Veiled Threats (4 page)

My musings were interrupted by Theo, the chauffeur. He opened the door, stared coldly at my stained sweater, and lingered for just a moment before stepping aside to let me in. I'd been expecting Mariana, the housekeeper, and my cheery smile stiffened foolishly in place. Theo was about twenty-five, but his skin was as pale as a baby's, as if despite his spiffy sports clothes he'd never set foot in the open air. His hair, brows, and eyelashes were white-blond, giving him a colorless, raw look that I found unnerving.

“It's a jungle out there,” I prattled. “I just got mugged by a cup of coffee.”

No reaction whatsoever. “Mrs. Parry is in the master bedroom.”

“Right.” I edged past him. Inside, antique Persian rugs mixed with gaudy Central American textiles, and a dizzying number of mirrors reflected confectionery art glass and ceiling-high houseplants. The main stairway had alternating black and white marble steps, like piano keys, rising from a black marble hallway edged with tiled pools complete with water hyacinths. Got to have those hyacinths.

I ascended the stairs, and paused to admire the view from the landing. An immense ebony Doberman, as dark as Theo was pale, trotted out from a hallway: Augustus Caesar, guardian of the house and all within. Nickie called him Gus. Gus gave me a cold yellow stare.

“You don't fool me,” I whispered. “I know your dirty little secret.”

I leaned down to pull gently on his ears—a liberty I took with him only in private—and he closed his eyes in contentment. Outside the bay windows, Mount Rainier was in full
glory, snow white and ice blue above its forested lower slopes. My next wedding after Nickie's would be at a lodge halfway up Rainier, and I wished I were already there, strolling the meadows instead of dealing with a dress crisis. But duty called. From the master suite down the left-hand corridor I could hear a woman's voice, calm but sharp-edged.

“I can't imagine what you were thinking of, Niccola. It's torn, for heaven's sake. And it's
dirty
.”

I gave Gus a farewell tug and headed for the voice, through a foyer to a froufrou dressing room. Nickie stood in front of one mirrored wall, shoulders slumped and arms dangling, doing no justice at all to the Edwardian gown. Mariana, a wizened Brazilian woman, was standing quietly to one side without her usual sunny, gap-toothed smile. Beyond them, regally erect in a wicker fan chair, was Grace Parry, small, blonde, and elegant in a mauve silk suit and an out-of-season tan.

“You're Carnegie Kincaid.” Her voice was low and smooth. I nodded, and she nodded back, slowly and thoughtfully. “You're fired.”

W
E FROZE
: N
ICKIE WIDE
-
EYED
, M
ARIANA CAREFULLY EXPRES
sionless, and me, I assume, with my mouth open. Nickie flung herself into the conversational breach, her gaze switching rapidly between me and her stepmother. She looked very much as if she'd been crying all night. Life went on, but no one was forgetting what happened to Michelle.

“She's kidding, aren't you, Grace?” said Nickie. “It's not Carnegie's fault. We can return the dress—”

“ A ctually, we can't,” I said briskly. “And we won't need to. I'll have it dry-cleaned, repaired, and starched, and once you have your hair up, and the right accessories, you'll be lovely.”

She was, in fact, lovely already. The dress was fashioned from diagonal ribbons of glossy satin and bands of intricate, rose-patterned lace, with a skirt that dropped from a high waist to a scalloped hem that swept lower in back, forming a hint of a train. Antique gowns are often tiny, but this one had been created for a full-figured woman, and it fit Nickie like a dream. The low-necked bodice and softly draped skirt followed her curves, and the color, not so much faded as burnished by time, drew a golden glow from her skin. Standing at the altar, shy and womanly, Nickie would be a bride from another, more gracious time.

“There are only a few buttons missing. We'll have some
made to match, and the two panels of lace that are a bit discolored can be replaced.” I crossed the room with my head high. “Nice to meet you, Grace. I'm looking forward to your ideas on Nickie's hairstyle and flowers. Unless I really am fired?”

She rose, with a single easy motion. “Of course not. Just a little joke.”

Some joke. But she smiled at me warmly enough, looking up from her five-foot-four height, and shook my long narrow hand with her dainty, elegant one. Her cornsilk hair fell casually but perfectly back from her face, and her tawny complexion spoke of sunbathing, not mowing the lawn. Grace Parry looked about thirty-five, and as if she intended to look that way for years to come, no matter how much time or money it took. The one visible flaw was quite subtle: Her eyes were a pale, clear amber, but the gaze of the left one was angled ever so slightly out of true with the right. The effect was disconcerting, as if she were looking past me, or through me. Just now, though, she was clearly looking at my coffee stains. She arched an eyebrow. Bette Davis couldn't have arched any better.

“Would you like a change of clothes? Let's find you something. Nickie, we'll be right back.” She drew me into the bedroom, but she didn't go looking for clothes. I knew what was coming.

“About last night,” she said.

