Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Um, hi,” murmured a voice behind me.

  It was Zack, solemn and wide-eyed. I touched his arm briefly, then returned my attention to the priest, who was pronouncing a final prayer. Several people made the sign of the Cross; Corinne was one of them, and I recalled that she was Catholic. Valerie Duncan was not, apparently, but she was murmuring a private benediction to herself. Or was it something else? She had little reason to bless Mercedes. At the grave’s edge, Esteban and his mother each dropped a blood-red rose onto the casket. I don’t cry easily, but I felt tears on my face. Good-bye, Mercedes. We’ll find out who did this. You would have been a lovely bride. Beside me, Zack gave a sharp little sigh.

  The crowd stirred and began to drift apart, some people stepping forward to offer their condolences to Mrs. Montoya. I moved to follow, but Valerie Duncan came across the grass and drew me discreetly aside.

  “Valerie—” I began.

  “Please forget I said anything,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes, and keeping her back turned toward her coworkers. “At the rehearsal dinner. You know what I mean.”

  “It’s completely forgotten, believe me.”

  The rest of the Sentinel crew came over to join us, looking at a loss about what to do next.

  “Of course Roger cares,” Paul was saying, in answer to someone’s question. “It’s just that he’s not up to another funeral so soon after his wife’s death.”

  “I’m sure that’s why Roger isn’t here,” said Valerie smoothly.

  Given that she knew about Roger and Mercedes, it was a nice job of acting. But I guess if you’re going to have affairs with married men, you learn how to act a part.

  “This has been difficult for everyone,” Valerie continued. “Why don’t we go back to the Two Bells for a drink? I know I need one. Carnegie, you’re welcome to join us.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, and they set out toward the parking lot. Zack lingered behind with me.

  “What happened with the DJ?” he asked.

  I told him about Rick the Rocket’s demand for money, and my deduction that he was innocent. I didn’t mention the diamond ring; Mercedes’ affair with Roger Talbot was none of his business.

  “Syd Soper is off the hook, too,” I concluded. “When I told him that Mercedes had been stabbed to death, he believed it.”

  “Hey, that was smart!” said Zack.

  “I thought so.”

  “So that just leaves Angela and the Dracula guy.” As he spoke, I could see Angela over his shoulder, her smooth hair gleaming and her willowy form casting a long shadow on the erratically-trimmed grass. She stared after the Sentinel people, then suddenly hurried after them and spoke intently to Corinne. I wondered why.

  Zack turned and followed my gaze. “You think it was Angela after all?”

  “What? No, I was just being nosy. My big news is about Dracula. Characters, Inc. never rented a Count Dracula costume! I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m sure that my first idea was right. This guy Lester Foy is on some kind of bizarre revenge trip, and he crashed the party.”

  “But that means you’re in danger, too!” Robin Hood was back on the scene, ready to defend Maid Marian. “You should tell the police.”

  “I already did. At least, I left a message for Lieutenant Graham about the costume. And I’ll keep calling to make sure he follows up. Meanwhile, I’m being extra-careful.”

  “I’ll totally hang with you as much as you want,” said the hero of Sherwood Forest. “I got a ride here with Valerie, but I’ll go back with you and we can meet up with them at the tavern.”

  “Oh, Zack, I’m in no mood for a bar right now.” And in no need of more gossip about me and the younger man. “You go ahead, please. It’s broad daylight. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Go.”

  He grinned and loped across the grass after his friends. And why not? Zack was still basking in his deliverance from guilt, back in the land of the living after his nightmare. As they climbed into their cars, I noted with interest that Angela was still talking to Corinne, two blondes in black dresses in the bright sunshine. They both seemed tense.

  I considered strolling over to eavesdrop, but Corinne made a sudden sharp gesture with her hands and turned away. She nearly bumped into Valerie, who had just come after them, apparently to say that her carload was leaving. As Corinne entered Valerie’s sedan, Angela looked after her with a puzzled expression. Then she got into her own sporty model and drove off.

