Died To Match Part 21

And Aaron was becoming a mind reader. "Sounds like Robin Hood's getting to be a pain in the a.s.s."

"What do you mean?"

"I couldn't help overhearing. You know, Stretch, you might want to keep your distance with Zack. He's been acting kind of strange since Mercedes died."

So would you if you thought you were the one who killed her.

But of course I couldn't say that. "Surely it's not all that strange to enjoy my company?"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. He just strikes me as being kind of a weird kid. And I think he might have lied about his background to get on at the Sentinel. I was talking to a friend of mine in Boston-"

"Boston? I thought he was from St. Louis."

"No, he told Paul he was with an on-line start-up in Cambridge, and he came out here after the company went belly-up. But my Boston buddy says he never heard of them."

Poor Zack, trying so hard for his fresh start. He must not even want to mention St. Louis.

"These little companies come and go all the time," I said. "Your friend can't know all of them. Why were you investigating Zack, anyway?"

"I wasn't investigating," he said sheepishly. "I just thought it was odd. Besides, Zack is starting to look familiar to me, like I've seen his picture somewhere."

A likely story, I thought. You re jealous! Zorro was jealous of Robin Hood. I was tempted to tease Aaron about it, but really, it was kind of sweet. So I changed the subject instead.

"There's a left turn coming up," I said. "Pete's is two blocks after that. I can't wait to get my van back."

Pete had Vanna parked right out front. The repaired fender was smooth and seamless, the copper-colored Made in Heaven logo gleaming in the mild winter sun. I could feel my cramped muscles relaxing just to look at her. No more soup cans! I gave Pete a hug and a hefty check, and climbed happily behind the wheel, sliding the driver's seat all the way back with a satisfied sigh.

"You look like a kid with a new toy," said Aaron, smiling at me through the open window.

"Now if I could just sleep for about sixteen hours, I'd feel like a kid. Thanks for the lift. And..."

"And what?" He paused in the act of pulling out a cigarette, and quirked one eyebrow.

"And thanks for galloping in to my defense. Really."

"You're welcome. Really."

Aaron leaned into the window for a kiss, and this time I gave as good as I got. Then he walked over to his VW-he looked good from the back, too-and drove off. His apartment building was on the sh.o.r.e of Lake Union, not far from my houseboat, and somehow I liked that sense of him being nearby.

As I put Vanna in gear, marveling at the absence of clanking noises, I decided that Bonnie Buckmeister's wedding wasn't the only thing I'd have to focus on after the EMP ceremony. My relations.h.i.+p with Aaron Gold was right up there at the top of the list. Maybe I wasn't quite so wounded after all.

Back at the office, Eddie had arrived-he kept his own hours-and was playing with his pet software, his white hair ruffled and an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. When I came in he stood up and stretched, then squared his shoulders. Eddie has the best posture in the world.

"I saw the note you left me," he said over the hum and grunt of our bottom-of-the-line printer. "How's Vanna?"

"Good as new, if not better."

"And this fellow that killed the bridesmaids, he got arrested downstairs this morning?"

"Yep."

"Right after you start dating a cop. Funny coincidence."

"It is, isn't it?" I said airily.

But he wouldn't be put off. Folding his arms, he said, "Carnegie, you been up to something?"

"Not a thing! All that matters is that Foy is locked up, and Lamott/Wheeler is on schedule for Sat.u.r.day. In fact, I have Elizabeth coming by tomorrow morning, so could you update her budget report?" Cunningly, I went for the sure-fire distraction. "I don't suppose you've got it in your new program yet..."

Eddie snorted, happily indignant. " 'Course I have! And it's our program, sister. We're in the twenty-first century now. You better start learning this stuff yourself."

He went on grousing gently, while I settled in at my desk with a smile of contentment. You couldn't say all was right with the world, but it was a d.a.m.n sight righter than it had been yesterday. I called Lily at the library to tell her so but got her voice mail, so I left her a cheery message, made myself a cup of stomach-settling instant soup at our little one-burner kitchen in the corner, and got down to work.

Ten minutes later, I gave up.

"Eddie, I'm half-asleep. I'm going to take Vanna to the supermarket, and then I'm going to shut off my phone and crash."

"Let me take a look at her before you go."

"Sure."

We stepped to the office door, but when I opened it there was a woman standing outside, evidently about to knock. An attractive woman: a youthful fifty, maybe fifty-five, small and slender with a tip-tilted nose, warm wide eyes the color of maple syrup, and chestnut hair that fell in loose waves against the shoulders of her stylish wool coat.

"Oh!" she said, in a soft, burbling voice. "You must be Carnegie Kincaid. And this is your partner, Mr. Breen. I looked you up on the Internet, you know! Now, is it Ed or Eddie? No, never mind, it doesn't matter, because I'm going to call you Edward. You have that kind of dignified air about you."

