Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  Lily had a radar for men, but this was ridiculous. She had entered the men's locker room, where a naked and dripping gentleman was glaring at her in horror, his towel out of reach. For once, Lily was at a loss for words. Not me, though.

  “Hi!” I burbled. “Channel Eight Newsbeat! Sir, how do you feel about the proposed city ordinance on unisex locker rooms?”

  He bellowed, Mindy hollered, and Lily and I fled along the hallway and up the stairs to the street, leaving scattered cards and Lynyrd Skynyrd behind us. We ran down the block and around the corner, gasping and snorting with laughter. Then I sobered up.

  “Lily, did you recognize any names?”

  “Nope. No Theos at all. How 'bout you?”

  I raked my disheveled hair back from my face. “No Theos, but I did see a Boris.”

  “Boris Nevsky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think Boris is the bad guy? Wow. Well, he was at Diane's wedding.”

  “No, of course I don't think that. But maybe we could ask Boris if Theo goes to that gym. We could tell him some story—” “Story” rang a dim bell. I checked my watch. “Lily, where are my brains? It's Tuesday! I'm due at Kidsplace.”

  “OK, but call me later, promise?”

  I promised and drove off, thinking about Boris Nevsky.

  KIDSPLACE WAS A DAY-CARE PROGRAM FOR LOW-INCOME WORKing mothers, where I did a story hour once a week. I parked by the scrawny hedge surrounding the little playground, full of kids running riot in the sunshine, and rummaged in the van for my stash of storybooks.

  “Hey, Wedding Lady!”

  That East Coast voice again: Aaron Gold, standing by the playground gate and smiling like an old friend. He had traded the tweed sports coat for an ugly tan windbreaker, and he held a battered steno notebook in one hand.

  “What do you want? More quotes?”

  “How come you're so worked up about one little anonymous phrase? Is old Grace going to fire you on suspicion of having a big mouth?”

  “Forget it, just forget it.” He'd hit much too close to home. I did talk too much, and I knew it. “Are you following me around? How did you know where I'd be, anyway?”

  “Your partner Eddie told me.”

  “Eddie sent you here?”

  “Well, he mentioned the name of the center, so I looked it up.”

  “Bully for you.” I said. “Now please leave me alone. I'm running late, and I have absolutely nothing to say to you, about Grace Parry or anything else.”

  The Kidsplace supervisor appeared at the door of the building, a train of kids in tow. “Carnegie, I thought we'd try the story hour outside today, all right? And Mr. Gold can watch.”

  I turned back to him. “Mr. Gold?”

  “I'm doing a story on day-care kids,” he said, utterly deadpan. “Single career women who volunteer as storytellers seemed like a perfect lead.”

  It was not my finest story hour. The kids ranged from wide-eyed kindergartners to world-weary fourth graders, so it was always a challenge to hold everybody's attention with the same tale. The presence of “Mr. Gold” didn't help.

  “Who's he?” demanded Nathan, a pugnacious nine-year-old stretched out on his belly next to me.

  “He's a newspaper reporter,” I said. “He wasn't invited, and he's leaving very soon, but right now he's going to sit quietly and listen to this next story. Isn't he?”

  “Sure,” said Gold, grinning. “What's it about?”

  “Unicorns,” I replied, and began to read. Unicorn stories were a sure-fire hit with the girls, and I figured the boys would sit still for this one because it included a dragon. But Nathan was bent on showing off for the stranger.

  “There's no such thing as unicorns,” he pronounced loftily, his plump chin resting on two plump fists.

  “Are, too!” Latoya, a unicorn fan who favored pink dresses, was adamant.

  “Are not, Mucus Face,” said Nathan. “They're just made up, aren't they, Carnegie?”

  “Nathan, I've talked to you before about name-calling.”

  “But aren't they just made up?”

  We'd been through this once at Christmas, when I'd sidestepped the Santa Claus question. I began to frame an answer, but Latoya made a face at Nathan, and he retorted by throwing a pebble at her, which made her cry. Throwing things was verboten at Kidsplace, so I comforted the victim and marched the perpetrator inside to cool off. When I returned, all eyes were on Aaron Gold.

