“All right, tell Ivy I can be there by three o'clock.”
“Oh, thank you! Are you sure you can't come earlier?”
“Quite sure,” I said firmly. “I have to take someone to the airport first. Someone important.”
Imagine Sally Tyler saying “Thank you,” I mused, driving north on I-5 a couple of hours later. The weather had turned Seattle-normal: a low leaden sky, a fine drizzle, and a layer of wet haze rising from the road surface, kicked up by a thousand hissing tires. At the moment, Miami sounded pretty appealing.
Aaron had just barely caught his plane. Part of the delay was arranging a tow truck for his Volkswagen, but most of it had to do with fondling me. At the houseboat while we dressed, at his apartment while he packed, inside Vanna at the Sea–Tac parking garage, inside the terminal while he waited to check in . . . It was going to be a long week. Well, I had Christmas morning at Lily's tomorrow, and plenty on my plate today with the resolution—I hoped—of Tyler/Sanjek.
But still, all these days apart from Aaron, not to mention all these nights . . . Memories of last night, or rather this morning, kept me dreamily preoccupied almost the whole way to the Tylers'. Then as I swung Vanna into the private gravel road, the drizzle became a downpour, and I had to concentrate on my driving.
Vanna splashed through the dim tunnel of fir trees with her wipers on high and the rain drumming on her roof. I switched on the headlights, and just as I did, another set of lights appeared, swerving around a bend and plunging through a broad rain puddle on its way past me. A small scarlet car . . .
Ivy Tyler, driving like a bat out of hell. A wave of dirty water slapped heavily across my windshield, making me flinch, but I caught a glimpse of Ivy's face, pale and forbidding, as she sped away.
What's sent her out into the rain, I wondered as I parked at the house. A rash decision to run off with Simon Weeks? Or a further blackmail threat from Madison, now that her partners in crime are dead?
“No thinking,” Mike had said, but I couldn't help it. Hard to imagine what was going on in Ivy's mind right now, but clearly it wasn't her daughter's nuptials. I dashed resentfully through the deluge to the front door, shielding my folder of paperwork under my coat. This better not be a wasted trip.
“Is Ivy coming back?” I asked Sally as she let me in. “Because if we're arranging a postponement, she needs to be here.”
“I don't know.” My bride was festively dressed, in narrow black velvet trousers and an ice-blue shantung blouse with pearl buttons. But her face was swollen with weeping, and her voice sounded like a little girl's. “She got a phone call and just took off. Nobody's making any sense today. Do you want some wine? I'm going to have some wine.”
“Maybe later.” I followed her to the kitchen by way of the dining room, where a rosewood table bore the remains of an elaborate lunch for four. “Is Frank still on his walk? He'll be soaked.”
“Serves him right,” she said with unconvincing bravado. “He shouldn't have gone out like that.”
“And where's your stepfather?”
“Lying down. He spends most afternoons in his room, but I think he just wanted to get away from us.”
Sally reached into a built-in wine cooler and pulled out a bottle, seemingly at random. The cork remover she reached for next looked like a surgical instrument, but she wielded it with ease, hardly glancing down as she opened the bottle and poured herself a hefty glassful of something red.
She took a slurp, then gave me a long, plaintive look. “Charles said I was being heartless. Carnegie, I'm not heartless, am I?”
What an opening. I'm a poor liar anyway, and the temptation to let her have it between the eyes was severe. But she was still my bride.
“Let's sit down a minute.” We settled on either side of the island where Andy had prepared his sushi. “Do you want an honest answer?”
The familiar pout began to form on Sally's pale, pretty features, but then it gave way to a wobbly smile. “Am I that bad? All I want is my wedding date. It's not like Lou was Frank's brother or anything.”
“That's not really the point, is it? The point is that Frank has reservations about the timing of the wedding. There are two people getting married here, not one. Did you give him a chance to talk about how he feels?”
She jutted a lip and toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “I guess not.”
“Don't you think you should? You know, the fun of having your reception on New Year's Eve will be temporary, but starting your marriage with a sense of respect for each other could last the rest of your life.”
