Veiled Threats (6 page)

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN
,
THE CHECK BOUNCED
?”

It was Friday of the same week, and I was meeting in the good room with Mrs. Schiraldi, the assistant manager of the Glacier View Lodge at Mount Rainier National Park. At least, I was trying to meet with her. Eddie had interrupted us, insisting that I take a phone call at my desk while he stalled my visitor. The call was from the proprietor of Excellent Vintage, the shop where I'd bought Nickie's lace gown, and he was not amused.

“Bounced,” he repeated. “NSF. Not sufficient funds. And I understand that it isn't even your account, it's a Mrs. Grace Parry's. There was some confusion at the bank—”

“I have signature privileges. It's all perfectly legal,” I assured him. “But there's got to be a mistake here. That account had almost twenty thousand dollars in it.”

“Not as of last week, it didn't. Now, are you going to pay for this dress yourself, or—”

“I'll call you back in half an hour. Bye!” I was already flipping though my Rolodex for Hal Jepsen's number at First Washington. He picked up on the first ring.

“Ah, Ms. Kincaid, I was just about to call you. There was a misunderstanding involving Mrs. Parry's account.”

“I'll say there was. How did it drop to zero overnight? I've been keeping a close tally—”

“It's been cleared up,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Maybe not for you,” I snapped, keeping my voice down so it wouldn't carry into the good room. “I just wrote a rubber check for a wedding gown. That's not too good for my credibility. Now what happened, anyway?”

“It's been cleared up,” he repeated stubbornly. “The merchant can resubmit the check and First Washington will clear it.”

“Fine, but what happened?”

“Thank you for your patience, Ms. Kincaid.” Click.

I stared at the receiver. So
that
was why Grace Parry got so bent out of shape about my using her account. She'd been drawing down the balance, unbeknownst to her husband, and my impulsive acquisition of the Edwardian gown had scraped the bottom of that particular barrel. She must have made a big deposit after I left on Monday, which wasn't soon enough to cover the check to Excellent Vintage. I grinned. How embarrassing for Grace. She probably went on a shopping spree in Chicago and used up all the grocery money on suede pumps. Tsk, tsk.

I called the dress shop back and returned to my meeting, where I soon lost my grin. Mrs. Schiraldi was an iron-haired personage who called me Miss Kincaid, and she bristled when I told her that Anita Reid, my bride-after-Nickie, had her heart set on a sunrise ceremony on Mount Rainier. Outdoors.

“Does she realize,” demanded Mrs. Schiraldi, “that there could be a snowstorm, even in July? Or at least thunder-showers? We're above five thousand feet, you know.”

“I know.” I also knew the real motive for her bad temper, and it wasn't the weather. It was the fact that the Glacier View's restaurant, in my professional opinion, couldn't handle fancy menus, and I'd hired Solveto's to prepare the
wedding banquet. The banquet was a cart-before-the-horse affair; it would serve as the wedding reception, with dinner and dancing, but it was actually taking place the night before the ceremony. The ceremony was scheduled for six A.M. the next morning, and then the bride and groom would set off on a week-long backpacking trip. Up the road from the Glacier View was an area called Paradise, with a Park Service visitors’ center, spectacular views of the mountain, and the start of the honeymooners’ trail. Peter and Anita would spend their wedding night tenting in Paradise.

Mrs. Schiraldi, meanwhile, undoubtedly suspected me of getting a kickback from Solveto's. She was wrong. I hired Joe frequently, but because he was good, not because he cut me in or padded his invoices and split the surplus with me. Such things do happen, in any business, but not with Solveto's and not with Made in Heaven. Big catered events meant big money changing hands, but none of it stuck to Joe's fingers, or to mine, except for our hard-earned percentages.

“A n indoor ceremony followed by a brunch would be much more reasonable,” she said. “Our kitchen does a very nice brunch.”

“They could have brunch in Seattle,” I pointed out, with my best artificial smile. “Peter and Anita first met on a climb of Mount Rainier, so they want their wedding outside, on the mountain. The National Park lodge at Paradise can't block out as many rooms as they need, and the Glacier View is the only private hotel in the vicinity. But if it's not going to work out …”

“It will work out,” she conceded. Bookings like this didn't come along every day. I smiled some more, and we settled the particulars, from the breakfast menu to parking to the condition of the path connecting the Glacier View with the
meadow where the ceremony would take place. Then I gratefully turned her over to Eddie for the financial details.

