Died to Match (19 page)

“I will, I promise. Absolutely. Was there anything else?”

“No. Except you should come out for a drink with me.”

“Boris, I can’t. Zack and I—”

Boris rolled his eyes and grinned, a huge grizzly bear grin. “Aha! So this is the one?”

“What one? Oh, you mean… Listen, Zack and I have been working on the Made in Heaven web site. That’s all.”

Have I got a sign on my back saying The Older Woman, or what?

“Of course!” Boris lumbered to his feet and clapped Zack on the shoulder. “Web sites, of course! Zeck, listen to me.”

Zack could hardly help it. Even when Boris whispered, he was loud.

“Zeck,” he whispered now. “Be careful with my Kharnegie. She… is… very… ticklish!”

“Out! Now!” I yanked the door open and then slammed it behind him, though I could hear him laughing on his way down the stairs. Zack stood staring at me owlishly

“OK,” I said, sighing. “Let’s just get this clear. You and I are friends, right? You’re working for me, and we’re friends, and that’s all. Right?”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Are you really ticklish?”

That did it. “Zack, thanks for your help today, but I’ll take it from here. I’ll see you Friday at the rehearsal, OK?”

After he left, I checked the answering machine. Nothing from Aaron, but there was one message, loud and lively:

“Yo, Carnegie, Rick the Rocket here. Got your message, but I’m real busy today. I’m doing a wedding gig at SAM tonight. I’m leaving right after on a red-eye for Vegas, so if it’s important, come on down and I’ll talk to you when I’m on a break. Dorothy Fenner’s in charge, she says it’s OK, and maybe you’ll pick up some pointers. See ya.”

SAM
WAS THE
S
EATTLE
A
RT
M
USEUM, NOT A STARTLINGLY
original venue for a wedding reception, but very nice, very upscale. My mental Rolodex said it had room for five hundred guests stand-up, or two hundred at a seated meal, and a good marble floor for dancing at the foot of the grand staircase. Catering by the Seattle Sheraton, on exclusive contract. Joe Solveto would love to get a foot in the door at
SAM
; when he heard where I’d been, he’d want a close critique of the food and the service

As I steered the rental car into a cavernous parking garage near the museum, I wondered which of Dorothy Fenner’s clients had chosen this venue for a Saturday-night reception. Then, as I was fussing around trying to lock up—why do the cheapest cars have the fanciest electronic gizmos?—I remembered: Mayor Wyble’s daughter Sarah. The bride’s mother had interviewed me for the job, after a nice recommendation from Joe’s partner, but then she went with the silver-haired Dorothy. “Someone just a bit more experienced” was the way Mrs. Wyble put it. Those were the breaks, but still, it rankled. Pointers, my ass.

The museum’s grand staircase is flanked by a wall of windows facing a terraced plaza along University Street. Waiting for the light at the corner, I could see animated people in
gowns and tuxedos moving up and down in a silent, brightly-lit pantomime of festivity that glowed against the evening’s gloom.

A familiar face met me at the upper level entrance: Marvin, doing another off-duty stint as a security guard. Dorothy had told him I was coming, so he just nodded and pulled open the door. Inside, in the roaring clamor of voices, laughter and music, I was intercepted by a glassy-eyed young usher who was starting to fluff his lines.

“Hi! I mean, uh, thank you for joining us. The coatroom is around the corner there, and the buffet is open, and, and everything. Thank you for joining us.”

“You’re welcome.”

I stepped around him and looked down the staircase, past the people dining at the midway landing, to the jam-packed dance floor at the bottom. This was a more sedate crowd than we’d had at the Aquarium, but Rick the Rocket, in a tux and a party hat, had coaxed them out of their seats with some Rolling Stones. His mike was on, and he was making crowd-pleasing comments about the bride and groom, who were getting down and dirty in the middle of a ring of dancing friends. There was a spark in the air that was both familiar and exciting to me: the contagious, spine-tingling sizzle of a successful event.

“Carnegie, how lovely to see you!” Dorothy, in floor-length lavender chiffon and ever-present pearls, swept over to greet me with her usual aristocratic charm. We exchanged air kisses, and I smelled liquor. Interesting. I had never, but never, seen Dorothy tipsy. There was a wistful, faraway look in her eye that suddenly sharpened to something less refined. “I suppose you’ll be fishing around for my prospective client file.”

