Died to Match (31 page)

Lily was as good as any stylist—you can learn a lot playing Cleopatra. My hair is curly to start with, but she fluffed it out even more and gelled it into a dramatic coppery mane. Then she used three different eyeshadows and a lot of liner to make my so-so hazel eyes look huge and luminous, and finished off with shimmery lipstick and a spritz of perfume.

I blinked at the face in the mirror. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” said Lily. “Come on, let’s get you into that bra.”

I held and she taped, and once the underpinnings were in place, I gingerly inserted my stiff and aching self into the slithery pink satin. Thank heaven the gowns weren’t scratchy brocade. Still, I tucked some extra-strength pain pills into my purse.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” said Lily, as she camouflaged the minor bruises on my back and shoulders with face powder. “What if you’ve got a concussion or whiplash or something? Jeez, if the back of this dress was any lower you’d get arrested.”

“I keep telling you, the medics said I’m OK. Are you sure the bra is going to stay on?”

“Girl, that adhesive’s so strong, the problem is going to be getting it off. You may have cleavage for the rest of your life. There, now, that’s my best shot. Let’s show you to Eddie, and I’ll drive you over there. Maybe you’ll even have fun.”

“Fat chance.” I sashayed, sort of, over to my long mirror. The result of Lily’s labors, except for my worried expression, was pretty damn glamorous. “I’d settle for no more catastrophes.”

Eddie bestowed his highest praise—“What a tomato!”—
and then Lily and I set off through the early-evening darkness for the EMP. In the kitchen of the Turntable Restaurant, I found Joe Solveto choreographing his cooks and waiters with theatrical fervor, and wearing his designer tuxedo as though he’d been born in it.

“Joe, you and the food both look scrumptious.”

“As do you! Pink may not be your color, my dear, but that bias cut does wonders for your… mmm… lines.” He kissed me on the cheek, mindful of my lipstick, and directed my attention to the glossy chocolate 45s, which his people were just now unboxing. The piped-on titles ranged from old ballads to the latest hits, all of them celebrating love. Or at least lust. “Did that clownish Juice person really create all these this afternoon? I’m impressed.”

“You should be. Are the flowers here? I’m running a little late.”

“That’s understandable, given what I saw on the news. Yes, the Mad Russian has been and gone. He says he’ll be back for the party. Oh, and he said he heard from St. Petersburg, and he’s a free man. Was he having green card trouble?”

“Something like that.” So Boris was going to be single again! Maybe Corinne’s heart could be mended after all. “Thanks for letting me know. If you need me, I’ll be in the bride’s dressing room.”

“Break a leg.” Joe’s attention was already straying back to the buffet platters. “No, no, no! The aioli goes on the crab cakes, you cretin, and not until the last minute!”

Elizabeth, Patty, and Corinne were gathered in the women’s rest room outside the theater door. I gave the theater a quick inspection—the judge’s lectern was in place, the flowers were glorious—and then joined them. I stayed out of
sight while the guests arrived, and stayed in touch with Rhonda, the EMP coordinator, on the cutting-edge little walkie-talkie she had loaned me for the night. It featured a handy clip on the back, but of course I had nowhere to clip it on my barely-covered person, so I’d brought along a little beaded purse on a narrow strap. Somehow my canvas tote bag just wouldn’t cut it with the pink chiffon stole.

Rhonda reported that all was well out there, so as the guests chatted and the jazz trio noodled away on some tune or other, I concentrated on the bride and her attendants. Elizabeth, sensational in her hot-hued ensemble, held her postmodern bouquet to one side and gave me a quick hug and an air kiss.

“Carnegie, I’m so nervous! Is that normal?”

“Absolutely,” I told her, secretly pleased that even hardbitten software types could get butterflies. “That’s where the bridal glow comes from. Enjoy it. So, Corinne, you and Boris got the flowers distributed?…”

I was fishing for a hint about their possibly renewed romance, but Corinne was too busy to notice. She was striking poses, frowning intently into the full-length mirror as she tried out different ways to drape her chiffon stole across her bulging midsection. Stephanie’s alterations had added maybe an inch of breathing room, but she could have used more. Corinne’s gown had gotten tighter across the bust, too. If only I could gain weight in the chest, I thought, comparing my own reflection to hers, I’d eat hot fudge sundaes for breakfast. As it was, I had to be content with the modest curves created by my invisible bra—which was beginning to itch.