But my gratitude was short-lived. Eddie had apparently been stewing about the arrangements for the Parry wedding, and after Mrs. Schiraldi left he boiled over.

“I thought I handled the payments around here,” he said. “Now you're bouncing checks with our vendors?”

I looked over from my desk, shading my eyes against the momentary sun. The weather that day was quicksilver, slipping from windy brightness to sullen showers within each hour, and lending a spotlit, melodramatic air to our view of the lake.

“Of course you handle the payments, in most cases,” I said. “But your signature won't work on the Parry account.”

“It would if you had insisted on it in the first place.”

“Well, I forgot to in the first place. I told you that. What's the big deal?”

“It's no big deal for you,” he grumbled, not meeting my eye, “but it fouls up my record-keeping if I can't pay the bills straight out. Waste of my time.”

I might have held my tongue if he hadn't lit his cigar. The weather was already playing havoc with my sinuses, and just one whiff of that tobacco was too much.

“Well, I pay you for your time,” I said, with chill politeness, “and your record-keeping is too complicated anyway. I never know where anything is.”

That was a low blow. I never knew because I never looked, and in fact I was shamefully ignorant about my own business's books.

“You never brought it up before,” he said, puffing furiously.

“I never needed to,” I said, “and you never smoked cigars in here before!”

“Well, I'll take it outside, then. Gonna drop off that earring at Diane's mother's house and then go home. I wish you'd let Sercombe House and the rest run their own goddamn lost-and-founds.”

“It's part of the service,” I insisted. “Listen, did anyone call about that business card case—?”

But he was already out the door. I could hardly object, since he was only supposed to work mornings, but I fumed just the same as I yanked open a desk drawer. The card case was still there, a heavy little thing, maybe even gold, with its soggy wad of paper inside. I'd already flushed the contents of the sandwich bag before Eddie saw it, to avoid yet another lecture on the younger generation. No one was going to claim the dope, and apparently no one was going to claim the case. Either the owner hadn't missed it yet, or … or the owner was the man in the rain. I slipped the case in my pocket and went downstairs.

B
Y THE TIME
L
ILY SHOWED UP FOR OUR
F
RIDAY NIGHT DINNER
date, I'd gotten the mystery cards peeled apart with tweezers, dried them out with my hair dryer, and laid them out on my kitchen table next to the rusty little toy stove. Only three business cards had survived the soaking: one for a gym called Powerhouse, another for a pool hall called The 418 Club, and a third for something called Flair Plus, which listed a street address but no indication of what kind of establishment it might be. My front door banged.

“Hey, girl.”

“Hey, Lily. What can you tell about a person from the business cards they collect?”

“Depends on what they are. Is this a test from one of those trashy bride's magazines you read? Find Mr. Right by Stealing His Wallet?” She laughed, shaking me out of my Nancy Drewish study of the evidence. If it was evidence.

Lily James is a formidably handsome black woman, almost as tall as me, with a wide, sculpted face, a voluptuous figure that I envy, and a stiletto sense of humor. Not exactly my image of a librarian. I'd met her at the business desk at Seattle Public, back in the days when I spent every lunch hour devouring pamphlets on how to start a small business. We'd begun by having coffee together, and discovered a
range of common interests, like fine literature, liberal politics, and men. She was divorced, with two rambunctious little boys who called me Aunt Car.

Lily always recommended my services to her friends and coworkers at the library, including Diane's mother, and Diane had recommended me to Nickie. So at this point I owed Lily my financial salvation, as well as a dinner I'd forgotten to cook.

“No offense, Carnegie, but it does not smell like roast chicken in here.”

“Oh, shit, Lily. I never even took it out of the fridge. I found this card case after Diane's wedding—”

“Sorry about the accident,” she said softly.

“Yeah. Me, too. If I'd just gone after her … Well, anyway, I found this, and before that I saw this guy …” Once again I explained about the man in the rain, but Lily was no Lieutenant Borden. She was fascinated.

“So you think this Guthridge guy sent someone to kill Nickie. And you think the killer dropped his card case after he'd been fooling with her car—so now we just have to find out who owns the card case!”

Her enthusiasm was a bit disconcerting. “Well, maybe. That still wouldn't prove that the owner of the case was fooling with the Mustang. For that we have to find Mary.”

“Mary who?”

“Crazy Mary, you know, the bag lady?”