“Pardon me?”

She shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry. You don’t know yet, do you? I’m retiring. This is almost my last Seattle wedding.”

“Oh.” I’d been competing with Dorothy Fenner—often in vain—since I started Made in Heaven. She was a pain in the neck, but sort of a fixture in my professional life.

“I’ll miss you,” I said, and I almost meant it.

“I’ll miss the business!” she exclaimed, a little shrill, and definitely inebriated.

“Then why—”

“My husband,” she said, as if the word tasted bad, “wants to play golf. In Scottsdale. Says he’s tired of the rain. I’ll fly back for the Tyler girl’s wedding, but after that I’m finished.”

Sally Tyler’s mother was the CEO of MFC, Meet for Coffee, and even richer than her own espresso. Yet another account I had lost to Dorothy—but maybe the last one I would lose. Hooray for Scottsdale.

“You came to see the disk jockey?” Dorothy was asking.

“Yes. It looks like he’s going on break, so I’ll go down and catch him right now.”

It took me a while to push my way down the staircase through the crowd, making mental notes as I went. The waiters weren’t clearing the dirty dishes fast enough, and there weren’t quite enough places to sit. Yet even the guests who were stranded standing up, balancing champagne flutes and plates of poached salmon, were laughing and talking in great good humor. Well done, Dorothy. Everywhere I looked I saw familiar faces from the upper echelons of the city: the mayor and his wife, a brace of CEOs, board members of the opera, the ballet, the symphony. If only I’d landed this account, it would have paid my rent for months. Bon voyage, Dorothy.

In the midst of all this happy commotion, I had the sudden, isolating sense that I was being watched. I paused on the stairway to scan the crowd. Standing all alone by the windows was Syd Soper, observing me balefully Death in a tuxedo. It’s hard to look bad in a tux, but Soper had no neck at all, so he was getting there. I nodded politely and kept going. Soper could wait; I had to catch Rick before he left town. I thought I’d be able to track him down between sets, but there he was, heading back to his sound board already.

“Rick, aren’t you on break?”

“No way!” he said from the side of his mouth, all his attention on the dance floor. The party hat was gone. He’d gotten a haircut since I saw him last, leaving a neat straw-colored fringe around his pink dome, but he was sweating and jittery, and his clip-on tie was crooked. “Just takin’ a leak before the big finish.”

“I need to ask you—”

“Kincaid, it’ll have to wait. Gig’s over soon.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Abashed, I retreated—right into wallflower city. I was accustomed to being busy at weddings, but now all I could do was stand around admiring Dorothy’s success, drinking too much champagne, and wishing someone would ask me to dance, which of course no one did. Aaron was right, all this wedding stuff can make you feel extra-single.

Rick did a letter-perfect last set, bringing the crowd to a paroxysm of high spirits, and even some high kicks, with “New York, New York.” He finished off with the latest Hollywood love song and then “The Way You Look Tonight,” a wedding reception classic that had everyone—except me—embracing. Some of the dancers went over to tip Rick and get his business card,
and I saw several people hugging Dorothy as they left. She was winding up her Seattle career on a high note.

I talked to Rick during his teardown. He was brisk and efficient, stowing speakers and cables, making notes on his play list for the event, and still buzzed on adrenaline.

“Nice job,” I began. “Those were great songs.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Rick pulled out a handkerchief and ran it across his glistening dome. “Tell you the truth, I hate that shit. You know how many times I’ve heard ‘Satisfaction’ in my life? Or ‘The Macarena’? But the customers like it, and I am all about pleasing the customers. So, whaddya want to ask me about? You got a gig for me?”

“No, though I probably will in the future. It’s about the other night at the Aquarium. Do you remember the woman dressed as Venus?”

“The blonde with the big—I mean, with the nice figure? Oh yeah, I remember her.” He snapped shut the latches on his equipment cases, and hefted a stack of them onto a small dolly. All the while he kept smiling agreeably at departing guests, and talking faster and faster to me. “You want to walk me out? I don’t have much time before my flight. Got some serious gambling to do for the next seven days and nights. Lucky seven! I been looking forward to this for months.”

