Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  There were a few snags, of course. Nickie's future in-laws didn't like the reception dinner menu, and one of the flower girls had chicken pox. Those were the routine problems. The unexpected acts of God, or of Douglas Parry's enemies, were another matter altogether. Every time the phone rang, I braced myself for more bad news, but none came. No more heart attacks, and no more ugly incidents in the night.

  And no more bounced checks. Eddie grew positively cheerful as the Parry invoices came in and the payments went out, while our fifteen-percent fees piled up.

  “We should specialize in rich people,” he told me on Saturday morning. We were both in the office for a couple of hours. “A few more society weddings like this and you can pay your mother's mortgage and buy her the house next door. What about the Parry girl's bridesmaids? Are they all heiresses?”

  “No, she's disgustingly democratic in her choice of friends. Come to think of it, though, one of them is a cousin, so there might be money there. I'll try to fix her up with one of the waiters at the bridesmaids’ luncheon. Whirlwind courtship, big wedding. Happens all the time.”

  Eddie chuckled. “That's the spirit. You have a good weekend. See you Monday.”

  The phone rang just as he left, so I was still smiling when I picked up the phone and heard Holt's voice. We'd been trading phone messages since our tryst on his carpet, always just missing each other, but confirming a date for dinner tonight at my place. I was planning gin-and-tonics on the deck. And then barbecued salmon for the main course. And then me for dessert.

  “Holt! We meet at last. I'm getting to know your secretary better than I know you. What time are you coming?”

  “Carnegie, I can't make it tonight.” His voice was subdued. My smile faded.

  “Is something wrong? Is it Douglas?”

  “Douglas? No, he's doing remarkably well, and the angioplasty is holding. Tonight I'm just tied up with a client matter, nothing to do with the Parrys, but I'm not sure when I can reschedule. It's going to be hectic for the next week or so, maybe longer. In fact I'm at the office now. I should go in a minute.”

  “I understand.” And I would have, too, if only his voice hadn't been so stilted. I was busy myself; I'd had to cancel dates once in a while. But I also knew a brush-off when I heard one, or thought I did. “Well, I'll just see you when I see you, Holt. Bye.”

  “Wait, wait! I'm sorry, I don't mean this to sound … the way it sounds. We're still on for the trip to Mount Rainier, aren't we?”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes,” he said, some warmth returning to his voice. “We are. And I'll call you before then.”

  Maybe he will, I thought, after we chatted a bit more and hung up. And maybe he won't. I am not, repeat not, going to waste time wondering. On that resolute note, I went downstairs to make myself a gin-and-tonic and fire up the barbecue. I had my own little feast, and went to bed early. With a book.

  I WAS JUST DOZING OFF WHEN THE PHONE RANG.

  “Carnegie, it's Lily. I think I've found Mary!”

  “Terrific! Where?”

  “Well, it's not definite, but I talked to someone at the First Avenue Mission. She said Mary comes in most nights.”

  “What's the address? I'll go right over.”

  “No, wait. They're already full for tonight, so if Mary does show up in the next few minutes she'll be put on the van that goes to an overflow shelter. It's a church up in the Greenwood neighborhood. I'd go with you, but I've got to put the boys to bed….”

  “No problem. Just give me the address of the church.”

  Greenwood Presbyterian was a long, low brick structure on a quiet side street, deeply shadowed by maples. I parked near the back entrance, where a plump gray-haired woman stood under a streetlight checking her watch. Lily had told me to look for her, but I would have guessed who she was. She had the wise, weary expression of a career volunteer.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you Irene?”

  She nodded, and waited. I took a deep breath.

  “My name's Carnegie Kincaid. I heard from the First Avenue Mission that a woman named Mary might be here tonight. I don't know her last name, but it's important that I speak with her….”

  “Why?”

  I was afraid she'd ask that. “It's a long story, but she may have been a witness to something that happened at a wedding a couple of weeks ago, and I just need to ask her about it.”

