Veiled Threats (18 page)

T
HAT NIGHT
,
THE FIRST NIGHT OF
N
ICKIE
’
S CAPTIVITY
,
MY SLEEP
was invaded by the hands of silent, faceless men. Again and again, in my dark dreams, their hands tore fragile roses from the earth. Smashed a stone into the bloody carcass of a dog. Clamped a poisonous cloth over a gray-haired woman's face. Grabbed at a young bride, hurt her somehow, carried her off away from her family. And then, in a final apparition, the men's hands seized one hand of the bride's, pulled off her diamond ring, spread her fingers flat, and brought a chopping knife whistling down, faster and faster—

“No!” I sat bolt upright in bed, my own fingers clutching the sheets that tangled around me and draped to the floor. Panting and shuddering, I looked at the coldly glowing numbers on the clock radio: 5:07
A
.
M
. Better to get up and face the demons of the day. The strain of waiting for news, and the lesser tensions involving Eddie and Holt and my business, were far preferable to those hands in the darkness.

As I stared out the kitchen window at the lake I wondered if I would actually hear the news when it came. In the melting, misty light, a flotilla of geese arrowed across the smooth water, their rippling silver wake stretching far behind them to the tarped-over sailboats and the silent docks. It would be a cloudy day, cool and still, a long, shadowless progression of
hours to wait through until nightfall. Would Holt call me when they heard from the kidnappers? And should I tell him my suspicions about Crazy Mary's death, or did any of that even matter now?

Perhaps Julia would keep in touch with me, or Ray, but it was Holt I yearned to hear from. I wanted him to tell me that I had imagined the doubt in his eyes, that he had simply lost his temper in a moment of stress. That now, on reflection, he couldn't possibly imagine any link between me and Nickie's disappearance, even if he could imagine me as a cheat. And I swore to myself that I would not call him. I was ashamed of myself for thinking about him at all, at a time like this, but at least I wouldn't call him. Not today, anyway.

And I wouldn't call Eddie, either, much as I wanted to. What was there to say? My fury at him had shrunk into a hollow sourness. Sure, he was in the wrong and I was in the right, but I would have given anything to have my old Eddie back. Even more than Holt, I realized, I missed Eddie.

The teakettle screamed behind me, and I tried to get on with my morning. After letting one cup of tea, and then another, go cold while I stared absently out the window, I turned to my one reliable sedative: housework. Scouring the kitchen floor would be especially therapeutic, I decided, so I got down on my knees and stripped off the old wax, scrubbing ferociously in tight, hypnotic circles, and used an old butter knife to scrape up petrified spills that had lain undisturbed for months, maybe years. The helpless anger I felt over Nickie's plight transformed itself into an absurd determination to clean that damn floor. Finally, I sluiced it with clear water, mopped it dry, and spread the new wax with scrupulous care, as if it mattered. As if it would help.

Then I vacuumed the hell out of the rugs, and dusted
every horizontal inch I could reach. I even thought about nailing up a shelf to display the miniature cast iron stove. But I would have had to leave the houseboat—and the telephone—for the wood, so I set the little toy on the kitchen table, centered just so on one of my grandmother's crocheted doilies. I spent hours cleaning and arranging and fussing, and the phone never rang. Had Douglas heard anything? Would he break down and call the police?

I could picture Grace and Douglas in their living room, Julia at her hotel, Ray and Holt at their apartments, all staring at their telephones, waiting. Or had they gathered at the Parry estate, to pass the time in assuring each other that Nickie was far too valuable a hostage to harm? I wondered, with stubborn, morbid curiosity, what was happening to Nickie right this minute. She must know that her father would do anything to get her back.
Hold on, kiddo.
I clenched my hands and sent her my thoughts, wherever she was.
Hold on, don't despair.

Finally, in late afternoon, I took a long hot shower, telling myself that if I stayed in long enough, the telephone would break its endless, unrelenting silence. Sure enough, when I twisted the faucets shut I could hear it ringing in the bedroom. Had it just started, or was that the final ring?
Wait, don't hang up.
Naked, scattering droplets everywhere, I ran to answer. Maybe they'd found her, maybe she was already home—

“Carnegie, this is Aaron Gold … Are you there?”

