip. “All right. He'll be discreet, won't he? You trust him?”
Interesting question. Trust Aaron with my heart? No, never again, much as I might want to. But trust him not to ruin Madison's reputation? That was different.
“He'll be discreet.”
“All right, then. Tell me everything.”
I described what I'd seen through Eddie's binoculars, and what Aaron had gleaned about the police investigation.
“Their theory is that one of the guys at the party, probably Darwin, had a knife and used it. But Aaron was there that night and he didn't pick up any sense of hostility from anyone. Of course, it could have been a random attack, a mugging, but the way Jason was slashed was so deliberate and brutal, it seems like—” I caught myself. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”
But Madison was one tough, unsqueamish cookie, and she dismissed my apology with a wave of her hand. “So, you didn't see anyone else? The police don't have other suspects?”
“Not so far. They're interviewing everyone from the party, and checking into Jason's background. Did he have, well, enemies?” Detectives always ask that in the movies, but here in the prosaic atmosphere of marketing paraphernalia and fluorescent light, it sounded absurd.
“I think he gambled a lot,” said Madison thoughtfully. The green eyes were preoccupied, miles away. “Maybe he had debts . . .”
“You think? Jason didn't tell you?”
“What?” She snapped back to the present. “Well, he was secretive about certain things. Some people keep different parts of their life walled off from each other. You know how that is.”
Do I ever, I thought. A gambling habit wasn't much compared to a wife back in Boston. “Well, maybe Aaron can mention it to some of the guys around here, and find out more. Did you ever hear any details?”
“Just a name, Noble Pearl. It's a restaurant in the International District.”
“Hmm.” Exotic Chinese gambling dens sounded awfully melodramatic, but how dramatic is murder? “Anything else in Jason's past, maybe?”
“Not that I can think of—”
The door opened then, and Ivy Tyler leaned into the room. She wore a skirted suit in dark gray—a gesture of mourning?—with a large garnet brooch on the lapel. No, make that ruby. Easy to forget that my down-to-earth mentor was a multimillionaire. “Maddie, we've got that conference call in ten minutes. Hi, Carnegie. Getting some good ideas?”
“Tons,” I said, rising. “Madison, thank you again . . .”
But Madison was already gone, brushing past Ivy without a word. What a tightrope she was walking. I still thought she should confide in her boss, but it wasn't my call.
As I moved into the hallway, Ivy stopped me with a hand on my arm. She wore a subtle, expensive perfume, and more makeup than usual. I wondered if a murdered employee also made for photo ops; there had been a lot of press about the Canal Killer. But her next words put my cynicism to shame.
“I just wanted you to know,” she said, “Darwin James is on full salary while this gets settled. And MFC is going to cover his legal fees.”
“That's very generous of you. Darwin has a sister in town, she'll be glad to hear it. I can give you her number—”
“I just got off the phone with Aaron, he'll tell her. He says you're a friend of Lily's, too. Is that how you met him?”
“Sort of.”
Ivy's eyes were mischievous. “He speaks pretty highly of you, for a casual acquaintance. I think you've got an admirer there.”
I tried for a smile, though it felt like a grimace. “Just friends.”
“That's what they all say.”
She looked past me down the hallway and beckoned to someone: a large, square-shouldered man in his forties who approached us with the brisk, easy stride of a natural athlete. I recognized the thick, prematurely gray hair and the craggy features,
irregular but quite appealing. This was Ivy's go-to guy.
“Simon, come meet Carnegie Kincaid,” called Ivy. “She's the one who checked out Habitat for the reception. Simon's the logistics guru around here, so you two have a lot in common.”
“You're handling Sally's wedding, too, if I remember.” Simon Weeks's voice was rough, almost harsh, but his tone was friendly. “That's a bigger operation than most of mine.”
I laughed. “At least I don't have Wall Street looking over my shoulder. If you have a minute, I'd like to talk with you about setting up at the roasting plant.”
“Gladly.”
Ivy excused herself, and Simon led me back into the meeting room. As we reviewed my plans for the reception, he made some sensible suggestions about running in power for the food prep and the band, and even an idea or two about decorations. But mostly Simon answered my questions, approved of what I had in mind, and showed a real appreciation for my work.
