Died To Match Part 19

"Nothing in particular, Eddie. I'm just trying to put a good face on the situation. You know, keep up the clients' spirits."

"Hmph."

I picked up the phone to head off any more questions; I wanted Eddie well clear of the houseboat before nightfall. There really was a message from Elizabeth's baker, so I started with him. I knew the overall design-the swooping curves of the Experience Music Project would be carved from a block of cake layered with b.u.t.tercream-but the last time we had talked, the details were still in question.

"Hi, Todd. How's the masterpiece coming?"

"Super." Todd was a laconic Scotsman, re-transplanted from British Columbia. He had a lucrative business in special-occasion desserts, and even more freckles than me. Juice's bias notwithstanding, Todd did amazing things with gum paste. "Got just the right effect for the colored aluminum skin of the building."

"How?"

"Edible pearlescent dust. Liquefy it with vodka, brush it over rolled white fondant. Super."

"What about the gla.s.s panels on the roof?" It was bizarre but comforting to turn away from the dark undercurrents of this day and stay safe in the shallows.

"Simple. Cast sugar."

"And the monorail tracks?"

"Modeling chocolate."

"Yum. Will you a.s.semble the cake on site, or-"

He made a disparaging and Scottish-sounding noise. "I'll be a.s.sembling all week, d'you see? So when it's done, it's to be transported all of a piece."

"Right. Of course."

We settled the delivery details, and I moved on down my checklist. Eddie had lectured me on the ease of inputting and amending data with his new software, but I was still clinging to my outdated ways, scribbling notes in colored ink with stars and arrows to keep track of changes. It all made sense, at least to me. And scribbling helped to distract me from more pressing questions, like how Skull had gotten Angela out onto that balcony. No signs of a struggle, Graham had said. It didn't make sense.

The hours crept by, and finally it was time for my "date." A rap sounded on our outside door, and Lieutenant Graham stepped into the good room. He wore the same jacket and sneakers I remembered from the Aquarium, and a handsome ski sweater that made him look almost cheerful. And certainly plausible as a man I might go out with. More plausible than Boris, come to think of it.

"h.e.l.lo... there," I said lamely. I could not remember my date's first name. "Eddie, I think you've met-"

"Of course I've met the lieutenant," he growled, barely civil. "Nice to see you. Have fun." And he plucked his coat from the rack and marched out.

Even Graham's poker face couldn't withstand Eddie Breen. Both eyebrows went up, and once the door slammed he said, "Fun?"

"I didn't tell him."

"So he thinks it's a social call?"

"Yes. Sorry."

I was sorry, too. As we descended the stairs, I decided that the lieutenant was quite attractive, in a somber sort of way. And it would serve Aaron right if I started seeing someone else while he was gone. Or would it? He might reciprocate- if not with Corinne, then with someone else-and I wouldn't be at all happy with that scenario.

A moot point, in any case. My personal charms were clearly far less interesting than my home-security precautions. Graham stalked around my humble abode with a deepening scowl of disapproval, and pointed out the fact that my front door had no peephole, and my sliding gla.s.s door had no dead bolt.

"There's a wooden dowel in the groove at the bottom," I countered. "That holds it closed."

Graham took hold of the handle and jerked it, hard, with a single rapid pump of his arm. The dowel arched up from its channel and cracked like a pretzel stick.

"Jeez, you're strong!"

He slid the door open and gestured out to my narrow little deck. Night was falling fast, and the wind that invaded the room had an icy edge. "Might as well put down a welcome mat."

Then he returned to the kitchen and unscrewed the head from my dust mop. He laid the mop handle down where the dowel had been, brushed off his hands, and sat down on the couch. His poker face was back in place, his hazel eyes expressionless.

"Well!" I said brightly. "Well, thanks. That takes care of that. Now what?"

"Now we wait." He pulled out a sheaf of official-looking paperwork, and a pair of wire-framed reading gla.s.ses.

"But don't you have to station your men? Or are they already out there?"

"What men?"

"Your officers. For the stakeout."

Graham smiled mirthlessly. "There is no stakeout. I can't just whistle up surveillance units because someone has a hunch."

"But did you talk to Corinne?"