I sank down on the bed and pulled the coverlet around me. “What do you want?”

“Nice to talk to you, too. Don't worry, this is strictly business.” He spoke quickly, getting it all in before I could stop him, but I didn't have the strength. And his voice, aggravating
as it was, made a change from the silence. “Listen, I wouldn't be calling you at all, but the Parrys won't talk to me and that Fenner woman isn't at her office or her house. I just need to verify some facts. Can we do that?”

“Maybe.” I was light-headed from skipping lunch, and from the hot water. I lay back on the bed, feeling my hair soak the pillows, and closed my eyes. “Stick to yes and no questions, all right? No multiple choice, no essays. No quotes.”

“OK, then, Niccola Parry's wedding was canceled, right?”

“Right. Well, postponed.”

“Postponed,” he echoed. “Until when?”

“No date yet.”

“And the reason for the postponement was the bride's flu?”

“Right.”

“Nothing to do with Douglas Parry's health? Or a bomb threat from the people connected with Guthridge?”

“
Bomb
threat? Jesus, where do you guys get this stuff?”

“We pull it out of the ether. You have to admit, it makes you wonder. Here's Parry the dangerous witness, up against a guy like Guthridge and his backers, and then here's a church full of people being sent home all of a sudden. What's the real story, Wedding Lady?”

“There isn't one.” There had better not be, for Nickie's sake. “The bride had the flu, period. Corinne Campbell was there at St. Anne's. Why don't you ask her?”

“Yeah, well, there's this slight problem of Corinne being a moron. She believes anything anybody tells her, and she's never heard of Keith Guthridge or King County Savings. Probably keeps her money in her mattress.”

“No comment.”

He chuckled. “By the way, how come you were at St. Anne's? Did the Parrys unfire you?”

“No comment.”

“OK,” he said, his voice turning chilly, “excuse me for caring. I'll forget that you used me as a crying towel on the Fourth of July.”

I winced. “You haven't repeated any of that to anyone?”

The temperature dropped some more. “I am not quite the scum you think I am. I have not sold your personal life to the tabloids. And I hardly ever kick children or dogs.”

“I'm sorry, it's just that—”

“What sorry? This is strictly business, remember? So— there was no emergency, the old man is healthy, the kids are still planning to get married, and everything's normal?”

“Completely normal,” I lied. And I would keep on lying, to anyone about anything, for as long as it took to get Nickie home safe. Having a reporter around this situation was like pointing a gun at her head. “So there's no story.”

“There's still the Parry story,” Gold countered. “I've been digging up some interesting things about—”

“Look, I've got to go. I'm expecting a call—”

“Let me guess, from a lawyer named Holden Walker?”

“Holt Walker,” I said automatically. Then I sat up, my hair slapping coldly against my bare spine. “What do you know about Holt?”

“Not a thing, except Corinne says he's romancing you, and that he's the quote catch of the century unquote. Oh, and of course my shrewd journalistic guess that he's tall, dark and Gentile.”

“What?”

“Forget it. Stupid thing to say. None of my business.” “Boy, you've got that right.” I banged the receiver down so hard that it stung my fingers. Then I got dressed, reheated some soup and ate it, and sat by the telephone with a
book that I never opened. The phone didn't ring again that night.

On Monday morning I pulled myself together. I could stare at the telephone spinning nightmares about Nickie for the rest of the year, and it wouldn't do her or me one bit of good. Better to stick with my normal routine, both to keep myself occupied and to convince anyone who happened to care that nothing much had occurred Saturday at St. Anne's. If a headline hunter like Aaron Gold got even a hint of the truth, the police would find out within hours and Nickie's safety would be forfeit. I was hardly Gold's best lead, I knew, but I had nothing else within my power to help her. Business as usual, I told myself. My partner is an embezzler, and my lover thinks I'm capable of committing a heinous crime. And Thursday I'm supposed to do a perky, upbeat interview with
Washington Women Entrepreneurs
magazine, with a focus on Nickie Parry's wedding. Business as usual.

The first item of Monday's business was to call Joe Solveto. Someone owed him an explanation, however falsified, about the canceled reception. So I told him about Nickie's dreadful flu, and while I was at it, that Eddie had resigned because of poor health. End of both stories.

