Veiled Threats (13 page)

But when I emerged, the man on the terrace holding my shoe was hardly a stranger. He was Holt, familiar again in his white sweatshirt, a respectable attorney, a friend of a client. And a genuinely nice guy. When he saw my forlorn expression, he made me laugh by dropping to one knee, a parody Prince Charming, to offer me my quite unromantic moccasin. It was very silly, and very charming.

“Size six glass slipper, my dear? I'd know you anywhere, you're the dame who's always leaving dances at midnight.”

“Nine and a half narrow to you, mister,” I retorted, and leaned on his bent shoulder for balance while I put on my shoes. “And now I've got to go back to my own castle.”

He rose. “Are you all right, Carnegie?”

“Yes. A little shaken up, that's all.”

“Me, too.” He put his arms around me, offering comfort, asking for nothing. “God, it sounds so trite, but I haven't felt this way about anyone in a long time.”

We stood quiet for a moment, and then the phone rang again.

“The machine will get it,” Holt said. “I'm sorry I jumped up like that before. It's just habit.”

He continued to hold me, but I could sense him listening, and when Nickie Parry's voice rose from the answering machine I stepped away.

“Go ahead and talk to her. I'm sure the family needs you. I've got to go.” As I began to let myself out, I could hear Prince Charming changing back into the family lawyer.

“Nickie, hello. I heard about the garden and the dog, and I'm just … When? Where are you, which hospital?”

I turned back, my hand on the doorknob. Holt covered the mouthpiece and stared at me.

“It's Douglas,” he said softly. “He's had another heart attack.”

“H
E WAS JUST TAKING A WALK
,” N
ICKIE TOLD ME WHEN
I
TELE
phoned her a few days later. I hadn't wanted to intrude, but there were some wedding details that couldn't wait, and I knew from Mariana that Douglas's condition had stabilized. “He started having chest pains, and when he got to the general store they called Medic One.” She stopped to yawn, sounding like a drowsy child saying very adult words. “Sorry, I've been sleeping at the hospital most nights. The doctor said myocardial infarction, and then arrhythmia leading to cardiac arrest. And they broke a rib, doing CPR at the store, but thank goodness they knew how to do it at all. Everybody was really great, at the store and then at the hospital.”

Are they greater, I wondered, when the patient is one of the wealthiest men in the state? But then I remembered my father's final weeks, back in Boise. Not an important man, in the eyes of the world, no matter how precious he was to my mother and me. But the nurses and aides had treated him gently and well. I shuddered, recalling my own nights spent in waiting rooms, the medical smell and the unread magazines and the vending machine coffee in white Styrofoam cups. At least my father hadn't needed bodyguards.

“I'm so sorry, Nickie. Is he, that is, will he be able to come home soon?”

“ A week, they think, maybe less. He's doing really well. He says he'll be at the wedding with bells on. But if the angioplasty doesn't hold, the little balloon thing he's already got in one artery, then he'll have to have bypass surgery.” Her voice turned bitter, close to tears. “I just hope Uncle Keith is proud of himself. This is all his fault.”

“Have the police found out—”

“They say there's no evidence, but who else would do something like that? Oh, Carnegie, the trial isn't till the end of August. What's going to happen between now and then? And poor Gus …”

I murmured my sympathy, but I glanced at the master calendar on my desk while I did it. Dress fittings and limousines seemed irrelevant at a time like this, but if the wedding was to stay on schedule I had to think about them. Douglas Parry's wife and daughter certainly wouldn't want to.

“Nickie, do you want to cancel the bridesmaids’ luncheon?”

“Oh, God, I forgot about that. Grace says to go ahead with all the plans, so Daddy doesn't feel like he's spoiling things, and Ray says so, too. Could you postpone it?”

“Sure. I'll call everyone and set up a new date, at a restaurant.” We sure as hell couldn't use the rose garden.

“Fine, whatever. Is there anything else to decide right now? I want to get back to the hospital.”