But I soon forgot the itch—and Corinne and Boris, too— in the flurry of final niceties before the ceremony. I will
never, never double up as consultant and bridesmaid again. Between fielding queries from Rhonda, temporarily losing one of my pink pearl earrings, and retwisting Patty’s French twist, my nerves were in shreds before I set one high-heeled foot out in public.

But still I kept a cool and professional façade, barely registering Aaron’s chilly glance at me—and his double take at my dress—as he entered the theater. I was more concerned with his carefully disguised black eye, and the effect of the tiny calla lily boutonniere on the lapel of his tux. Nice work, Boris. Scott went next, looking far more alert and involved than he had at the rehearsal, and when he joined the men up front, the two brothers winked at each other over Aaron’s head.

Then the music changed, and everyone craned around from the raked rows of seats to watch Corinne come down the aisle. At the first glimpse of her gown and flowers, an appreciative murmur arose from the guests over the jazz trio’s silky sounds. Wait till they get a load of the bride, I thought. This was going to be fascinating, taking in every detail of a Made in Heaven wedding as seen from onstage instead of the wings.

I counted a slow ten, stepped into the aisle, saw all those eyes staring at me… and lost consciousness of the entire ceremony in a blur of stage fright and fatigue. I heard later that everything went beautifully, but the only detail that stayed with me was Tommy Barry’s face. He looked like a man who should still be in bed, yet his expression held such fondness, such pride and triumph as he watched his protégé Paul say “I do,” that the happy tears in my eyes were more for him than for my client.

The next thing I knew, Scott was escorting me back up the
aisle, behind Aaron and Corinne. I glimpsed Chloe and Howard, all sunburn and smiles, and Monica Lamott, in a coral-colored number about a quarter-inch inside the line of decency for the mother of the bride.

But for haute couture chutzpah, you couldn’t beat Great-Aunt Enid, who had deliberately worn the one thing that etiquette forbids to the wedding guest: a white lace dress. It was a hollow victory, though, since at her age the effect was less bridal than funereal. She could have been buried in that dress, and maybe she would be. But to judge by the tender looks she was sending Paul, she’d die happy.

Meanwhile, though, Enid was safely whisked away to her hotel by her nurse, and the rest of us were plunged into the biggest, loudest, most over-the-top party of the year.

“This is awesome!” I heard one guest saying half an hour later, and I had to agree. Hundreds of people, all dressed to the nines, had spread out across the pulsating dance floor of the Sky Church, up the stairs to the exhibits, and along the snowy-linened, colorfully laden buffet tables.

One group was clustered in wonder at the base of Roots and Branches, a fabulous, towering sculpture of 600 guitars, all wired together, with a few accordions and banjos thrown in for good measure. The tornado-shaped assemblage rose from the main floor up through an atrium to the Sound Lab mezzanine, where a gleeful melee of guests were having a go at the drum kits and electric guitars. Rising up with it, the rock music from the Sky Church permeated the air and carried everyone along on a current of rhythmic energy. I’ve never seen so many people having such a good time all at once.

But I wasn’t one of them. All I could think about, now that we’d gotten through the ceremony, was Zack. My young, earnest Robin Hood, so eager to help Eddie with his software,
so guilt-stricken that he might have accidentally caused Mercedes’ death—could he have been faking all that, every single expression and emotion? Surely not. Surely not. A criminal past was shocking enough, but the idea of Zack as a brutal murderer made me dizzy. Or was it just stubborn denial about my own foolishness, as Aaron claimed?

Of course, I was dizzy anyway. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I stashed my bouquet and purse at a table in a semi-quiet corner of the gift shop, and hit the buffet for a plate of Joe’s crab cakes. A quick protein fix, and then I’d radio the limo drivers and guide the videographer and do everything else I needed to do, including to stop obsessing about the guilt or innocence of Zack Hartmann.

Exhilarated wedding guests flowed through the aisles of the shop, but no one paid attention to me. I had almost cleaned my plate when I saw Aaron making a beeline through the crowd. He was pocketing his cell phone, and by the look on his face he had news. “There you are, Wedding Lady! Hiding out from the adulation of the masses?”

“Just regrouping.” Neither of us was going to apologize, that was clear, but I was up for a truce. “Your eye doesn’t look bad.”

He touched his eyebrow gingerly with a fingertip as he sat down. “Yeah, your makeup artist used putty or something. You’re not half-bad yourself in that dress. Very sexy.”