"Well..." said Eddie, who never bantered with women. Ever.

She was inside by this time, looking around delightedly. "What adorable wicker furniture! You know, Edward, I'm the kind of person who loves things or hates them, and I just love wicker. Wicker and chintz." She perched herself on the love seat and sparkled up at Eddie, who was still finding his voice. "I guess I'm just a country girl at heart."

"I'm so glad you like the office," I said, a.s.suming an air of suave professionalism while I futilely racked my brain for a name, or at least a function. Vendor? Potential client? It wasn't like Eddie to forget an appointment, but the way things had been going lately, it was a lot like me.

"I'm afraid I don't recall-"

"How silly of me!" She laughed, one of those silvery-ripple laughs that some women have. "I thought you knew I was coming. I'm Monica Lamott."

O-ho, I thought. So this is Monica, lover of Lars, betrayer of Burt. So much trouble in such a sweet little package.

"Nice to meet you," I said, sitting down myself, though even then I topped her by a foot or so. "I wasn't expecting you until the rehearsal."

"Well..." Eddie muttered. "Well, I'll just take a look at that fender on the van."

Monica watched regretfully as he sidled out the door. She had a sweet tooth, I could see, not so much for men as for men's attention.

"You've been on the East Coast?..." I said delicately.

"With Lars. We hardly got out of bed for days." The mother of the bride shook back her hair and closed her eyes with a reminiscent sigh. So much for delicacy. Then she frowned a pretty little frown. "But all that changed when he made it to the semifinals. When Lars is this close to winning, he gets ridiculously single-minded, if you know what I mean. An absolute monk! He's afraid I'll break his serve."

I murmured my sympathy and offered her coffee, which she declined. Feeling my eyelids droop, I poured myself a hefty mugful. Just a grocery run and an early bedtime, is that so much to ask?

"-and there is only so much tennis a girl can watch," Monica burbled on, like a mountain stream that's going to make it to the ocean, no matter how long it takes. "So I just hopped on a plane! That's the kind of person I am. Impetuous. You never know what I'll do next. Besides, now that the wedding date is upon us, I knew that Liz would want my advice. I used to give fabulous parties, you know, when we lived in Santa Barbara. I was interviewed in the newspaper about my parties! But then Burt insisted on moving to Seattle, where we didn't know a soul."

Except Lars, I thought dryly. "That's so interesting, Monica. It's actually a little late to make changes now, but Elizabeth and I are meeting on Thursday, so maybe you could join us-"

A sharp, no-nonsense knock, and the door swung open to reveal the bride herself, with a furious glint in her own wide brown eyes.

"Mother! Paul said you called from your hotel. What are you bothering Carnegie for?"

Monica stiffened but maintained her smile. "Since you were out shopping, I just thought I'd stop by to introduce myself and share a few of my tips for successful parties. I told Paul that on the phone."

Elizabeth smiled back quickly and coldly, a fencer deflecting her opponent's blade. "And I told you last week that we have everything under control."

They held each other's gaze, the family resemblance quite striking now, as their lips tightened and nostrils flared. When dogs get to this point in a conversation, the growls are low-pitched but the teeth start to show.

"Control is hardly the right approach to a festive affair." Monica sounded like one of my least-favorite bridal magazines. "Proper planning allows you to 'go with the flow' and-"

"Is that what you and Mr. Swedish Open have been having, a festive affair?"

Monica gasped, then s.h.i.+fted her stance like a pro.

"Lizzie, you know perfectly well that Lars is Norwegian," she said sadly, a faint tremble in her voice, then turned her syrupy eyes to me. "You'd think my own daughter would want to see me happy after all I've been through...."

"Your own daughter is not named Lizzie," said Elizabeth, with a flash of fangs.

Normally I'm willing to give my all for the pre-wedding peace process. But I'd had enough drama for one day, and decided to bail out before I got bit. "We can talk about the reception details Thursday-"

"Hi, Monica." Paul was in the doorway, looking like the soul of reason. "Hi, Carnegie. Took me a while to park. Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing to miss," I said decisively. "We were just confirming our meeting for Thursday. Elizabeth, I'll have all your paperwork ready then, and I'll look forward to hearing Monica's ideas...."

I was herding them all to the door when a cell phone chirred. The women dipped into their purses, but it was Paul's. He spoke a few words, listened intently, and broke into a huge, elated grin.

"It's Tommy!" he told us. "That was Roger, calling from the hospital. Tommy's awake, and he must be doing OK because they're allowing visitors. Honey, let's go over there right now."

