Died To Match Part 28

We all leaned forward a little, and he rolled his eyes. "Dracula was a guy named-well, never mind his name. He's a hotshot DEA agent from the party-drug task force. He'd been tracking Rick the Rocket, and he wanted to try some close-up surveillance. Without telling us, of course. The G.o.dd.a.m.n Feds are always pulling stunts like that. Excuse my French."

Amid our exclamations, he continued, "But Lester Foy showing up at the cemetery is a mystery to me. He must have been following one of you for some reason, but I don't see why."

"I do!" Lily laughed her big, full-throated laugh. "I mean, I can guess why he was there, but he wasn't following anybody. Carnegie, didn't you say Foy was with his girlfriend, and that she's a guitarist?"

I nodded. "What's that got to do with it?"

"You were at Greenwood Cemetery in Redmond, right?" The phone started ringing, and as she stood up to answer it she said, "Girl, Greenwood Cemetery is where Jimi Hendrix is buried! Music people go there all the time. Excuse me a minute."

"Librarians are such show-offs," said Aaron, in mock indignation. "How did she know-"

"Aaron, it's for you," said Lily from the kitchen door. "Long distance, I think."

He grimaced and shut his eyes, as if something expected and yet dreaded had happened. "Sorry. My cell phone's on the blink, so I left your number with someone just in case."

Two minutes later, he returned from the kitchen with an odd, tight look on his face. "Well, it's getting late. Stretch, do you mind if we take off now?"

"No problem," I said. Enough with the postmortem, let's go home and start the carpe diem. But when I followed him into Lily's bedroom to fetch our coats, and tried to steal a quick kiss, he kept his distance. I touched his shoulder. "Aaron, what is it? Something wrong with your family in Boston?"

"Yeah," he said, shrugging into his coat. "Well, no, not exactly. But I do have to fly back there right away. There's someone I have to help out."

"Who?"

Aaron jammed his hands into his pockets and sighed. I was just thinking about how handsome he was, even with a black eye, when he said, "My wife."

About the Author

DEBORAH DONNELLY's inspiration for the Carnegie Kincaid series came when she was planning her best friend's wedding and her own at the same time. (Both turned out beautifully.) A long-time resident of Seattle, Donnelly now lives in Boise, Idaho, with her writer husband and their two Welsh corgis. Readers can visit her at www.deborahdonnelly.org.

If you couldn't wait to turn each page of you'll be on the edge of your seat with the next wedding planner mystery by Deborah Donnelly, on sale Fall 2003 Read on for a preview...

I don't do bachelor parties.

Wait, that sounds like I jump naked out of cakes. And who makes cakes that tall and skinny? What I mean is, I don't plan bachelor parties. Weddings, yes. Rehearsal dinners, of course. Bridesmaids' luncheons, engagement parties, even the occasional charity gala, when business is slow.

The business in question is "Made in Heaven, Elegant Weddings With An Original Flair, Carnegie Kincaid, Proprietor." I've got a pretty decent clientele in Seattle by now, and sometimes I get non-nuptial referrals. But I don't do bachelor parties.

First off, I resent the symbolism of the doomed groom enjoying one last spasm of freedom before turning himself in to the matrimonial slammer. I'm in favor of matrimony, after all. I might even try it myself-but that's another story.

The second and more compelling reason is that no event planner in her right mind wants to plan an event where the guests are h.e.l.l-bent on drinking themselves to oblivion and behaving as poorly as possible en route.

So why, at ten o'clock on a frigid December evening, was I en route to the Hot Spot Cafe, inside of which were at least two dozen inebriated bachelors? Because of Sally "The Bride From h.e.l.l" Tyler.

Now, most brides are content to let the best man coordinate the bachelor bash. Not Sally Tyler, oohh no. Sally was a mere slip of a girl, with milky skin and smooth white-blonde hair, but she had cold agate eyes beneath dark, level brows. When she was displeased-a seemingly daily occurrence-her eyebrows drew together and her furious glare pierced your vital organs like a stiletto carved from ice.

I desperately needed the revenue from the Tyler/Sanjek account, but it was turning out to be hard-earned. My innards were practically perforated.

Sally's latest excuse for a temper tantrum was this bachelor party. Supposedly, she asked me to plan the affair so that my valuable services, along with the food and drink, could be her wedding gift to Frank Sanjek, her devoted (not to say besotted) fiance. But I saw through that little fiction.

What Sally really craved was more scope to contradict, criticize, and in general control Frank's every waking moment. Though why she thought my involvement would prevent the best man from pouring too much booze, or screening p.o.r.no movies, or doing anything else he pleased, was beyond me. I'm a wedding planner, not a chaperone.

