Died to Match (27 page)

He gave a small, rueful laugh. “Her mother got in today. I think I’ll let them entertain each other.”

“Don’t you like your mother-in-law?” Corinne teased him.

“Oh, she’s fine. But she and Elizabeth really set each other off.” He frowned, resisting an unwelcome thought. “I guess they’re both pretty strong-willed. So’s her father. I don’t think he approves of us getting married.”

Corinne seized his arm in that melodramatic way she had. “Don’t worry about other people, Paul! If you truly love someone, that’s forever. No one can stand in your way.”

Paul, taken aback by these greeting-card sentiments, said, “Um, thanks. Carnegie, you up for dinner?”

I hesitated. I was so damn tired, but I knew there was nothing edible back at the houseboat. Starve a fever, feed a hangover, right?

“Sure, why not?”

“Great. There’s a sushi place up the block.”

“Well, maybe not sushi…”

We ended up having Chinese, which in my case meant lots of rice, a few pea pods, and careful sips of tea. I was off Pinot Noir for life. Corinne ate her own dinner and most of mine, chattering away about how nice it was to see Tommy. She had certainly rebounded quickly from her fear of Lester Foy

“Now what was that policeman for?” she asked, popping one last sweet-and-sour shrimp between her lips. “I didn’t say anything, in case Tommy was under arrest for drunk driving or something embarrassing like that. Are y’all going to eat your fortune cookies?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Paul, and he didn’t mean the cookies. “My guess is that Tommy saw something at the Aquarium, so he’s a murder witness and they’re protecting him. What do you think, Carnegie? You were there yourself that night. Afterwards, anyway.”

Corinne gazed at me, her blue eyes round and spooked, a glistening dab of shrimp sauce on her chin. “That’s right, you were. Did Tommy see that tattooed man, do you think? Or did you?”

“Well, I wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but now that he’s been arrested, I guess it doesn’t matter.” I was suddenly exhausted, and sick of the whole dreary business. “But this is off the record, Paul, OK?”

“Swear to God. So tell us, did Tommy see the killer?”

“I think so. Once his memory comes back—if it ever does— his testimony could nail down the case against Lester Foy But I’m sure they’ll charge Foy anyway. Someone must have spotted him at Angela’s building.”

“Even if they didn’t,” Paul said, “he showed up at your houseboat! Why would he do that if he wasn’t stalking all of you?”

Why, indeed? It occurred to me, disconcertingly, that Foy could always claim that he only came to my house because of Juice’s phone call. But no, Graham would find more evidence, now that he had his man. I’d done part of his job for him—with a little help from the Buckmeisters—and now he could do the rest.

“The important thing,” I said to Corinne, as we parted ways in front of the restaurant, “is that Lester Foy is in jail, and we can all concentrate on the wedding. We’re safe now.”

“That’s right,” she replied, buttoning up her raincoat for the solitary walk back to her car. “We’re safe now.”

T
HE FINAL DAYS BEFORE A MAJOR WEDDING HAVE A HEAD-LONG
momentum that can be nerve-racking, but also a hell of a lot of fun, an adrenaline high. I started this particular final lap by going straight home from the Chinese restaurant, calling Lily for a cathartic conversation about my escape from Lester Foy and then sleeping like a baby with a clear conscience until nine o’clock Wednesday morning. It felt wonderful

On Wednesday, with the help of Eddie and his magic software, I threw myself into the final preparations for Lamott/Wheeler. As usual, we had a slew of little snags and surprises, but after the recent horrors, they seemed pleasantly mundane. The wedding announcements, for example. To be strictly proper, announcements should be postmarked on the wedding date itself. Elizabeth might be wearing an unorthodox gown, but she wanted propriety elsewhere, so I had lined up a calligrapher for the envelopes well ahead of time. Fran was a single mom who worked at home, using a spare bedroom as an office.

Unfortunately, Fran’s oldest daughter chose this particular week to learn how to operate a doorknob. Result: A through
L
tipped over on the floor (mussed but salvageable), and
M
through
Z
smeared with peanut butter (a total loss). There
was nothing else for it; I swallowed my pride and called Dorothy Fenner.