I scanned my checklists quickly, and we ran through a couple of items including the final dress fitting. “I think you can skip the fitting, actually, but there is one thing. We forgot to have you try on your pearl necklace with the gown. The dressmaker wants to see the pearls so she can adjust the neckline to match. I could drive over and pick them up, if you want.”

“Don't bother, Carnegie. I'll have Mariana send them over to you by taxi.”

“I'm not sure that's safe,” I said in alarm. It would have seemed risky even to transport the necklace myself, but dropping several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry on some cabbie's front seat was just asking for trouble.

“It's all right,” Nickie assured me. “I'll send the fakes.”

“The fakes?”

“Daddy has all our jewelry copied, for when we travel. The real ones have a platinum clasp, and the fakes have gold. I can't tell them apart myself, except for that.”

“Oh.” I'd never had my rhinestones copied, so this was news to me. “OK, send them over, then. I'll be in the office all day.”

The necklace arrived at mid-morning, in a velvet-lined cloisonné case. Teal-blue butterflies danced across the white enamel surface, and ruby-red flowers rose up on golden stems. Inside the case, on teal-blue velvet, lay the necklace, gold clasp and all. The pearls certainly seemed real, each one a little marvel of curves and captured moonlight. The gold clasp was a tiny, ornate work of art all in itself. As I lifted the double strands with a fingertip I heard the outside door open, and I called out without turning around. “Hey, Eddie, you're late! Forty lashes.”

“Sounds kind of kinky, but I'm willing to give it a try.”

I turned. Aaron Gold, with a cardboard box in his hands and a smirk on his face. I closed up the pearls, dropped the case in my purse, and joined him in the good room, wrinkling my nose at the cigarette aura that hung around him.

“Don't you ever make an appointment, or call ahead?”

“Not when I'm doing a good deed.” He dropped the box on our glass-topped conference table and began pulling out
the contents. “Remember that supplement the
Sentinel
did on kids’ books? Sure you do, you're a loyal reader. They were getting rid of all the review copies, so I snagged some for your story hour. I got mostly little-kid books, but there's a couple of teenage romances, too. Lots of bondage scenes, probably. You'll love 'em.”

I smiled in spite of myself and looked over the loot. Fresh new books with bright colors and intact covers, not like the battered volumes I got from the library and Goodwill. “Well, thank you. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. “So this is Wedding Lady HQ. Nice.”

“We like it.”

He glanced into the workroom. “Very professional looking, computers and all. How's the Parry shinding coming along?”

“Just fine.” I could see what was coming.
Goddamn you
, I thought.
Goddamn you for living off other people's troubles.

“I heard Douglas Parry is in the hospital.” He jingled some pocket change. “Is he OK?”

“Mr. Gold, are all your bribes this cheap?”

“What?” He looked like I'd slapped him, which I very much wanted to do.

“Well, it's pretty obvious, isn't it? A stack of books that didn't cost you a dime, and I'm supposed to give you all the dirt on my clients. Or maybe there's a fifty-dollar bill at the bottom of the box? Do you get an expense account for this kind of thing?”

I expected an argument, a snappy retort, but Gold just set his jaw and stared at me. He walked to the door, stood with his back to me for a moment, then turned.

“Where do you get off, being this rude to me? Who do
you think you are? I was asking after the man's health, that's all.” He began to say something else, then stopped himself. “ To hell with it. The books are for those kids. You can throw them in the lake for all I care.”

He passed Eddie on his way out the door.

“Nice-looking couple,” Eddie said. “New customers, I hope?”

“Couple? What couple?” I went to the door and looked down the staircase to the dock. Gold was walking toward the parking lot, his arm around the shoulder of a pretty brunette in shorts and a baseball cap.

“I didn't meet her,” I said. “But he's Aaron Gold, the reporter who called the other day. He was … I don't know. He was dropping off some books.”

