Veiled Threats

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Has she fainted? I can take care of her. I left the little girl with the woman sitting next to us. But Nickie had better hurry up.” Then her face changed as she took in the rest of the room. “Where—?”

  “She's been kidnapped.” The word was spoken now, the flood had begun.

  Julia went white. “Oh, my God. Oh, Nickie.”

  I was afraid she'd faint herself, so I gave her no more time to react. “Help me with Dorothy. I think it's chloroform or something—you can smell it.”

  I swept some clothes off a sofa and we lifted Dorothy onto it. She moaned and coughed, but her breathing was regular. Did she need a doctor, and would a doctor notify the police? The penciled words came back to me, and a nightmare image of a mutilated hand. I was almost grateful when Grace Parry walked in.

  “What are you doing here?” Grace might have meant Julia, but she was glaring at me, her mismatched eyes narrowing like a furious cat's. I expected her to hiss and spit. “Where's Nickie?”

  Julia told her.

  “No. No!” Grace ran, as I hadn't, to the street door and pulled it open. Brick stairs led down to empty gravel. The service drive curved around the corner of the church to the street beyond. We could hear cars passing, but only the normal, indifferent sounds of everyday traffic. Julia's daughter, Grace's stepdaughter, had vanished into that traffic like a stone into the sea. Invisible, irretrievable.

  “No, no, no.” Grace slammed the door. “You're wrong, it's a mistake. It's her fault, she's trying to ruin the wedding.”

  Her words hit me like a slap. “Don't be stupid, Grace. There's a note there by her slipper, read it yourself.”

  I was sorry the minute I'd said it. Grace snatched up the white paper from the chair, and cried out in near hysteria as she read the last line. Julia read it too, and turned away, one hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Julia,” I said sharply. “Julia, can you stay here with Dorothy? She's waking up.” She nodded, mute, and took my place at the sofa. I crossed the room to Grace and shook her by the shoulders. Her body was rigid, a beautifully dressed mannequin. “Grace, listen to me. I'm going to go get Douglas. Don't let anyone else in here, understand?”

  She pulled away from me, but I could see that she was trying to control herself. I gave her a handkerchief, and shut the door behind me. But I didn't have to go far. Douglas Parry was coming along the corridor, impatience turning to anxiety as I watched. His posture is shot, I thought irrelevantly. He walks like an old man. I don't want to tell him about his daughter.

  “How dare you come here?” he demanded. “How dare you interfere—”

  “Never mind that. Douglas, something has happened to Nickie.” His heart, I thought, how can I say this without endangering his heart? Parry was staring at me, but I could tell that I'd become invisible to him. “She's missing, and I'm afraid that—”

  “Guthridge,” he said hoarsely, and shoved past me toward the dressing room.

  I slumped for a moment against the paneling. I had to tell Ray, and Holt. Surely Douglas would want Holt's advice. But no one else. The more people who knew what had happened, the more danger there would be to Nickie.

  People. Now that I listened for it, I could hear the wedding guests buzzing like puzzled bees on the other side of the corridor wall. There were four hundred people out there, speculating wildly on the events backstage. I straightened up and smoothed back my hair. The Parrys saw me as an intruder, but they needed my help, and they'd get it. I hurried along the hallway, through the vestry, and up the chancel steps to where Ray Ishigura stood waiting for his bride.

  Ray was too polished a performer to betray embarrassment before an audience, but his face was wooden with the strain of being left at the altar, even for a few minutes. He started slightly when I touched his arm. Reverend Allington was glaring at me, and the bridesmaids and ushers were gaping. Quietly, I told Ray that he was needed in the bride's dressing room, and he left at a dignified pace. Then I faced the congregation and held up a hand. People began shushing each other, craning to see me. I gave them a moment to quiet down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to tell you that Niccola Parry has fallen ill. The wedding will not take place today. The ushers will show you out, beginning with the front pews. Thank you all for coming.”