“The other calligraphers on my list are busy doing holiday invitations, but I was hoping you could—”

“Why, Carnegie, I’m always here to help you with your little problems,” said Dorothy, graciously complacent. “I’ll just make a few calls. I’m sure I can find someone who’ll make a special effort for me.”

I thanked her effusively, all the while thinking Scottsdale, any day now she’s moving to Scottsdale. Then I pressed on with my telethon, calling to confirm with the photography studio, the videographer, the judge, the jazz trio for the ceremony and the sound man for the dancing, and the stylist who would do the bride’s hair and touch up the bridesmaids’ faces—including mine.

The knowledge that I’d soon be slinking around in a bridesmaid’s gown added a certain personal frisson to my professional frenzy. So after Eddie left for the day, I squeezed in a call to Lily at the library, just to calm my own jitters.

“That pink satin’s so clingy, it’s not going to cover even one sin, let alone a multitude,” I fretted to her. “What if my invisible bra comes unstuck?”

“Just reach down your cleavage and pull it out,” she suggested. “You can throw it to the crowd when the bride tosses her bouquet. Start a whole new tradition!”

“Lily.”

“You’ll be fine. Want me to come over Saturday and help you get dressed?”

“Would you really? You’re my hero.”

“That’s what they all say. Listen, before I forget, you’re still coming for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I always spent Christmas in Boise
with my mother, and she always traveled to either my home or my brother’s for Thanksgiving. This year she’d be at Tim’s house in Illinois, so I could eat turkey with Lily and her boys.

“How are you and Aaron doing? I was wondering if he’d like to come, too.”

That gave me pause. “It’s nice of you to offer, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, it might seem kind of like bringing him home to meet the folks, or something.” I leaned back in my chair and stared out the window. The silver expanse of Lake Union offered no guidance on the matter.

“The reason I ask,” said Lily in a too-neutral voice, “is that I’ll have a friend there myself.”

“You mean a friend of the male persuasion? Lily, I didn’t even know you were dating anyone! Who is he?”

“I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she said. “It might jinx things. Besides, he might not even make it that night. But think it over about Aaron, OK?”

I promised I would, then got back to work myself—nailing down minor assignments like tending Elizabeth’s guest book, which Valerie Duncan had offered to do. I could have asked her to distribute the corsages and boutonnieres, too, once Boris delivered them, but I couldn’t resist just a tiny bit of matchmaking: I assigned flower duty to Corinne. Maybe if Boris saw her all dolled up in pink, he’d have second thoughts? I only remembered the wife in St. Petersburg after I’d made the calls. Oh, well.

Some event services were already provided for; we’d use EMP employees to check coats, stash gifts, and bus tables in the restaurant and lounge. But because it was my first wedding at this venue, I tried to double- and even triple-check every little detail. Except for one detail—inviting Aaron for
Thanksgiving. I mulled that one over all Wednesday evening, coming to the firm, decisive conclusion that I’d wait until I saw him in person at the rehearsal, and then wing it from there.

On Thursday I started making the really dicey phone calls, not to any of the vendors but to the guests who had written in their children’s names on their RSVP cards. This was an adults-only affair—a fact that certain doting parents had trouble understanding.

“But little Mason won’t be any trouble,” one mother told me.

“It’s not a question of his behavior,” I said easily, having rehearsed my script. “It’s just part of our contract with the Experience Music Project. They’re giving us special access to all the exhibits, and we’ve agreed to have no guests under eighteen.”

Which was true enough, though the EMP would have been flexible on the issue if we’d pressed it. The strict decree had come from the bride, whose thoughtful rationale had included the phrase “no screaming brats underfoot.” But Mason’s mother didn’t need to know that. She also didn’t need to know that she and Mason’s dad had barely missed the cut for the A-list. Two hundred guests would actually attend the ceremony in the EMP’s small but sophisticated theater, and four hundred more would come an hour later for the reception.

And what a reception it would be. How often do you have 80,000 popular music artifacts to look at while you sip your champagne? Not to mention the Sound Lab, where you could seclude yourself in a soundproof booth and play guitar, bass, keyboard, or drums, all interactively wired to help you along. Or the Sky Church, the great hall of the EMP

The Sky Church, I had read in the visitor’s guide, was built in homage to Jimi Hendrix’ vision of communion through music. It was dominated by the world’s largest video set-up, forty feet high and seventy feet across, which could be fragmented into different projections or treated as one huge screen for concert footage and video art.

