Veiled Threats (7 page)

S
OMETIMES A MOTHER
’
S PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED
. W
HEN
I
WOKE
up Saturday, June had decided to impersonate July. The sun would shine on the senator, his supporters, and the ladies and gentlemen of the press while they ate grilled shrimp and drank moderately priced chardonnay, courtesy of a Republican wine merchant. And I wouldn't have to move the picnic tables inside. Wonderful.

But I couldn't decide what to wear. The jade silk? Too dressy for a picnic. Slacks and sweater? To o casual for the paid staff. I settled on a summery, pale-peach outfit with a soft skirt and a casual, unlined jacket over a white eyelet blouse. The gathered skirt made me look less of a beanpole, and the peach went surprisingly well with my red hair, not that anyone would notice. “Anyone” meaning Holt Walker, of course. Maybe he'd just been distracted the other day downtown. Maybe he'd find the shrimp and sunshine quite relaxing and romantic. Maybe pigs could fly. I checked my lipstick twice in Vanna's rearview mirror, and whistled “Some Enchanted Evening” through my teeth all the way across the lake.

If I were a senator, and somebody threw me a fund-raiser, I'd want it to look like the spread at Douglas Parry's that day. It was all postcard-perfect: the icy white mountain rising beyond the glittering azure lake, gala green-and-white striped
tents on a vast emerald lawn, tables of food and buckets of wine, and the kind of well-wishers who arrive by sailboat and BMW. Once the Dixieland band struck up “Tiger Rag,” I was ready to vote for the guy myself.

Joe Solveto had brought his best staff, dressed in old-time suspenders and straw hats, to serve the shrimp, tend bar, and park cars. Things went so smoothly that, after directing the buffet arrangements and helping to set up the podium and microphones in the gazebo, I actually had time to people-watch.

From the cedar railing of the back terrace, I watched the picnic tables rapidly filling. People were all decked out, the way Seattleites do when the sun finally shines: garden-party dresses on the older ladies, and linen suits on the older gents, nicely mixed with avant-garde play clothes in the most trendy of shades. The senator himself, who enjoyed the distinct political advantage of resembling John Wayne, was working the crowd. He was trailed by two bright young staffers with instructions to fend off reporters until after the speeches, which would come after supper.

At this rate, I could even eat supper myself. My purse was on a side table in the living room; I stepped through the French doors to stash my clipboard there, too, and ran into Holt Walker. Physically. There was a lot of him to run into, and he kept me from falling with one hand, as if I weighed nothing at all. At this rate, I wouldn't need any wine. The sense of his body so close to mine went right to my head.

“Sorry! I didn't see you, the sun's so bright out there.” I sounded like a nervous teenager. “It's going really well. Don't you think?”

“Very well,” he said, picking up my clipboard and handing it back. “Thanks to you, no doubt.”

He was wearing new-looking jeans, neatly pressed, with a tattersall check shirt, and my flat shoes made him seem even taller than he had at Diane's wedding. His eyes were still green. I couldn't remember whose turn it was to speak.

“Are you busy?” he asked. “Of course you are, but do you have time to eat? I could get us both a plate.”

“That would be fine,” I said, put suddenly at ease by his simple courtesy. “But don't you have to go meet and mingle?”

He shrugged those nice shoulders. “I'm off duty today. I've already sent Sam a contribution, and I don't feel like answering legal questions on a Saturday.”

“How about nonlegal questions?” I found myself saying.

He narrowed his eyes curiously. “Such as?”

“Such as, when you arrived late to Diane's wedding, did you see anyone else in the parking lot or along the drive?”

The green eyes grew wary. “No. Was I supposed to?”

Here we go again, I thought. I'm going to sound paranoid to him, too. And I really, really don't want to do that.

“No, not at all, it's just that … it's just that I found this card case, and I'm wondering if one of the guests dropped it.” I rummaged in my purse and produced the card case. He took it, looked at it idly, and handed it back.

“Looks expensive. No one's claimed it?”