Anyway, I declined, Sally fumed, and then Frank's best man, Jason Croy came up with a perfect site for the party. A friend of his owned a cafe on the Seattle s.h.i.+p Ca.n.a.l, complete with bar and pool table, and the place was closing for a major remodel. The guys could take it over for the night for free. They could do their worst, with Jason as master of ceremonies-but only if the event was held immediately, well in advance of the wedding date.

So, like a good best man, Jason set up the bachelor party venue, the guest list, and the entertainment. Meanwhile I made peace with Sally by arranging for a buffet of serve-yourself Greek appetizers catered by my friend and colleague Joe Solveto, while stipulating that I personally would not be visiting the party permises. Frank thanked his bride for her generous gift, and everybody was happy.

Until ten minutes ago. I'd been working late, digging through some files over at Joe's office in the Fremont neighborhood, when my cell phone rang.

"Carnegie, it's Sally. You have to go to the Hot Spot right away. Jason needs you."

"Why can't he just call me? What's wrong?" My stomach constricted at the sudden vision of all the things that might be wrong: property damage, an angry neighbor, an injured guest...

"Just go, OK? You're, like, two minutes away from there, aren't you?"

"Not exactly, but-" But if someone was hurt, or the police had been summoned, every minute would count. "I'll be there as quick as I can."

So I climbed into Vanna White Too, the new replacement for my dear departed white van, and drove through the Christmas lights and sights to the south side of the ca.n.a.l.

December in Seattle is usually gray and drippy, but this evening had a winter wonderland feel, with Christmas trees and decorations all a-glitter in the clear, crisp air. The "Artists' Republic of Fremont" has gone almost mainstream these days, now that a big software firm calls it home and the fancy condos have sprung up, but there are still plenty of funky shops and charming restaurants.

Everywhere I looked tonight, white puffs of frozen breath rose above the Yuletide shoppers and diners as they hurried cheerfully along the sidewalks. Too bad I wasn't one of them. I crossed the Fremont drawbridge to the darker, quieter blocks along Nickerson, then dropped down a side street.

The new Vanna rode like a Rolls after the clanking and stalling of the old one, and we pulled up smoothly to the undistinguished brick facade of the Hot Spot Cafe. At least there were no police cars in sight, and no ambulance.

The front entrance was locked, so I hammered on it, and tried to peer through the gaps in the curtained front windows; no telling if anyone could hear me over the guitar music throbbing inside. After one last pound, I gave up and went around back, hugging myself against the cold.

I'm not used to real winter weather. I still had on my most businesslike suit from a morning meeting, but the temperature had been plummeting all day, and the silk tweed blazer, though stylish, was no match for it. So now I was s.h.i.+vering as well as irritated and anxious.

Out back, a wooden dining deck extended over a wedge of patchy gra.s.s and shadowy bushes that sloped down to an empty bike path and the wide, cement-walled lane of dark, still water. The Seattle s.h.i.+p Ca.n.a.l is a major waterway; on sunny afternoons, the Hot Spot's patrons could sit out on there with their beers and watch big sailboats and bigger barges move between Puget Sound to the west and Lake Union to the east.

Right now, though, the splintered planks of the deck held nothing but stacked plastic chairs and a silver coating of frost that sparkled in the light from the bare windows and sliding gla.s.s doors. The gla.s.s doors were unlocked, so I stepped gratefully inside.

A quick look around yielded a confused impression of milling young men, clouds of cigar smoke, puddles of spilled liquor, and a ma.s.sive serve-yourself Greek mess. Empty plates and gla.s.ses littered all the tables, but the mess went far beyond that.

From the demolished dolmathes scattered across the pool table, to the bits of fried calamari stuck to the ceiling, to the smear of spanakopita on the big-screen TV, Joe's feast had clearly been enjoyed in ways he never intended. There was a bit of broken gla.s.s-apparently juggling retsina bottles is now a recognized indoor sport-but no broken heads that I could see, no blood, and no cops.

And no Jason Croy Peering through the fumes, I spotted Frank Sanjek sitting stupefied near the television, on which two women with improbable physiques were cavorting in a hot tub. Though I couldn't fathom his devotion to Sally, Frank was a sensible fellow, with a cleft in his square chin and an amiable look in his light blue eyes. So far he'd been quite pleasant to work with.

Averting my gaze from the hot tub hotties, I headed toward Frank to ask for an explanation. But my path was blocked by three men, all of them in their early twenties and none of them sober.

"Hey, she's here!" shouted one, a beefy lad whose sweats.h.i.+rt was adorned with something damp and garlicky. At least it smelled less disgusting than it looked. He was swaying a bit on his feet, and gazing at me with the oddest mixture of shyness and enthusiasm. He dropped a moist, heavy hand on my shoulder and repeated, "She's finally here."