  A babble of voices, blank looks from the ushers, questions from the maid of honor and the groom's father and everyone else. I wanted to scream, but professional habit came to the fore: I smiled brightly and politely, and ordered everybody around. For a few minutes, I almost had myself convinced that the bride really was ill, and that my only concern was smoothing out the resulting confusion. Just another Things to Do list to start checking off. The musicians, bless them, began to play the recessional, which helped me get the ushers into action. They stepped uncertainly to the first pews, and after some hesitation the guests began filing out. Most people are docile enough when someone takes the lead. The Parry and Ishigura family members stood their ground, however, and Reverend Allington bore down on me, a stern old eagle with his white head and black plumage.

  “Miss Kincaid—?”

  “Oh, Father, could you stay with the families for a few moments? I know they're worried, but there's nothing to be alarmed about.”

  I turned my back on him firmly and addressed the bridesmaids, who were twittering like flustered sparrows.

  “Girls, I'll bring your street clothes and your purses out to you in a little while, but we need the dressing room for Nickie until she's well enough to go home. Where's Ted?”

  “Right here. What's the matter with Nickie?”

  “We're, ah, not sure yet. Listen, use the pay phone in the foyer and call the Heron Bay Yacht Club. Get hold of Joe Solveto; he's the caterer. Tell him the reception is canceled and he should dismantle the tents and send everyone home. Oh, and hang on to the wedding ring, don't lose it.”

  “Canceled? Why?” said a warm tenor voice.

  I looked up at Holt, and the prospect of crying on his shoulder almost cracked my facade of brisk efficiency. I didn't let myself touch him. “Come with me.”

  I explained the situation as we went. The dressing room door was locked when we reached it, but Ray heard our voices and let us in. His hands were trembling, his jaw clenched tight. Dorothy Fenner was sitting up on the brown velvet sofa, looking queasy and upset, but uninjured. Julia had brought her a glass of water from the adjoining bathroom, and was urging her to take small sips. Theo had arrived, and was looking around the room as if he wanted to break something. Or someone.

  Grace, still the angry cat, was stalking back and forth. If she'd had a tail, she would have lashed it, back and forth, back and forth. Douglas, in contrast, sat absolutely motionless in the overstuffed chair, holding the slipper in one hand and the kidnappers’ note in the other. His face was gray, his eyes dull with shock.

  There's nothing for them to do, I realized. Here is this calamity, this horror, and there is nothing whatsoever they can do except imagine Nickie terrified, Nickie screaming in pain, Nickie dead. The cold cruelty of it made me feel sick.

  “Holt,” said Douglas, and his voice broke. “They took my girl.”

  Holt took the note from him and stared down at it, then pulled over a straight chair and sat knee to knee with his old friend.

  “They won't hurt her, Douglas,” he said, trying to make it true, make Douglas believe it. “They said this to scare you. If we keep it quiet, we'll get her back safely. Now, first, are you all right? Do you need Dr. Fischer?”

  Douglas shook his head, and seemed to become conscious suddenly of the other inhabitants of the room. “No, I'm all right, no angina. But Dorothy there was attacked by those bastards, those—”

  “Take it easy.” Holt considered the gray-haired woman on the sofa. “We can get a doctor if you need one, but …”

  “I understand,” Dorothy said weakly. “You have to keep this a secret. I'm so sorry. I didn't even see them. I came back to hurry Nickie along, but when I opened th
e door something covered my face, a cloth with a horrible smell …”

  She shuddered, and Julia murmured something soothing and stroked her shoulders. Dorothy Fenner would have her share of nightmares from now on.

  “And Carnegie, you found her unconscious?” Holt asked me. “What made you come in here in the first place?”

  I had been standing quietly by the door, half forgotten, but now all of them fixed their eyes on me. Dorothy nodded gratefully, and Julia was still my ally, but Douglas, Grace, and Ray looked at me coldly, joining forces against the outsider. Even Holt seemed to withdraw from me somehow, an uneasy emotion stirring in his eyes. Was it the beginning of a doubt, a faint suspicion taking shape? I was a disgruntled ex-employee, after all, a discredited consultant who had conveniently shifted the blame for embezzlement onto her absent partner. A business owner whose business was failing. A woman who had been overeager to become intimate with a wealthy attorney.

