Died to Match (3 page)

“OK, OK.” Anything to calm her down. I took the money; there were twenties, and at least one fifty. “Let’s count it and I’ll write you a receipt.”

“No, no, I trust you. Oh, Carnegie, isn’t it exciting? I’m getting married!” Looking suddenly girlish, Mercedes gave me an impulsive hug, laying her head against my shoulder. Her hair was perfumed, sweet and musky. Then she wrenched herself away.

“Just remember, wedding planner…” She fixed me with a dark, straight stare—a tiger’s stare. “You keep your mouth shut.”

M
ERCEDES SWEPT UP HER PAINTS AND SWEPT OUT OF THE
room. A black-and-gold powder compact lay overlooked under the balled-up paper towels. I picked it up but didn’t go after her. I’d had enough schizophrenic gypsy glamour for the moment. Instead, I stood pondering this unexpected glimpse into Roger Talbot’s private life. His wife had only been dead a month or so. If Mercedes and Talbot had a whirlwind courtship, it must have blown at gale force, unless they’d gotten involved while Helen Talbot was still alive. A nasty thought. Aaron had mentioned once that Mercedes was constantly in the publisher’s office. Maybe she’d been negotiating more than her salary. Maybe her move to television was really part of Talbot’s campaign. I hated to be that cynical, but—
A sudden sound, at once revolting and unmistakable. The room had appeared empty, but someone was in the farthest stall being spectacularly sick. I heard ragged breathing, then a moan.

“Hello?” I called, sliding the cash and the compact into the ample pocket of my witch’s gown. “Can I help?”

The stall door swung wide to reveal one very unkempt and unsteady Greek goddess. In wordless sympathy, I ran a paper towel under the faucet and handed it to Aaron’s
long-lost date. Corinne dragged it across her mouth, her long fake fingernails a startling crimson against her pale, trembling lips. How much champagne did it take to drown the memory of Boris Nevsky? A double latte had done the trick for me, but then, I never wanted to marry the man.

“I’m going to die,” said Corinne. She looked at herself bleakly in the mirror—hairdo in ruins, satiny toga crumpled and soiled—and took a long, sobbing breath. “I want to die.”

“You’ll get over him,” I offered. “You’ll feel better, really you will.”

She glared at me. Her eyes were a weak, watery blue, almost aquamarine, and the look in them was somehow scarier than Mercedes’. “What do you know about it? How do you know how I feel?”

“Corinne, I just meant that you’ll find somebody else—”

Her eyes went wide and rolling, like a panicky horse about to bolt. “I’ll never find anyone like him. Never!”

Then she pushed past me and was gone. Aaron, I thought, Aaron, she is all yours. While I waited for the gypsy queen and the drama queen to get a good head start, I belatedly remembered Northwest Shores. I radioed Marvin, one of my security guards, and asked him to close it off. Then I left the ladies’ room and went back to my rounds, checking on each of the bars and food stations. The Halloween menu I’d designed with Joe Solveto, my favorite caterer, was definitely a hit, especially the all-chocolate dessert bar. Good thing we had generous reserves; running out of food is an event planner’s highest crime.

As I worked my way through the party, I could see that Lily was right: people were having a blast. Down in the eerie green gloom of the Underwater Dome room, the dance floor was overflowing. Ropes of thick green weed wavered like
ghosts behind the curved glass walls, and sharks floated ominously over the heads of the gyrating dancers. Perfect for Halloween. I stood for a while admiring the DJ in action. Rick the Rocket was a chubby fellow whose bald pate rose from his ring of untidy blond hair like a big pink egg in a nest of straw. His costume matched his hairline: he was dressed as a tonsured medieval monk, with a rough-spun black cloak and a rope belt around his ample middle.

Rick Royko was new in town, but he was doing a first-rate job for me tonight, gauging the mood of the crowd with skill and accepting requests with a friendly smile. A music-snob DJ can really kill a party, but this guy was good. I know how to pick ’em, if I do say so myself. I watched happily as the dancers outdid themselves to Gladys Knight’s “Grapevine.” What were a few smashed glasses, after all? If we could just get to midnight without a serious mishap, I’d call the whole party a smashing success.

Before I could pat myself on the back any harder, I was accosted by a large leprechaun.

“Carnegie, you look glorious! Who are you supposed to be, exactly?”