  She frowned. “Are you from the police?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “We try to protect the safety and privacy of our guests, Ms. Kincaid. Their lives are difficult enough, and this is the one place where no one bothers them. I wouldn't want to distress Mary—”

  “So you do know her!”

  She smiled, ever so slightly. “I know a Mary whose hobby is weddings, yes.”

  “That's her.” I hesitated, but I couldn't resist asking. “Do you know why? Why she goes to weddings, I mean?”

  Irene smiled. “She told me once it was for the cake. She likes cake.”

  “Bless her heart, I'll buy her a wedding cake myself. But tonight, if I could just speak with her for a moment? I mean if she's willing. Really, it's very important.”

  “All right, but only if she's willing. There's the van now.”

  The driver, a boyish young woman, hopped out and handed Irene a set of keys. I stood aside while she unlocked the doors to what looked like a vacant rec room in the lower level of the church. Light flooded from the entrance, illuminating the van's passengers as they filed inside: fifteen or so women of all ages, several of them black, two who looked Indian, all of them carrying everything they owned in life in their two hands. Plastic bags, knapsacks, even a small wheeled suitcase like flight attendants use, pulled by a brisk fortyish blonde in a navy pantsuit. She glanced at me and then away, and I wondered what her story was. I also wondered where Mary was, because she wasn't in the van. I followed the blonde inside and immediately Irene came to bar my way.

  “She isn't here.”

  “I can see that. But if she does show up one night, could you possibly call me?” I held out my business card. “I could come right over, and I wouldn't bother her if she didn't want to talk to me. Honestly, Irene, it's terribly important.”

  She contemplated the card. Behind her, the homeless women were pulling foam sleeping mats from a pile in the center of the bare room, and blankets from a huge duffel bag in the corner. A few of them chatted, a few glanced at me, but most just made up their impromptu beds on the brown linoleum, settled their belongings beside them, and lay down in silence. One elderly woman cradled a teddy bear. I wanted desperately to go home.

  “Please?”

  Irene took the card. “All right.”

  “Thank you so much. She must be at one of the other shelters tonight—”

  She laughed grimly. “Not necessarily. She could be sleeping in a doorway, or under a freeway overpass, or on a park bench. We do an annual count. The latest one showed about a thousand people living out on the streets downtown.”

  “Including old women? I'd hate to think—”

  “Including two dozen children,” Irene said. “Think about that.”

  I thought about it a lot that night, and the next day too, until Lily came to pick me up for our foray to Flair Plus. It turned out to be a white cement-block structure a few feet back from the traffic on Aurora Avenue, with a huge pink-and-black plastic banner draped across the front: “LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! 100'S OF PRETTY GIRLS AND 2 UGLY ONES!”

  W e sat in Lily's car and watched a fat guy in a narrow black tie taping a bunch of balloons to the front door, along with a cardboard sign saying “Now Open at Noon!” Then he went back inside, so we sat looking at the balloons.

  “No point asking around in there,” said Lily, finally.

  “Who's going to give out anybody's name in a place like that?” I agreed.

  “And besides …”

  “And besides,” I said, “we don't want to go in there.”

  “No. We sure
don't. Let's go home.”

  WEDNESDAY OF THAT WEEK WAS THE FOURTH OF JULY. IN PAST years I'd thrown parties, with beer and barbecue and front-row seats for the fireworks that went up from a barge moored out in Lake Union. This year I was in no mood to play hostess, but I was determined to take a day off. No paperwork today, and no pondering mysteries either. Maybe I'd bathe in sunscreen and spend all day on the deck with a novel. Or gorge myself on popcorn at the matinee of a scary movie. Or get out that Thai cookbook I'd been meaning to try, and make myself a fiery feast to eat while I watched the fireworks display. I thought of inviting Holt to share it, then banished the thought. Let him call me.

  The phone rang.

  “Ms. Kincaid?” An unfamiliar voice, crisp and confident. “This is John Hyerstay, Douglas Parry's special assistant. Could you meet with me downtown this morning?”

  “Today? It's a holiday. Why do you need—”

  “This is an urgent matter, Ms. Kincaid. Urgent, and private. I'm at our main office on Sixth Avenue.”

