Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  I drove north out of downtown, along the lake and over the ship canal, then west on Market Street, past the old brick storefronts. I breathed hard and slow as I drove, trying to contain my shock and shame and anger. How could he do it, I kept repeating to myself. How could he, how could he.

  I pulled up in front of the tidy brick house with its severely trimmed shrubbery. I had only been there once or twice before; Eddie liked his solitude. A pair of ship's running lights stood guard at the front steps, red to starboard, green to port, or was it the other way around? I've lost my bearings, I thought foolishly. No compass anymore. I stepped wearily up to the front door, which had an old ship's wheel bracketed to the wall above it. I knocked and waited, then knocked again.

  “Carnegie!” Eddie appeared at the corner of the house, a plastic flowerpot in one hand and a trowel in the other. For once, his clothing wasn't immaculate. He wore dirt-smeared khakis and an old cotton undershirt with crescents of sweat under each arm. “Is something wrong? More invisible bogeymen?”

  His humor put an angry edge on my words that I didn't intend. “For God's sake, Eddie, this is serious.”

  “Well, go on inside,” he grumped. “It's not locked. I've got to turn the hose off back here.”

  The door opened on a small square living room almost bare of furniture. Two chairs, a rag rug, a large television set. A brown glass ashtray on a metal stand. I sat on the scratchy plaid upholstery of a swaybacked recliner, and propped my forehead in my palms. I could hear Eddie coming in through the back door and washing up at the kitchen sink. Then he stood in the doorway to the living room, folding back the sleeves of the flannel shirt he had just put on. Making himself decent for company. His hands were old and gnarled, seaman's hands like my father's.

  “Now, what's so serious?”

  “We've just been fired, Eddie. For faking our bills and cheating Douglas Parry.”

  “That's nuts!” he sputtered.

  “I just saw it, in black and white.” The chair, and the whole house, stank of cigars. I felt sick and disgusted, and I wished I hadn't come. What was the point?

  “Wait a minute, what did you see?” Eddie demanded. He was standing over me, hands on his hips.

  “Inflated invoices. Evidence of embezzlement.” He dropped into the only other chair, a monstrosity of avocado green vinyl. I told him about my trip downtown, the grim lawyer and the slick “special assistant,” and Grace Parry's sneer.

  “So they won't sue, and they won't tell anyone. Not that our good reputation will help much if we don't have any weddings to do.”

  “Never mind our reputation. How did this happen?”

  I looked up at him. “That's what I came to ask you, Eddie.”

  “Ask me? Why would you ask me? Carnegie, you're not making sense.” He was indignant, concerned, fatherly.

  Don't pull that on me, I thought. You're not my father. My father wouldn't have cheated and then let me take the blame. “I'm asking you because there's only two of us in the office. And I know I didn't fake any bills.”

  Silence, for just a heartbeat, and then the storm broke.

  “You're accusing me? Me? Christ almighty, I've been keeping you in business for your mother's sake—”

  “And what else have you been doing for my mother's sake?” I was on my feet now, raising my voice, saying everything I meant not to, doing it all wrong. “How come you're so upbeat all of a sudden about our finances and her mortgage? And how come you never told me you were a crook back in St. Louis?”

  “That was all a mistake!”

  I shook my head. “Eddie, we've got to talk this over calmly. I know you meant well, but—”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “Eddie!”

  “You heard me.” He hauled open the front door. He was breathing hard, and his face was scarlet. “Get out of my house.”

  I left, and sat in the van for a long time. Then I drove to Morry's, a tavern near the houseboat with no view and no wine-colored leather chairs and no nautical memorabilia, and began to drink beer.

  MORRY’S IS NOT A BAR TO WRITE HOME ABOUT. ON THE ONE hand, it doesn't have seventeen brands of microbrewed local ale, or salsa made with fresh cilantro to dip your chips in. On the other hand, it doesn't have colorful whiskey-soaked characters and grimy linoleum and the midnight-at-noon atmosphere that makes white-collar workers feel like they're seeing real life. It's just a bar. The glasses are clean, the peanuts are cheap, and a woman can weep quietly at a table by the wall without being bothered.

