Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  “I'm glad you're pleased,” said Holt. “We can walk a bit before dinner if you'd like.”

  “I'd like.”

  We walked to and past the Empress, our long strides matching, and over to the grand facade of the Provincial Museum. A lovely city, just foreign enough to be charming. And a new red dress, a handsome man in a tuxedo, and the prospect of food in the near future. What more could a woman ask? Especially a woman who's all style and surface, like me.

  “Why the frown, Carnegie?”

  “Just something in my eye. It's gone now. You were talking about Voigt, Baxter?”

  “Yes, but I can't imagine why. I'd much rather hear about Made in Heaven. Are you ready to eat and tell me the story of your life?”

  I laughed. “Well, ready to eat, anyway.”

  He led us down a narrow, quiet street, its windows glowing in the twilight, to a door with a gay blue awning and a brass plate inscribed Les Oiseux Blancs, The White Birds, and below that, Bienvenue. Inside, past a tiny vestibule, a tiny woman with silver hair and bright black eyes greeted Holt with a torrent of French. He answered in French, just as rapidly, and then introduced me.

  “Mme. Lamartine, the owner of this establishment.”

  “Mademoiselle!” She cocked her head, quite birdlike herself. “M. Walker requested a special table, special menu, and I can see his reason before me. Come in, come in.”

  Special was hardly the word for that dinner. We sat in a secluded corner screened by a planter box of gardenias, their leaves dark and glossy among the pale blossoms. On the table, an oil lamp like a silver teardrop shed a steady glow over the pink linens and bright crystal. Between sips of pale wine and bites of crusty bread, Holt and I observed the room full of smartly dressed diners, making silly comments about them and laughing like old friends. He didn't ask about my head, and I didn't mention the accident, or the Parrys. All that was far away. When our dinner arrived, we turned away from the others and withdrew into a sense of perfect privacy. And perfect food: roast pheasant with chestnut purée, tiny new peas, and dark, earthy wild mushrooms.

  “ A toast.” Holt raised his glass. “To entrepreneurs like Carnegie Kincaid. I really do want to hear all about your business.”

  “But why?” His fast-track legal career and my faltering sole proprietorship seemed worlds apart.

  “Because I admire people who make their own way. And you're obviously so good at what you do. Nickie says you're the best.”

  “She's a pleasure to work with. Some brides aren't.”

  “I'll bet. Tell me some horror stories.”

  So I told him about the temper tantrums over napkin colors, the mother-daughter spats, the Byzantine seating arrangements needed to keep the groom's hard-drinking, twice-divorced father away from the bride's disapproving aunt. Holt laughed at all the right moments, and poured more wine. The waiter brought salads, each as perfect as a corsage, and Holt asked about the business end of Made in Heaven. I explained the marketing and financing and other nuts and bolts, including Eddie's crucial role.

  “He keeps track of the billings, and our percentage from each product and service that we handle. It's a lifesaver for me. I hate paperwork, and he's really sharp about getting good deals for our clients. I just sign where he tells me to.”

  “How does that work out with a big wedding like Nickie's? Do you put up your own money and get paid at the very end?”

  “No chance! Nickie's dress alone would have wiped us out.” I almost told him about the Parrys’ household account, and the mix-up with the bounced check, but I held back. Too much chatter, Kincaid. “Do you really want to hear all this?”

  “Of course!” he said warmly. “I've never met a bona fide wedding planner before. Or is it wedding consultant?”

  “Doesn't matter. It's a pretty loose occupational title, you know, not like attorneys or electricians or whatever. Lots of part-timers with an office at home, and some people whose real business is selling wedding gowns or invitations. They steer their customers to a brother-in-law who's a florist, and a cousin who's a deejay, and then they call themselves bridal consultants.”

  “And that bothers you.”

  I laughed. “Did I sound bothered? I guess I'm a little defensive sometimes, when people think that all I do is pick out a bouquet and order a cake. A wedding can be such a complicated, expensive event, like a business conference or a theater production. And yet it should also be a lovely, meaningful ritual for two people, and two families. Eddie and I cover all the bases, or at least we try.”