“This is going to cost her father a fortune, you know,” said Joe. “The booze can go back, but all that food has to be paid for. I donated everything that didn't spoil to the Fremont Food Bank, but I'm not running a charity.”

“I know, Joe. Dorothy Fenner will sort out the details with you later on. She's not feeling too well herself right now.”

“That's the next question. Who's running this wedding, you or dear Dorothy? I'm getting, as they say, mixed messages.”

“Dorothy is. I just helped out with a few things at St. Anne's. She has the account from here on.”

“But how—”

“Joe,” I said hastily, trying for a diversion, “Can I talk to you about Made in Heaven? Things aren't going well, and I could use your advice.”

“Of course.”

I briefly laid out the assets, liabilities, and prospects of Made in Heaven, concluding with, “I only have three other committed clients, and damn few potential ones. I've got cash flow problems, accounting problems, and maybe public image problems. Have you heard any unpleasant rumors?”

“Just a few snide comments here and there. Nothing too bad.”

“But nothing good?”

“Well, people are saying you had a personal problem with Mrs. Parry, personality clash, that kind of thing. Did you?”

“You might say that. I resigned the account at her request.”

“But nothing that would carry over to your work with other clients? I have a good reason for asking.”

“Absolutely not.”

I could hear him thinking it over.

“The reason is, I'd like to invite you to work for me. One of my assistants is pregnant. Cheryl, you've met her. She's quitting in September, and I need someone who can do large-scale event planning. You'd have to come up to speed on the food side, but your organizational skills are sharp, and you're good with society types. Cheryl's always been intimidated by them. I need someone more like me.”

“Joe, I'm flattered.” A job. A paycheck. Safe harbor after all the storms. But no more Made in Heaven. My brain
wouldn't hold all this and Nickie, too. “I, um, I need some time to think about it.”

“Of course you do. It's a big decision. You might want to fight it out on your own, and if you do, more power to you. Let me know.”

Maybe it was selfish, but my time out from thinking about Nickie had done me a world of good. I worked my way through the day, and at dinnertime I even ran out for some pizza. When I got back, there were two messages on the office machine. The features editor of
Washington Women Entrepreneurs
, sounding ever so diplomatic, had called to tell me that my interview had been postponed indefinitely, what with the cancellation of the Parry wedding and, well, circumstances in general. Circumstances, I thought. What an interesting term for the mud being slung at my good name.

The second message banished that thought, and everything else. It was Ray Ishigura, asking for my help.

I
BARRELED
DOWNSTAIRS
TO
THE
KITCHEN
AND
MISDIALED twice before I got through to Ray's apartment.

“It's Carnegie. What happened? Have you heard from them? Is she—”

“Nothing. Nothing's happened yet.” His resonant voice was taut and strained, a cello string stretched to the breaking point. “I just need to talk to you about something. Would you mind coming over? I don't want to tie up the phone.”

“Of course.” I scribbled down the address he gave me. “I'll come as fast as I can.”

“Don't run any red lights with that fine machine of yours.”

His attempt at humor made my heart ache. “I'll keep it under eighty. See you soon.”

The evening traffic was maddeningly slow as I drove under the freeway and up the backdoor route to Capitol Hill. Past the Lake View Cemetery and the stately landscaping of Volunteer Park, the “millionaires’ row” of mansions from the Hill's heyday long ago, and the old brick buildings near Group Health Hospital, where I'd once had a studio apartment myself. I thought Ray lived in one of them, in fact, but his address turned out to be a ramshackle house on the east side of the hill, where it slopes down to the poorer neighborhoods along
Madison Street. Garages are rare on that part of the hill, and the average life span of an empty curbside parking space is measured in seconds. I finally found a spot several blocks away.

Ray's apartment was a box with a piano in it. The gleaming Steinway seemed to take up the entire living room, making it clear that the tiny, clothing-strewn bedroom and the even tinier and grubbier kitchen were mere annexes to the musical life. Presumably Nickie would furnish their new home. If they ever had one.

“Thanks for coming,” said Ray. He glanced around as if to offer me a chair, and seemed puzzled to realize that there wasn't one.

“The floor is fine,” I said, and he smiled slightly.

“That's what we've been using.”

“We?”