“Sure. She's in the library a lot, checking the local papers and planning her bus routes. She's kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, she is. Well, that night, at the reception, she said something about people breaking things and stealing things, and she kept saying ‘I saw him.’ I thought she meant she saw someone spill some champagne, but the person who spilled
the champagne was a woman. What if she meant the man in the raincoat? Maybe she saw him fooling with Nickie's car, and she thought he was trying to steal it? What do you think?”

“I think I'm starving. Where shall we go?”

We went to a noisy little Thai place in Fremont, not far from Joe's office, and pored over the cards between the phad thai and the coconut ice cream. As usual, Lily ate with a kind of wicked gusto, prompting other diners to crane around and see what she was having. Lily's like that.

“Well,” she said finally. “You can't tell much from three cards, except the guy works out, plays pool, and likes Flair Plus, whatever that is. Why not give the whole thing to the police, or to Douglas Parry?”

“The police already think I'm a flake. And I did warn the family.” I didn't mention Douglas's heart trouble. “Besides, the case might belong to one of the wedding guests who just hasn't missed it yet. Or to one of the poison pen writers that Nickie's worried about, and that could be anybody on earth. I should probably just wait a while.”

“True. You know you're wearing your dinner again?”

She was right. I'd spattered noodle sauce on my blouse. “Damn! How do I do this? I'm not a clumsy person, am I?”

Lily grinned. “Your best friend wouldn't tell that, would she? So what else is up, besides the mystery man?”

I told her about the bounced check, and how I'd unintentionally embarrassed Grace with her banker and perhaps with her husband. “Grace could do me a lot of good in her social circles. Or a lot of damage.”

“Isn't Parry the one who's been in the papers? Maybe it wasn't just a shopping spree that emptied that account. Maybe they're in a financial bind because of his shady deals.”

“Oh, jeez, I hadn't thought of that. I'd better talk it over with Eddie. Maybe we could bill them in advance for some of the bigger expenses coming up, like the liquor and the rest of the yacht club's fees for the reception.” I thought for a moment. “No, Eddie's so prejudiced against Douglas already, I'd better wait until I know more.”

“Sounds like the story of your life right now. Wait till you know more.”

“But I hate to wait!”

“Clumsy
and
impatient … Listen, Carnegie, if you decide to follow up on this whole thing, you call me, OK?”

I smiled. “You want to play detective, too, don't you?”

“Well, life's been kinda quiet lately. You're picking up the check, right? Or do you just want to owe me a chicken?”

When I got home the phone was ringing: Mom. I skipped all the bad news and told her about Nickie's dress instead. As I described it to her I took the cordless phone outside to the deck. The evening was cool and still, reflected lights wavering just a little on the black water of the lake.

“She looks just like an old portrait, Mom, or a cameo,” I concluded, settling down cross-legged on the planks. “I wish you could see her. So, anyway, have you heard from Timmy?”

“He says Sue has morning sickness, but only at night.” My kid brother Tim, who had chipped in for my loan, was in graduate school in Illinois with his newly pregnant wife. Another reason for big sister to pay her debts. “He sends you his love.”

“Tell him he'll have his money back soon,” I said, painfully aware that I'd said that before. I slipped off a moccasin and reached one leg down to dip my toes in the lake. Ouch. The water was much too cold even for dabbling. How could people swim in that stuff?

“Oh, Tim's not worried,” Mom said. “Eddie told me last night how well you're doing.”

“He did? I mean, good.”

“He said the loan won't be any problem at all.”

“Well, he's the money man,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt, “so it must be true.” I wouldn't see Eddie again till Monday, but then I'd have to ask him the source of this remarkable optimism. After my apology, of course.

“But Carrie, what are you doing home on a Friday night?” My mother was the only one who still called me Carrie, and the only one who thought I had a date every weekend.

“Well, Mom, I've got this big function tomorrow.”

“Have you met anyone nice lately?”

Had I? I thought about it, while I said something noncommittal and my mother went on chatting. Did Holt Walker qualify as nice, or just handsome, successful, and up to his knees in money? I hadn't even mentioned him to Lily, let alone to Mom, because I didn't want to be interrogated. And face it, I was still smarting from the cold shoulder he'd given me downtown. Nice shoulders, though. But that way lies madness.

“Nobody special, Mom, but you never know. Maybe Mr. Right will be at the bash tomorrow. Just pray for sunshine for me.”

She promised she would, and left me to my thoughts.