Died to Match (21 page)

“Yes. The side door. See you then.” I hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment without seeing it. Thank goodness Mandy’s band was so scary. The last thing I needed was for Skull to hear that I was asking around about him.

“Now I know what I’m going to do next,” I said, turning back to Lily. “First I’m going to call Graham and tell him just the facts, ma’am, about the Dracula costume. Then I’m going to install a floodlight over my front door. And then I’ve got a funeral to go to.”

F
UNERALS SHOULD HAPPEN IN THE RAIN
. T
HERE SHOULD
be dark clouds, at least, and a doleful wind, and a decent dimming of the light

But when I arrived, late and flustered, for Mercedes Montoya’s graveside service, the low-hanging November sun shone, bright and almost warm, from a sky of extraordinarily clear, deep blue. The priest, a small man built like a wrestler, cast a blocky shadow across the casket, already lowered into the gaping grave. The sun’s glare made the mourners squint and shield their eyes with their hands, and illuminated the faces of the grieving family with cruel precision. Clouds would have been kinder.

I’d hit a traffic jam on I–5, then gotten lost trying to find the church in the southern suburbs, so I missed the funeral mass entirely. But I’d spotted the hearse and followed the short procession of cars to Greenwood Memorial Park, a modest cemetery with an adjacent funeral home. Another burial service was just getting started, a larger one than Mercedes’, and other visitors, solitary or in pairs, were walking the paths across the flat green plane of grass and headstones and bouquets, all of it far too gay and colorful in the sunshine.

From the edge of our little assembly I stood scanning all
the faces, while Mercedes’ brother Esteban, a gangling, good-looking youth, made some remarks in Spanish. His voice broke several times, and his mother, standing tall in her black suit and long veil, wept silently but without pause. Among the mourners who were strangers to me, some were surely Spanish-speaking family friends, while others—the young and stylish ones—were probably colleagues from the TV station where Mercedes had begun her rise to fame.

I saw Paul with Elizabeth, and several more people from the Sentinel, including Corinne Campbell and Valerie Duncan, both wearing sunglasses. I wondered if Aaron would have attended had he been in town. He should have called me, not Lily, the bum…. I noticed that Angela Sims was there as well. I’d almost forgotten that she and Mercedes were not just bridesmaids together but sorority sisters. The one figure missing, besides Aaron, was Roger Talbot. Was he too grief-stricken to attend, or just wary of letting his grief be seen in public and interpreted for what it was, mourning for a lost lover?

“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—”

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.”

U
P NORTH IN SEATTLE, YOU PAY FOR THE LONG
J
UNE 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.