  “Looks to me like you succeed.”

  We paused a moment, while the waiter cleared our places.

  “You know,” I said, “this is exactly what I've been needing.”

  Holt looked up from the dessert menu. “White chocolate mousse with fresh raspberries?”

  “No. Actually, yes, that sounds wonderful. But I mean telling you about my work. It's giving me a sense of perspective again.”

  “Which you were losing?”

  “Losing my mind is more like it.” I sipped the hot, aromatic coffee that Mme. Lamartine had personally poured for us from a scrolled silver pot. “One headache after another, petty anxieties, the trees instead of the forest. I really love my work. I love making a beautiful occasion for people like Nickie and Ray, being efficient about the business details and creative about the ceremony.”

  “Which wedding has been your favorite?” asked Holt.

  I thought that over, luxuriating in his interest, his focus on me and my work. “Marty and Carol's, I think. Marty is a paraplegic. Carol's father wanted to walk her down the aisle, but she was afraid Marty would be self-conscious, waiting for her up front in his wheelchair. I don't think Marty cared, really, but Carol was really worried about it.”

  “So you did something brilliant.”

  “You flatter me, sir. But I did have an idea that made everyone happy. I rented an antique, this beautifully carved oak chair. Carol's father gave her away, and then she sat next to Marty on the antique chair and they were married sitting down. Everyone cried. Now I know that's just a little detail, some people might think it's superficial—”

  “No one with any sense of romance,” said Holt. “Or any sense of you.”

  Our eyes met, and I swear the table rose and tilted like a Ouija board at a séance. Holt took my hand and asked the fatal question.

  “Would you like to hear some music?”

  Music. Dancing. That was all I needed to go down for the third time. Holt paid the bill, called a cab, and whisked me away to a sophisticated little jazz club, where it seemed that a very special trumpet player was coming out of retirement to jam with his old combo, this week only. Holt had planned it all in advance, bless his heart.

  There was just one little detail he didn't know. I loathe jazz. I know it's un-American of me, but anything except the most corny of Dixieland tunes makes my back teeth ache. The trumpet slides around queasily, the piano wanders so far from the melody that you'd need a Saint Bernard to fetch it back, and the drums hover sadistically close to a recognizable rhythm without actually settling down to one. And you can't dance to the stuff. Jazz makes me feel restless and unsophisticated and irritable, and the prospect of two hours of that followed by possible airsickness was enough to drive me to the club's sophisticated little ladies’ room, close to tears.

  “All right, Kincaid,” I said sternly to the mirror. “He planned this as a nice surprise for you, you can grit your teeth for a while and try to enjoy it. Maybe there'll be a fire. Or an earthquake.”

  Holt welcomed me back to our table with another raised glass, this time a brandy snifter, and we sat back and listened. The set lasted a couple of centuries, with Holt nodding appreciatively while my eyes glazed over and I drank my brandy too fast. The piano player wore a toupee, and I tried to concentrate on how well it clung to his skull while he attacked the keys. At last the band took a break, and I applauded in gratitude.

  “Well, what did you think?” Holt as
ked.

  “Remarkable. Just … remarkable.” I'm a poor liar, so I hastened on to safer ground. “And dinner was delicious, and the plane ride was great. But you know, what I really appreciate most is your interest in my work. You're a good listener. I can see why your clients would trust you completely.”

  He stared down into his brandy, then drank it off with an abrupt movement that seemed unlike him.

  “Carnegie,” he began, and then faltered. “There's something I want to talk to you about, but I don't know how. I—”

  “Another round?” The waitress startled us both. Holt frowned and shook his head. The silence stretched on, and I began to dread the arrival of the musicians. If Holt was feeling what I was feeling, it was time to get out of here.

  “Could we go for another walk?”

  “I'm sorry, have I made you uncomfortable?” He lifted his hands in apology. “I don't want to take you away from the music.”

  “I don't mind, honestly I don't. Let's go walk by the water somewhere.”