  “Has something else happened?” I had visions of Gus in that muddy pool. Who was next?

  He ignored the question. “Would ten o'clock be convenient?”

  “All right. But—”

  He hung up.

  By nine forty-five I was in an elevator, rising to the thirtieth floor of a gray glass tower downtown. The Pike Place Market and Westlake Park had been festive with locals and tourists enjoying the sunshine, but farther south the financial district was almost deserted. A security guard had unlocked the lobby doors to let me into the building.

  “Not many people working today,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Sign in here, please.”

  I'm not working, either, I thought, as the elevator hissed open to the headquarters of Parry Enterprises. I don't know what I'm doing. The reception area was empty and silent, and my footsteps disappeared as I stepped from the zigzag parquet floor onto a vast pink-and-moss-green Oriental rug.

  “Hello?” I ventured.

  “Good morning.” John Hyerstay was about twenty-eight, and he looked like he'd been on top of the world for at least twenty-seven. He had curly brown hair and a trim mustache, and he wore a fashionably garish tie, Gauguin on a bad day. His left hand was dominated by a massive gold ring with two diamonds set off-center in a flat onyx field. He was not smiling. “In here, please. I'll be with you in a moment.”

  “In here” was a walnut-paneled conference room with tall windows overlooking the city. Eight chairs in wine-colored leather surrounded an oak table, and surrounding them on the walls were recessed alcoves displaying Kwakiutl and Inuit artwork—red and black wooden masks, intricate baskets, a carved soapstone polar bear padding along an icy shore above its own soapstone reflection. Classy.

  “Ms. Kincaid, this is Sally Kroger, from the Parry legal department. You know Mrs. Parry, of course.”

  Of course. Grace took a chair, elegant in her gray slacks and a paler gray silk sweater. Sally Kroger was a hawk-nosed woman of fifty or so, with short unruly hair and dark, level brows. I sat down across from them, more and more confused. Legal department?

  Sally Kroger opened a folder. She kept it tilted away from me, but I caught a glimpse of Made in Heaven letterhead.

  “Mrs. Parry has asked me to handle this matter,” she began, in a low, husky voice. “We want to minimize any effect on Mr. Parry's health.”

  “I'm afraid Mr. Hyerstay didn't explain the purpose of this meeting,” I said, mustering my most professional manner. “What matter are we talking about?”

  She looked at me. What a poker player. “Surely you know, Ms. Kincaid. The matter of overcharging Mr. and Mrs. Parry approximately”—she glanced at the folder,— “twenty-three thousand dollars for goods and services related to their daughter's wedding.”

  “What?!” I was so stunned that when Grace spoke it was difficult to focus on her words.

  “That's the total so far,” she said. “Who knows what other phony invoices she's got floating around.”

  “Phony invoices?” I actually laughed. “Made in Heaven charges a fifteen-percent fee on everything we handle. That's stated in our contract and clearly itemized in our billing. I'm sure I can explain any misunderstanding.”

  “There's no point taking that innocent tone,” said Grace.

  “What tone? You show me one single invoice that isn't legitimate.”

  Sally Kroger put two pieces of paper on the gleaming oak surface in front of me. One was a photocopied bill, marked “Paid,” for the French burgundies and Bordeaux served at Nickie and Ray's engagement party at the Parry estate back in April. The other was a Made in Heaven invoice for the same wine, with our percentage added to the subtotal. But the subtotal, which should have matched the wine merchant's bill, was four thousand dollars too high.

  After that came bills for tent and furniture rental, the florist's deposit, a couple of checks made out to cash for miscellaneous expenses. All of them altered in some way, to bring more money into my firm than we had paid out. My hands trembled as I paged through the evidence. This couldn't be happening, it wasn't possible, it was crazy. Unless …

  She put down the final sheet of paper. It was a photocopied news clipping, almost ten years old. A St. Louis paper. I saw the name Breen, Edward V. Breen, and the words “tax fraud” and “decertified” and “agreed to plead guilty.”

