May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  “OK, I won't bother Ivy at home,” I said reluctantly. “But I really do need to know about the wedding. So if she calls—”

  “Won't you see her tonight at the concert?” asked Jenna. “She said you'd be there, with Mr. Bauer.”

  Oh, hell. Did I agree to go to this thing?

  “The concert, right,” I temporized. “Is Sally going, do you know?”

  “The whole family is attending, and Mr. Tyler has prepared some remarks.”

  “Well, of course, I'll be there, too. No question.” I badly wanted to redeem myself with Charles, and maybe I could nail things down with Sally, too. And come to think of it, I did tell Kevin I'd go with him.

  Sure enough, Kevin called me at mid-morning to confirm. As far as he was concerned, we had a date.

  “I'm sorry I didn't call till now, but it's been a madhouse up here, with the police searching the warehouse and the reporters underfoot. Are you all right? After a shock like that—”

  “I'm fine, really. I'm home in my houseboat! You'll get a chance to see it tonight. That is, unless you want to meet at the concert?”

  “Of course not.” He sounded mildly shocked. “Just give me directions, and I'll pick you up at seven.”

  An old-fashioned date, then. Sweet. I e-mailed him a map to my dock, and went back to work with a right good will. In fact, I got so much done that I knocked off a little early, to allow for sipping a glass of wine while I got dressed at my leisure. My dark red dress for tonight, I thought. I'm tired of the jade silk.

  But when I got downstairs to my bedroom, I discovered that leisure wasn't in the cards. In my haste to leave Ivy's apartment, I'd left behind a good pair of shoes, some earrings, and who knew what else. The earrings I could do without, but those black suede pumps with Cuban heels would look so good with the swirling skirt of the red dress . . . and I still had Ivy's key.

  Half an hour later I was letting myself into the apartment in the Market. I'd meant to go back anyway, just to neaten things up, although with Ivy sequestered at home, it hadn't really mattered. Fortunately, a quick look around showed the kitchen tidy, and all my toiletries out of the bathroom. Then I entered the guest bedroom and flipped on the light switch. With a little whump, the three-lamp track lighting above the head of the bed sparked and died.

  “Damn!”

  I tried feeling around the floor of the dark closet for my shoes, but came up empty. I should be a good guest, anyway. It won't take long. The broom closet in the kitchen yielded a pack of light bulbs, and soon I was standing on the bed in my stocking feet, keeping my wobbly balance while I unscrewed one lamp at a time, trying to figure out if a single bulb was dead, or all three.

  Then something odd happened. The middle bulb, when I got to it, fell into my hand like a ripe pear, far heavier than its companions. Puzzled, I stepped down from the bed and took it into the kitchen. What I saw by the kitchen light made me sick to my stomach.

  The object in my hands wasn't a lightbulb at all. It was a spy camera.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT IVY HAD BEEN SPYING ON ME, ME personally, but that was crazy. And the notion that she secretly filmed all her houseguests was even crazier. I know people aren't always what they seem, but my friend and mentor Ivy as a high-tech voyeur just didn't make sense.

  What did make sense was Ivy Tyler, CEO of family-friendly Meet for Coffee, the woman who lived in a fishbowl, as a blackmail target.

  I entered Ivy's room and looked up at the ceiling. Sure enough, the track lighting over her bed had been roughly removed; I could see dark marks on the white ceiling where it used to attach, and a small gaping hole for the wiring. Ivy must have discovered the camera and torn it out, but she hadn't checked the guest bedroom. Who could think straight when their most intimate territory had been violated?

  My next thought was to call Aaron. He could hardly be pleased to hear from me after being banished from my home, but this wasn't about us. It was about murder.

  At the sound of my voice, Aaron was wary, but once I explained my discovery, he was all business.

  “So you think the blackmail note was about Ivy?”

  “I'd bet on it. Jason would have heard the rumors about Ivy and Simon Weeks, and he could have gotten Lou into the apartment. Lou was the one with the technical know-how. So what do you think we should do now?”

  A long pause. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But this proves our theory!”