  For a while, anyway. I replayed my scene with Eddie over and over, trying to make it come out right, trying to make him not have tried such a stupid, dangerous scheme in the first place. I wondered whether Grace would keep her word about no publicity, or whether I'd start losing clients the minute she got on the phone to her friends. And I wondered whether Holt Walker knew about the accusations, or believed them, or would ever speak to me again.

  I was on my second beer when Aaron Gold came in and took a seat at the bar. He ordered coffee and a corned beef sandwich—he still sounded like New York to me—then spun slowly on his stool, looking over the clientele, acting like he owned the place. I tried an experiment to see if the human body can be rendered invisible by the power of wishful thinking. It cannot. Gold brought his cup and his plate to my table and stood there, wearing cutoffs and a black T-shirt that said “Do Not Play On Or Around.” He still needed a haircut.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “The kids’ books were a bribe. That was stupid, and I'm sorry.”

  “OK.” Little did he know how little I cared, at this point.

  “I won't try to pump you anymore, I swear.”

  “OK.”

  “So can I sit down?”

  I sighed. “Look, I'm having a very, very bad day. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about anything.”

  “Me, neither,” he said earnestly. He snagged a newspaper off a nearby table and made a great show of settling down to read it while he ate. I didn't have the energy to leave, or ask him to. I just sat there, sipping beer and watching him read the paper. The silence between us recalled some highbrow French film, significant and yet boring. At one point he pulled out his cigarettes, then put them away.

  “Go ahead and smoke,” I said, “I don't care. In fact, give me one.”

  His left eyebrow shot up, but he lit us both cigarettes. I took a deep drag and recalled my brief, embarrassing college phase of dramatic melancholy.

  “This tastes worse than the beer,” I said, and kept smoking.

  “You are having a bad day.”

  “One of the baddest. One of the very, very most bad.” I wasn't drunk—I was painfully sober—but I was feeling numb and detached, at a distance from the unpleasant world. “Don't ask me why.”

  “How about if I ask you out to lunch?”

  “You just had lunch.”

  “Well, an early dinner, then.” He stood up and clattered a tip on the table. “I saw your van outside. Can you drive?”

  “Who's taking who?”

  “You drive, I'll navigate. Trust me, Wedding Lady, you'll feel better where we're going.”

  Since I could hardly feel worse, and since I no longer gave a damn for Douglas Parry's directives about consorting with the press, I went with him. We drove north on I-5, out of Seattle and up toward the pulp mills of Everett. I could think of a dozen better things to be doing, but they all involved Eddie or Holt or Nickie, so I just drove, trying to stay numb. Gold was quiet for a change, whistling softly to himself or making brief comments about the glorious weather.

  Rain would have suited me better, but it would have interfered with Gold's plans. He had me take the exit to Everett Stadium.

  “We're going to a baseball game?”

  “Now, don't judge too soon. It's minor league baseball. A-ball. You'll like it. Real grass and free parking, genuine Americana. Not the Red Sox, I admit, but perfect for the Fourth of July.”

  He chattered
on, vastly pleased with himself and his surprise, as we joined the steady stream of fans flowing into the little ballpark. A high-school band was just marching off the infield, their Independence Day concert completed. The sun shone on the trumpets and the tuba, on the advertising posters lining the outfield fence and the green foothills of the Cascades beyond the freeway. It was Americana, all right.

  W e sat in the bleachers, where Gold cheered and heckled and gave me a running explanation of the first three innings. I barely heard him. I was busy brooding about Eddie. How could he have done this to me? And how could I have thrown it in his face like that, practically guaranteeing that he'd deny everything just to defend himself? He was a fool; I was a fool.

  “You fool, you idiot!” Gold shook his fist at the home team's manager, then addressed the heavens plaintively. “Why didn't he call for a hit-and-run? Why?”

