May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Because he was her boyfriend, and he was cheating on her with Li Ping.”

  “Hell hath no fury?” He teetered back in his chair, and even smiled a little. “I don't think so.”

  “Well, I do! I think she killed Jason, and then once she'd gone that far, she killed Lou because she wanted the profits for herself. I saw her there in the corridor, remember. Maybe because she was the brains of the outfit, and he was such a dope that he was a danger to her. It's possible.”

  “Possible, but nowhere near probable.” Aaron tipped forward again, thumping his elbows on the table, and turned his palms up. “Maddie's female, remember? Maybe she could have hidden in the men's room, to ambush Lou, but crashing a bachelor party? That's not too brainy.”

  “She wouldn't have to go inside the Hot Spot, just out back where the body was found.”

  “But the streets were deserted that night except for the guys at the party. She would have stuck out a mile, coming or going. Any woman would.”

  Aaron was right, of course. But he was so ready with his arguments that I had a sudden and uncomfortable insight. He must have suspected Madison, too, and then talked himself out of it. Why? Because she's such a beautiful, sophisticated female?

  He was looking at me quizzically. “Why do you dislike her so much, Slim?”

  “I don't dislike her! I just thought she was a possibility. Have you got a better one?”

  “Maybe I do.” He took a gulp of coffee and rapped the cup back on the table. “I'm following a couple of leads.”

  “So tell me about them.”

  “Not yet,” he said flatly. My conjectures about Madison had definitely touched a nerve. “I'm still checking them out. I'll tell you when I'm ready.”

  “What am I, Della Street? Tell me now.”

  He glared at me. “No.”

  “First you want me to listen,” I snapped, “and then you won't talk. You should make up your mind.”

  “And you should grow up!” Aaron's fuse was even shorter than mine this morning. “You think this is a game? I've been trying to explain something really serious—”

  “If being married was so serious, why didn't you tell me about it before? Being made a fool of didn't feel like a game to me.”

  “That's because you don't know the whole story, and you won't let me tell you! You're being completely unreasonable!”

  If Aaron hadn't shouted at me, I might have confessed the truth. I might have said that refusing to hear him out was giving me some juvenile sense of having the upper hand. Of getting payback for being duped. I might have told him I was only hanging on to an unreasonable position out of obstinacy and wounded pride, and that I was almost ready to stop hanging on. But I hate being shouted at.

  “I'll be unreasonable if I want to!” I shouted back. “And I want you out of my house!”

  “Fine!”

  Aaron came out of his chair so fast that it toppled over with a shocking clatter. He picked it up and slammed it back in place with white-knuckled hands, and as he did, the trailing edge of his heavy pea coat caught my cup. Coffee sloshed across the table in a dark, spreading pool. The cup spun around, skidded to the edge of the table, and plunged to the floor between us.

  I shrieked. I couldn't help it. The sight of the dark liquid, the visceral memory of Lou's shattered mug slashing my hand, the strain of all this anger in my home . . . I shrieked, and then I started to sob.

  “Carnegie, don't cry. I didn't mean to—”

  “Just go away!”

  He reached down for the cup—it hadn't even broken—saying, “Let me help you with this. Got some paper towels?”

  “Aaron, leave it alone. Leave me alone.”

  “Are you sure?” He stood, the cup dangling from one hand, and looked at me. His face was stone.

  “Yes. Go.”

  So he did. Aaron set the cup on the table, buttoned his coat, and walked out the door. I heard his footsteps on the dock outside, distinct in the Sunday morning hush. Then even the footsteps disappeared.

  Alone. Exactly what I didn't want to be at the moment. I mopped up the coffee, drawing long, ragged breaths, then went into the bathroom to mop at my face. My self-appointed task for the day was to move Made in Heaven's operation out of Joe's offices and back into my own office upstairs. But I couldn't face it yet. First I needed some TLC.

  My mother was off on her trip, but this was far too complicated a situation to discuss with her anyway. So I called Lily, grateful to be back in her good graces, and hoping to be invited over. The company of loved ones is always better than a voice on the phone.

  I was surprised when a man answered.

  “Mike? It's Carnegie. What's going on?”