"Yes, I'm here," I snapped, trying for patience and failing.

Someone turned off the music, and in the heavy-breathing silence I removed his hand. "Brilliant observation. Now where's Jason?"

"How come you're wearing, like, a suit?" inquired one of his companions, a sharp-faced sort leaning on a cue stick.

"How come she's so flat?" muttered the third, and there were nervous snickers all around.

This drunken discourtesy left me speechless for a moment, and while I gathered my wits to tell him off, some of the other men, the ones who were still ambulatory, began to congregate around us. Not quite a wolf pack-the eyes were too dull, the movements too clumsy. More like a herd of cows. But still...

"It ain't whatcha got, it's whatcha do with it!" yelled someone from the back. "Do it!"

Catcalls and more lewd comments followed. Make that a herd of bulls. A sort of testosterone bellowing arose, and emergency or not, I decided to bail out. I didn't have to put up with this. Then a new voice, familiar this time, cut across the others.

"Shut up, you jerks! Carnegie, what are you doing here?"

The speaker was a young black man, even taller than me and nearly as lanky, but with rock-solid biceps gleaming darkly against his sleeveless white T-s.h.i.+rt. He had large, ardent eyes, and a humorous curl to his wide mouth that I knew very well-from all the time I spent hanging out with his sister.

Darwin James was the younger brother of my best friend, Lily, and a coworker of Frank Sanjek's at the headquarters of Meet for Coffee. The MFC chain of espresso shops had been giving Starbucks a run for their money. Frank was a brand manager, and Darwin, formerly an underground comics artist, was now a hip, much-in-demand graphic designer. He was also one of Frank's groomsmen.

"What's going on here?" I asked him. "I had an urgent call to come talk to Jason. Is someone hurt?"

"Not that I know of." Darwin shrugged and gestured around the room with the bottle of orange juice he held in one long, muscular hand. "I think Jason's playing pool. You want me to get him?"

"Please." The herd was dispersing, though Mr. Garlic stood his ground. I stepped away from him and added, "Why's everyone staring?"

"Mistaken ident.i.ty," said a light, mocking voice.

From the pool room beyond the bar, the best man sauntered towards us through the debris-laden tables. Jason Croy's face was long and lantern-jawed, with full, crisply carved lips and small gray eyes, just a touch too close together. His eyes held disdainful amus.e.m.e.nt, as they often did, and a spark of malice.

Or is that my imagination? I wondered. I didn't like Jason Croy "So Carnegie," he continued, "we need some more booze around here. Some of these gentlemen brought their friends. Make it a mixed case, OK? And another rack of beer."

"What?!" Curiosity about his first remark vanished in indignation about his second. "You called me over here to make a liquor run?"

The full lips stretched into a slow, arrogant smile. He, too, was weaving a little on his feet. "Well, you're in charge of the food and drink, aren't you? That's what Sally said."

"If Sally had told me this on the phone-" But of course, that's why she hadn't told me what Jason needed so urgently. Because I wouldn't have come.

"Come on," Jason wheedled, "you've got your car out anyway, why not do us a favor? All my plastic is maxed out."

"Listen up, Jason," I said, and I could feel my face getting hot. "If you want more liquor, you can get your a.s.s to a Seven-Eleven. I'm off duty."

My exit would have been more dignified if I hadn't stumbled on a s.h.i.+sh kabob, but I kicked it aside and strode over to the gla.s.s door. It slid open as I got there, and in walked, no kidding, Santa Claus.

I was still puzzled-Salvation Army on overtime? A late guest with a sense of humor?-when a howl went up from the men.

"That's her!"

"She's here!"

"Merry freakin' Christmas!"

St. Nick glared at me and said, in a low but distinctly female tone, "Hey, I work alone."

I took a closer look, past the rippling white beard and padded red suit, and realized that this particular Santa Claus was wearing glossy scarlet lipstick, extravagant false eyelashes, and high-heeled black boots.

Enter stripper, exit Carnegie. I spotted three other, legitimate Santas on my drive back to Joe's office, and I snarled at every one of them.

I don't usually work in Fremont. Under normal circ.u.mstances, I live in a houseboat on the east sh.o.r.e of Lake Union, with the Made in Heaven offices located conveniently upstairs. At the moment, and hugely inconveniently, I was working at Joe's catering office and sleeping on Lily's fold-out couch.

The culprit was that ancient enemy of damp wood, Serpiaa lacrymans. Dry rot. My houseboat was infested with the fungal friend, and my horrified landlady had launched a barrage of chemical and mechanical a.s.saults to annihilate it.