Some idiot impulse drove me to demur. “Oh, well, it’s not really a good color for me. And, of course, I don’t fill it out the way Corinne does. I mean, my figure, if you can call it that, isn’t exactly—”

“Look at me, Stretch.”

I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t, until he said so. I met his gaze. “What?”

He leaned toward me and whispered, “When you get a compliment, try saying ‘Thank you,’ and nothing else. For instance, when I tell you that your naked shoulders could start a major world religion—”

“Aaron!”

“No, not ‘Aaron,’ just ‘Thank you.’ You’ll get the hang of it.” He leaned back and rapped the table with his knuckles. “Now, listen, I just heard something interesting about Lester Foy from my source at the SPD. They’ve been backtracking his movements lately.”

My mental gears were grinding. “Foy? He’s the killer after all, isn’t he?”

“Not. Sorry, Stretch, your little friend Zack is still the prime suspect. On the night of the Aquarium party, Lester Foy was up in Blaine, making an unsuccessful attempt to cross the Canadian border.”

“Are you sure?”

Aaron nodded, and a lock of black hair flopped across his forehead. “Positive ID from the customs guys. When they asked him to pull over for a spot search, he took off and they lost him. Blaine’s a two-hour drive from here. Whoever Dracula was, he wasn’t Lester Foy.”

“Oh.” I took a minute to digest this news. “But that still doesn’t prove that it was Zack who killed Mercedes. Dracula could have been…” Who? I couldn’t think straight. “OK, I’m not sure about Dracula. But I know Zack wasn’t the murderer. I just know it.”

“Come on, Mrs. Robinson, give it up. Zack fooled all of us, not just you. Admit it, and try to forget the whole thing.”

“I can’t forget it. I’m sure I’m right, and once I get some sleep I’m going to figure it all out, you wait and see.”

“More power to you, Sherlock.” Aaron stood up and straightened his bow tie. “Want to come up to the Sound Lab and jam with me? I’ll play ‘Wipe Out’ for you.”

I smiled. “Maybe later. I have to get back to work.”

“Kharrnegie!” A vast and crumpled tuxedo front was hovering over me like a Slavic storm cloud. “I have found you!”

“So you have. Aaron, this is Boris Nevsky. Boris, Aaron Gold, a good friend of mine.”

“And so, a good friend of mine also!” Boris enveloped Aaron in one of his patented Russian bear hugs, then set him down and extended one huge paw to me. “You prromised to dance! Come!”

“I did not promise! Boris, I’m in no condition—”

“Yes, I know, you were in car smash. I will hold you gently, like flower. Come!”

“Oh, all right.” If I didn’t keep moving, I’d probably stiffen to a complete halt. So I picked up my purse and followed Boris up to the main floor, leaving Aaron to arrange his tie all over again.

“B
ORIS, YOUR FLOWERS ARE WONDERFUL!
” I
HAD TO SHOUT
to be heard. High over our heads in the Sky Church, Travis Cook, an elfish fellow with long lank hair and the best sound technician on the West Coast, made magic at his control panels on the balcony. Like a latter-day wizard, he was conjuring up waves of music and dazzling, shifting video projections, filling the vast space with a pulsing phantasmagoria that throbbed through our bones as we stood at the edge of the crowded dance floor. “Corinne loved her bouquet! Did she tell you?”

The Mad Russian didn’t answer, but instead scooped me delicately into his arms for an impromptu tango. We angled across the floor, with smiling guests parting before us, then reversed course and thrust back into the throng.

Most of the faces that swam past were unfamiliar, but I saw Chloe and Howard dancing together, equally oblivious of their sunburns and the beat. Also Valerie Duncan, partnered with Paul’s brother Scott but gazing wistfully over his shoulder at someone else. Who? Ah, Roger Talbot, resplendent in white tie. He looked like a head of state at the very least.

Roger was squiring Monica Lamott, as requested, but smirking over her shoulder at a gorgeous young thing I recognized from the Sentinel’s art department. Another conquest so
soon? He was incorrigible. I returned my attention to the path ahead and jerked my partner to a halt just before we clipped the metal struts of one of the light towers.

“Boris, slow down, please! Now tell me, did you talk with Corinne? I thought maybe after your divorce—”

“Corinne! Why always do you talk of Corinne?” He blew out a gusty breath, like an exasperated horse. “Corinne is no more fun since she stopped to drink.”