  I heard him moving to another room, and a door closing behind him. “Darwin's been rearrested. The Snohomish County people found a knife in his car.”

  “No! No, I don't believe it.”

  “It's just a utility knife.” Mike sounded very tired. “It was in with some gear for his artwork.”

  “So there's no blood on it.”

  “No. But the theory is that he rinsed it off, there in the men's room. Anyway, even if they can't prove it was the murder weapon, Darwin sure as hell can't prove that it wasn't. Not unless someone finds the real one.”

  “What about fingerprints or DNA or something, inside the rubber gloves you found? I'm sorry, I'm telling you your job.”

  “That's OK. As far as we can tell, the killer wore a second pair of gloves, inside the first, and took those with him along with his weapon.”

  “Oh. Mike, I was going to come over. Would that be OK, do you think?”

  He covered the phone with his hand. I heard muffled voices, then he came back on.

  “Lily says, yes, please.”

  It was full daylight by the time I got there, sunny and chill, with pale patches of frost lingering on roofs and lawns, anywhere the tree shadows fell across them. Lily's windows were covered with crooked paper snowflakes in rudimentary shapes; she'd been keeping the boys busy.

  Mike answered the door. “They're taking cookies to the neighbor. Be back in a few minutes.”

  I followed him into the warm, fragrant kitchen. The table bore a cheerful jumble of eggshells, sticky bowls, and spilled sugar. On the counter, half a dozen red paper plates were piled with decorated snowman cookies. Mike handed me one, and munched the top hat off another.

  “You must not be on duty,” I said. “You have flour in your hair.”

  “Do I?” He smiled ruefully and leaned against the sink. “My boss replaced me on the Kraye case, and strongly suggested I take a few days off. He's a good guy. Lily needs someone around.”

  Not just someone, I thought, chewing slowly on my snowman. She needs you. A solid, reliable man she can trust. Either the cookie was dry, or my mouth was, because I was finding it difficult to swallow.

  “Before they get back,” Mike was saying, “I need you to do something for me, if you would.”

  He was a courteous man in a coarse world, and I loved him for it, for Lily's sake. “Anything.”

  “OK, tell me again what you saw at the Hot Spot, minute by minute, everything you can remember. There's some small detail that's sticking in the back of my mind, but I can't shake it loose.”

  So I ran through the story again. The memory was like a grim little movie that I'd seen too many times: the dark Ship Canal, the slope of bushes, the scuffling figures, the nearly deserted street. But at the end of my account, Mike shook his head in frustration.

  “There's something there, Carnegie. I can feel it, but I can't nail it down. I'll have to let it percolate for a while. Speaking of which, want some coffee?”

  “I'm over my limit already, thanks.” I opened the fridge and helped myself to a glass of milk, and then to another cookie.

  I was stalling. Should I tell Mike my idea about Madison Jaffee? I had such a strong instinct that she was hiding something, but instinct isn't evidence. This was no eyewitness account like the one I'd rend
ered about Darwin's fight with Jason. And look at all the grief I had caused by doing that. Anyway, Aaron was right. The killer must have been a man, a man who'd attended both parties. But which one? And was he a blackmailer, or a victim of blackmail?

  “Aunt Carrie!”

  A stampede of small boys, both of them, surged into the kitchen with Lily bringing up the rear. Little Ethan raised his arms for a hug, while big brother, Marcus, who was all of six, regaled me with the day's adventures.

  “I used the rolling pin 'cause Ethan's too little, and he dropped a egg—”

  “An egg.” Lily and I said it simultaneously, and laughed, but her eyes were anguished. I put Ethan down and opened my arms to her.

  “He dropped an egg and Mike said a bad word and Mrs. Hill says they're the best cookies ever and . . .”

  Marcus continued, a keyed-up little bird piping in the background, while Mike gently herded him and Ethan away from us into the living room. Lily and I stayed in the kitchen so the boys wouldn't see her cry.

  “Darwin will be home soon,” I whispered as I hugged her. “I swear, he'll be home soon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MONDAY WAS JAMMED. BONNIE BUCKMEISTER'S WEDDING WAS coming up fast, on Thursday night, so tying off the loose threads of her Yuletide tapestry would have been plenty in itself—especially given the disarray of my desk and my files. Added to that was the possible postponement of Tyler/Sanjek, after this second death in the wedding party.