“Hello, Carnegie.” Holt Walker stepped out of the kitchen. He wore summer slacks and deck shoes, and a loose cotton shirt with blue and white stripes. He was carrying two glasses of iced tea, like the perfect host at a patio party. I wanted to hit him.
You don't trust me
, I wanted to scream.
I was falling in love with you, and you doubted me, first about the fraud, and then about the kidnapping. Who do you think you are?

I looked at Ray. “You didn't tell me—”

“I asked him not to.” Holt handed one glass to Ray and offered me the other, but I shook my head. “I was afraid you wouldn't come. We treated you so badly—no,
I
treated you so badly at the church. We were all upset, but still it was inexcusable. I can't defend myself, Carnegie, but you have to remember that Douglas and Grace were still angry at you. They don't know it was really your partner—”

“Never mind how anyone acted,” I said flatly. “Ray, why did you call me? Did the kidnappers finally contact Douglas?”

He sighed, looking very young and very weary. “No, not yet. But people are bombarding the house with phone calls about the wedding. It's getting crazy, and Holt thought I should call you.”

“What about Dorothy Fenner? She's the one getting paid for all this.” I was ashamed of myself the minute I said it. After all, as far as Ray knew, I'd lost the job through my own greed. But he didn't seem to notice.

“She's been in bed since the … the attack. Nickie's mother is staying with her.”

“That's good.” Julia Parry would be a calming, capable nurse, and Dorothy would be able to talk freely about the kidnapping. Maybe she'd talk it out of her system and her sleep would be more peaceful than mine.

“Yeah, it's a big help. But we need someone to talk to the press and the bridesmaids and the country club and everyone. To put up a good front.” He looked bewildered at the tempest of attention that a rich girl's wedding could generate. “Grace wanted to do it herself, but Douglas needs her. He's feeling pretty rocky. It was Douglas who agreed that I should call you.”

“I bet that took some persuasion,” I said wryly.

Ray nodded. “He's still pretty bitter about, uh, that other business. That's why he didn't call you himself. But the woman from the
Sentinel
keeps calling, and then Lieutenant Borden showed up—”

“The police came?” said Holt sharply. His iced tea lapped over the rim of the glass and splashed on the floor. “No one told me that.”

“It was after I talked to you this afternoon,” said Ray. He
sat on the floor and leaned against the wall by the phone. I followed his example. Holt stayed standing.

“What did Borden want?” he demanded.

“It was about Gus, and the garden and all.” Ray ran his hand, the one that should have borne a wedding ring by now, over his glossy black hair. “Mariana let him in, she's terrified of policemen. I think she's afraid if she causes trouble, they'll deport her or something. Anyway, Grace got rid of him. He didn't ask about Nickie at all.”

Holt seemed to relax. He sat down across from me, but near enough to touch, and I wondered if he was remembering that afternoon on his carpet. I certainly was. I blushed, angry at my body for turning traitor on me, and hastened back to business.

“Ray, I'll do absolutely anything I can to help.” I quickly reviewed the week's schedule and began to think out loud. “Friday I'm supposed to drive over to Ellensburg, to make arrangements for a wedding. I was going to stay there overnight, and then Saturday there's this reception on Mount Rainier, but I'll make up some excuse—”

“No.” Holt set his glass down. “We need a day or two of your time, Carnegie, but that's all. We don't want you to jeopardize your business. Stick to your schedule.”

He knew, only too well, how precarious my business was at the moment, and I had to appreciate his concern. But where was his concern at St. Anne's, when he saw the necklace and found me guilty until proven innocent?

“All right,” I said, shaking off the thought. “Ray, I'll leave you the number where I'm staying Friday night, and at the Glacier View over the weekend. If there's any news—”

“I'll call you.” The haunted look on Ray's face made me pray for news, good news, much sooner than Sunday.

“I talked to the caterer earlier today,” I went on. “First thing tomorrow, I'll call everyone connected with the wedding and give them an update on Nickie's flu. In fact, maybe we should announce a new date for the wedding, just to make it plausible.”

“Whatever you say,” Ray answered, then added, with a wistful show of faith, “After all, we're going to need another date.”