“Oh. Oh.” Sally's eyes grew wide and shining, as if the truth had set her free.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I THOUGHT, I REALLY THOUGHT, THAT I'D FINALLY GOTTEN through to Sally Tyler. But unfortunately for my self-image as a fount of wisdom, she wasn't even looking at me. She was gazing over my shoulder at the kitchen doorway where Frank Sanjek, dripping with rain, was gazing back at her. His clothes were sodden, and his curly hair was pasted flat above his mild, troubled brown eyes. It was the perfect moment for Sally to apologize.
“Frankie!” She flew to him. “I was so worried about you, out there in the rain. How could you do that to me? I was frantic! How could you?”
This little embellishment had precisely the desired effect. Sally knew her man.
“I'm so sorry, baby,” said Frank, holding her close. The ice-blue shantung soaked through in seconds. “I didn't mean to scare you. I just had to think, you know? I'm sorry.”
“I forgive you,” said Sally, and wriggled even closer. “I love you, Frankie. So, can we get married on New Year's Eve just like we always wanted?”
“Sure we can, baby. Anything you want.”
So much for respect. I reached for Sally's wineglass and took a slug. Not bad.
“Ms. Kincaid?” Eleanor, the maid, had followed Frank in. “There's a phone call for you.”
I glanced over at the kitchen phone. “I didn't even hear it ring.”
“We turn the ringers off when Mr. Tyler is resting,” she explained. “Except for my cordless.”
“I see.” Sally had begun to peel Frank out of his wet clothes. My work here was through. “Why don't I take it in the living room?”
Eleanor directed me to the wing chair by the fireplace, and a telephone with an actual rotary dial. Something told me the phone was Charles's preference, not Ivy's. What was it Joe had called him? An old-fashioned gentleman.
“This is Carnegie.”
“Hi, it's Kelli. Gee, I hope it's OK for me to call you there, because you didn't answer your cell phone even though I tried and tried.”
I blushed at that. The phone was still in my tote bag, but the bag was lying somewhere in the houseboat, drifted over by my jade silk dress and some hastily removed lingerie.
“So anyway, I said I'd try calling around for you because he said it was really important—”
“Slow down, Kelli. Who said what was important?”
“Kevin Bayer. Bauer? Kevin Bauer. Were you really locked in the cooler like you said in your message?”
“That's why I left the message.”
“Wow. Joe isn't coming in today, he's got three different events, but I told him all about it.”
“I bet you did. Kelli, when did Kevin call, and what did he say?”
“Oh, just a few minutes ago. It was kind of weird. He said he found what you were looking for at the Habitat warehouse, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He wants you to go there and see it, and he said the authorities are on their way. Does that make sense? I wasn't sure what he meant by authorities.”
“Yes.” The murder weapon. My heart began to thud, hard and fast. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. Thanks.”
Ten minutes later I was steering Vanna back down the gravel road, trying to calculate the fastest route to Habitat. My thoughts were racing. Kevin must have gotten back from Portland, and searched the warehouse as he promised me he would. If he'd found the murder weapon, then Darwin'
s utility knife would be shown for what it was—an innocent art tool. And if the real weapon had fingerprints, or could be traced somehow, maybe Lily would get her brother home for Christmas . . .
It wasn't until I pulled into the Habitat parking lot that I spared a different kind of thought for Kevin Bauer. Oh, hell. Sally wasn't the only heartless one; I had to tell Kevin that I wouldn't be going out with him again. Christmas Eve was an unfortunate time to let someone down, especially when the someone has just done you a huge favor. But what else could I do?
Vanna was the only car in the lot; Kevin and the police must have parked on the other side of the building. Or maybe the police hadn't arrived yet. I decided to be sensible, and wait until they'd come and gone before I gave Kevin the bad news. But meanwhile, I was eager to see what he'd found, and where he'd found it. I remembered the half-dream I'd had, about a knife among the coffee beans. A premonition?