As we exchanged business cards on my way out, it struck me that if I hadn't just met Kevin Bauer, I'd be wondering whether Simon Weeks was single.
I returned to Joe's building feeling flattered by the attention and full of things to think about, from marketing strategies for Made in Heaven to how to keep my “just a friend” Aaron at arm's length. I badly needed some quiet time at my desk.
I would have gotten it, too, back on the houseboat. But a catering company has a kitchen, and kitchens have prep cooks, and prep cooks have tempers. Alonzo and Filipo were at it again, and they were at it in my office.
“Twenty-five minutes! I am spending twenty-five minutes to peel and to mince my shallots, and you stole them! Thief! Hijo de cabrón!”
“Your shallots! What of my chopping knife? You steal my knives, and complain about shallots! I have sea bass going late into the oven and Casey shouting and not one moment to spare—”
Alonzo and Filipo—whether these were first names or last, I never knew—were kitchen demons who hailed from Brazil and Venezuela, respectively. They were both small and wiry and unshaven, and when they weren't flirting extravagantly with me or Kelli, they both took up permanent residence on the very edge of hysteria, each darkly convinced that the other was his treasonous foe.
From time to time Casey Abbott, the executive chef, threw them out of the kitchen, and then Kelli would shoo them out of the reception area, and they'd end up having histrionics in my office. The first few times I found it amusing, and consented to referee. But this was far from being the first time.
“Gentlemen, please! I've asked you before, find somewhere else. I mean it!”
“He followed me here,” spat Filipo, “crying like a baby about his miserable shallots. I have business with you, Carnegie. Private business.”
Alonzo muttered something dire in Portuguese and made his exit, and I sat wearily behind my desk. “What is it, Filipo?”
The cook's demeanor transformed itself on the instant, from violent fury to conspiratorial glee. “I have brought your toys, Carnegie! Don't worry, I tell no one.”
With that, he set a Solveto's carrier bin on my desk, and began to remove a layer of packing paper from inside. It took me a moment to remember the platter I'd rescued at the Hot Spot on Sunday night, and brought back to the kitchen in a bin like this one. Or apparently, in this very one. But I hadn't realized it held anything but more dirty dishes.
“Filipo, if there was something in there—what is that?”
The question was rhetorical. My Venezuelan friend was holding up a recognizable plastic object of enormous size and specific sexual function. Grinning, he set the thing in front of me, and reached back into the bin to draw forth a lacy black garment with some very interesting cutouts. I felt myself blushing, even as I realized what had happened: some gag gifts from the bachelor party had been tossed into the bin, and I'd set Joe's platter on top of them.
“Dean tells me these are yours,” said Filipo, with an insinuating smirk, “but he forgets and they stay in the kitchen. I knew that my beautiful redhead wants her toys back!”
Dean, a sweet but slow-witted youth, was Solveto's dishwasher and general cleanup man. Perhaps he really had believed that the bin held my personal belongings, but obviously Filipo did not. He just couldn't pass up the opportunity to tease me.
“Put that down, for heaven's sake!” I said, as the cook began to laugh uproariously. “You know perfectly well those things don't belong to me. I'll have to return them to Frank and—oh, hell.”
Filipo, following my eyes, turned to the doorway with the length of black lace still fluttering from his fingers. At least it wasn't a client standing there, but it was bad enough: Aaron Gold. Aaron cocked his head, and with a wide-eyed, captivated gaze took in the cook, the negligee, the vibrator on my desk, and the great sheaf of roses on my credenza. Then he gave a long whistle of appreciation.
“That's it! I know when I'm beat.” He reached out to shake hands with the puzzled but still smiling Filipo. “I bow to the competition. You've got a class act here, mister—”
“Would you shut up!” I snapped, still blushing. “Filipo, get back to work, would you please? And leave Alonzo's shallots alone.”
I whisked Frank Sanjek's gifts back into the bin. There were nongag gifts in there as well—a silver hip flask, a digital camera, a small cigar box—and probably more, but I didn't want to look. It's all client property, whatever it is, and I've got cooks playing around with it. I covered the stuff hastily with the packing paper, and set the whole ridiculous thing in a corner.
I called Frank's work number and began to leave a curt message, asking him to come fetch the bin. Then I realized how brusque I was sounding. It wasn't Frank's fault, after all.
