Veiled Threats (10 page)

K
IDSPLACE WAS A DAY
-
CARE PROGRAM FOR LOW
-
INCOME WORK
ing mothers, where I did a story hour once a week. I parked by the scrawny hedge surrounding the little playground, full of kids running riot in the sunshine, and rummaged in the van for my stash of storybooks.

“Hey, Wedding Lady!”

That East Coast voice again: Aaron Gold, standing by the playground gate and smiling like an old friend. He had traded the tweed sports coat for an ugly tan windbreaker, and he held a battered steno notebook in one hand.

“What do
you
want? More quotes?”

“How come you're so worked up about one little anonymous phrase? Is old Grace going to fire you on suspicion of having a big mouth?”

“Forget it, just forget it.” He'd hit much too close to home. I did talk too much, and I knew it. “Are you following me around? How did you know where I'd be, anyway?”

“Your partner Eddie told me.”

“
Eddie
sent you here?”

“Well, he mentioned the name of the center, so I looked it up.”

“Bully for you.” I said. “Now please leave me alone. I'm running late, and I have absolutely nothing to say to you, about Grace Parry or anything else.”

The Kidsplace supervisor appeared at the door of the building, a train of kids in tow. “Carnegie, I thought we'd try the story hour outside today, all right? And Mr. Gold can watch.”

I turned back to him. “Mr. Gold?”

“I'm doing a story on day-care kids,” he said, utterly deadpan. “Single career women who volunteer as storytellers seemed like a perfect lead.”

It was not my finest story hour. The kids ranged from wide-eyed kindergartners to world-weary fourth graders, so it was always a challenge to hold everybody's attention with the same tale. The presence of “Mr. Gold” didn't help.

“Who's he?” demanded Nathan, a pugnacious nine-year-old stretched out on his belly next to me.

“He's a newspaper reporter,” I said. “He wasn't invited, and he's leaving very soon, but right now he's going to sit quietly and listen to this next story. Isn't he?”

“Sure,” said Gold, grinning. “What's it about?”

“Unicorns,” I replied, and began to read. Unicorn stories were a sure-fire hit with the girls, and I figured the boys would sit still for this one because it included a dragon. But Nathan was bent on showing off for the stranger.

“There's no such thing as unicorns,” he pronounced loftily, his plump chin resting on two plump fists.

“Are, too!” Latoya, a unicorn fan who favored pink dresses, was adamant.

“Are not, Mucus Face,” said Nathan. “They're just made up, aren't they, Carnegie?”

“Nathan, I've talked to you before about name-calling.”

“But aren't they just made up?”

We'd been through this once at Christmas, when I'd sidestepped the Santa Claus question. I began to frame an answer, but Latoya made a face at Nathan, and he retorted by
throwing a pebble at her, which made her cry. Throwing things was verboten at Kidsplace, so I comforted the victim and marched the perpetrator inside to cool off. When I returned, all eyes were on Aaron Gold.

“Now how about you, have
you
ever seen a unicorn?” He was asking Stephanie, the little girl on his left. Apparently he'd gone around the whole circle. Stephanie shook her blond head solemnly.

“Not even taking a bath in your bathtub? Or nibbling on your socks for breakfast?”

“No!” she shrieked, and the other kids giggled in delight.

“Me, either.” Gold sighed. “So who knows if they're real or not. But this is a pretty good story, isn't it? Who wants to hear how it ends?”

There was a chorus of “Me, me!” and he looked up smugly. “Over to you, Scheherazade.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” he said. “I hope the dragon gets it in the neck.”

The dragon did, and I finished the hour with a sing-along story. After his show of charming the kids, Gold lost interest and wandered over to the van, flipping through his notebook. I wondered if he actually liked children, or if he was just softening me up for more questions. Or maybe he really was doing a story on day-care programs.

“How about a lift home?” he asked when I was done. “I'm right near you.”

I threw the books in the back seat and got in. The van was hot and my head was aching, distracting me as I tried to think of an excuse for turning him down. “Don't you drive?”

“No car,” Gold replied. He walked around to the passenger side and climbed in, taking my hesitation for consent.

Damn him anyway. I gave up and started the engine. “OK, where do you live?”

“Lakeshore Apartments.”

“That figures.”

The Lakeshore was an eyesore, a tacky stack of cheaply built, overpriced units two blocks south of me, much resented by the homeowners whose view it spoiled.

“Yeah, I knew you'd be thrilled.” He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his windbreaker and began to pat his pockets for a match, the way men do. “You can come in for a beer.”

“And give you more quotes? No, thanks.” I had to speak up over Vanna's racket. “And please don't smoke in here.”