“Mrs. Parry, I'm so terribly sorry! I mean, we all are, but I just wish I'd stopped Michelle, or—”

“Call me Grace. And there's nothing you could have done, I'm sure. But Nickie's terribly upset, and I'm concerned about my husband's heart.”

“His heart?” Douglas was a robust, bull-shouldered man
in his sixties, with faultless posture and an energetic stride. I'd come to like and respect him, as a hardheaded but enthusiastic client for Made in Heaven. “He has heart trouble?”

“Quite serious trouble.” Her face took on a tight, determined look. “He had a damaging heart attack at Christmas. We were skling in Switzerland, and he recuperated there. He doesn't want anyone here to know. But it's critical that he avoid stressful situations.”

I took a deep breath. “In that case, I think I'd better tell you instead of Douglas. Last night I saw someone suspicious—”

A far door was flung open and Douglas Parry strode into the bedroom, waving a newspaper and breathing fire, with Gus trotting sternly along at his heels.

“I'll sue this bastard Gold, Grace, I swear I will! This article of his is libel, it's sheer—” He stopped abruptly and frowned past us into the dressing room at Nickie. “Pumpkin, is that your wedding dress? It isn't white.”

Instantly, Grace, Mariana, and I joined feminine forces in the face of this monumental masculine gaffe. That the bride's father should see her gown before the wedding, let alone criticize it, was more than any of us could tolerate. I stepped in front of Nickie, Mariana put a protective arm around the girl, and Grace took her husband's arm and ushered him downstairs, cutting through his bluster with a stream of soothing words. With her father out of earshot, Nickie laughed, a little wildly.

“Maybe we should just elope! Only Daddy would want to carry me down the ladder, and come on the honeymoon to make sure we did everything right.”

At that, Mariana and I both laughed, and tragedy gave way to romantic comedy, at least for the moment. Nickie slipped
out of the gown and Mariana boxed it up so I could take it to a dressmaker's for repairs. As she got dressed, Nickie offered me a purple-and-gold University of Washington sweatshirt in exchange for my spotted sweater. Thus collegiately attired, I followed her downstairs, still hoping for a quiet word with Grace.

But Douglas was waiting for us at the foot of the piano-key staircase. His normally florid complexion was mottled, and his thinning, gingery hair was all askew. Nickie must have gotten her coloring and her heavy dark tresses from the other side of the family. The Parry divorce had gotten headlines, but I'd never seen a photo of Julia Parry, Nickie's mother.

“Carnegie, good to see you again.” Douglas had a low, gravelly voice and an air of focused concentration, as if he were weighing your every word. “Sorry for breaking in on you. There's a reporter who's been on my back about this King Savings case—”

“She doesn't need to hear about that, Douglas,” said Grace. She was posed in the doorway to the living room, looking like a photo out of
Architectural Digest.
“Shall we have coffee?”

“Of course, of course.” He turned to Nickie and tugged at a lock of her hair, a teasing gesture that he'd probably been making ever since she had hair. “Is there a problem about your dress, Pumpkin?”

Nickie hesitated, then busied herself pouring coffee as we took our seats around a low Chinese table. The burnt-orange lacquer surface set off a black bowl of perfumed freesias and other, more exotic blooms I couldn't name, though I'd seen them at Boris's studio. Outside the picture window, an emerald lawn flowed in artful slopes and curves down to the
glittering lake, with a gardener here and there to ornament the scene. Maybe Eddie was right. Maybe we should charge double.

“No problem at all,” said Grace. “Wedding gowns don't have to be a perfect white anymore, you know. Niccola will be stunning, but we're not going to give you a peek, are we, Niccola? You'll see the gown at St. Anne's, and not before.”

Nickie brightened, and her father beamed approvingly at his gracious, warm-hearted wife. Grace was a smooth operator, all right.

“Fine, fine.” Having resolved one point on the agenda, Douglas moved briskly to the next. “Carnegie, how's the balance holding up on the house account? Good thing I only have one daughter, or I'd need a tax shelter just for the weddings!”

Grace's coffee cup rapped down on its saucer. “The house account? Douglas, I thought the bills were being held for me to pay.”

“Well, you were gone for so long, I just gave Carnegie here check-writing authority. Hal Jepsen at First Washington handled it all. This way Carnegie can go ahead and pay the bills for the shindig on Saturday, too.”

“The fund-raiser?” Grace looked at me, a startling flash of anger in her mismatched eyes. “She's involved in our party for Senator Bigelow?”

“I forgot to tell you. That one caterer burned down or some damn thing, so I asked Carnegie to get us another. It's all taken care of.”