“Of course you are.” I wanted to hug him. His nightmares must have been darker, and his empty hours longer, than any of ours. Instead, I pulled out my pocket calendar and a notebook. “Let's pick one out, and get a list started of people for me to call.”

We worked on the list for an hour or more. Aaron Gold's name didn't come up, but we talked in general about getting the
Sentinel
off the track, and negotiating with the many vendors involved in the ceremony and the reception. We even discussed the etiquette of keeping or returning wedding gifts. I realized, partway through, that the two men must be as grateful as I was for the sense of purpose that these incongruous tasks were giving us. Anything was better than idle waiting. Finally, I got up to use the bathroom, and when I came back Holt was alone.

“I asked Ray to take a walk around the block. He needs it, anyway.”

I crossed to the window and watched Ray stride down the front walk. “Poor kid.”

“He's a strong young man,” Holt said. “He'll hold up all right until he gets her back.”

I turned to face him across the piano. “What if he doesn't get her back, Holt? What if they kill her?”

“They won't.” He set his wide brown fists on the polished wood. “They won't. Douglas would never forgive Guthridge if they so much as hurt her, and Guthridge can't afford that.”

“So you're sure it's him?”

“Of course.” He slipped his hands in his pockets, the perfect host once more. As if he'd never misjudged anyone in his life. “Who else could it be?”

“Someone who's just desperate for money. Me, for instance.” He flinched, and the movement gave me a perverse pleasure. “Or am I off your list of suspects now?”

“You were never on it.”

“Don't give me that. All along, you've been so ready to believe the worst of me. First you thought I was a white-collar criminal—”

“I explained all that!”

“—and
then
you thought I had stolen Nickie's pearls, and maybe her, too!” My voice was rising to an unreasonable pitch, but I didn't care. “Why? Is it because I'm not wealthy like you, so I must be after something? Just one more gold digger trying to become the next Mrs. Walker? Or because I don't live up to the memory of your sainted wife?”

I stopped, shocked at my own words. Holt had gone white around the mouth. He drew his hands from his pockets. I held my breath. Then he stepped forward, and pulled Ray's piano bench out from beneath the keyboard.

“Oscar Wilde,” he said carefully, “or maybe it was Chekhov, or somebody, said that you can change tragedy into farce by sitting down. Would you sit down with me, Carnegie?”

W e sat, as far apart as the bench would permit. He brushed the fingers of one hand against the keys, making a
soft ripple of notes in the dim, quiet room, and I recalled the touch of his fingers on my skin.

“I'm not the most trusting person,” he said. “I'm sorry. I do have my reasons.”

He pressed a single key, then another. The wrong one, apparently, because he went back to the first key and tried the sequence again. Another false note, but then he had it.
Blue moon
, the piano sang, in its lovely, mellow voice.
You saw me standing alone. Without a dream in my heart—

Holt brought both hands down on the keyboard in a single discordant jangle, then let them fall to his lap. When he spoke, his warm tenor had flattened to a bitter monotone.

“My sainted wife married me for money. Except that I never made enough to suit her. We fought like animals, and when she drowned all I felt was relief. I never cried a single tear.”

There was a long silence, and then he picked out the melody again.
Blue moon
…

I laid one hand on his, and he bent his head and kissed it. I stroked his hair, my fingers pale in the gathering darkness. Then he straightened up and looked at me with grief fathoms deep in his shadowed green eyes. “I'm so sorry, Carnegie.”

I meant only to embrace him, to offer comfort, but the embrace became one kiss and then another, hard and intense. He slid his hands down my spine and then stood, half dragging me up with him, and we pressed against each other as if the heat of our desire could fuse us together.

“I want you,” he said hoarsely, his lips against my throat. “Christ, I want you, I love you, I—”

The apartment door opened, and we broke apart so fast that I barked my shin on the piano bench. Ray stood swaying in the doorway, staring down at a small package in his hands.

“It was in the mailbox,” he whispered. “It looks like the printing on the note, the note about not calling the police or else, or else …”

Holt reached over to take the package, but Ray wouldn't surrender it. Instead he set it on the piano and carefully, almost reverently, began to pull apart the wrapping. The sound of tearing paper was painful, but Ray's groaning cry was worse. Inside the paper, limp and heavy, lay the silken waves of Niccola Parry's hair.