At close quarters, the cigarette smell on his clothes was bad enough. He shrugged and contented himself with tossing the pack from hand to hand. You'd have thought he was oblivious to everything else, but then he looked at me sharply. He did have nice eyes.

“What happened to your head?”

My bruised temple was facing him. I pushed a lock of hair over it. “I fell down.”

“Funny spot to fall on.”

I didn't answer. Traffic was especially heavy, and I was anxious to return to the office and sort out my notes for Fay Riddiford's country-western wedding. I only half listened as Gold ran through his theories about Guthridge and the Parrys. His rapid-fire speech got on my nerves, and I tuned him out until we got hung up at an intersection.

“—So it's almost a certainty that Parry knew about the MicroTech stock split before the fact,” he was saying, “and old Grace just might have used that info to hit the jackpot for two of her clients. I'd love to get my hands on her files, if she
hasn't shredded them already. Does she ever talk about her investment business?”

“No.” I craned around, trying to see if the idiot truck driver two cars ahead was stalled or just trying to make a left turn.

“How about Douglas Parry? You worked with him on Bigelow's fund-raiser, you saw him argue with Guthridge. Any idea how seriously he's taking Guthridge's threats?”

“No.” The truck was stalled. I slipped past and down the hill just as the light turned red again, then made good time on the freeway.

“Any theories about what kind of beans Parry is going to spill when he testifies?”

“No.”

“No, no, a thousand times no. Your lips are sealed?”

“That's right.”

I drove past my own dock to the Lakeshore: three identically hideous buildings projecting into the lake, with blue-gray siding and alternating blue and gray balconies for the upper units. The lower apartments had sliding glass doors out to a common deck that wrapped around each building at lake level. I pulled into the parking lot and left the engine running.

“Is this close enough?”

“Yeah, that's me right there, lucky thirteen.” He pointed toward a first-floor apartment in the nearest building. One curtain rod hung askew, giving the windows a forlorn air, and the potted azaleas flanking the glass door were brown skeletons, long dead of thirst. “No place like home. So Parry thinks Guthridge is bluffing, huh?”

I clenched the steering wheel. “Look, for the last time, my only interest in the Parrys is making sure that Nickie's wedding goes off well. Don't you understand that?”

“No, frankly, I don't. An intelligent person like you can't be all
style and surface, there's got to be depths underneath, right? So how come we can't have a conversation about Douglas Parry?”

“This isn't a conversation, this is the third degree! You want to pump me about my clients, and I'm not going to be pumped.”

“I just thought you'd be interested in truth, justice, and the American way, that's all.”

“Trial by media, you mean,” I put the van into gear. “You got your ride home. Good-bye.”

Gold got out, but leaned back in through the open window, a cigarette already in his mouth, a lighter in his hand.

“All right,” he said, “be that way. But be careful, would you? Real life is not just orange blossoms, and these are not nice people.”

“No, according to you they're all gangsters,” I snapped. If he hadn't spooked me with his talk about criminals on Saturday, I wouldn't have run from Theo and brained myself on that tree. “This isn't Sicily, for crying out loud.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sicily? Do you ever read the news part of the newspaper? Ever heard of the Russian Mafia?

“The
Russian
Mafia?”

“Yeah, money laundering, big-time corruption, people getting killed, little stuff like that? There's a sizeable Russian community over in the Eastside suburbs, you know.”

I did know. That was where Boris lived. And Boris had been out in the rain the night of Diane's wedding…. This was insane. Pretty soon I'd be suspecting myself.

“Look, I'll concentrate on weddings, and you concentrate on writing about day-care, OK?”

He straightened up to light his cigarette, and I drove off. Real life—give me a break. Maybe he thought that Made in Heaven was a hobby, that I could afford to lose my best clients just to be his inside informer. I stomped up the
walkway to the houseboat, muttering as I went, and saw Eddie coming down the office stairs.

“Eddie, do you think I'm all style and surface?”

He paused to consider. “You've got terrific style. Why?”

“No, I mean do I concentrate too much on superficial things like cakes and flowers, and not enough on real life?”

“Listen, sister, the world is full of people who concentrate on real life. Stick with what you know.”

“Oh, never mind. See you tomorrow.”

I went inside to call Lily, and we puzzled over the possibility of Boris as a hit man.

“He
could
have tampered with the Mustang,” I said. “It could have been him I saw down the road. But …”

“Yeah, but,” said Lily. “But can you imagine dear old crazy Boris deliberately hurting someone? I mean, so what if he's Russian?”

“I can't imagine
anyone
deliberately hurting someone,” I said. “But people still get hurt, don't they?”