Tommy Barry, the Sentinel’s legendary sportswriter, was sixty-five or so, and a legendary drinker of Guinness. The costume was appropriate, because when Tommy drank he got very Irish. A shamrock-bedecked hat sat askew on his bush of grizzled hair, and one of his curly-toed leprechaun slippers was missing. I had gently suggested a more reliable best man—and Elizabeth had demanded a more photogenic one—but Paul was adamant. Tommy was his mentor and his pal, so Tommy it would be.

“I’m supposed to be a witch,” I told him, “and you were supposed to be here at eight. We had to do the toasts
without you. The maid of honor is working tonight, so I was depending on you. You will be on time for the wedding, won’t you, Tommy?”

“Of course, of course. Tonight I gave Zack here a ride,” he said proudly, as if this were quite a feat. In his current inebriated condition, maybe it was.

Zack Hartmann, the young Internet whiz working on the Sentinel web site, was Paul’s third groomsman. He was sometimes shy and slouching, but not tonight. Tonight Zack was the Prince of Thieves, with a quiver of arrows over his green-cloaked shoulder and a couple of martinis under his belt. Tall and rangy, with crisp fair hair and long-lashed cobalt-blue eyes, he stood next to the sportswriter/leprechaun with his shoulders back and his head high. Maid Marian would have been thrilled to bits.

“We were a tad late, perhaps,” Tommy was saying, “but now we’re raising the roof and showing the girls a good time, aren’t we, Zack? You go dance with Carnegie, and I’ll just stop by the bar.”

“I’m really awfully busy,” I began.

“Nonsense!” he rasped. Tommy had a voice that could strip paint. “Too busy to dance with Robin Hood? Off you go, both of you.”

I liked Zack, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Sure. Just one dance.”

As I followed him out onto the dance floor, Rick ended the Motown set and changed musical gears with the Righteous Brothers, “Soul and Inspiration.” I hadn’t bargained on a slow dance, but it had been a long night, and if I couldn’t have Zorro’s arms around me, Robin’s looked like a decent substitute. For a few minutes I even relaxed and enjoyed myself. But once the song ended I’d have to go check
with Donald, the other security guard, up on the observation deck, to make sure no one had gone skinny-dipping with the seals or was feeding pâté to the puffins or some damn thing. Not that my presence would prevent them, but—

“Is something wrong?” Zack blurted. I realized he was trembling a bit, and there were spots of hectic color on his cheekbones. What I’d taken for head-high confidence was just a rigid façade. Whether it was the drinks or the awkward social situation, Robin Hood was strung up as tight as piano wire.

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering how the rest of the party is going.”

“Well, if you’re too busy to dance with me, I totally understand.” He sounded miffed, and very young.

“Not at all. You dance very well.”

Actually, he just danced very tall. Try as I might, slow dancing with a shorter man always made me self-conscious. Aaron had wanted us to go as Rocky and Bullwinkle tonight, for crying out loud. What was he thinking? We were clearly incompatible. Oil and water. Chalk and cheese. High fashion and low comedy. Comedy was the operative word, though. Aaron could always make me laugh. I liked that.

“Tommy was right,” said Zack, bringing me back to the moment. “You really do look beautiful tonight.”

Right words, wrong guy. Still, nice words.

“Thanks, Zack. You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.”

In the shifting underwater light, I couldn’t quite see him blushing, but I could feel it. He began to reply, then settled for holding me a little tighter, with one large strong hand spread across the small of my back. It felt good, and when I subtly tried to put a bit of space between us, I wasn’t all that sorry when the press of bodies kept us close. I gave up, and
peeked over Zack’s shoulder to check the crowd. No sign of Aaron and Corinne, but Paul and Elizabeth were there, clinging as close as they could given the bride’s bronze-and-leather breastplates. Paul’s thin, good-humored face was lit up with laughter, and Elizabeth, with his Indy fedora perched on her long black Xena wig, was smiling dreamily.

Happy clients, that was the ticket. Happy clients who would recommend me to their happy, wealthy friends. My silent partner, Eddie Breen—never silent for long—was always pushing me to advertise more, while I favored word-of-mouth among brides and their mothers.

One thought sparked another. “Zack, are you full-time with the Sentinel now or do you freelance elsewhere? My partner’s been pestering me about jazzing up our web site.”

It was like flipping a high-voltage switch.