“Not yet. But I'm sure they will.”

“Well, then, how about some supper?”

“Wonderful.”

We went back out on the terrace, and he crossed the lawn with a long-legged stride. I saw him wave to Nickie, who was holding hands with Ray at a table full of younger people. A contribution to Sam, I thought. Samuel Bigelow. Could I date a Republican? Could I date a Republican with those eyes? No
need to be narrow-minded, after all. It's the two-party system that made this country great.

Further political musings were interrupted by Grace Parry, coming up from the lawn, with Dorothy Fenner in attendance. Grace was wearing a tropical-print silk blouse over slim white pants and tiny white sandals. Her toenails were painted coral, probably by someone else. Dorothy looked proper as ever, in a linen sheath and a hat that would have done the Queen Mother proud.

“Carnegie, there you are!” said Grace. “I've just been raving about you to Laura Simone. Her oldest girl just got engaged….”

I felt a wave of relief. No hard feelings about the bank account, then.

“Dorothy here has a few suggestions,” Grace was saying, “and I told her you'd be glad to hear them.”

“Of course,” I lied. “What's the problem, Dorothy?”

“Oh, goodness, Carnegie, no problem at all. But the parking area is getting full, so you should tell the attendants to use both sides of the drive. Some of the waiters are pouring the wineglasses too full, and the bar nearest the lake has run out of lime wedges.”

“Heaven forfend,” I muttered.

“Pardon me?” She raised those goddamn eyebrows at me and smiled that goddamn smile.

“I'll take care of it,” I said.

Dorothy departed for the ladies’, and Grace crossed the room to survey the scene outside, shielding her eyes with one hand. She wore a diamond ring the size of a golf ball. “Oh, Holt, thank you! I haven't had a minute.”

Holt had returned, a heaped plate in each hand and two napkins hanging out of his shirt pocket. Before he could
speak, Grace took a plate from him and perched prettily on a wrought-iron bench on the terrace. “Here, there's plenty of room. I haven't seen you in ages.”

He gestured to me with the empty hand. “But—”

“I've got work to do,” I said. “Shall I send a waiter up with some wine?”

“Thanks,” he said, and winked. “See you later.”

Content with that for the moment, I was starting down the steps for the limeless bar when Grace said, “Who's that?”

She was on her feet, pointing down the lawn to the first buffet table.

“Who's who?” I asked.

“With the bad haircut and the dreadful jacket.”

“He has a press badge,” Holt remarked, squinting into the sun. He had smile lines around his eyes, and gold highlights in his chestnut hair.

“That's what I thought,” said Grace. “That's Aaron Gold from the
Sentinel
. They were specifically told to send someone else. For God's sake, get him out of here before Douglas sees him.”

Holt set down his plate and began to get up, but Grace put a dainty hand on his arm and produced a smile.

“I meant her, not you, silly. Solving these little problems is what you're paid for, isn't it, Carnegie?”

“It certainly is,” I said, holding onto my temper with both hands.

I don't usually work as a bouncer, but getting rid of Aaron Gold clearly took priority over limes and wineglasses. I kept him in sight as I plowed through the crowd, until Douglas Parry entered the gazebo and tapped the microphone. People gathered to listen, and when the way cleared a bit, Gold was gone. I spotted Theo and worked my way over to him as
Parry introduced the senator. The crowd laughed and applauded on cue, giving me plenty of cover to tell Theo the problem.

“In a minute,” he said flatly, not looking at me. “I've got another situation over here.”

He nodded toward a trellised gate that marked a path to the famous rose garden. The roses were the one thing Douglas Parry hadn't changed when he had the old house torn down, and I'd heard that he had hired a special gardener just to care for them. The gate was twined with clematis vines, the feathery leaves and starry white flowers nicely framing the couple conversing beneath: Nickie Parry, looking dismayed, and a gaunt, gray-haired man in a three-piece suit, looking drunk.

“Who's that?”