  “Does it really? Or does it prove that you were snooping around a private residence, and that a prominent businesswoman likes to make kinky home movies? Or that she just likes to keep tabs on her houseguests?”

  “You don't believe that, Aaron.”

  “Of course I don't, but the police might. Ordinary people do use these cameras.”

  “Oh.”

  Aaron's train of thought was steaming elsewhere. “The guy who knocked you down in her hallway. Could that have been Lou Schulman?”

  The thought made me shudder. It was full dark now outside the apartment windows, and the sound of cars and voices from the Market below seemed far away. “It could have been. In fact, it must have been, don't you think?”

  “Makes sense. Lou's partner is killed, so he panics. He wants to get those cameras out of there before they're traced to him. Ivy and I were at the apartment all Tuesday evening, so he has to wait for Wednesday. He made a lousy burglar, but then Lou wasn't all that bright outside his own computer expertise.”

  Another pause, while we both thought about the life and death of Lou Schulman. Then Aaron said, “Listen, put everything back the way it was, OK? It's not doing any harm now, and I don't think you want to confront Ivy with it. We need to get together and consider this some more.”

  “How's tomorrow morning?”

  “No, Maddie's coming to my place, to talk about the book.”

  “You do interviews at your apartment?”

  “She suggested it,” said Aaron blandly. “I gave up my office at the Sentinel, and she gets interrupted too much at MFC. Could you meet me somewhere tonight?”

  “No.” I glanced at the kitchen clock, one of those artsy types with no numbers, and decided to be specific about the reason. “Kevin's picking me up soon.”

  The temperature plummeted. “Ah. Well, let's not interfere with your social life.”

  “It's a concert of Charles's music,” I said severely. “I need to be there. And anyway, my social life is none of your business.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Aaron. “I'll let you go. Oh, by the way, Lily called to tell me about the dot-com where Lou and Jason worked. Guess what their biggest account was, for those pop-up ads?”

  “Spy cameras?”

  “Good guess, Nancy Drew. Enjoy your concert.”

  Getting dressed back on the houseboat, I could see that the Cuban heels looked terrific with the red dress, but I hardly cared. The thought of Ivy Tyler's most private moments being secretly recorded, only to be thrown back in her face with a threat to broadcast them to the world . . . it was horrible. I could almost understand killing the men who did that to her.

  No, I can't. I paused in front of the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand, and looked intently into my own eyes. No, murder isn't understandable, or excusable, ever. No.

  Kevin was late picking me up, so I met him at the front door in my coat.

  “How about a nightcap and a look at houseboat living, after the concert?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He gave me a kiss on the cheek, and opened his car door for me like a gentleman. Kevin drove a black SUV, one of the smaller ones, and judging by the mud spatters, it got some actual use on rough roads. Behind the wheel he was quiet and preoccupied, and I was quiet myself as I spread a street map on my lap, helping him find our destination by the glow of the dome light. I had a lot to think about.

  Braemere Heights was a gated neighborhood overlooking Elliott Bay, with houses set far back from the twisting road, behind masses of rhodod
endrons and sculpted evergreens. We found the right number on a gate post that loomed out of the darkness, and parked before a huge brick-and-stucco home with a slate roof and a row of tall leaded-glass windows. Bright lamplight spilled onto the lawn, along with the muffled sound of voices and laughter.

  As we walked up a flagstone pathway to the front door, we could see perhaps twenty or thirty people standing about the living room, chatting. In a farther room, beyond rows of empty folding chairs, a quartet of two men and two women in formal black were tuning their string instruments.

  “We made it,” said Kevin with relief, and I realized that his preoccupation was with being late, not with the investigation going on at Habitat. “I can hardly believe we get to do this! The Next Music Consort is world-famous.”

  Not to me, of course, but I didn't mention that.

  The door was opened by a large woman in a loud caftan, who proved to be Mary Ellen, our hostess for the evening. She welcomed us in and led us down a wide hallway lined with brass planters on marble columns, and adorned with various antiques. We passed a display of Japanese vases, and an artful arrangement of Louis Vuitton steamer trunks from the 1930's. Why collect stamps when you can go for the big stuff?