The night outside was loud and windy, with gusts ripping up from the waterfront. We crossed the lower level plaza past the base of Hammering Man, the fifty-foot sculpture that Seattleites love to hate. Or used to. By this time the lanky steel silhouette, forever raising and dropping its hammer with a monotonous clank, was so familiar as to be invisible.

Summer tourists still posed for pictures on the big guy’s feet, but the guests from today’s reception didn’t even glance up. “I was just wondering,” I said, above the wild flapping of the museum banners, “if you noticed anyone in particular hanging around Venus. Or if you saw the man dressed as Death follow her out of the Dome room?”

I’m also wondering if you killed Mercedes Montoya. But how do I ask you that?

“I remember the Death guy, he was around right at the end, but I didn’t see him follow anybody.” We got to a bright green van that read Rick the Rocket, Hot Music for Good Times! across the sides in orange. Rick swung open the back doors and we stepped between them, out of the wind. It didn’t occur to me that the doors also shielded us from the view of passersby until he grabbed my arm and gave it a painful twist. The jolly smile was gone. “OK, where’s my money?”

“Your what?”

“Montoya owed me a bundle, and she said she gave it to you. I want it back, and I want that ring.”

My heart was stampeding, but I tried to rein it in. Even if Rick was the killer, he obviously wasn’t going to do anything drastic here in public, and if I could keep him talking I might learn something.

“So you know about the diamond ring.”

“Of course I do, the bitch promised it to me!”

“What for?”

“Never mind. Business.” He dropped my arm, as if the adrenaline had ebbed abruptly. Or maybe there was another substance at work. Rick was acting a lot like Mercedes had the last time I saw her. “Look, Kincaid, I’m not a bad guy. We can cooperate on this. I got a line in to the cops, I know
they’re looking for that diamond, so I figure either the murderer took it, or you did. Unless maybe it was you—?”

“You’re accusing me of killing Mercedes?”

“Nah, not really.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and I relaxed a little. “But everybody knows you found Montoya’s body. You got my money, and I figure maybe you’ve got the ring, too. Not that you stole it, you know, maybe it was just lying there and you picked it up. I’m not asking any questions, but that ring is worth plenty, and I got debts to pay. How ’bout we go half and half? I know a guy can sell it for us.”

That clinches it, I thought. I don’t have to ask. If you had killed Mercedes, you’d have taken the diamond yourself.

“Listen to me,” I said. “If you want that money you’ll have to ask the police for it, because I turned it over to them.” I probably shouldn’t drink champagne, but sometimes over-confidence is just what’s needed. “I have no idea where that ring is, and if you bother me about it again, I’ll turn you over, too, for assault. Now you’d better go catch your plane.”

And with that I strode away. My mind was racing. No doubt about it, Mercedes had something shady going on that night at the Aquarium. But when it came to murder, Rick the Rocket was off the list. I was down to three names: Angela, Soper, and the mysterious Transylvanian. They made a pretty short list; maybe it was time to turn this over to Lieutenant Graham. But no, I was hooked. I wanted the satisfaction of giving him a single name. And, I admit, the satisfaction of throwing my success in Aaron Gold’s face.

I was concentrating so hard as I walked that I almost overshot the parking garage, and once inside I didn’t immediately notice the footsteps behind me. But when I glanced around, I stopped pondering and realized two things.

The footsteps belonged to Syd Soper.

And there was no one else in sight.

Overconfidence is not the same as stupidity. Soper was advancing rapidly towards me. I gauged the distance to my car and saw that I couldn’t beat him there, not with the time it would take to fool with the electronic remote and unlock it. So instead I ran toward the nearest stairwell, my own footsteps clapping loud against the dirty cement. Just as I got there the door opened and a party of wedding guests emerged, looking at me curiously. I stopped short, gasping.

“Carnegie, wait a minute!” Soper’s voice sounded calm, even friendly.

One of the party, a middle-aged woman in a leather coat, looked past me and waved a hand at him. “It was nice to see you tonight, Syd!”

“You, too, Margaret,” Soper replied, walking up to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow about that committee. Good night.”

They proceeded on to their cars, and as they did, more people emerged from the elevator nearby. This was a public garage, after all—hardly the spot for a solitary ambush. And now that I could see him clearly, Soper looked puzzled, not dangerous.

“You called me today. What about?”

“I… I’m just checking back with people after the party at the Aquarium. Making sure they got their costumes back, that kind of thing.”