Evening was closing in. A narrow band of light showed me that the side door of the warehouse was propped slightly ajar. The rain had let up a bit, so I didn't get too wet as I crunched across the gravel.
“Kevin? It's me!”
My voice echoed in the high, open space. The party paraphernalia was gone, of course, and the warehouse was back to looking like an empty stage set, with safety lights here and there barely piercing the gloom. The toylike forklifts were still, some of them still bearing their loads, and the lofty tiers of coffee bags were dark and silent.
At the far end of the warehouse, I could see a desk lamp shining dimly through the blinds of the glassed-in computer room that overlooked the roasting floor. I hurried toward it, refining my strategy as I went.
I'll be friendly with Kevin, I was thinking, but I won't let him kiss me, because he'll be embarrassed about it later. I began to climb the open steel staircase to the office door. I just hope he won't be angry—
Then I pushed open the door, and rational thought fled as the figure inside turned toward me. Charles Tyler, with a mad light in his onyx eyes and an old-fashioned straight razor in his upraised hand.
He lunged. I screamed and leapt away. And then I heard my scream echo as I fell backward down the clanging stairs.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I HAULED MYSELF UPRIGHT AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS, AND clung to the steel handrail for the space of one shocked, gasping breath. I was winded but unhurt—until I put weight on my left foot, and cried out at the pain that stabbed through my knee. Could I even walk on it? No time to wonder. Charles came clanging down the stairs behind me, and I fled.
Charles? I thought in bewilderment, hobbling desperately away. I could hardly take in what I'd seen. The razor . . . Could he be the one who killed Jason and Lou? But why?
I didn't get far, just to the big tank of the main roaster. Charles must have seen the direction I took, but I had some confused hope that if I dodged and hid for long enough, he'd relinquish the hunt and leave the building. So I crouched behind the tank, keeping the weight off my knee, and listened.
Footsteps, first ringing on the metal stairs, then striking the concrete floor. Not the hesitant gait of an old man, but a purposeful, relentless stride. Had Charles been faking all this time, exaggerating the severity of his illness? Or was it just adrenaline driving him on? I held my breath. The steps came closer, the only sound in the vast, dim, unpeopled silence. The entire building was empty save for the two of us—and Kevin Bauer.
Kevin. My thoughts seemed to sharpen, even as they gathered speed. How soon after Kevin's phone call to Kelli had Charles come upon him? Faced by the nightmare apparition at the head of the stairs, I hadn't looked into the office beyond. If I had, would I have seen Kevin lying there in a pool of his own blood?
I tried to swallow down the horror that rose, choking, in the back of my throat. The police had been summoned, after all. Surely they'd arrive any minute now. But they're not here yet, and I can't afford to wait. It only takes minutes to bleed to death.
Part of me, the cowardly part, said that Kevin was almost certainly dead already, and that I could only save myself. But another part remembered Kevin holding my injured hand while Fiona drove us to the clinic, and the warmth of passion in his voice when he talked about founding Habitat. I knew then that I wouldn't abandon him. Not while there was still a chance.
The footsteps reached the roaster. I stood up.
Charles Tyler and I stared at each other over the top of the tank, perhaps a dozen feet apart, but separated by a maze of pipes and ductwork that crisscrossed the air between us. In the dim light his eyes were black stones, and when he spoke his voice was weirdly serene and very, very cold.
“There's no point running away, you know.”
“Charles,” I said urgently, “don't you recognize me? Carnegie Kincaid. You don't want to hurt me.”
He took a step to his right and I mirrored the movement, keeping the full width of the machinery between us.
“Hurt you, my dear? After what you did, don't you think I have reason to hurt you?”
“But I haven't done anything.”
If we kept circling like this, Charles would move farther from the staircase while I got closer to it. My plan—if you could call it that—was to rush back up the stairs and lock the office door against him. I'd do what I could to help Kevin, call an ambulance, and wait for the police.
Another step. Two. I had to keep him distracted.
“Tell me, what is it you think I've done?”
“Don't play the innocent!” His lips drew back from his teeth. “You disgust me, fawning over that lout Schulman, helping him and Kraye in their loathsome scheme. Taking secret pictures, trying to destroy my wife.”