“Well, let's check out the pool hall. The gym could be just a coincidence.”

“OK.” We made a date for the 418 Club, then considered the other half of our plan. “Lily, how are you coming with calling the shelters? Want me to help?”

“No, thanks, it's no problem. But I'm almost through the list, and no one's seen Mary. I'll keep checking.”

Finally it was Wednesday afternoon, and time to get ready for my evening with Holt. I'd bought a new dress, on the spurious grounds that I really needed another stylish outfit to alternate with the jade silk at clients’ weddings. The color was lovely, a deep rich red with no pink or orange tinge to jar against my hair, and the fabric was smooth and fluid on my skin. I slipped it on and spun before the mirror, as a woman
might if she were dancing with Holt Walker, and the skirt lifted and whirled, showing lots of leg. And yet, when I stood demurely still, the effect was proper enough for an afternoon wedding. Perfect.

Even with a long shower, I was ready early. I put some more makeup over the fading bruise on my temple. Polished my black pumps. Changed purses, to a little black clutch bag. Tried putting my hair up: too formal. Tried pulling it back: too severe. Brushed it all out loose: too everyday. This
is
everyday, I chided myself. Go do something useful.

So when five-thirty came I was washing the dishes, with my elegant scarlet sleeves pushed up over my elbows, and frowning at a small open motorboat zooming toward my dock. I never went boating myself, being a martyr to motion sickness, and I had no patience with the seagoing cowboys who roared around the lake to show off. They were supposed to slow down near the houseboats; the speed lanes were out in the middle. And this one was coming in too close, as well. I left the dishes and crossed the living room and porch to the sliding glass doors.

“Hey!” I stepped on the deck, which was rocking slightly from the motorboat's wake, and shielded my eyes against the afternoon sun.

“Hey, yourself.” The boat's driver cut the power and spun the wheel, coming to rest neatly against the deck's edge. I looked down into green eyes.

“Holt!”

“In person.” He bowed gallantly, and his bright yellow slicker flapped in the breeze. Underneath it he wore a tuxedo. “Ready for dinner? Let me take you away from all this.”

N
OW
, I’
M JUST AS WILLING AS THE NEXT WOMAN TO BE SWEPT
off my feet, but not off dry land. I get seasick at the drop of a deck. Holt didn't know that, of course, and he looked so pleased with his swashbuckling arrival at my back door that I couldn't bring myself to spoil it. So I grabbed my purse, smiled bravely, and took his offered hand. The boat bobbed and swayed as I stepped aboard—an ominous gap of dark water loomed beneath my feet. Holt slipped his arm around my waist to steady me. Strong arms, broad shoulders … maybe I could manage not to throw up on them.

“You look gorgeous!” he called over the din of the motor, whose fumes were already making my stomach roil. “You should always wear red.”

“Thanks,” I said weakly. “Um, are we making a long voyage?” “You'll see.” He wrapped a second slicker around my shoulders and revved the motor, tearing me away from the safe haven of my dock and out onto the lake. It was probably a fine June afternoon, and I bet the sunshine was pretty as hell on all the sailboats and cruise ships around us, but I didn't notice. I was praying to the gods of nausea to spare me, just this once. We headed west, across the width of the lake toward a seafood restaurant I'd been to before. Fine, I thought, I'll be stationary in minutes.

But no, we cruised past the restaurant's decks and picture windows, past the marinas and boat repair facilities, and fetched up against a dock next to, heaven help me, a float plane. As Holt tied the boat up I could see that the logo on the back of his slicker matched the one on the plane: “Eagle Air, We Get You There.”

Holt looked back at me, the hotshot lawyer transformed into a ten-year-old kid shouting
Surprise!
“How does dinner in Canada sound?”

“Wonderful,” I croaked. “Just wonderful.”

And it was wonderful, despite the occasional lurch and swoop. I closed my eyes during takeoff, reminding myself that I was rarely motion sick on airliners, and this was just a miniature airliner that happened to be slamming along over the waves. The pilot, a beefy young guy in an Eagle Air T-shirt, made a wide circle over the city and the lake. Holt reached past me to point out my houseboat, a toy house with a toy dock, and the bright confetti specks of my barrel garden. We lifted higher, and Seattle fell away to wider views of Puget Sound: green islands crouched on silver water, white ferries cutting white wakes, and the Olympic Mountains standing guard to the west, echoed by the Cascade peaks to the east.

“I love this place,” Holt said. “I'll always come back here.”