  So we did, in silence at first and then in conversation that strained to be casual. Meanwhile, I was getting angry at myself. First I sit through a lot of music I hate, and then I let him do all the floundering when we reached the delicate subject of sex. Was that any way for a modern woman to behave? We came to a little park near the harbor and sat on a bench, the wrought iron chilly to the touch even in the warm evening. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I took the plunge.

  “Holt, I think I know what you were trying to say, so why don't I say it instead?”

  “But—”

  “Would you like to spend the night together?”

  His arm withdrew, he shifted away from me on the bench, and I knew on the instant that I'd made a bad mistake. Completely misread the situation. Put my foot in my mouth. Screwed up, big-time. Holt took a deep breath, then let it out and said nothing. A car drove by behind us, and from a boat out in the harbor a radio blared and then cut off abruptly. We both spoke.

  “I didn't mean—”

  “I shouldn't have—”

  W e stopped, and I tried again. “I'm sorry, I was rushing things, wasn't I? Forget I said that, please.”

  “It's not that I'm not attracted to you,” he said. “God, I sound like a teenager. I can't explain—”

  “You don't have to.” His wife, I was thinking. He can't explain how much he still misses his wife. It was a big step for him to get romantic with me at all, and then I tried to blunder right into his bed. Such tact, such sensitivity. I wanted to jump into the harbor, but instead I stood up.

  “How about some more strolling until we meet our plane? And this time I'll let you finish your sentence.”

  He agreed, but as we walked he changed the subject, and never returned to his difficult statement, whatever it was. Something about Douglas Parry, maybe? Or something about not saying stupid things to reporters? Of course, that was it: Douglas knew or guessed the source of Aaron Gold's quote, and Holt, as his attorney, was supposed to warn me to be more discreet in future. Should I take Holt off the hook by mentioning the gaffe myself? The more I thought about it, the more mortified I felt. In the middle of being warned not to shoot my mouth off, I charge right in and do it again.

  “You mentioned a mountaintop ceremony,” Holt said at length, as we reached the door of Eagle Air's little office. We were a few minutes early for our return flight, and a second beefy young guy checked us in and showed us the waiting room. Holt continued, “Don't tell me someone's climbing Mount Rainier on their wedding night?”

  I explained Peter and Anita's plans for a backpacking honeymoon, and he told me about the ice climbs he'd done with a mountaineering club. He seemed determined to keep the conversation light and bright, so I followed his lead, and we both began to relax. Maybe my gaffe hadn't spoiled everything after all. By the time our plane took off, I had described the reception at the Glacier View Lodge, and by the time we landed on Lake Union I had invited Holt to join me there. Why not? My clients often asked if I wanted to bring a date to their weddings, often on the assumption that I was married myself. Peter and Anita certainly wouldn't mind if I had a friend for company at their prewedding dinner dance.

  “Sounds great,” he said, as we clambered into the motor-boat. “I'll have to check my calendar.”

  The lake was dead calm, and his voice had a faint almost-echo, as if it came to me from far over the water. As he started the engine I had the sudden illusion that the rest of the world had vanished in the darkness, that the shore lights falling behind us were just more stars in the night. Then we were across, and the moment was gone. Holt cut the engine, and I took the precarious step up to my deck, making it clear that I didn't expect him to follow. But I was still curious if I had guessed right about his interrupted message.

  “It was a wonderful evening, thank you. And if you ever want to talk about, well, whatever it was you started to say—”

  “Forget it.” Holt's voice was cold, his face in shadow. Then he leaned forward into the homey light from my kitchen window. “Really, Carnegie, it wasn't important. Sleep well.”

  “You, too.”

  I watched the boat slide into the darkness, then unlocked the glass door from the deck. Once inside, I glanced across the living room, automatically checking for the little red light on my answering machine in the kitchen. It glowed steady, no calls. I turned away from it but then I stopped, motionless, not even breathing.

  Someone else was in the house with me.