"I did." He sighed, a deep, disappointed sigh. "Ms. Campbell is a remarkably vague witness. She saw a man in the Market. She is 'pretty sure' he was Foy and she 'could swear' he was following her. He didn't speak to her, or even get close enough to do so. And so far we have no other witnesses to the incident. Such as it was."

"So you're here on your own?"

"That's right."

"Oh."

"I had theater tickets, too," he said.

"Oh."

Another sigh. Graham began reading in disciplined stillness, while I wandered the room, fidgeting and checking my watch. I should have said eight o'clock, not nine. I shouldn't have done this at all. What was I thinking? It began to rain. By seven-fifteen, my stomach was growling worse than Eddie, and I recalled that I hadn't eaten lunch. No wonder my head hurt.

"Do you mind if we wait in the kitchen?"

I nuked a box of frozen lasagna and made a spinach salad.

Graham unbent enough to eat with me, though he declined a gla.s.s of Pinot Noir. I made stilted attempts at conversation, speaking in low tones that wouldn't carry through the front door. Over the thin hissing of the rain, the sc.r.a.pe of our forks on the plates seemed unpleasantly loud. Neither of us actually ate much.

Finally I got up to make coffee, eking out a half-pot from the last handful of beans in my cupboard. Murder really screws up your grocery shopping. Behind me, Graham cleared the table with quick, economical movements.

"What if Skull doesn't show up at all?" I asked, pouring coffee for him and more wine for myself. Might as well drink for both of us.

"If he doesn't show up, we have a problem," said Graham. "I can request ongoing protection for you, but we're short of people and it's not automatic. You haven't actually been threatened."

"No, I've just been stupid, haven't I?"

He looked at me with those intriguing, disillusioned eyes. "Yes. Very."

We took our beverages back to the living room and waited some more. Eight-fifteen came, and eight-thirty Eventually Graham loosened up a little, and even asked me about life in my floating home.

"I love it. It's a nuisance in a lot of ways, but I swear, regular houses seem landlocked to me now. I always want to get back on the lake."

"Is this where you met Lily James? On her houseboat?"

"No, Lily's got a house near Woodland Park. It's a great location for her kids."

We chatted on aimlessly, about kids in general and Lily's in particular, then fell silent. Nine o'clock. No sound. Nineten. Nine-thirty. I had picked up a book at random, and as I turned the pages, that same sense of unreality settled over me again, of idling in the shallows while a deadly, invisible undertow slides silently past. The wine didn't help.

I noticed Graham glancing at the photographs on a side table. "That's Lily with Ethan and Marcus, on a camping trip we did to Deception Pa.s.s."

"And who's this?"

"My mother, back in Idaho."

"I can see the resemblance," he said. "Your eyes-"

A double knock, so sudden that I bit my lip and let the book fall in my lap. Another knock, faint and somehow furtive. It was past ten o'clock. Graham motioned me to keep still and stepped silently to the front door, pulling out a gun as he went. It looked huge in his hand. I waited a moment, then tagged along behind him. I couldn't help it. I had put this thing in motion. What if something went wrong and he needed me? I couldn't catch my breath, and a pulse was thudding in my ears.

Graham leveled the gun at the door, then stretched his hand slowly for the k.n.o.b. He wrenched the door open, sidestepping quickly as he did, and aimed the gun straight at the chest of the man standing in my doorway.

"What the h.e.l.l?" said Aaron Gold.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

"AARON, WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL CALL?"

After an exchange of explanations and apologies, Lieutenant Graham left us to keep watch in the parking lot for another hour before heading home. Not that he thought Lester Foy would show up this long past the appointed time, and after all the commotion at the front door.

So now Aaron was standing in my living room with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, looking haggard and disgruntled. He wore rain-spattered khaki slacks and jacket, and there was a Rorschach blot of airplane coffee on his yellow oxford cloth s.h.i.+rt. Zorro was having a bad night.

I should have been grateful for his arrival-he had caught the first flight north when Paul called his Portland hotel room with the news about Angela-but my nerves were flayed by hours of tension, and the near-disaster in the doorway was the last straw. All I felt now was unreasoning resentment, and Aaron was the only target within range.

"Why didn't you call me from the airport, or from your place?"