Back from where, I wanted to ask, but the engine noise was too much, so I just smiled and relaxed, letting the sights distract me from my uncertain stomach. The flight took less than an hour, but offered a new and spectacular view every minute: the San Juan Islands below, cloud towers on the horizon, Holt's profile inches away. All too soon we were descending to Victoria, British Columbia, and a final test of my equilibrium—the landing. The pilot brought us in smoothly
to a floating dock, and I thanked him with real gratitude as Holt opened the plane's door and jumped down.

I paused in the plane's doorway. Looking at him from above, I realized that crooked teeth weren't Mr. Walker's only flaw: In the middle of his wavy chestnut hair was a bald spot, a small but stubborn harbinger of things to come. I smiled, thinking ruefully of the crow's-feet that were sneaking up on me. Holt glanced up, saw my smile, and passed a self-conscious hand over his head, so I looked away as he helped me down and steered me to Customs.

“Holt, this is wonderful! When you say out of town, you mean out of town.”

Victoria harbor was bustling with boats, from sleek cabin cruisers to tall-masted sloops to chunky little workaday tugs. Across the water, joggers and dog walkers and families were enjoying the sunset from the promenade along the north shoreline, and in the pretty little bit-of-Britain downtown, sightseers were window-shopping beneath the flower baskets that hung from every lamppost. The stately old Empress Hotel presided grandly over the holiday scene, its ivied walls rising up to cupolas and mansard roofs and the jaunty red maple leaf of the Canadian flag. Sea gulls wheeled and called, as if in celebration, and I knew just how they felt.

“I'm glad you're pleased,” said Holt. “We can walk a bit before dinner if you'd like.”

“I'd like.”

We walked to and past the Empress, our long strides matching, and over to the grand facade of the Provincial Museum. A lovely city, just foreign enough to be charming. And a new red dress, a handsome man in a tuxedo, and the
prospect of food in the near future. What more could a woman ask? Especially a woman who's all style and surface, like me.

“Why the frown, Carnegie?”

“Just something in my eye. It's gone now. You were talking about Voigt, Baxter?”

“Yes, but I can't imagine why. I'd much rather hear about Made in Heaven. Are you ready to eat and tell me the story of your life?”

I laughed. “Well, ready to eat, anyway.”

He led us down a narrow, quiet street, its windows glowing in the twilight, to a door with a gay blue awning and a brass plate inscribed
Les Oiseux Blancs
, The White Birds, and below that,
Bienvenue
. Inside, past a tiny vestibule, a tiny woman with silver hair and bright black eyes greeted Holt with a torrent of French. He answered in French, just as rapidly, and then introduced me.

“Mme. Lamartine, the owner of this establishment.”

“Mademoiselle!” She cocked her head, quite birdlike herself. “M. Walker requested a special table, special menu, and I can see his reason before me. Come in, come in.”

Special was hardly the word for that dinner. We sat in a secluded corner screened by a planter box of gardenias, their leaves dark and glossy among the pale blossoms. On the table, an oil lamp like a silver teardrop shed a steady glow over the pink linens and bright crystal. Between sips of pale wine and bites of crusty bread, Holt and I observed the room full of smartly dressed diners, making silly comments about them and laughing like old friends. He didn't ask about my head, and I didn't mention the accident, or the Parrys. All that was far away. When our dinner arrived, we turned away
from the others and withdrew into a sense of perfect privacy. And perfect food: roast pheasant with chestnut purée, tiny new peas, and dark, earthy wild mushrooms.

“ A toast.” Holt raised his glass. “To entrepreneurs like Carnegie Kincaid. I really do want to hear all about your business.”

“But why?” His fast-track legal career and my faltering sole proprietorship seemed worlds apart.

“Because I admire people who make their own way. And you're obviously so good at what you do. Nickie says you're the best.”

“She's a pleasure to work with. Some brides aren't.”

“I'll bet. Tell me some horror stories.”

So I told him about the temper tantrums over napkin colors, the mother-daughter spats, the Byzantine seating arrangements needed to keep the groom's hard-drinking, twice-divorced father away from the bride's disapproving aunt. Holt laughed at all the right moments, and poured more wine. The waiter brought salads, each as perfect as a corsage, and Holt asked about the business end of Made in Heaven. I explained the marketing and financing and other nuts and bolts, including Eddie's crucial role.

“He keeps track of the billings, and our percentage from each product and service that we handle. It's a lifesaver for me. I hate paperwork, and he's really sharp about getting good deals for our clients. I just sign where he tells me to.”

“How does that work out with a big wedding like Nickie's? Do you put up your own money and get paid at the very end?”

“No chance! Nickie's dress alone would have wiped us out.” I almost told him about the Parrys’ household account, and the mix-up with the bounced check, but I held back. Too much chatter, Kincaid. “Do you really want to hear all this?”