For the wedding, the sound man had orders to keep things hot, fast, and loud. He had awesome equipment to work with: a 24-channel sound system that created layers of amazing sound throughout the vast space, dozens of speakers hanging from the Sky Church ceiling like futuristic chandeliers, and four towers of spotlights, two rising up on either side of the screen and two more flanking his control balcony on the opposite wall. I had been on that balcony during one of my planning visits, and marveled at the dizzying drop to the dance floor and the complexity of the space-age consoles. This was going to be some dance party.

Although the planning for this extravaganza rivaled a space shuttle launch, one of my tasks was actually simpler than usual. Joe Solveto’s delectable food would be served buffet-style, and the seating would be casual, with suit-yourself clusters of tables in the restaurant and lounge areas, and scattered throughout the exhibits as well. So I had no place cards to design and no seating charts to develop, except for the head table. Which, inevitably, turned out to be the stickiest wicket of all.

The fuss started late Thursday afternoon, barely forty-eight hours before the big moment, when my meeting with the bride turned into tea with Great-Aunt Enid. Elizabeth was putting up all the out-of-town guests at the Alexis, a bijou luxury hotel near Pioneer Square that was swankier than anywhere I’d ever stayed in my life. The formidable Enid was
presiding over a tea table in her suite, with Paul, Elizabeth, and a nurse in dutiful attendance.

Monica, in fawn-colored cashmere that set off her chestnut hair, sat stiffly on a needlepoint chair looking like she wanted a cup of something stronger. Burt wasn’t there; he and his errant wife were doing a Clark Kent and Superman act, never to be seen together.

“So you’re the big-deal wedding expert.” Enid was as short and tough as a tree stump, with a wide flat face rayed with wrinkles and square bony hands that trembled badly. Nothing trembling about her gaze, though. She surveyed me like a horse trader assessing a decidedly sub par nag. “In my day, a girl had her mother to help her get married, not some expert. I bet you charge a fortune.”

“But Monica is helping me, Aunt Enid,” said Elizabeth. She and her mother had apparently called a truce in the face of this larger threat. “It’s just such a big wedding that we need Carnegie to handle some of the details.”

Enid made a rude noise. “What kind of a name is Carnegie, anyway? And who has hair that color?”

“Well, I do,” I said, sitting down and smiling. After all the diplomacy entailed by my job, there was something appealing about Enid’s rough candor. “My dad was a redhead, and I can promise you that he didn’t dye his hair.”

The old lady nodded, satisfied. Or maybe she was just tired. After a few minutes’ chat, she turned to the nurse, a sturdy Jamaican woman with a good-humored manner.

“Time for a little lie-down, don’t you think, Irene?”

“Just a little one,” Irene agreed, and helped her shuffle slowly into the bedroom.

We rose to leave, but Monica beckoned us across the hallway to her own suite, whose luxurious furnishings she had
nearly obliterated with scattered clothing and fashion magazines. There were no chairs clear, but Monica had a stand-up conversation in mind.

“Lizzie,” she said, “I went through those notes you gave me, and I’ve changed my mind.”

“But you already agreed!”

“I just can’t do it. I cannot sit next to that man.”

Was it my imagination, or was that smoke rising from Elizabeth’s ears? “ ‘That man’ is still your husband. And if you call me Lizzie one more time I’ll—”

“Elizabeth, honey,” said Paul, while he telegraphed me a look that said Mayday. “I’m sure we can figure this out—”

“There’s nothing to figure,” said Monica crisply. “Put him at one end of the table and me at the other.”

“That would look ridiculous!” Smoke, and possibly flame. “If you think you’re going to make a big dramatic statement at my wedding—”

“Isn’t this wedding dramatic enough?” flared Monica. “You could feed a third-world nation with what you’re spending.”

“At least I’m spending my own money,” said her daughter, “which is more than you’ve ever—”

“You know,” I said loudly, “I think it’s time for Plan B.”

The three of them looked at me blankly.

“What Plan B?” demanded Elizabeth.

“The table for two, of course.” I smiled my very best back-me-up-here smile at the groom. “You remember, Paul, we talked about this?”