  “Now how about you, have you ever seen a unicorn?” He was asking Stephanie, the little girl on his left. Apparently he'd gone around the whole circle. Stephanie shook her blond head solemnly.

  “Not even taking a bath in your bathtub? Or nibbling on your socks for breakfast?”

  “No!” she shrieked, and the other kids giggled in delight.

  “Me, either.” Gold sighed. “So who knows if they're real or not. But this is a pretty good story, isn't it? Who wants to hear how it ends?”

  There was a chorus of “Me, me!” and he looked up smugly. “Over to you, Scheherazade.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You're welcome,” he said. “I hope the dragon gets it in the neck.”

  The dragon did, and I finished the hour with a sing-along story. After his show of charming the kids, Gold lost interest and wandered over to the van, flipping through his notebook. I wondered if he actually liked children, or if he was just softening me up for more questions. Or maybe he really was doing a story on day-care programs.

  “How about a lift home?” he asked when I was done. “I'm right near you.”

  I threw the books in the back seat and got in. The van was hot and my head was aching, distracting me as I tried to think of an excuse for turning him down. “Don't you drive?”

  “No car,” Gold replied. He walked around to the passenger side and climbed in, taking my hesitation for consent.

  Damn him anyway. I gave up and started the engine. “OK, where do you live?”

  “Lakeshore Apartments.”

  “That figures.”

  The Lakeshore was an eyesore, a tacky stack of cheaply built, overpriced units two blocks south of me, much resented by the homeowners whose view it spoiled.

  “Yeah, I knew you'd be thrilled.” He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his windbreaker and began to pat his pockets for a match, the way men do. “You can come in for a beer.”

  “And give you more quotes? No, thanks.” I had to speak up over Vanna's racket. “And please don't smoke in here.”

  At close quarters, the cigarette smell on his clothes was bad enough. He shrugged and contented himself with tossing the pack from hand to hand. You'd have thought he was oblivious to everything else, but then he looked at me sharply. He did have nice eyes.

  “What happened to your head?”

  My bruised temple was facing him. I pushed a lock of hair over it. “I fell down.”

  “Funny spot to fall on.”

  I didn't answer. Traffic was especially heavy, and I was anxious to return to the office and sort out my notes for Fay Riddiford's country-western wedding. I only half listened as Gold ran through his theories about Guthridge and the Parrys. His rapid-fire speech got on my nerves, and I tuned him out until we got hung up at an intersection.

  “—So it's almost a certainty that Parry knew about the MicroTech stock split before the fact,” he was saying, “and old Grace just might have used that info to hit the jackpot for two of her clients. I'd love to get my hands on her files, if she hasn't shredded them already. Does she ever talk about her investment business?”

  “No.” I craned around, trying to see if the idiot truck driver two cars ahead was stalled or just trying to make a left turn.

  “How about Douglas Parry? You worked with him on Bigelow's fund-raiser, you saw him argue with Guthridge. Any idea how seriously he's taking Guthridge's threats?”

  “No.” The truck was stalled. I slipped past and down the hill just as the light turned red again, then made good time on the freeway.

/>   “Any theories about what kind of beans Parry is going to spill when he testifies?”

  “No.”

  “No, no, a thousand times no. Your lips are sealed?”

  “That's right.”

  I drove past my own dock to the Lakeshore: three identically hideous buildings projecting into the lake, with blue-gray siding and alternating blue and gray balconies for the upper units. The lower apartments had sliding glass doors out to a common deck that wrapped around each building at lake level. I pulled into the parking lot and left the engine running.

  “Is this close enough?”

  “Yeah, that's me right there, lucky thirteen.” He pointed toward a first-floor apartment in the nearest building. One curtain rod hung askew, giving the windows a forlorn air, and the potted azaleas flanking the glass door were brown skeletons, long dead of thirst. “No place like home. So Parry thinks Guthridge is bluffing, huh?”

  I clenched the steering wheel. “Look, for the last time, my only interest in the Parrys is making sure that Nickie's wedding goes off well. Don't you understand that?”

  “No, frankly, I don't. An intelligent person like you can't be all style and surface, there's got to be depths underneath, right? So how come we can't have a conversation about Douglas Parry?”