This last to Elizabeth, but she balked. "I've got a million things to do this afternoon. I'm still looking for shoes, and-"

"Lizzie hates hospitals," Monica confided to me in a perfectly audible whisper, getting in one last thrust. "She thinks sick people are weaklings. She doesn't mean to be unkind, but I always notice, because I'm the kind of person who notices things like that."

Elizabeth's face darkened dangerously, and I hastened to intervene.

"Paul, why don't I take you to Harborview? That way Elizabeth and Monica can go on... chatting." Relief was fizzing through me like champagne. "I'll be so glad to see Tommy."

Family feuds could wait, and so could groceries and sleep. This day was getting better and better.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

TOMMY LOOKED GHASTLY. THEY HAD SHAVED HIS BUSHY gray hair to st.i.tch up various head wounds, and the face below the naked, k.n.o.bby skull was slack and weary. But his leprechaun's eyes lit up at the sight of us, and when Paul embraced him gingerly, bending over the hospital bed, Tommy smacked him on the back with vigor. gray hair to st.i.tch up various head wounds, and the face below the naked, k.n.o.bby skull was slack and weary. But his leprechaun's eyes lit up at the sight of us, and when Paul embraced him gingerly, bending over the hospital bed, Tommy smacked him on the back with vigor.

"What a sight you are, Paulie!" he said. "And you brought my favorite redhead! Carnegie, dear, you look like a bride yourself."

He meant my armful of flowers. I had stopped at Nevsky Brothers on the way, where Boris commanded Irina to turn over what seemed like half her stock. What a summer's treasure to enjoy in November: sheaves of royal-blue irises, glossy tulips like huge crimson goblets, and an entire thicket of sweetheart roses in white and blush pink.

I held my armload aside while I kissed Tommy's forehead, then set them down on the vacant second bed and went out to beg some vases from the nurses' station. As I went, I could hear Paul explaining that Aaron and some other friends from the Sentinel would be coming by the next morning so as not to overwhelm him with too many people at once. Likewise, I planned to refrain from asking Tommy what he had or hadn't seen at the Aquarium. At least for a few minutes.

Of course, maybe the police had already questioned him. There was still a patrolman stationed outside Tommy's door, a gray-haired man who looked bored and cross. I nodded at him in pa.s.sing, figuring that he'd be relieved of this dull duty soon enough. Down the hall, Roger Talbot emerged from the men's room.

"Carnegie!" In the cold fluorescent hospital light, I could see the strain and sorrow in Roger's dark eyes, but his clothes were pressed and his silver hair recently trimmed. He no longer had the haunted look of a man on the edge. "Is it true? They found the one who killed her?"

"Her," not "them." Of course, he barely knew Angela, the other victim. Just a quick introduction at the Aquarium to a nice-looking blonde who then disappeared, leaving hardly a memory.

"It's true, Roger. I don't know if he's been charged with murder yet, but he jumped bail for the purse-s.n.a.t.c.hing, so he's not going anywhere."

His face twisted in a spasm of pain. "Purse-s.n.a.t.c.hing! A petty criminal does something as stupid as purse-s.n.a.t.c.hing, and Mercedes ends up... ends up..." His eyes filled, and he looked away, blinking hard.

"Hey," I said gently, "let's get some coffee and sit down for just a minute, OK? And then you can help me with Tommy's flowers."

We sat in the little lounge with our Styrofoam cups, and as usual, I thought about my father. But only for a moment. Over the years, the pain was fading to something softer and easier to bear. How long would that process take for Roger Talbot, who had to do his grieving in secret?

He sipped mechanically at his coffee, then set it down and sighed. "Tommy doesn't remember what he saw."

"How do you know he saw anything?"

"It's obvious. With the guard there, he's either a witness or a suspect. So I simply asked him. He remembers being at the party, but that's all. Then I had a word with his doctor."

"And?"

"His memory may return all at once, or in fragments over time, or not at all."

It's interesting what people will tell an influential man. I bet the doctor in question would have stonewalled someone like me. Well, now I wouldn't have to distress Tommy further by asking him myself.

"Maybe that's for the best," I said. "Now that the police have Foy in custody, they'll be able to check for DNA traces and all that. They won't need an eyewitness."

"I need one," said Roger fiercely. "I need to know how it happened."

"No, you don't," I insisted. "Whatever Tommy did or didn't witness, you need to remember Mercedes as you last saw her. She made such a beautiful gypsy!"

"She was always beautiful." He smiled bleakly, and I could see that the healing had begun, however long and slow it might be. I tried to nudge it along.

"Roger, are you coming to the wedding?"

"Of course!" His public persona roused itself. "People expect me there."

"I'm glad to hear it. Come on, let's get back to those flowers."