  Mary Ellen pointed out the elegant little red-and-gilt powder room, then led us across the hall from it into a coatroom crowded with skis, tennis rackets, a croquet set, soccer balls, camping gear, and boots and shoes for every possible sport.

  “It's the boys' junk,” she laughed. “I'm always telling them we could open our own branch of REI! Leave your coats and come on, there's still time for a quick drink. Kevin, you've met Mr. Tyler already, haven't you? I'm so thrilled to have him here.”

  So was everyone else, apparently. We entered the living room to see Charles seated on a damask love seat, surrounded by a crowd of well-dressed people who were hanging on the great man's every word. His snow-white brows were drawn together, but in thoughtfulness, not distress, and I was glad to see that his hands were hardly trembling.

  “The piece reflects my commitment to the acoustic realm,” he was saying. “I have no interest in the electronic milieu.”

  Ivy, looking sharp in diamonds and a white silk pantsuit, stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Charles solicitously. Simon Weeks was there, too, his broad shoulders and thick gray hair adding a distinguished note to the crowd. His fond and watchful eyes were always on Ivy, I noticed, just as they had been at the Habitat party, as if he were enjoying the occasion on her account rather than his own. I was glad that Simon had left the party early, while Lou was still alive; I didn't want to suspect him.

  When Ivy saw me and Kevin, she turned to give us each a warm smile and a hug. I bet most CEOs don't hug the owners of the company they just bought.

  “Is Sally here?” I asked her.

  She shook her head, and answered my unspoken question about the wedding.

  “They're out to dinner somewhere, talking things over. Frank's thinking about delaying the date again, but Sally wants to go ahead. Charles and I told them they have to decide for themselves this time. I'll let you know soon.”

  “Soon would be good,” I said, thinking, Now would be good, and she turned back to listen to her husband.

  “You're right, young man,” Charles was saying. “I make use of a polyrhythmic conversation between the violins and lower strings, striving toward a basic connectivity . . .”

  Kevin pressed forward to hear, but I peeled off and made for the sideboard, where Mary Ellen was dispensing drinks. I had the feeling I was going to need one. I wanted to get back in Charles's good graces, but it wasn't going to be through my grasp of polyrhythmic conversations. Or tonight's human conversations, either. The ones I overheard on my way to the bar might as well have been the cries of jungle birds.

  “. . . mindful of atonality, but ultimately outside considerations of tonal center . . .”

  “. . . more visceral than his early works. Legato is out the window . . .”

  “. . . long, declamatory jabs of the bow . . .”

  No, I'd just let Charles see my smiling face in the audience, and keep my mouth shut.

  Mary Ellen was a generous bartender. With about a pint of Chardonnay in hand, I turned to survey the room—and found myself face-to-face with Charles.

  “My condolences on your friend Mr. Schulman,” he said coldly. “You must be devastated.”

  “I wasn't . . . I mean, I didn't . . .”

  But Charles was already walking away. I was debating going after him—to say what, though?—when I was suddenly greeted by the last person on the planet I would have expected to see: Juice Nugent, wearing a man's tuxedo jacket with her leather pants, and holding hands with an attractive brunette.

  “Hey, Kincaid,” she said, “I didn't know you were into new music.”

  “I'm doing some work for Ivy Tyler,” I said vaguely.

  “Cool. This is Rita.”

  Rita, the girlfriend I'd heard so much about, smiled and nodded at me. She was more conventionally dressed, in a skirt and bright sweater, but she, too, had a slashed haircut and multiple earrings.

  “Mary Ellen is Rita's cousin,” continued Juice, “so we got in with the in-crowd. Some house, huh?”

  As I agreed with her, Kevin joined our little circle. He was smiling at me as he came, but when he saw Juice, his smile stiffened.

  “We should take our seats,” he began.

  “In a sec,” I replied, slugging my wine. “Kevin Bauer, this is Juice Nugent, a fabulous cake baker, and this is Rita? . . .”