Mrs. Castle barely gave me time to load up my PC and some file boxes, and stuff my suitcase, before she had the place cordoned off and swarming with guys in hazmat suits. At least I was saving some rent, which had gone to the down payment on Vanna Too.

So tonight, the award for My Least Favorite Ent.i.ty on Earth was a split decision between Serpiaa lacrymans and Jason Croy His outrageous demand for delivery service had interrupted a frantic search: I was trying to unearth a particularly nice photograph of one of my brides to show at a television appearance in the morning. I'd never been on TV before, so naturally I was nervous.

Not that I expected an interrogation or anything; this was just a segment about weddings on a local morning show, with a perky interviewer and some softball questions about my job. But my fellow guest would be Beau Paliere, a very hot wedding designer from Paris by way of Hollywood, who'd arrived in Seattle to keynote a bridal expo.

Beautiful Beau-as the celebrity magazines called him-was very big time, and I didn't want to look like a yokel in contrast. Besides, this could be terrific publicity for Made in Heaven-if I carried it off well.

All that anxiety has to channel itself somewhere, so earlier this evening I had become suddenly and unreasonably convinced that my on-screen success hinged on having the camera pan across this one d.a.m.n photo. I'd riffled through each of my files at least twice, and now the minutes were counting down to zero hour. I had to be awake, dressed and mascara'd by five a.m.

How do TV people do it? I thought as I drove through Fremont. They must sleep in their makeup.

Back at Joe's building, I took the lobby elevator up four floors to his storeroom. Most of Made in Heaven's stuff was downstairs in my tiny borrowed office, but I knew that my partner Eddie Breen had dropped off a file box of his own before leaving town for a few days. Joe's staff had put it in the storeroom, out of the way, until Eddie could come sort it out on Monday. It was a long shot, but maybe that box held the photo I needed.

The fourth floor was dark and empty, except for the one light I'd left on, and my footsteps sounded loud in the corridor. I turned on the staff's radio in the corner-it was set to a talk station-and jingled my keys loudly, reminding myself to lock everything up before I went home for the night. Joe was pretty casual about security, but I wanted to be a good temporary tenant.

The storeroom was piled with treasure.

Like most caterers, Joe relied heavily on indestructible or inexpensive dishes and gla.s.sware; tonight's bachelors had gotten plastic only. But when Solveto's put on a festive meal for more responsible folk, the buffet table and the serving stations always included a few eye-catching pieces of hand-painted Italian ceramic, vintage English silver, or rare Depression gla.s.s.

Rumor had it that Joe began the practice so he could write off his exotic vacations as buying trips, but in any case the clients loved it. Sort of a signature Solveto's flourish.

The storeroom was lined on three sides with shelves bearing a splendid a.s.sortment of platters, pitchers, trays and tureens. When I flipped on the lights, reflections winked from ma.s.sive gilt candelabras and sparked across to a cobalt-blue cut gla.s.s cake stand.

Along the fourth wall, under the windows, a long work table was stacked neatly with cartons and bubble wrap for transporting these treasures. A huge silver punch bowl sat ready, with a pad of inventory forms beside it for recording which items were in use, and where. Joe was brilliantly creative, but strictly organized.

Underneath the table I found Eddie's box. I hauled it onto the table top and began to lift out the top layer of contents: a squat steel pen and pencil jar, a favorite oversized coffee mug, none too clean, and a framed photograph of the freighter Eddie had sailed on, back when he and my late father were cadets together in the merchant marine.

Eddie's seagoing past explained the next item in the box: a pair of small, powerful binoculars that he used to observe the pleasure boats and sea planes on Lake Union. I set each item carefully aside, pulled out the stack of file folders at the bottom of the box, and sat down at the table to search.

No luck. There were checklists for the Tyler/Sanjek events, a detailed timetable for Bonnie Buckmeister's Christmas-themed wedding next week, and notes on all our current marketing efforts, including my TV appearance tomorrow and the Made in Heaven booth at the bridal expo. But no photos.

I propped my chin on one fist and stared absently out the windows. I'd just have to do without. There were other pictures I could use, a wedding cake, one of our bridal couples dancing, and of course the Made in Heaven logo in curly copper lettering, which I would try my hardest to get on camera. But first I had to get some sleep.

As I stood up to re-pack Eddie's box, something across the Ca.n.a.l caught my eye: a brilliantly lit window, with a tiny figure in scarlet clothing moving back and forth across it, like an erratic actor on a garish stage. Santa Claus. The Hot Spot was directly across the Ca.n.a.l from Joe's office building, and from my upper-story vantage point I could see right into the cafe. Not that I wanted to, of course. I swept up all the files I'd opened, tucked them back into the box, and set the mug and the pencil jar on top of them.

Then I picked up the binoculars.