  Postponement was still only a possibility, because I had so far failed to reach any of the principals by phone. I suspected that Sally would want to press on, but Frank or Ivy might have other ideas, and if that was the case, I had to be ready. Rescheduling a wedding, especially at the eleventh hour, is an unholy hassle.

  On top of all this, I needed to do some hard thinking about Madison Jaffee. But my angry parting from Aaron left a shadow over that whole question. Were my suspicions about her really as far-fetched as Aaron thought they were, or was his own instinct for the truth being clouded by emotion? Or were my own emotions being clouded by misguided instincts?

  An uncomfortable dilemma, any way you looked at it, so I decided to concentrate on wedding work first. As Eddie would say, I had too much corn poppin'.

  Eddie himself was still incommunicado, which made for another loose thread. If he didn't call in before returning in person, he wouldn't know we were back in business at the houseboat. Well, that was his problem. I left a message on his home number, and double-checked that Made in Heaven's phone was still forwarding to Solveto's.

  Kelli had agreed to keep fielding calls for me until Eddie got back. Solveto's was busy every day and night of the holidays, so she'd be working overtime till New Year's Day. The forwarding had worked so well, and I used my cell phone so much anyway, that most of my callers never even knew about my temporary change of location. But I didn't want to take any chances, especially with my new bride Andrea still out there somewhere.

  Even with too much to do, it was a pleasure to be back at my battered old desk, gazing out of my newly reinforced windows. Amazingly, the weather was still fine and frosty, with a high bright sky of the palest blue and the snowy peaks of the Olympic Mountains making a jagged edge along the western horizon. A few hardy souls had their sailboats out on the glittering lake, and a few even hardier souls were kayaking, stroking past the houseboats like waterborne joggers, moving fast to keep warm. Straight down below me, a little convoy of Canada geese paddled among the pilings. In the spring there would be goslings . . .

  After a few minutes of daydreaming about simpler, warmer days ahead, I tore my attention away from the water. Admiring the view wasn't getting me anywhere. I put on a baroque Christmas album, made some fresh coffee, and buckled down to work, starting with another attempt to reach Ivy. Once again, her assistant Jenna answered, but this time she had news.

  “I was just about to contact you,” said Jenna. She was an efficient older woman, rather formal, who seemed to put in endless hours at MFC. “Ms. Tyler called in to say she's spending the day at home with her husband. She'd prefer not to be disturbed.”

  “I understand. Is Charles all right?” Jenna and I had a good working relationship, even though I used first names and she didn't.

  She lowered her voice. “I'm not sure, Ms. Kincaid. They were both quite upset. Ms. Tyler had me call her daughter and ask her to come up to Snohomish.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, if you hear from either of them, I need to know right away if they're thinking about a change in wedding plans. Keep in touch, OK?”

  I worked steadily all afternoon, absorbed in my paperwork, and jumped when someone knocked on the office door. I opened it to a thin, pale, diffident-looking individual, blinking in the sunshine as if he'd just stepped out of a cave. Everything about him was thin and pale, from his long nose to his lank locks to the droopy raincoat he wore, surely not much help in this winter weather.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Well, I'm—”

  “Surprise!” A familiar face peeked around his shoulder: Bonnie Buckmeister, her round cheeks rosier than ever. “Brian's here, isn't he wonderful? Daddy's parking the car, but he said to go on up. Carnegie, we were so excited for you to meet Brian that we said let's just go see her! Let's just go right now! And then that nice Kelli told us you weren't in Fremont anymore, you were back in your houseboat, so we drove over here!” She nudged her fiancé playfully. “Brian, isn't Carnegie wonderful?”

  “Well, I—”

  “There you are, Mother, the happy couple and the woman who's gonna make it all happen!” The senior Buckmeisters were mounting the stairs. “Aren't they just the handsomest couple, Carnegie?”

  Buck reached the landing and stamped his feet, and I swear my floating home rocked a little on the water. “Boy howdy, it is cold out here.”