Douglas frowned at his wife, and I watched, fascinated, as she visibly calmed herself. Power struggles are so interesting when you're not in them. But why didn't she want me on this particular job? Maybe she didn't appreciate my presence
in general, or maybe she thought Nickie was getting too fond of me. Being a stepmother couldn't be easy, and being stepmother-of-the-bride must have its own pitfalls, especially for a stylish young stepmother who's used to being in the spotlight herself. And now with her husband in legal trouble, and nasty letters in the mail, not to mention a horrible car accident …

“Your original caterer had a fire at their kitchen,” I explained to Grace in a deferential tone. Oil on troubled waters, that's me. “They're out of business for at least a month. I've hired Solveto's, the ones who are doing the wedding reception, but we're keeping the menu you selected, the grilled shrimp and the cucumber terrine. I'm sure you'll be satisfied with the results.”

But Grace had other shrimp to fry. “Very well, but there's still no need for you to use the checking account. Just send me the bills as usual, and I'll review them before they're paid.”

“Not necessary.” Douglas frowned, and his voice went flat. “I have complete faith in Carnegie, honey, and I'm sure you do, too.”

A brief, uncomfortable silence, while Nickie stared out the window and Grace gripped her coffee cup as if it might escape her.

“Of course,” she said. “I'm really much too busy at the moment to be bothered with all these details.”

It was a feeble parting shot, and Douglas let it go. “Now, there's been a change in the guest list for the fund-raiser. We're inviting the press after all.” He touched his wife's shoulder and smiled, getting her back on the team. “I wasn't happy about it, but Grace convinced me that it's for the best. The senator needs the coverage, and maybe the reporters will leave King County Savings alone for a while and focus on him.”

“Should I arrange a space for interviews and cameras?” I asked. “Solveto's will need to know if they can't use all the tent space for the buffet.”

This tricky political decision on his part was just another logistical problem for me. Weather permitting, the fundraiser for Senator Samuel Bigelow was to be a garden party, casual Seattle-style, with picnic tables scattered around the lawns down to the water's edge.

“Talk with Sam's PR people,” he replied, taking a leather-bound notepad from his breast pocket and scribbling some names and numbers. “They'll probably use the terrace or the gazebo.”

Nickie spoke up. “Daddy, I've been meaning to ask you— will Uncle Keith be there? I mean, I know he's close to Senator Bigelow.”

“He'll be there,” said Douglas, his voice grim at the mention of his former friend. “Sam insisted. Just as long as Guthridge stays sober and steers clear of me. And keeps his mouth shut around the reporters. They call it freedom of the press, and then they print all kinds of speculation, just to sell their damn—”

“You know,” I said, groping for an exit line, “I'm heading downtown next, to the dressmaker's. Nickie, if you'd like to come with me we could have lunch and shop for the bridesmaids’ gifts, and then I'll bring you back.”

Nickie bounced to her feet with a relieved smile. “Great!”

“Theo will be delivering some papers to Holt Walker's office about three o'clock,” said Douglas, as we all rose. “Why don't you go over with Carnegie and then meet him there later on? He can bring you home.”

Nickie ran upstairs for the gown, accompanied by Gus. Grace walked me to the front door and then, with a glance back to see that Douglas was heading for his office, came
outside with me. Theo had the hood of the Rolls up, and there was a smear of grease on the chest of his mint-green polo shirt. He probably just threw them out when they got dirty, like Louis XIV using new dishes at every meal.

“You were saying something about last night?”

“I don't want to alarm anyone,” I began, though of course that was exactly what I was going to do. “But last night, during the ceremony, I saw a man walking down the drive away from Sercombe House. He could have been somewhere near Nickie's car.”

“Near her car. What do you mean?” Grace's mismatched eyes were intense and unblinking, and I began to flounder.

“Well, I wondered if he, if someone, might have done something to the Mustang. To, to make it crash.”

Grace snapped her head around so fast that her hair whirled around her face. “Theo!”

He joined us on the front steps, moving heavily, like an overmuscled boxer.

“Theo, Carnegie thinks someone is trying to harm Nickie. Tried to kill her, in fact, by tampering with her car last night.” Put like that, it sounded insane, but Grace was taking me very seriously. More seriously than I was ready for. “I want someone with her at all times from now on, and I want the car examined. By experts. Find an expert.”

“No problem.” Theo looked at me curiously, but continued to address Grace. “She saw somebody?”

“Just a man in the distance,” I told him, “not to recognize, but I don't think he was a wedding guest. And it seemed strange that he was on foot.” What had I started here? “Are you going to tell Nickie?”

“Only if it's necessary,” said Grace. “And we will absolutely not tell Douglas, is that understood?”

“Understood,” said Theo grimly. “If it's Keith Guthridge, I'll kill him. I'll—”

“Theo.” Grace put a hand on his arm and he stiffened, like a snarling dog recognizing its master. “Theo, we don't even know if it's true. In fact I doubt very much that it is. I'll discuss it with Lieutenant Borden and perhaps he can help us with the car. Then we'll decide what to do next. Carnegie, thank you so much for telling me. I'm sure it's nothing, but I appreciate it all the same. You're a real friend of the family.”