  THE EVIDENCE WAS INVISIBLE BUT CLEAR, AT LEAST TO ME: A faint scent in the air of my living room, sweet and spicy, but acrid somehow, bitter. I sensed it, and then, with a cold shudder, I recognized it. I had caught the same scent just before losing consciousness near the Parry rose garden. Not the soft perfume of roses, after all, but something sharper, something I couldn't identify but that I would never forget. The person who attacked me that night was here, now.

  I bolted. I ran for the front door, for escape to my neighbors or the lighted parking lot, anywhere away from the trap that my house had become. Across the living room, through the empty kitchen, to fumble with the front door lock, tugging desperately at the stubborn knob. The door swung open and I stumbled outside. And smack into Eddie Breen.

  “Jesus, Carnegie, what's the matter?”

  “There's someone in there! Don't go in—”

  But he already had, leaving me vacillating on the doorstep. The image of that dark figure in the woods had all the power of a nightmare, but if he hurt Eddie … Through the windows to my right, the bedroom light came on, then the bathroom light. I rushed back into the kitchen and down the hallway, grabbing a skillet from the wall above the stove as I went.

  Eddie was standing in the living room, looking concerned, alert, on the job. My hero. “Nobody here now. Did you see him or just hear him?”

  “Well, neither.”

  “What?”

  “Wait a minute!”

  I brushed past him to check the bedroom and bathroom myself, then looked around the deck outside. Except for the slamming of my heart, everything was dark and quiet, undisturbed. No receding footsteps on the planking, no roar of a car from the parking lot. I came back in. No unaccustomed scent in the air anymore, except for Eddie's aroma of cigars. I sat on the couch, still holding the skillet. Eddie took it from my hand and placed it carefully on the end table. Then he sat next to me.

  “Carnegie, if you didn't see anybody or hear anybody—”

  “I smelled him, Eddie.”

  “You smelled him.” His expression was courteous and neutral, the face you show a small child while she tells you about the dragon under her bed.

  I closed my eyes. “It's a long story, and it's late, and— What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Forgot something in the office. Have you been drinking?”

  “What if I have!” I got up to put the skillet back in the kitchen, trying to walk away from the fear and embarrassment that were fighting it out in my mind. Edd
ie followed me.

  “You better tell me what's going on, sister. I don't know whether to call the cops or a doctor. Is your head still hurting?”

  “No, but it wasn't an accident, Eddie, I'm sure it wasn't. Somebody attacked me after the fund-raiser, either Theo or somebody else, and whoever did it was here tonight. He must have gotten away just before I came in.”

  “And you know that because you smelled him?”

  Quickly, I explained about the bittersweet scent. I began to relate Aaron Gold's warnings about Keith Guthridge and his criminal connections, and to speculate about Theo's role in all this, but Eddie turned away from me to pick up the phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Operator, I need Douglas Parry, P-A-R-R-Y, in Medina.”

  “Eddie, I've got that number upstairs, but why—”

  “Shh! We've got to do this fast.” He nodded to himself as the operator gave him the number, then called it. “Hello, Parry residence? I need to talk to Theo, your driver. It's urgent…. Well, can you give me his number? No, it can't wait.” A pause, more nodding, then he hung up and dialed again. Just as I realized what he must be doing, he held the receiver to my ear.

  “Hello? Hello?” Theo's voice, blurred with sleep, then angry. “Who is it? What the hell—”

  Eddie hung up the phone and looked at me, his snowy eyebrows lifted. “It takes, what, forty minutes to get to Parry's place from here? Say half an hour, speeding with no traffic. A little more than that to fall asleep. So unless this mysterious smell lasted all that time, I don't think Theo was here tonight.”

  “But somebody was!”

  “You sure? Is anything stolen? Let's look around, check the office, and then we'll sit down and talk this over, OK?”

  “OK.”

  We searched, Eddie skeptically and me with grim determination, for some sign that a stranger had invaded my home or the offices of Made in Heaven. We found nothing. No valuables gone, nothing out of place. I thought I caught the familiar scent upstairs in the workroom, but one window was open a crack to let in the breeze, and I couldn't be sure. My head was aching with a vengeance. It was two in the morning. We went downstairs without speaking, and I dropped onto the couch.