“Sure!” Zack’s face lit up, and he seemed to forget all about my charms for the moment. “I’d do it for cheap, too. I need more stuff in my portfolio. We could start right away.”

“Whoa! Eddie and I need to brainstorm a bit first. Right now the site is just a scan of our print pamphlet—”

“Brochureware!” he groaned. “That is so lame.”

“Well, excuse me!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… that’s what everybody starts with, really. But you can do, like, tons more than that. I’ll help you brainstorm. I’ll come tomorrow afternoon, OK?”

“Well, OK. Eddie’s not usually there on Sundays, but he’s wrestling with some new software, so he said he’d be in.”

“Oh. Will you be there, too?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. So tell me, what could we do that wouldn’t be lame?”

The Aquarium’s rental rules called for low-volume music
in the Dome room, which made dance floor conversation possible, and Zack took full advantage of the fact. He regaled me feverishly with the on-line wonders he could perform for Made in Heaven, becoming almost agitated as he raved about JPEG files and animated GIFs and why frames, like, totally suck. Amused, I made fascinated and admiring noises.

“You’re really interested in this stuff, aren’t you?” he asked at one point.

“Sure,” I lied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, some people think it’s boring. Or, like, nerdy or something.”

“Who thinks that?”

But the song ended and he fell abruptly silent, unsure of his next move in this adult ritual. I could almost read his mind: Do we just go on dancing, or am I supposed to ask her, or what? Or maybe Zack had forgotten he was dancing at all, lost in cyberspace.

I took the lead. “That was nice. Now I’d better get back to work.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “Maybe I can, you know, help you and stuff.”

“There’s really nothing for you to do, but thanks.” He tagged along anyway, and as we took the stairs to the pier level, I privately admired his well-filled doublet and hose.

Hmm. Must lift weights.

“What made you choose Robin Hood, Zack?” “Oh, stories, I guess. When I was a kid, we had this book of stories. When I got to that shop and saw the costume, I remembered. Robin Hood was always riding to the rescue and everything. How come you’re a witch? I mean, dressed as a witch.”

I laughed. “I’ve been feeling a little witchy tonight! But no reason, really. By the time I got around to picking, the glamorous stuff was all taken.”

He stopped abruptly at a landing and gazed into my eyes, too close for comfort. “I think you’re always glamorous.”

It was an absurd situation, made more so by the fact that I was suddenly and warmly aware of Zack’s body, and my own. If he’d had a little finesse, I might have forgotten the gap in our ages, at least for the moment. Instead he lurched forward and kissed me, clumsily but with great gusto. It was like being leapt upon by a huge, overfriendly young Labrador retriever. One who tasted like gin.

“Zack, cut it out!” I pulled away and my witch’s hat rolled to the floor. When I stooped for it I bumped heads with someone in black: Aaron, coming right behind us. As Zack muttered an apology and continued on upstairs—good, let him go cool off—Aaron returned the hat with a flourish and a laugh.

“Cradle-robbing, Mrs. Robinson?”

“Oh, shut up. He’s just a kid.”

“Some kid.” Aaron fell into step beside me. Despite the laugh, he looked annoyed. “Young Zack spends more time coming on to women than he does working.”

“Well, nobody’s working tonight but me. Did Corinne find you?”

“No. You saw her?”

“In the ladies’ room. Aaron, I think she’s drinking too much.”

“That’s funny. I’ve been fetching her Perrier all night.”

“Well, it wasn’t Perrier she was chucking up. Do you want to go look for her?”

“No,” he said, as we came out onto the pier. He stopped
and faced me, and the party guests milling around us seemed to disappear. “No, I want to stay right here and gaze at the city lights and say romantic things to you. For instance, I’ve noticed that you walk in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. Plus, as a bonus, all that’s best of dark and bright meet in your aspect and your eyes. I admit you’re not quite as dark as Lord Byron’s girlfriend must have been, but you know what I mean.”

I sagged against the wooden railing and took a deep breath of the damp night air. Elizabeth had insisted that the rain would hold off tonight, and she was right. Maybe she cut a deal with Mother Nature. Far out on Elliott Bay, a ferry was lit up like a birthday cake against the black mirror of the water. Aaron and I had begun our current spat on a ferry ride, and continued it back at my houseboat a few days later, with encores on the telephone after that. But I never fought with the men I dated, never. What was going on?

“Aaron, I’m working tonight. And besides…”

“Besides what?”