“Or I can drop it off with you,” I added lamely, far too aware of Aaron's amused gaze. “I'll probably be at MFC tomorrow. Or I could give it to Sally next time I—no, I guess that's not a good idea. Um, I'll call you back. Bye.”
I hung up and looked over at Aaron. He was leaning back in my visitor chair, arms clasped behind his head, grinning broadly.
“Not one word,” I warned him. “That was stuff from the bachelor party, and you know it. In fact, you're probably responsible for some of it.”
“On the contrary,” said Aaron, feigning offense. “I have far better taste. I gave the young man a box of particularly nice cigars. Only minis, I'm afraid, but Cuban minis. Better a little of the best than a lot of the not, don't you think?”
“I don't think I know what you're talking about, and I'm sure I don't care. Do you want to hear about my conversation with Madison Jaffee?”
“Of course I do. Nice roses, by the way.” Aaron's voice was casual, but not casual enough. “I don't recall seeing them at the Hot Spot.”
I should have told him about Beau, I suppose, in case he thought the flowers were from Kevin. But I couldn't resist a little payback. Sparring with him was much more comfortable than yearning after him.
“They are pretty, aren't they? A friend of mine sent them. . . . But never mind that. Guess who Jason Kraye was having an affair with? Madison Jaffe.”
Once I'd told him the details, Aaron gave a low whistle, thoughtful this time.
“That's tough on Madison, losing him and having to keep it secret. Well, it can only help us, and Darwin, to have an MFC insider like her looking for information. I had thought about asking Ivy, but I don't think she knew Jason all that well. Besides, the CEO never hears all the good gossip.” He slipped a rubber band around his ever-present notebook. “Let's go.”
“Go where?”
“Noble Pearl, of course. I'm still full from breakfast, but there's always room for Chinese, right?”
“Wrong.” I gestured at my chaotic desktop. “I have work to do. I'm running behind as it is.”
“Tonight for dinner, then.”
“I can't.”
“Of course.” Aaron stood up, pulling out his gloves and tossing one end of his white scarf over his shoulder. “You've got a date. Have fun.”
“Thanks,” I said evenly. “I intend to.”
Chapter Fifteen
“FUN” WAS NOT THE WORD FOR MY FIRST DATE WITH KEVIN Bauer. The word, as it turned out, was “magic.”
Sure, I was feeling easy to please, what with Aaron's deception, Lily's resentment, and not being able to sleep in my own damn bed at night. The shock of the murder, and the strain of managing two big weddings within a week of each other, had me yearning for friendly company and wide open to the chance for romance.
But setting all that aside, who could be difficult to please when the night was clear and frosty, the gentleman sincere and attentive, and dozens of good-hearted people in ridiculous costumes were caroling their hearts out on the street corners?
Kevin met me at Ivy's building right on time, wearing a handsome chestnut-colored leather jacket and bearing two tall paper cups of steaming cider. Even there in the Market, I could hear music and laughter echoing down Pine Street from the Westlake Mall. Driving “home” after work, I'd seen the gaily decorated Figgy Pudding stage out in front of the mall, awaiting the grand finale of tonight's songfest.
As I drove past it, I had looked through my windshield at the old-fashioned carousel that appears downtown each December. The candy-colored wooden horses rose and fell and circled, bearing gleeful children and grinning adults. The store windows shone bright and vivid, and for blocks in every direction the filigree branches of the street trees sparkled with white lights like diamond stars against the falling dusk.
I can't help it; I love Christmas.
“Oh, perfect,” I said now to Kevin, accepting a cup from his gloved hands. Large hands, to go with his large, square frame and his rugged features. With his leather jacket, dark red beard, and breath puffing white in the cold air, he might have been an Alaskan bush pilot setting off for adventure.
All right, so I was absurdly easy to please. But I hadn't had a date, a proper date, in a long time.
I was well bundled up myself; luckily I'd brought my long camel's-hair coat from the houseboat, and a fetching moss-green beret to pull down over forehead and ears. The hot, spicy drink added just the right glow of internal warmth. We crossed Pike Place and headed up Pine, sipping cider and eyeing each other sideways, faintly but happily nervous. No wonder teenage girls talk funny. Just as well that the first part of our evening didn't call for much conversation.
May the Best Man Die Page 10