  “This isn't a conversation, this is the third degree! You want to pump me about my clients, and I'm not going to be pumped.”

  “I just thought you'd be interested in truth, justice, and the American way, that's all.”

  “Trial by media, you mean,” I put the van into gear. “You got your ride home. Good-bye.”

  Gold got out, but leaned back in through the open window, a cigarette already in his mouth, a lighter in his hand.

  “All right,” he said, “be that way. But be careful, would you? Real life is not just orange blossoms, and these are not nice people.”

  “No, according to you they're all gangsters,” I snapped. If he hadn't spooked me with his talk about criminals on Saturday, I wouldn't have run from Theo and brained myself on that tree. “This isn't Sicily, for crying out loud.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Sicily? Do you ever read the news part of the newspaper? Ever heard of the Russian Mafia?

  “The Russian Mafia?”

  “Yeah, money laundering, big-time corruption, people getting killed, little stuff like that? There's a sizeable Russian community over in the Eastside suburbs, you know.”

  I did know. That was where Boris lived. And Boris had been out in the rain the night of Diane's wedding…. This was insane. Pretty soon I'd be suspecting myself.

  “Look, I'll concentrate on weddings, and you concentrate on writing about day-care, OK?”

  He straightened up to light his cigarette, and I drove off. Real life—give me a break. Maybe he thought that Made in Heaven was a hobby, that I could afford to lose my best clients just to be his inside informer. I stomped up the walkway to the houseboat, muttering as I went, and saw Eddie coming down the office stairs.

  “Eddie, do you think I'm all style and surface?”

  He paused to consider. “You've got terrific style. Why?”

  “No, I mean do I concentrate too much on superficial things like cakes and flowers, and not enough on real life?”

  “Listen, sister, the world is full of people who concentrate on real life. Stick with what you know.”

  “Oh, never mind. See you tomorrow.”

  I went inside to call Lily, and we puzzled over the possibility of Boris as a hit man.

  “He could have tampered with the Mustang,” I said. “It could have been him I saw down the road. But …”

  “Yeah, but,” said Lily. “But can you imagine dear old crazy Boris deliberately hurting someone? I mean, so what if he's Russian?”

  “I can't imagine anyone deliberately hurting someone,” I said. “But people still get hurt, don't they?”

  “Well, let's check out the pool hall. The gym could be just a coincidence.”

  “OK.” We made a date for the 418 Club, then considered the other half of our plan. “Lily, how are you coming with calling the shelters? Want me to help?”

  “No, thanks, it's no problem. But I'm almost through the list, and no one's seen Mary. I'll keep checking.”

  Finally it was Wednesday afternoon, and time to get ready for my evening with Holt. I'd bought a new dress, on the spurious grounds that I really needed another stylish outfit to alternate with the jade silk at clients’ weddings. The color was lovely, a deep rich red with no pink or orange tinge to jar against my hair, and the fabric was smooth and fluid on my skin. I slipped it on and spun before the mirror, as a woman might if she were dancing with Holt Walker, and the skirt lifted and whirled, showing lots of leg. And yet, when I stood demurely still, the effect was proper enough for an afternoon wedding. Perfect.

  Even with a long shower, I was ready early. I put some more makeup over the fading bruise on my temple. Polished my black pumps. Changed purses, to a little black clutch bag. Tried putting my hair up: too formal. Tried pulling it back: too severe. Brushed it all out loose: too everyday. This is everyday, I chided myself. Go do something useful.

  So when five-thirty came I was washing the dishes, with my elegant scarlet sleeves pushed up over my elbows, and frowning at a small open motorboat zooming toward my dock. I never went boating myself, being a martyr to motion sickness, and I had no patience with the seagoing cowboys who roared around the lake to show off. They were supposed to slow down near the houseboats; the speed lanes were out in the middle. And this one was coming in too close, as well. I left the dishes and crossed the living room and porch to the sliding glass doors.

  “Hey!” I stepped on the deck, which was rocking slightly from the motorboat's wake, and shielded my eyes against the afternoon sun.

  “Hey, yourself.” The boat's driver cut the power and spun the wheel, coming to rest neatly against the deck's edge. I looked down into green eyes.