  “Come on inside,” I said helplessly. “Brian, it's good to finally meet you.”

  “You, too,” he said. Even his voice was thin. “I'm sorry, I'm a little—”

  “The boy's jet-lagged all to pieces,” said Betty, patting him on the arm. Then she looked around Made in Heaven's good room, rubbing her chilled hands together, and sighed contentedly. “You must be pleased as punch to be back in your own sweet little houseboat again. I was telling Brian, Carnegie lives in the sweetest little houseboat. How is your friend Alan, dear?”

  “Aaron.” Joe Solveto cohabited with a devilishly handsome man named Alan, but the Killer B's had never met him. “Aaron's fine. He's just fine.”

  “Nice fella,” rumbled Buck. “Real nice. In the newspaper business. You'd like him, Brian. Now that you're gonna live in Seattle, we'll have to hook you up with Alan sometime.”

  “I'm sure he'd like that very much,” I answered absently, with a longing look at the pile of work still on my desk. “He's kind of new in town himself. Well, now that we've met, I expect Brian would like to rest up before we talk about the wedding. Maybe tomorrow? . . .”

  But no, all three Buckmeisters assured me, Brian was just bursting with curiosity about every jolly detail of Christmas Eve eve. This seemed doubtful to me, but we settled ourselves in the wicker chairs and went through the entire event point by point. I reviewed each decision we'd made, from the fragrant cinnamon sticks nestled in the cedar wreaths, to the gentlemen's mistletoe boutonnieres, to the decorated tree that would serve as a gift table.

  “That's where Joe Solveto's model trains will be, in a big loop around the bottom of the tree. He's got a locomotive that puffs steam, and boxcars that say ‘Happy Holidays,' and all kinds of stuff; it'll be great. Now, Bonnie's first dance with her father will be to ‘Silver Bells' . . .”

  Through it all, Brian just sat and nodded and blinked—was he even awake?—until I got to the guest book. “Your guests will sign in at a small table just inside the entrance of the Arctic Club. We've picked out a crimson leather book with gold—”

  “No.” Brian held up a pale, narrow hand.

  “Pardon me?�
� I stopped short, and even the Killer B's were silenced.

  The bridegroom gnawed a thoughtful lip and said slowly, “Instead of a guest book, why don't we have everyone sign a big fancy white Christmas tree skirt? Then every year when Bonnie and I put up our tree, and put the skirt underneath, we'll remember our Christmas wedding.”

  Instantly, Betty, Bonnie, and Buck went into happy raptures.

  “Brian, that's perfect!”

  “Isn't he wonderful?”

  “The boy's a genius!”

  “What a clever idea,” I chimed in myself. I wasn't sure which surprised me more: Brian out-Yuleing his in-laws, or Brian completing a sentence. “I'll find a tree skirt today, and some fabric pens.”

  “I always said Brian was Mr. Right,” said Bonnie, clasping his narrow hand in her plump one.

  Betty tittered. “I used to say that exact same thing about your daddy—”

  “Now, Mother,” warned Buck fondly.

  “—'cept I'd say that his first name was Always!”

  I joined in the merriment that followed, then stood up with a decent show of regret. “Folks, I really have to get back to my desk.”

  “'Course you do!” Buck rose and patted me heartily on the shoulder. I tried to stay upright. “You get some rest, too. You're lookin' a little peaky.”

  I felt peaky, too, if that meant worn-out and hungry for sleep. Monday night I crashed early, and Tuesday morning I awoke with a bit more energy, and the determination to pin down the plans for Tyler/Sanjek, so I could clear my mind and give some serious thought to Madison Jaffee. Maybe I should swallow my pride and consult Aaron again, this time minus the shouting.

  First things first, though. Did I have two weddings coming up, or just one? Sally and Ivy still weren't answering their cell phones, so I tried Jenna again.

  “Ms. Tyler's not coming in today, either,” she told me. “Madison Jaffee is taking all the press calls about the merger.” Her voice grew more animated than I'd ever heard it. “MFC stock is up five and half just this morning!”

  Wall Street, it seemed, was not interested in the death of Lou Schulman. But if the doyenne of child-friendly caffeine was going to serve politically correct brew, well, that was news.