  “Morales. Are you a musician, Kevin, or just a listener like me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, nice to meet you. Carnegie, shall we go in?”

  “That was a little rude, wasn't it?” I whispered as we entered the music room. So few houseboats these days have a really decent music room.

  Kevin raised his eyebrows at me. “I was surprised, that's all. What's someone like that doing here?”

  “The same thing we are, I suppose. Juice is—”

  “Shh,” said an impatient voice behind us. Mary Ellen began to introduce her honored guest, a man whose work had been a revelation to us all for years, a man who inspired so many young composers, a man who . . .

  It was a nice introduction, but long. My gaze drifted over to Ivy, listening intently to this praise of the man who sat beside her, her husband and benefactor. Eddie was right, she was a fine-looking woman.

  Simon Weeks had taken the seat on Ivy's other side. When Mary Ellen concluded by asking Charles to stand, and leading a round of applause, Simon whispered something in Ivy's ear. Still applauding, she turned toward him and laughed in private understanding.

  Suddenly I felt a hot, uneasy blush welling up from my throat. “Naked and crazy,” the blackmail note had read. I hadn't even seen the damn video, and now I couldn't look at Ivy and Simon without thinking about it. Was their affair a playful one, or heartfelt, long-term or one-time? Whichever, it had become a poisonous threat to Ivy's standing as a darling of the business world, and her role as a famous man's loving wife.

  Because Ivy did love Charles, you could tell. But love takes many forms. Ivy Tyler was in the prime of life; her husband was ill and frail. Simon Weeks, strong and vital, had been at her side throughout the adventure of creating MFC. It wasn't hard to understand. So many people have secrets, and not all of them can be condemned.

  Charles's remarks, and the performance that followed, were equally wasted on me. Any other time, even if I hadn't cared for the music, I would have been enthralled by the sight of the string quartet playing, their intense concentration and the intricate choreography of sound. But tonight, Charles Tyler's harsh, discordant creations were just a backdrop to my dark musings.

  I was glad when the intermission came, and I could slip away to the powder room. When I emerged I saw Kevin across the hall, getting something from his coat pocket.

  “Isn't this amazing?” He was even more animated than he'd been at Etta's. “Mary Elle
n said she'd put me on her mailing list for private concerts. I want to give her my business card before I forget.”

  I joined him and glanced around. We were alone. I'd intended to avoid the subject of murder tonight; it seemed a shame to spoil Kevin's enthusiasm, and somehow rude to Mary Ellen, as if doing so would bring a sinister shadow into her home. But now I couldn't help it. Whoever the killer was, the thought of him going free while Darwin stood trial, at risk of his freedom or even his life, was too much.

  “Tell me, Kevin, did the police find anything useful at Habitat? The murder weapon, or anything else?”

  “Nothing.” He changed gears easily; the subject wasn't as far from his mind as I had thought. He dropped the business card case in his shirt pocket, frowning, and set his fists on his hips. “You know, I'm not sure they even looked all that hard. I mean, they went over the men's room for hours, but there are so many places on the roasting floor where you could stash a knife, and the search out there went pretty quickly.”

  “They're done already?”

  He nodded. “They told me they might be back, though I doubt it. But we close for Christmas week anyway, so if they need to—”

  “If no one's going to be around,” I said eagerly, “maybe you could search some more yourself. Or could we both? If we found the knife, we wouldn't touch it, we could just call the police back in. There's an innocent man in jail, and I'm going to find the guilty one, no matter what it takes.”

  Kevin smiled, and pulled me to him for a kiss on the forehead. “You're quite a public defender, aren't you? Tell you what, I'll do it myself, and call you if I find anything. I've got time on my hands this week, except for driving to Portland for a few days to see family. And you were telling me how busy you are right now.”

  “I am, actually. In fact I should— What's that?”

  I'd heard a sound from the hallway, and went to look. Charles Tyler, apparently on his way to the powder room, was braced against the wall, his right arm in spasm, a wild look in his eyes. Mary Ellen had just entered the hallway behind him, and we both rushed forward to help.