  “It was just by chance—” I began. But then there was a sound behind me, and Holt rose abruptly, upsetting his chair. Everyone's gaze had swung away from me and toward the doorway. Little Piper was standing there, her tears long gone, innocent but determined curiosity on her freckled face. Looped around her neck, hanging low on the bodice of her lacy little-girl dress, was a grown woman's necklace.

  “Nickie's pearls!” Douglas barked. The child flinched, and he softened his tone. “It's all right, honey, I didn't mean to scare you. Where did you get the nice necklace?”

  “From that lady's purse.” Piper lifted one tiny hand, and pointed straight at me.

  “IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK—” I BEGAN, BUT HOLT WAS ALready at my side. I thought he was moving to defend me, to physically stand by me against their suspicions. Then he clutched my arm above the elbow, hard enough to hurt, and shook that pitiful illusion right out of my head.

  “Where did you get the necklace? Where's Nickie? Where is she?”

  “I don't know!” I pried his hand away, scratching him fiercely with my nails, trying to hurt him back, drawing blood. Grace rushed to us and seized his arm.

  “Stop it, Holt!” she snarled. “Leave her alone! She doesn't know anything!”

  We've all gone mad, I thought. This has to stop. I held up both palms and took a breath.

  “That necklace is a fake, a copy,” I said. “The dressmaker was using it to alter the neckline of her gown to match the real one. I haven't had a chance to return it yet.” That was a stretch; I hadn't even remembered it was in my bag.

  “But why are you even here?” Grace demanded.

  “Nickie invited me.” No point telling these frightened, furious people about a bag lady run down in the street. Not now, anyway.

  Douglas was glowering at me. I had become the lightning rod for all his impotent rage over Nickie. Ray was poker-faced, reserving judgment. Holt had gone very still. His distrust was almost a tangible thing, a cold wind that licked against my skin, trying to reach my bones, my heart.

  “Piper told me Dorothy was sick,” I rattled on. “That's why I came in here in the first place. I left Piper with Julia, and then Julia came to help me, and Piper must have found my purse under the pew.”

  “Of course she did,” said Julia. “Don't be absurd. Carnegie's purse has been out in the church all this time.” Her impatient, no-nonsense tone rebuked their suspicions and also my defensiveness. She rose from the sofa and knelt in front of the little girl, who was absorbed in playing with her new toy, indifferent to our adult bickering.

  “This looks very pretty on you, Piper,” Julia said gently, lifting the necklace over the gingery curls. “But it's time to give it back.”

  Still kneeling, she held the strand out to Douglas. He took it cautiously, as if to guard his daughter's possession as he had failed to guard his daughter. The pearls gleamed like moonlight in his ponderous hands, and he slid his fingers along them to touch the gold clasp.

  “She's right,” he said. “These are the imitations. Nickie's still wearing the real ones. Unless …”

  Unless her kidnappers have torn them from her throat. The same image came to all of us, you could almost see it in the air: Nickie unconscious, in a windowless van or an anonymous motel room, blindfolded and gagged, with men's hands groping roughly at her body. I folded my arms across my chest, an involuntary and useless shield against the thought of violation. Douglas flung the necklace, clattering, into a metal wastebasket.

  “Let's get Piper back to her mother,” said Julia, smiling for the child's sake but warning us with her eyes. “Do you need me to help you find her, dear?”

  “I know right where she is,” said the girl scornfully. “She's at the front with the priest man. They keep talking and talking and it's boring. Where's Nickie?”

  “She's in the bathroom,” I said quickly, when the others hesitated. “She and Mrs. Fenner both got sick; isn't that too bad?”

  “It certainly is,” Julia said. “Piper, I expect your mother is ready to take you home by now. Run along.”

  “OK. But I'm still bored.”

  Julia locked the door behind her, then leaned her shoulders against it. Her graying hair had come loose on one side, drifting across the broken veins on her cheek. “What should we do, Doug?”

  I'd never heard anyone call him that. Suddenly I saw them as Doug and Julie, twenty years ago, the young parents of a baby girl.

  “What can we do?” Grace's voice sliced between Nickie's mother and father like a blade. She came to stand by Douglas, hand on his shoulder, at once claiming her place and barring Julia from it. “ We have to wait for these horrible people to contact us, so we can pay them and get Niccola back.”