  “Because the runner on first is Tino Rodriguez,” I said crossly, “and Tino Rodriguez runs like a chair with a broken leg. He couldn't steal second if he started the night before.”

  Gold stared at me.

  “Your mouth is open,” I remarked.

  He closed it, looked away from me, and then back. “If I say, ‘You didn't tell me you follow minor league baseball,’ are you going to say, ‘You didn't ask me’?”

  I smiled, for the first time all day. “Probably.”

  Aaron Gold began to laugh. He dropped his head back and bared all his white teeth and laughed. By the time he was done, I was laughing myself, the people around us were laughing, even Tino Rodriguez was probably laughing. Lose a client, gain a friend, I thought. Maybe life isn't so bad. Maybe Eddie and I will work things out somehow.

  “What else do you do that I don't know about?” Gold demanded. He wiped a tear from his eye and coughed a little, still chuckling. “Lion taming? Smoke jumping?”

  “Just wedding planning,” I said. “When I can.”

  He put his head to one side. “Is that the reason for the very bad day? You don't have to answer.”

  “I'd rather not. Let's just watch the game.”

  “OK, but no more of this silent treatment. Who's up here? Ryan? Can he hit?”

  “In his dreams. Let's get a hot dog while he strikes out. It'll take him a while.”

  I enjoyed that game, and the drive back to Seattle, even though the traffic was already near gridlock with fireworks fans jockeying for positions to view the spectacle. I had to flash my resident's ID to get past a traffic cop who was rerouting cars away from the lakefront.

  “Do you mind walking from my parking lot?” I asked. “I don't want to drive any farther in this mess.”

  “Of course not. Though I was hoping for an invitation to watch the big show from your deck.”

  “Well …”

  “You've got people coming. No problem.”

  “No, it's just that the fireworks won't start for hours and … Well, sure, I could use some company. Quiet company?”

  He raised a solemn hand. “You won't know I'm there.”

  He was as good as his word. In fact, he took a nap on my couch while I went upstairs and pulled all the files marked “Parry.” I could have sifted through them, looking for more evidence, but what would be the point? I wanted the files, and the pain, out of the way as fast as I could manage. I stuffed them all savagely into the box that Aaron Gold's books had come in, and scribbled myself a note to call a courier service first thing in the morning and have it delivered to Grace.

  Poor Nickie. No one is irreplaceable, wedding planners included, but she was going to have an anxious time of it for a while, picking up the pieces that had just been struck from my hands. Well, it would distract her from her father's problems, and she'd still end up marrying her own true love and bringing him a couple of million bucks as dowry. Meanwhile, I told myself resolutely, I'd do a wonderful job for Fay and for Anita, and Made in Heaven would succeed in spite of this fiasco. If only Eddie and I could make peace. If only I could trust Eddie, ever again.

  I taped the box shut, lugged it into the good room, and went back to tidy up my desk. The answering machine was blinking patiently. Holt? I hesitated, then tapped the playback button. Just one message, brief and bitter.

  “Carnegie, it's Eddie. We've got a new client, name of Ogden. Rush job, so I booked a function room at the Four Seasons. Rest is up to you. The paperwork's on your desk. Also, consider this my letter of resignation.”

  That tore it. I went downstairs, woke Aaron Gold, and told him my troubles, at length and with frequent angry, tearful digressions. I didn't even ask him if it was off the record. Lily, or even my mother, would have made a better choice of confidant, but Gold was right there, and he had the sense to keep his mouth shut for the whole wretched story. If he had made a wisecrack at that point, or even given me advice, I'd have pushed him overboard.

  Story told, I went out onto the deck and stood glaring at the boats jamming the water, one raucous floating party after another, everybody enjoying the long summer twilight while they waited for the big show. Gold joined me, and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I'm sorry, Carnegie. Eddie means a lot to you, and he dragged you into this. You must feel like hell.”

  “Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Thanks for listening, anyway.”

  “No problem.”

  “And please don't tell anyone about this.”

  “No problem.”