  “Holt!”

  “In person.” He bowed gallantly, and his bright yellow slicker flapped in the breeze. Underneath it he wore a tuxedo. “Ready for dinner? Let me take you away from all this.”

  NOW, I’M JUST AS WILLING AS THE NEXT WOMAN TO BE SWEPT off my feet, but not off dry land. I get seasick at the drop of a deck. Holt didn't know that, of course, and he looked so pleased with his swashbuckling arrival at my back door that I couldn't bring myself to spoil it. So I grabbed my purse, smiled bravely, and took his offered hand. The boat bobbed and swayed as I stepped aboard—an ominous gap of dark water loomed beneath my feet. Holt slipped his arm around my waist to steady me. Strong arms, broad shoulders … maybe I could manage not to throw up on them.

  “You look gorgeous!” he called over the din of the motor, whose fumes were already making my stomach roil. “You should always wear red.”

  “Thanks,” I said weakly. “Um, are we making a long voyage?” “You'll see.” He wrapped a second slicker around my shoulders and revved the motor, tearing me away from the safe haven of my dock and out onto the lake. It was probably a fine June afternoon, and I bet the sunshine was pretty as hell on all the sailboats and cruise ships around us, but I didn't notice. I was praying to the gods of nausea to spare me, just this once. We headed west, across the width of the lake toward a seafood restaurant I'd been to before. Fine, I thought, I'll be stationary in minutes.

  But no, we cruised past the restaurant's decks and picture windows, past the marinas and boat repair facilities, and fetched up against a dock next to, heaven help me, a float plane. As Holt tied the boat up I could see that the logo on the back of his slicker matched the one on the plane: “Eagle Air, We Get You There.”

  Holt looked back at me, the hotshot lawyer transformed into a ten-year-old kid shouting Surprise! “How does dinner in Canada sound?”

  “Wonderful,” I croaked. “Just wonderful.”

  And it was wonderful, despite the occasional lurch and swoop. I closed my eyes during takeoff, reminding myself that I was rarely motio
n sick on airliners, and this was just a miniature airliner that happened to be slamming along over the waves. The pilot, a beefy young guy in an Eagle Air T-shirt, made a wide circle over the city and the lake. Holt reached past me to point out my houseboat, a toy house with a toy dock, and the bright confetti specks of my barrel garden. We lifted higher, and Seattle fell away to wider views of Puget Sound: green islands crouched on silver water, white ferries cutting white wakes, and the Olympic Mountains standing guard to the west, echoed by the Cascade peaks to the east.

  “I love this place,” Holt said. “I'll always come back here.”

  Back from where, I wanted to ask, but the engine noise was too much, so I just smiled and relaxed, letting the sights distract me from my uncertain stomach. The flight took less than an hour, but offered a new and spectacular view every minute: the San Juan Islands below, cloud towers on the horizon, Holt's profile inches away. All too soon we were descending to Victoria, British Columbia, and a final test of my equilibrium—the landing. The pilot brought us in smoothly to a floating dock, and I thanked him with real gratitude as Holt opened the plane's door and jumped down.

  I paused in the plane's doorway. Looking at him from above, I realized that crooked teeth weren't Mr. Walker's only flaw: In the middle of his wavy chestnut hair was a bald spot, a small but stubborn harbinger of things to come. I smiled, thinking ruefully of the crow's-feet that were sneaking up on me. Holt glanced up, saw my smile, and passed a self-conscious hand over his head, so I looked away as he helped me down and steered me to Customs.

  “Holt, this is wonderful! When you say out of town, you mean out of town.”

  Victoria harbor was bustling with boats, from sleek cabin cruisers to tall-masted sloops to chunky little workaday tugs. Across the water, joggers and dog walkers and families were enjoying the sunset from the promenade along the north shoreline, and in the pretty little bit-of-Britain downtown, sightseers were window-shopping beneath the flower baskets that hung from every lamppost. The stately old Empress Hotel presided grandly over the holiday scene, its ivied walls rising up to cupolas and mansard roofs and the jaunty red maple leaf of the Canadian flag. Sea gulls wheeled and called, as if in celebration, and I knew just how they felt.