Eddie shrugged and went back to work, and so did I. Business was picking up, or at least inquiries were. We'd had four prospective brides call in response to our ad in a regional wedding magazine, and each one would get red-carpet treatment when she came in for her free consultation. Later on, if there was a later on for Made in Heaven, we'd charge for consultations, but right now we just needed to get people in the door. I tried to focus on that, and forget about Aaron Gold's unfair rebuke. He was completely out of line, and even if he wasn't, there was no harm done. I wanted him to stop pestering me about the Parrys, and now he would. Good riddance.

Meanwhile, we had just under two weeks until Nickie's extravaganza, and pages of single-spaced checklists to work our way through. A backup generator for the dance band's power source and the rental chandeliers, check. Gray silk ribbon, not black, to wrap the stems of the ushers’ heather-sprig boutonnieres, check. Separate dessert stations for the
wedding cake, lemon sour cream with a bittersweet chocolate glaze, and for the groom's cake, a
mogador
of rum-soaked chocolate genoise filled with raspberry preserves, check. And a new item: a wheelchair stashed unobtrusively at both church and reception, in case the bride's father had need of one. Check.

There were a few snags, of course. Nickie's future in-laws didn't like the reception dinner menu, and one of the flower girls had chicken pox. Those were the routine problems. The unexpected acts of God, or of Douglas Parry's enemies, were another matter altogether. Every time the phone rang, I braced myself for more bad news, but none came. No more heart attacks, and no more ugly incidents in the night.

And no more bounced checks. Eddie grew positively cheerful as the Parry invoices came in and the payments went out, while our fifteen-percent fees piled up.

“We should specialize in rich people,” he told me on Saturday morning. We were both in the office for a couple of hours. “A few more society weddings like this and you can pay your mother's mortgage and buy her the house next door. What about the Parry girl's bridesmaids? Are they all heiresses?”

“No, she's disgustingly democratic in her choice of friends. Come to think of it, though, one of them is a cousin, so there might be money there. I'll try to fix her up with one of the waiters at the bridesmaids’ luncheon. Whirlwind courtship, big wedding. Happens all the time.”

Eddie chuckled. “That's the spirit. You have a good weekend. See you Monday.”

The phone rang just as he left, so I was still smiling when I picked up the phone and heard Holt's voice. We'd been trading phone messages since our tryst on his carpet, always
just missing each other, but confirming a date for dinner tonight at my place. I was planning gin-and-tonics on the deck. And then barbecued salmon for the main course. And then me for dessert.

“Holt! We meet at last. I'm getting to know your secretary better than I know you. What time are you coming?”

“Carnegie, I can't make it tonight.” His voice was subdued. My smile faded.

“Is something wrong? Is it Douglas?”

“Douglas? No, he's doing remarkably well, and the angioplasty is holding. Tonight I'm just tied up with a client matter, nothing to do with the Parrys, but I'm not sure when I can reschedule. It's going to be hectic for the next week or so, maybe longer. In fact I'm at the office now. I should go in a minute.”

“I understand.” And I would have, too, if only his voice hadn't been so stilted. I was busy myself; I'd had to cancel dates once in a while. But I also knew a brush-off when I heard one, or thought I did. “Well, I'll just see you when I see you, Holt. Bye.”

“Wait, wait! I'm sorry, I don't mean this to sound … the way it sounds. We're still on for the trip to Mount Rainier, aren't we?”

“Are we?”

“Yes,” he said, some warmth returning to his voice. “We are. And I'll call you before then.”

Maybe he will, I thought, after we chatted a bit more and hung up. And maybe he won't. I am not, repeat not, going to waste time wondering. On that resolute note, I went downstairs to make myself a gin-and-tonic and fire up the barbecue. I had my own little feast, and went to bed early. With a book.

I
WAS JUST DOZING OFF WHEN THE PHONE RANG
.

“Carnegie, it's Lily. I think I've found Mary!”

“Terrific! Where?”

“Well, it's not definite, but I talked to someone at the First Avenue Mission. She said Mary comes in most nights.”

“What's the address? I'll go right over.”