“That is Keith Guthridge,” said Theo, “and I am going to evict his ass.”

“Well, do it quietly,” I said. “I'll go with you and see if Nickie's okay, and then you go look for Gold, all right? I have to get back to the waiters.”

“Fine.”

Nickie saw us as we crossed the lawn to the gate, but Guthridge was absorbed in telling her his troubles. Like Grace Parry, he had splendid clothes and a perfect haircut, but money would never revive his ashen complexion, or still the palsied tremor of his hands. Keith Guthridge looked like expensive hell. Did he look like a man who would have Nickie killed? Of course not. Then again, what would a man like that look like?

“I never meant to upset you, sweetie, you know that,” he was saying. His voice was old and slurred, and his lower jaw dropped slack, like a puppet's, between phrases. “But your
father has hung me out to dry. I can't let him do that, can I? I can't let him ruin me. What do
you
want?”

This last was directed at Theo and me.

“Can I give you some help to your car, Mr. Guthridge,” said Theo. It was not a question.

“No, you cannot,” Guthridge began, but I cut him off with a placating smile. Crook or not, I felt sorry for him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Guthridge, but Nickie's fiancé is looking for her.” I took her arm and guided her away, leaving Theo to his evicting. Senator Bigelow's amplified voice said something about values, and everyone applauded again.

“You didn't have to do that, you know,” said Nickie, stopping and shaking off my hand. “He has the right to talk to me.”

“Well, yes,” I said. I could hear Guthridge behind me, calling Theo a thug. “But I thought it would be better if—”

“And I have the right to talk to him.” She turned back toward her godfather, and I was suddenly weary of the whole family.

“So talk to him! But if your father sees you together … oh, hell.”

Her father had seen Guthridge already. He was striding around the edge of the crowd, getting redder in the face with each step. Theo moved away from Guthridge with the now-you're-in-trouble smirk of a schoolyard tattletale.

“Keith, I will thank you not to bother my daughter.” Parry kept his voice down, but I could see that a few people at the edge of the crowd were being distracted from the senator's speech.

“I would thank you to tell your daughter the truth!” roared Guthridge.

Parry, his face a dangerous dark crimson, took a step forward,
as if to stifle this intolerable noise. Guthridge raised both mottled hands in alarm, forgetting that one hand held a drink. The wine splashed up along his sleeve and flicked drops into his eyes. Theo laughed.

“You're going to regret this, Douglas, I swear to God.” Guthridge was shaking. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, as if the wine were tears.

“Gentlemen, there are reporters here.” I stepped between them, wondering if I was about to get slugged by a banker. “You're both going to regret this conversation if it shows up in the papers tomorrow.”

As if on cue, the applause rose and fell, cameras flashed near the gazebo, and a woman's voice called out, “Senator, what about unemployment in the rural counties?”

Parry closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, and just then Ray Ishigura arrived like the Seventh Cavalry in a Beethoven sweatshirt and mirror shades. He beamed at each of us impartially and took Nickie's hand, blissfully unaware of the tension or, more likely, determined to ignore it.

“Want some dessert, sweetheart?”

Nickie had used up her bravado. “Sure. Bye, Uncle Keith.”

Guthridge watched her go with dull pain in his eyes.

“I never meant to upset you,” he repeated softly. OK, I thought, either this man is the world's best actor, or somebody else tampered with the Mustang. Or, of course, nobody did. Maybe I should forget the whole thing. But forgetting about Michelle wasn't going to be easy.

An impassive young woman, evidently from Guthridge's staff, came up and spoke to him in an undertone. He followed her back to the driveway, Theo slipped away, and I was left with Douglas Parry.

“She invited him to the wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “God
damn
the man.” Then, searching for another topic, he said, “But today is going fine, Carnegie, just fine. And Nickie says she loves the dress you found her.”

“It suits her perfectly,” I told him, as we walked back to the terrace. A high white haze was beginning to obscure Mount Rainier and soften our shadows on the grass. “She'll be lovely.”