  I was left alone, wondering idly about that encounter, and pondering, much more seriously, about Aaron. Lily was right, good men were hard to find, and perfect men were impossible. I stood there in the peaceful hush, wishing for a bench where I could sit in the sun and think. Maybe Aaron’s phone call to Lily just proved how serious he was about our relationship. Maybe the only unknown in this equation was me. How could I calculate how serious I was? Should I ask Aaron to stay in Seattle? And if I did, what then? And why on earth had I ever kissed Zack Hartmann? It was all very—

  “Excuse me, lady.”

  I was so lost in thought, it took me a moment to peg the man with the shovel as a gravedigger. He wore a gigantic handlebar moustache and a look of long-suffering patience.

  “Do you mind if we finish up here? I don’t mean to rush you if you need some one-on-one time with the deceased and all, only my crew is going off shift—”

  “I’m sorry! Please, go ahead.” Embarrassed, I strode off toward the far end of the cemetery, looking for some privacy and maybe a bench.

  What I found was Skull.

  He was standing alone, his thick arms folded and his booted feet planted wide, glaring at me as I walked toward him. Oh, God. He must have come to gloat over the woman he killed, and stayed to watch the rest of us with murder on his mind. I could feel the heat rush to my face as I veered aside, trying to act as if I knew where I was going.

  Fortunately, the other, larger burial service was still underway a few hundred yards across the cemetery from my nemesis. Ignoring the curious glances from the family members seated in folding chairs, I took a place on the other side of the grave, among the standing mourners, as far as I could get from Lester Foy What could he do, jump over the casket and attack me? I kept a close watch on his inked-up bald skull beyond the heads of the peevish silver-haired widow and her brood of antsy teenagers. Whoever the dear departed was, nobody seemed all that sorry to see him go.

  Skull hadn’t followed me. In fact, he didn’t move a muscle as the presiding minister droned through the eulogy. No wonder the widow looked peeved; this guy was a lousy preacher, and he didn’t seem too inspired by the life and death of Harold Baird. That was the departed’s name, evidently, though at one point the clergyman called him Howard.

  “Harold,” snapped the widow, and one of the teenagers snickered. The minister frowned, corrected himself, and droned on. I was determined to stay safely inside this group until we all drove away, but after a few minutes I was longing for hymns or hysteria or something to break the monotony.

  “… that he may rest in peace. Amen.”

  And about time, too. I exchanged polite half-smiles with a few of the mourners, and turned to accompany them along the path to the parking lot. Suddenly my way was blocked by the widow.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she hissed. No kidding, she actually hissed. “You bitch!”

  I glanced around, hoping to see the guilty party standing behind me, but no, I was the only one in her crosshairs. Everybody else was steering clear, leaving us alone on the path.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”

  “I knew it was a redhead. Did you think I didn’t know? How dare you come here!”

  “Mrs. Baird,” I said firmly, scanning over her shoulder for Skull. He was walking toward the parking lot, and, to my surprise, there was a woman with him. Mandy? “Mrs. Baird, I think you’ve confused me with someone else—”

  “Don’t give me that, you—”

&
nbsp; I pressed on boldly, my blood prickling with relief at Skull’s departure.

  “You see, I just had to pay my respects after Harold was so kind to me. So kind to a stranger,” I added hastily. Skull and Mandy were climbing into a battered red pickup with a skull-and-crossbones flag on the antenna. “You see, I… I had an accident once, in my truck, and he drove me to the police station. I’ve always been so grateful.” The pickup pulled out of the lot and disappeared. “Harold was such a modest man, that’s probably why he never told you about it. Nice meeting you. Lovely ceremony. Fabulous sermon. Bye!”

  I left her sputtering behind me. Inside ten minutes I was cruising back up the freeway, with no red pickups anywhere in sight, and inside the hour I was home with my doors and windows locked against the gathering darkness, on the phone to Lieutenant Graham.

  “I got your message, Ms. Kincaid. I really don’t see that the absence of a Dracula costume at that particular shop means much, but in any case—”

  “But there’s more!” I told him. “Skull is following us again. He was at Mercedes’ funeral!”