  Then he kissed me. It was a tentative kiss, made more so by the difference in our altitudes. He had to lift his face to me, and I didn't take my cue and bend gracefully down. I'd spent all of high school trying to look short by slumping, and I had promised myself long ago not to do it again. I took the kiss on the side of my chin and stepped away.

  “Aaron, please don't.”

  He stood his ground. “Why not? I've been wanting to do that all day.” He grinned. “Except for a few minutes at the ballpark.”

  “It's just that I'd rather be friends.”

  “Well, I'd rather not. So what are we going to do about it?”

  I walked back into the living room. “Look, I just don't think—”

  “What don't you think?” He followed me, smiling but implacable. “You're single, right? And you're not involved with somebody or else you'd have been crying on his shoulder, not mine. Or am I jumping to conclusions?”

  I thought about Holt. Grace must have told him about the meeting this morning, but he hadn't called. If he believed in me, surely he would have called. I glanced at the answering machine on my personal phone. The little red light glowed steady, no blink, no message. No loyalty to the one-night stand.

  “A m I?”

  “What? No, you're not jumping to conclusions.” I sat down, suddenly weary. “Actually, yes, you are. You're concluding that you can interrogate me about this, and I've had all the interrogation I can take for one day.”

  He sat beside me, still smiling his cocky smile. “OK, Freckles, my sense of timing stinks. But you've got to admit, we make a great couple.”

  “No, we don't!”

  “Why not?”

  Because great couples don't look like Mutt and Jeff, or Boris and Natasha, I wanted to say. Because you're nosy and you talk too fast and you dress badly and you're short. You're a little guy, and tall women like me don't fall for little guys like you.

  What I actually said was, “Because we're … different, and I'm just not comfortable about it.”

  “Different, how do you mean different?”

  Sheepish and defensive now, I stammered out, “I don't know, our points of view, our backgrounds … I can't explain.”

  “You can't explain. I see.” He stood up, with an expression on his face that I was much too tired to decipher. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Never mind, don't try. Just forget I said anything, all right? Have a nice life.”

  He closed the door quietly as he left. I watched the fireworks alone, which suited me just fine.

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS WENT BY IN A MISERABL
E BLUR. I PUT Aaron Gold out of my mind easily enough, but I did need a shoulder to cry on. Unfortunately, Lily had houseguests, and Joe Solveto had gone fishing for a week. But then I figured that the absence of my friends was just as well. Instead of wallowing in my ill fortune, I had to go back to work. I still had a business to run, and no one to run it but me. And with the flow of fees from Nickie's wedding abruptly cut off, Made in Heaven was facing a very uncertain future. So I holed up in the office for the rest of that week and the weekend, sorting out paperwork and planning a direct mail campaign to generate more business. I also crossed off my calendar all the items related to Nickie Parry, and got in touch with Claire Ogden, my new client. Her afternoon wedding at the Olympic was the same day as Nickie's evening ceremony. Well, it would keep my mind off the Parrys, and off Dorothy Fenner, who had graciously, not to say greedily, stepped in as my replacement.

  Lieutenant Borden called me late on Monday afternoon. I had a moment's fright that Grace had gone public with her charges of embezzlement after all. But instead the lieutenant asked me a strange question.

  “Have you received anything unusual in the mail lately, Ms. Kincaid?”

  “In the mail? Like poison pen letters?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nickie told me about some threatening letters. Have there been more?”

  “We're just checking with friends and associates of the Parry family,” he replied, with the practiced ease of a man who asks questions rather than answers them. “Have you received any unusual packages or unpleasant phone calls?”

  “No, not a thing.” Associates. So no one had told him I'd been fired. The knot in my stomach eased a bit, but then relief gave way to alarm.

  “Packages of what? Like letter bombs?”

  “No, nothing like that. But there has been a reference to the violence in M r. Parry's garden.”

  “What kind of reference, Lieutenant?”

  “It's not important for you to know—”

  “Please, Lieutenant. I care about these people.”