  Unless Eddie had cooked the books. Eddie, who insisted I was undercharging the Parrys. Who had been so worried about my mother's mortgage, but was lately so optimistic. Who handled all our invoices. Eddie, who wrote the checks, or told me what checks to write, knowing there would be no questions asked. Who had lost his CPA license because he cheated on his taxes.

  Eddie, who had shown up at the houseboat suspiciously late on the night of my date with Holt, with a flimsy story about leaving something behind in the office. Something incriminating, like a doctored invoice that I might notice in the morning before he got there to hide it?

  “Well?” Sally Kroger took the papers from where I'd dropped them and gathered them into her file. “You mentioned an explanation?”

  They looked at me, Grace triumphant, John Hyerstay suave, playing with his ring, Sally Kroger stern as a judge. I stared at the soapstone polar bear over Grace's shoulder, and I thought about Eddie. I couldn't imagine him lying to me, but the proof was right there on the table, the unimaginable was there in black and white. It was a nightmare.

  “I need some time,” I stammered. “I'll have to look into it, talk to my partner—”

  “So you can confirm that your partner is responsible for this?” Kroger leaned forward, hungry for a culprit. “He seems to have had practice….”

  “No! No, I just meant that I'll have to go over the paperwork with him, and—”

  “And what?” said Grace. “Concoct more lies? You should both be arrested.”

  “Ms. Kincaid,” said Hyerstay smoothly, “our primary concern here is to shield Mr. Parry from any more disturbance. We are prepared to settle this matter quietly, today.” Grace sniffed indignantly but let him continue. “We've prepared a document which terminates your contract, and which specifies that you will immediately surrender all paperwork and material relating to Niccola's wedding, as well as any undispersed funds.” He glanced at Sally Kroger. “At Miss Nickie Parry's insistence, and very much against our advice, you will not be required to repay the money already misappropriated.”

  I didn't answer. I was concentrating, miserably, on trying not to cry. I took one long breath, and then another. “I need some time—”

  “If you refuse,” Hyerstay said, his voice rising as he slid a single typed page across to me, “criminal charges will be filed against you and Mr. Edward Breen. And of course we would be obliged to warn your other clients of the, ah, situation. You can take your chances in court, or you can sign the agreement. Now.”

  I pictured Fay Riddiford and Anita Reid being warned about embezzled funds. They wouldn't believe it, would they? Embezzled, what a b
izarre word. I closed my eyes. I couldn't think, I had to talk to Eddie. But what could I say to him? Certainly I could say nothing about him, not to these cold-eyed people. They thought I was a thief, greedy enough to abuse Nickie's trust. Absurdly, I scanned my mental list of Things Still to Do for her wedding. Who would manage the rehearsal if I wasn't there? Who was going to revise the reception dinner menu to suit Ray's mother, and proofread the ring engraving, and order space heaters for the tents if the weather turned cold? Who had lists of last-minute violinists and a pocketful of straight pins and three handkerchiefs?

  Sally Kroger offered me a pen. I could take it, and sign, or I could walk out of the room and into a new and ugly life as an accused criminal. My career as a wedding consultant would be over, my name would have a permanent addendum. I'd be Carnegie Kincaid—you know, the one who cheated Douglas Parry. And worse, far worse than that, would be the choice facing me: to plead guilty, or to condemn Eddie. I might, if I was lucky, be able to prove that he had deceived me as well as my clients. I might succeed in sending my father's friend, my own dear friend, to prison. If I was lucky.

  I took the pen. Then I asked a question, sounding just as humiliated as I felt. “No publicity?”

  “No,” said Grace with obvious contempt. “For my husband's sake, and for Nickie's, no publicity.”

  I signed my name and walked out, my face hot and my lower lip trembling, the third-grader leaving the principal's office. Theo was there, leaning insolently against the reception desk. He stared at me, a pale smile on his pale face, as I waited for the elevator. I was damned if I'd let him see me cry, and that determination carried me out of the building, back to the van, and eventually to Eddie's doorstep in Ballard.