  “You saw Lester Foy? When and where?”

  I gave him the details, including the flag on the truck. “So you’re looking for him now? You believe me?”

  “Ms. Kincaid, I was about to say that in any case, Lester Foy has moved out of his apartment without notifying us, which means he has jumped bail. So yes, there’s a warrant out for his arrest, but only on the robbery charge. As I said, I don’t think this business about the costume means much.”

  “But—”

  “Ms. Kincaid, it’s Sunday afternoon. I’m still at the office, and I’m going to be here all Sunday night, too, if I don’t get back to work. Call me immediately if you see Lester Foy again. And please, leave the homicide cases to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  UP NORTH IN SEATTLE, YOU PAY FOR THE LONG JUNE AFTERNOONS with the dark winter mornings. It always seems like a good deal in June, but never in November. I had expected some nightmares about Skull, but instead I slept dreamlessly until Monday morning. A good thing, too, since I had to be up early for Juice’s audition with the Buckmeisters. It seemed extra-early when my alarm went off; the weather had shifted yet again, to the kind of dank, cold fog we’d seen up at the Salish Lodge, and between the fog and the time of year, it was still half-dark I scanned the dock carefully from my front door, but the only people I saw were various neighbors setting out for work. Grateful for their presence, I scurried out to the parking lot, locked my car doors and drove off, keeping a wary eye out for Skull’s red pickup. I didn’t see it, and by the time I stopped for my usual latte and bagel, and then parked downtown, the streets and sidewalks were so full of cars and people that the day quickly took on a more prosaic atmosphere. Cold and gray, but prosaic

  “Hey, Kincaid, you’re late!” said Juice, letting me in by the side door to By Bread Alone. She wore a white apron over a T-shirt, along with her usual short shorts and cowboy boots—brown ones this time—and her hair was its usual violent green. “Sucky time to get up, isn’t it? ’Course bakers have been awake for hours by now. Your clients are late, too.”

  I wondered again how the Buckmeisters, especially Betty, would take to Juice. “They’ll be here. They only show up early when you’re not expecting them at all. Aren’t you ever cold in those shorts?”

  “I’m hot-blooded. Just ask Rita.”

  Laughing, she led me through the kitchen, with its giant mixers and long counters for kneading, to the café section out front. Most of the tables were bare, but one was set with dessert plates, cake forks, coffee cups, and a vase of carnations. The table beside it was spread with a white cloth, an empty stage waiting for the star’s big entrance. Presentation is half the battle in the food business, and Juice knew it.

  “So what have you got to show us?” I asked.

  “Surprise,” she said smugly. “You’re gonna have to wait.”

  I noticed she had blisters along one forearm. “Let me guess. Something wonderful in pulled sugar?”

  Pulled sugar creates lovely, brittle fantasy shapes—not unlike Dale Chihuly’s blown glass—but it has to be kept hot while it’s worked, and even careful bakers end up with a burn or two. The smart ones keep a bowl of ice water close at hand.

  “You got it,” said Juice. “But I’m not saying anything else.”

  She went back to the kitchen, and I went to look out the window through the thin hazy fog, in case the Buckmeisters came to the wrong door. Across the street, up on the utility roof of a south-facing apartment building, I saw something odd: a uniformed policeman, visible only from the waist up, behind some ventilation equipment. There was no one else around, but he wasn’t slouching, or smoking, or fidgeting. He was standing very still, and something about the somber look on his round young face made me curious to know what he was doing up there.

  “Carnegie! You ready for some cake for breakfast?” The familiar voice boomed across the empty room and resounded from the plate-glass windows. Buck, Betty, and Bonnie trooped in, bundled against the chill, all six cheeks rosier than ever. Juice followed them in, and when they reached the center of the room and turned to get a better look at her, I held my breath for the reaction.

  “Goodness!” said Betty, her black curls bouncing. “I can’t believe it!”

  For all her bravado, Juice looked a bit discomfited. “Believe what?”

  “Ray Jones peanut-brittle lizard! Look at that toebug!”