He threw up his hands. "I didn't stop at my place. Why are women so fixated on the telephone, anyway? 'When are you going to call me?' 'Why didn't you call me?' It's like a hobby, nagging men to call."

"But Graham could have shot you!"

"You think I don't know that?" He closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. "I felt like an idiot, charging in here to protect you and getting scared out of my wits. Can't you at least offer me a drink?"

"Of course." I looked doubtfully back toward the kitchen. "I think the Pinot Noir is gone, but there's some white wine I could open?..."

Aaron rolled his eyes. "I mean a drink. As in Scotch?"

"Sorry." I almost laughed at his woebegone expression, but caught myself in time. I really should be grateful, having Zorro gallop into the hacienda to rescue me. "Please, sit down. You look exhausted. Was it a hard trip?"

"No, I just stayed up late with some friends, and did an interview early this morning. It's no big deal." Still, he slumped onto the couch and let his head fall heavily back against the cus.h.i.+ons.

"Have you eaten? I could make you an omelet."

"Scotch would be better," he said to the ceiling, more in sorrow than in anger. "But an omelet would be nice."

I bustled into the kitchen, wondering belatedly if I had any eggs. There were just two left, small ones at that, but I searched further and exhumed a weary half of an onion and a stub of cheddar. It took only minutes to saute the one and grate the other, and slice the last of the French bread. I even arranged the omelet and toast on a tray, and added a gla.s.s of Chardonnay in case Aaron changed his mind. I finger-combed my hair, put on a gracious smile, and carried my handiwork into the living room.

Zorro was deep asleep.

I stood irresolute, listening to the whisper of rain on the lake, wondering whether to wake him. Aaron was always so animated, hectoring me with questions and wisecracks, that I rarely just looked-really looked-at his face.

His lips were parted slightly now, showing neat white teeth, and his hair, s.h.i.+ny-straight and almost blue in its blackness, tumbled across the high forehead and nearly touched the smooth, arched eyelids. His exposed throat made him seem young and vulnerable.

But only briefly. With a gasp and a snort, my handsome houseguest began to snore, which pretty much killed the mood. I shook my head, smiling, and bore the tray back to the kitchen. The omelet smelled wonderful, so I ate it, and tossed off the wine as well. Then I covered Zorro with a blanket and went to bed.

I was a long time drifting off. Questions kept marching through my mind, relentless ranks of soldiers on parade. Was Skull ever going to show up, or would I have to look over my shoulder for days on end? Or more than days? What if my call stampeded him into attacking one of the other women? Would Tommy Barry pull through, and would he be safe if he did? What if the guard at the hospital slept at his post... slept...

I slept at last, fitfully, plagued by dreams. In the midst of one nonsensical nightmare-something about a thunderstorm, and being clawed by a cat-somebody slid a hand up my leg, from ankle to knee. I gave a little screech and sat up, clutching the comforter around my bare shoulders.

"Leave me alone!"

"I've been trying to, Sleeping Beauty."

It was Tuesday morning, and Aaron was sitting on the edge of my bed with a Ches.h.i.+re-cat grin. His jaw showed a heavy stubble and his clothes were a crumpled mess, but aside from that, he was repellently brisk and bright-eyed. "I gave it my best shot, but I can't stand it any longer."

"Stand what?"

"Starvation. There's nothing in your kitchen but Zack's pineapple and a bottle of cheap white wine, and they both smell rotten. I'm peris.h.i.+ng out here! Get your clothes on and we'll go out for breakfast."

I sank deeper under the covers, whining. "It's too early for breakfast. I'm not hungry."

But the issue wasn't hunger, it was hangover. Unconsciousness, I was sure, would be infinitely preferable to this all-too-familiar combination of flannel mouth, sledgehammer head, and remorse. Did I really drink a whole bottle of Pinot Noir?

"I'm going back to sleep. Go away."

"No deal, Stretch. Come on, up and at 'em. Or would you rather I joined you under there?" The hand slid under the comforter, higher this time.

"Cut it out, Aaron! Can't you wait a while?"

"You're awfully crabby for a damsel in distress, you know that? Here I came all this way for a false alarm, and you-"

"What false alarm? Skull is after us! He killed Angela."