“Of course!” he said warmly. “I've never met a bona fide wedding planner before. Or is it wedding consultant?”

“Doesn't matter. It's a pretty loose occupational title, you know, not like attorneys or electricians or whatever. Lots of part-timers with an office at home, and some people whose real business is selling wedding gowns or invitations. They steer their customers to a brother-in-law who's a florist, and a cousin who's a deejay, and then they call themselves bridal consultants.”

“And that bothers you.”

I laughed. “Did I sound bothered? I guess I'm a little defensive sometimes, when people think that all I do is pick out a bouquet and order a cake. A wedding can be such a complicated, expensive event, like a business conference or a theater production. And yet it should also be a lovely, meaningful ritual for two people, and two families. Eddie and I cover all the bases, or at least we try.”

“Looks to me like you succeed.”

We paused a moment, while the waiter cleared our places.

“You know,” I said, “this is exactly what I've been needing.”

Holt looked up from the dessert menu. “White chocolate mousse with fresh raspberries?”

“No. Actually, yes, that sounds wonderful. But I mean telling you about my work. It's giving me a sense of perspective again.”

“Which you were losing?”

“Losing my mind is more like it.” I sipped the hot, aromatic coffee that Mme. Lamartine had personally poured for us from a scrolled silver pot. “One headache after another, petty anxieties, the trees instead of the forest. I really love my work. I love making a beautiful occasion for people like Nickie and Ray, being efficient about the business details and creative about the ceremony.”

“Which wedding has been your favorite?” asked Holt.

I thought that over, luxuriating in his interest, his focus on me and my work. “Marty and Carol's, I think. Marty is a paraplegic. Carol's father wanted to walk her down the aisle, but she was afraid Marty would be self-conscious, waiting for her up front in his wheelchair. I don't think Marty cared, really, but Carol was really worried about it.”

“So you did something brilliant.”

“You flatter me, sir. But I did have an idea that made everyone happy. I rented an antique, this beautifully carved oak chair. Carol's father gave her away, and then she sat next to Marty on the antique chair and they were married sitting down. Everyone cried. Now I know that's just a little detail, some people might think it's superficial—”

“No one with any sense of romance,” said Holt. “Or any sense of you.”

Our eyes met, and I swear the table rose and tilted like a Ouija board at a séance. Holt took my hand and asked the fatal question.

“Would you like to hear some music?”

Music. Dancing. That was all I needed to go down for the third time. Holt paid the bill, called a cab, and whisked me away to a sophisticated little jazz club, where it seemed that a very special trumpet player was coming out of retirement to jam with his old combo, this week only. Holt had planned it all in advance, bless his heart.

There was just one little detail he didn't know. I
loathe
jazz. I know it's un-American of me, but anything except the most corny of Dixieland tunes makes my back teeth ache. The trumpet slides around queasily, the piano wanders so far from the melody that you'd need a Saint Bernard to fetch it back, and the drums hover sadistically close to a recognizable
rhythm without actually settling down to one. And you can't
dance
to the stuff. Jazz makes me feel restless and unsophisticated and irritable, and the prospect of two hours of that followed by possible airsickness was enough to drive me to the club's sophisticated little ladies’ room, close to tears.

“All right, Kincaid,” I said sternly to the mirror. “He planned this as a nice surprise for you, you can grit your teeth for a while and try to enjoy it. Maybe there'll be a fire. Or an earthquake.”

Holt welcomed me back to our table with another raised glass, this time a brandy snifter, and we sat back and listened. The set lasted a couple of centuries, with Holt nodding appreciatively while my eyes glazed over and I drank my brandy too fast. The piano player wore a toupee, and I tried to concentrate on how well it clung to his skull while he attacked the keys. At last the band took a break, and I applauded in gratitude.

“Well, what did you think?” Holt asked.

“Remarkable. Just … remarkable.” I'm a poor liar, so I hastened on to safer ground. “And dinner was delicious, and the plane ride was great. But you know, what I really appreciate most is your interest in my work. You're a good listener. I can see why your clients would trust you completely.”

He stared down into his brandy, then drank it off with an abrupt movement that seemed unlike him.

“Carnegie,” he began, and then faltered. “There's something I want to talk to you about, but I don't know how. I—”

“Another round?” The waitress startled us both. Holt frowned and shook his head. The silence stretched on, and I began to dread the arrival of the musicians. If Holt was feeling what I was feeling, it was time to get out of here.

“Could we go for another walk?”

“I'm sorry, have I made you uncomfortable?” He lifted his
hands in apology. “I don't want to take you away from the music.”