  I thought Betty had lost her mind, but Juice smiled broadly and stuck out one foot. “Like ’em?”

  “Dear Lord,” said Buck, in the quietest tone I’d ever heard from him. Then he reverted to his usual bellow. “Young lady, where in the name of I don’t know what did you get a pair of handmade Ray Jones boots? He’s been gone for decades!”

  “My girlfriend found them for me at a pawnshop in Oklahoma. And they fit perfect. It’s like they were destined for me, y’know?”

  “I’m giving my fiancé a pair of Henry Camargos for a wedding gift,” said Bonnie, blushing like, well, blushing like a bride. “Cognac alligator.”

  Juice sighed. “Cooool.”

  The Buckmeisters went on exclaiming and admiring and agreeing about the destiny of footwear for about ten minutes, and by the time they took their seats at the tasting table, the color of Juice’s hair was clearly immaterial. So far, so good. But could she get Christmassy enough for these Yuletide fanatics?

  I shouldn’t have doubted. Juice swaggered into the kitchen— now that I was looking, they were pretty nice boots—and reappeared with a tray bearing three small, exquisite cakes decorated as Christmas gifts, wrapped in three different and elaborate ways, swathed in gossamer ribbons and bows, and surrounded by Christmas tree ornaments in glittering, stained-glass colors. The Buckmeisters were struck dumb—for once—so I spoke up.

  “Juice, those are fabulous! But we have three hundred guests—”

  “I’ll do a different cake for every table, like centerpieces,” she said, trying to be nonchalant but brimming with pride in her creations. She set the tray on the second table so we could marvel at it from all sides. “This one is white chocolate hazelnut torte with raspberry liqueur filling, then there’s mocha mousse torte, and this one is ‘lemon impossible,’ that’s golden sponge cake with lemon curd filling. It’s awesome.”

  Buck found his voice. “I have never seen anything so pretty that you could eat!”

  After four other tastings, Betty was learning the lingo. “Is that what they call gum paste?”

  Juice bridled. “I freakin’ hate gum paste. You can model it like clay, but it tastes gross.”

  “Sorry, dear. No offense. What is it, then?”

  “The wrapping is poured fondant, the ribbons are pulled sugar, and the ornaments are blown sugar.”

  “It’s a very tricky technique,” I told them. “Juice is a real artist when it comes to sugar work.”

  “She surely is!” said Buck. “I could look at these
all day.”

  “You look all you want while I get you some coffee,” Juice offered, then winked at me. “You wanna help me back here?”

  I followed her into the kitchen. As we assembled a thermos pot and the cream and sugar tray, I whispered, “Juice, are you crazy? You can’t possibly charge enough to cover that many individual cakes. Not ones that elaborate, anyway. It would cost a fortune!”

  “I’m only gonna charge them three-quarters of a fortune. I’ll still end up working for chump change by the time I do all the custom work on these puppies, but I figure it’ll make such a splash that snotty guys like Joe Solveto will start taking me seriously.”

  “Still, that’s an immense amount of work.”

  She shrugged. “Rita’s out of town the first half of December. When I’m not getting any, I got energy to burn.”

  We poured coffee for the Killer B’s, now looking sweet as honeybees, and Juice began slicing cake. I declined—I can’t handle sugar that early in the day—and took my coffee cup over to the window again. It was lighter now, the flat shadow-less light of winter in Seattle, and I could see the rooftop scene across the way with eerie, two-dimensional clarity.

  The policeman was still there, joined now by three men in suits. One of them carried what looked like a doctor’s bag. The others deferred to him, and when he knelt down with his bag, out of my line of sight, the young policeman grimaced and turned away. Off to one side, a janitor in coveralls stood holding a bucket and wearing long rubber gloves. The hair on the back of my neck began to stir.

  “Come taste this lemony one!” Betty called to me. “It’s just divine.”

  “No, thanks,” I said faintly. I was trying to remember the cross streets in this part of town, and figure out which building that utility roof belonged to. I had a guess, but maybe I was wrong. “I’m really not hungry.”