“You knew they were blackmailing Ivy? You knew about the affair?”
Slowly, slyly, horribly, Charles smiled.
“Of course I knew. I know everything about my girls. I listen to their telephone calls, and I watch them come and go.” Charles made these bizarre statements in a perfectly conversational tone. “Ivy believes that she has protected me all these years, and I suppose she has. But I keep watch over her, as well. She's found a partner for life now, who'll be with her after I'm gone. I won't permit her happiness to be ruined.”
“I understand.”
Of course I didn't understand, not in the least. Was this more noblesse oblige, protecting his family from scandal while his wife made love to another man? Had Charles Tyler accepted his own physical decline that philosophically, and subdued his masculine pride that far?
It didn't matter. I had to keep him talking, keep his gaze locked onto mine.
“Did Ivy know about . . . about what happened to Jason?”
I had almost reached the broad tube where, on my tour with Kevin, I'd seen the coffee beans flying upward like bees. I'll run when I get to that point, I decided. Just a little farther. I can do this.
“Of course not!” Charles seemed offended by the idea. “I chose a time when she would be away.”
The thought of that night at the Hot Spot recalled something Ivy had mentioned once, on our way into Solveto's. I took another sidestep. “So you used the Santa costume from Ivy's holiday party as a disguise.”
“Exactly. It was all quite simple. Schulman was more difficult, however. He was pressing her. I had to act quickly.” Charles stopped where he was. His voice grew louder, the snow-white eyebrows lowering above the onyx eyes. “They were despicable men, both of them. I watched from the library doorway the night they came to threaten my wife. The insolence! Invading my home, defying my authority, demanding more and more money from her. Bleeding her dry.”
Authority? The word snagged in my mind, but the thought eluded me. Charles reared back his head and his eyes caught the light. Not onyx now, but obsidian, glittering and razor-sharp.
“In the end,” he said, “they were the ones to bleed.”
I took a breath and tensed my muscles to dash for the staircase. But as he spoke these last words, Charles took another sidestep, and through a gap between the ductwork
I saw the razor in his hand once again.
The clean, gleaming razor.
No blood. I released my breath, as the facts shifted into place like colored glass shifting in a kaleidoscope, to make a new and terrifying pattern. If he'd slashed at Kevin, wouldn't there be blood on the razor? Because Kevin called from the office . . . Kelli said he had called “the authorities” . . . Why would Kevin use a British term?
He wouldn't.
Charles hadn't slashed at Kevin, after all. Because Kevin wasn't here. It was Charles who placed the call to Solveto's office, and the police hadn't arrived, because they were never called in the first place.
There was no one in the roasting plant for me to rescue, and no one was coming to rescue me.
“Charles, listen. I wasn't helping Lou and Jason, honestly I wasn't.”
I hardly knew what I was saying, as I tried to decide what to do next. Could I use Charles's deception to my advantage? Worth a try.
I took a pleading tone. “Kevin wasn't involved, either, don't you see that? Please, tell me, did you hurt Kevin? Won't you let me go back upstairs to the office and help him? Then we can talk about this, and I can explain everything. Please?”
“Back upstairs . . .” I could see the calculation on Charles's face, as he realized my error. Why hunt me through the building, if I was willing to go docilely to my doom? “Yes, that's right, Kevin is upstairs. We'll go up to the office now, my dear, and we'll talk. I won't hurt you.”
This time we each stepped in the same direction, decreasing the distance between us.
“Charles, wait! I'll go up first, all right?”
I had to get a head start somehow. Despite his age and whatever his condition, my wrenched knee would put us on equal terms in any race. Not even equal. He had a weapon; I had nothing.
Or did I? Just off to my right, a handle protruded from the side of the tank. The tryer. I remembered Kevin pulling it out and showing me the coffee beans nestled inside. The tryer was a heavy steel cylinder, not an ideal weapon, but better than nothing. I edged toward it, and kept on pleading.
May the Best Man Die Page 24