“No, wait. They're already full for tonight, so if Mary does show up in the next few minutes she'll be put on the van that goes to an overflow shelter. It's a church up in the Greenwood neighborhood. I'd go with you, but I've got to put the boys to bed….”

“No problem. Just give me the address of the church.”

Greenwood Presbyterian was a long, low brick structure on a quiet side street, deeply shadowed by maples. I parked near the back entrance, where a plump gray-haired woman stood under a streetlight checking her watch. Lily had told me to look for her, but I would have guessed who she was. She had the wise, weary expression of a career volunteer.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you Irene?”

She nodded, and waited. I took a deep breath.

“My name's Carnegie Kincaid. I heard from the First Avenue Mission that a woman named Mary might be here
tonight. I don't know her last name, but it's important that I speak with her….”

“Why?”

I was afraid she'd ask that. “It's a long story, but she may have been a witness to something that happened at a wedding a couple of weeks ago, and I just need to ask her about it.”

She frowned. “Are you from the police?”

“Well, no, but—”

“We try to protect the safety and privacy of our guests, Ms. Kincaid. Their lives are difficult enough, and this is the one place where no one bothers them. I wouldn't want to distress Mary—”

“So you do know her!”

She smiled, ever so slightly. “I know a Mary whose hobby is weddings, yes.”

“That's her.” I hesitated, but I couldn't resist asking. “Do you know
why
? Why she goes to weddings, I mean?”

Irene smiled. “She told me once it was for the cake. She likes cake.”

“Bless her heart, I'll buy her a wedding cake myself. But tonight, if I could just speak with her for a moment? I mean if she's willing. Really, it's very important.”

“All right, but only if she's willing. There's the van now.”

The driver, a boyish young woman, hopped out and handed Irene a set of keys. I stood aside while she unlocked the doors to what looked like a vacant rec room in the lower level of the church. Light flooded from the entrance, illuminating the van's passengers as they filed inside: fifteen or so women of all ages, several of them black, two who looked Indian, all of them carrying everything they owned in life in their two hands. Plastic bags, knapsacks, even a small
wheeled suitcase like flight attendants use, pulled by a brisk fortyish blonde in a navy pantsuit. She glanced at me and then away, and I wondered what her story was. I also wondered where Mary was, because she wasn't in the van. I followed the blonde inside and immediately Irene came to bar my way.

“She isn't here.”

“I can see that. But if she does show up one night, could you possibly call me?” I held out my business card. “I could come right over, and I wouldn't bother her if she didn't want to talk to me. Honestly, Irene, it's terribly important.”

She contemplated the card. Behind her, the homeless women were pulling foam sleeping mats from a pile in the center of the bare room, and blankets from a huge duffel bag in the corner. A few of them chatted, a few glanced at me, but most just made up their impromptu beds on the brown linoleum, settled their belongings beside them, and lay down in silence. One elderly woman cradled a teddy bear. I wanted desperately to go home.

“Please?”

Irene took the card. “All right.”

“Thank you so much. She must be at one of the other shelters tonight—”

She laughed grimly. “Not necessarily. She could be sleeping in a doorway, or under a freeway overpass, or on a park bench. We do an annual count. The latest one showed about a thousand people living out on the streets downtown.”

“Including old women? I'd hate to think—”

“Including two dozen children,” Irene said. “Think about
that.
”

I thought about it a lot that night, and the next day too, until Lily came to pick me up for our foray to Flair Plus. It
turned out to be a white cement-block structure a few feet back from the traffic on Aurora Avenue, with a huge pink-and-black plastic banner draped across the front: “LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! 100'S OF PRETTY GIRLS AND 2 UGLY ONES!”

W e sat in Lily's car and watched a fat guy in a narrow black tie taping a bunch of balloons to the front door, along with a cardboard sign saying “Now Open at Noon!” Then he went back inside, so we sat looking at the balloons.

“No point asking around in there,” said Lily, finally.

“Who's going to give out anybody's name in a place like that?” I agreed.

“And besides …”

“And besides,” I said, “we don't want to go in there.”

“No. We sure don't. Let's go home.”