  “Pay them!” Douglas stood up, ignoring her touch, and suddenly he was in charge again—not Nickie's desolate father, but the head of Parry Enterprises. “This isn't about money. This is Keith Guthridge. He wants me to lie for him.”

  “Will you do it?”

  It was the crucial question, but I hadn't meant to say it aloud. I wanted no more of their cold stares.

  Douglas scowled. “I don't see that it's any of your goddamn business. You shouldn't even be here! Of all the nerve—”

  Ray spoke up then, for the first time. “Carnegie has been trying to help, Dad. She smoothed things over out in the church.” He looked at me, the stylish young bridegroom in his traditional clothes and his trendy haircut, asserting himself with the older man. Of all of us in the room, he was the calmest, the most single-minded. But his hands were still trembling. “I do think you should leave, though, Carnegie. Can you take Mrs. Fenner home?”

  “Yes, of course. I'll go and get my purse.” I reached for the door, but Holt's voice stopped me.

  “Before anyone leaves, we have to get one thing straight.” He sounded authoritative, self-possessed, as if he'd been in control of himself and the situation all along. A trickle of blood slid down his hand where I'd scratched it, gathered in a bright bead at one knuckle, and fell, landing on the toe of Grace's elegant little high-heeled shoe. Neither of them noticed. “We have to be sure that no one outside this room hears about what's happened, for Nickie's sake. If Douglas decides to bring anyone else in—”

  “No police,” Douglas said quietly. “No matter what.”

  “Agreed,” Holt replied. “And no rumors, not one word that might reach the kidnappers and force their hand. But your house staff may need to know, so they can cover Nickie's absence at home. In any case,” here he looked at each of us in turn, as if we were members of a jury, “in any case, Douglas decides who to tell, is that clear? It's imperative that everyone else keep silent. Dorothy, are there any reporters here?”

  She closed her eyes wearily. “The social columnist from the Sentinel, I believe.”

  You shouldn't “believe,” I thought. You should know.

  “I'll go talk to her,” Dorothy went on, but when she stood up she swayed, and went even paler.

  “I'll do it,” I said firmly. “I've already made the general announcement, so people
will assume that I'm working with Dorothy.”

  Holt looked at Douglas for confirmation, and he made an irritated, brushing-aside gesture with one hand. “Whatever is necessary. Just get everyone away from the church so we can get out of here. We'll take care of Dorothy.”

  “All right,” I said. My mind switched gratefully from the ugly reality to the polite fictions, the created perceptions that were sometimes needed in my work. I addressed Grace, my former employer. “ ‘Niccola Parry came down with a violent case of the flu this morning. She thought she could go through with the ceremony, but regrettably it was not possible. Her parents will announce the new wedding date at a later time.’ Is that all right?”

  “Yes.” Grace nodded, her cornsilk hair swinging smoothly. “Yes, that will do.”

  It took me less than half an hour to get the church cleared out. Julia and I ferried the bridesmaids’ belongings out to them, and I assured the musicians and the photographers that their fees would be paid despite the cancellation. Reverend Allington wanted to see the ailing bride, but I explained that she was still sitting on the toilet with severe diarrhea, and he was so embarrassed that he swooped off to berate the altar boys for not extinguishing the candles.

  Corinne Campbell from the Sentinel was no problem, not at first. She was a transplanted Southern belle, a sort of perpetual debutante who had carefully preserved her looks and her drawl. Her looks were remarkable, too: a waterfall of fair, curly hair, and a spectacular cleavage. Like the old vaudeville joke, she had a balcony you could play Shakespeare from.

  Corinne accepted the flu story without a question. She tucked her notebook away in her snazzy alligator bag, and plucked a wavy blond hair from the lapel of her snazzy pink suit. Then she went hunting for juicier meat.

  “What a shame, after y'all did so much work.” We were standing on the front steps, and she gestured prettily up at the church facade as if I'd had it built for the occasion. “But Carnegie, I am confused. I thought that Made in Heaven was no longer employed by the Parrys.”