Naturally, all of this—the cascade of words, the overdone warmth, the theatrical brow-furrowing distress—set off my gaydar. And yet there was something else going on. Faintly but unmistakably, and growing by the minute, I was feeling a physical attraction to Guy Price. As Oscar Wilde said, It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious. Guy Price was anything but tedious.
But would that really explain it? Joe Solveto, my favorite caterer, was both gay and charming as hell, and I’d never felt the least—
“Wait a minute.” I set these musings resolutely aside. “Are you saying that Adrienne Winter thinks that my mother is after her father’s money? That’s ridiculous!”
“Well, of course it is. But when you’re talking millions, everyone gets a little edgy, don’t they? Hell hath no fury and all that.” He crossed to a desk in the corner. “Don’t run away, I’ve got something for you. Now, where is it . . . ?”
As he delved through some file drawers, I tore my gaze from his delectably bare shoulders and glanced around curiously. His room, I realized, was actually a suite built out over the back of the house. We stood in a casual but comfortable lounge-slash-office, with the bedroom through an open doorway to the left and a capacious bathroom beyond that.
Remodeling had given the space a far more modern air than my guest room, and the furniture was sleek and chic. I especially noticed a geometric teak nightstand because I’d been wanting something like it for my houseboat.
Then I noticed something even more intriguing in a pewter dish on the nightstand’s top, and had to restrain my too-curious self from stepping closer to the bedroom door. I wonder if that wristwatch is a woman’s—
“Here it is, ta-da! Everything you need to know and more about these enchanted isles.”
Guy handed me a paperback guide to the islands and a dog-eared manila folder bulging with tourist brochures, annotated lists of local restaurants, and maps of all sorts. The top sheet was a rental-car confirmation—for a luxury SUV.
“But I’ve already reserved an economy—”
“Canceled!” He smiled charmingly. “Owen told me to get you the best, his treat. He does things for friends, you’ll get used to it. And I thought you might be transporting bridesmaids or whatever, so I went large. Shall we go get it?”
“I thought I’d wait for Owen and my mother to get back.” Unlike the Winter women, I’d never called my parents by their first names. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“Nuisance, nonsense! They won’t be back for hours, and anyway it’s part of my job. You wouldn’t want to interfere with a man’s job, would you?” He donned an orchid-spattered Hawaiian shirt that had been draped over the desk chair. “It must be fascinating, what you do. You’ll have to tell me all about it on the way into town. But first, the room you were looking for”—he winked—“is the last one on the left. Meet you outside.”
He ambled downstairs with the insouciance of a tomcat, and I paused to enjoy the sight. I was certain that watch was a woman’s. None of my business, of course, but Owen must be awfully broad-minded about his employee entertaining guests in the house . . .
Definitely none of my business. I changed shirts and freshened up quickly, then joined Guy on the veranda. The late-summer air smelled of cut grass and the sea, and I took a deep, delighted breath.
“What a day!”
“Isn’t it, though?” He led me down the drive and into a vintage Corvette the same lurid purple as the orchids. “You must have had a fabulous flight up here.”
I shuddered. “It started out fine, but we had engine trouble just as we landed. Adrienne didn’t explain, but—”
“Of course she didn’t!” He interrupted me with a bark of laughter. “Let me guess, strange coughing noises in the engine? That’s a little trick of Dree’s. She sends hot air into the carburetor to make the engine run rough, just for dramatic effect.”
“Dramatic? I was scared to death!”
“Exactly.” He shifted gears smoothly as we entered the stream of cars on the main road and headed south toward Friday Harbor. “She tried pulling the carb heat on me once, before she knew I’d done some flying myself, but I saw right through it. Darling Dree . . .”
My first thought was that darling Dree was going to get a piece of my mind at dinner. Then I reminded myself that my first priority here was Mom. If Owen made her happy, then Owen’s nasty offspring were beside the point.
I tried to change gears myself by attending to the scenery. It was quite pretty, despite the lack of a saltwater view, with lush woods and a couple of lakes. I noted signs for some interesting businesses too, including a pair of Ilama ranches. Llamas!
There was a winery as well, on a hillside to our left. The ranks of vines reminded me of a client I’d had once, who insisted on a springtime wedding at a vineyard only to be disappointed by the absence of grapes. There were grapes now, and no doubt that attractive little building housed a wine-tasting room.
So many romantic ways to enjoy this place. Maybe I should have invited Wayne to the wedding instead of Aaron. . . .
“I can take you sightseeing if you like,” Guy offered, seeing me crane around to watch the vineyard go by. “The thirty-minute tour, the three-hour tour? Your wish is my command.”
I was tempted. Guy’s driving was as silky as his conversation, which after Kimmie’s antics was a pleasure. Sightseeing and then a nap . . . But no, the more I could scope out about the wedding today, the more I could report to Lily tonight. She’d never been to the San Juans—it was a long weekend trip from Seattle, too long for a busy mom—so she was a little jittery about the logistics. I take great satisfaction in reassuring my brides.
So I said, “Just the rental agency, thanks. I’d like to get some work done before dinner.”
“And work means what, exactly? Taste-testing magnums of champagne? A drunken frolic in some chocolate fountain?”
I chuckled. There’s too little charm in the world. “Nothing so delicious, although I do have a meeting with a chef tomorrow morning. But first I need to check in with the owners of the wedding venue and make sure I know the route between there and the ferry dock. It’s a lavender farm—”
“Pelindaba Farm? That’s a lovely spot.”
“No, Lavender and Lace.”
“Even lovelier! Dear old Sigrid and Erik.”
“You know the Nyquists?”
These were Mike’s friends, an elderly brother and sister from Norway. Early in his career, as a deputy sheriff for San Juan County, he had rented a room in their Roche Harbor house. Erik was a retired Lutheran minister, so they had offered not only the farm but also his services as officiant.
“Everybody knows everybody on the island,” said Guy, “and nobody knows more than me. Give Sigrid a hug for me, would you? Erik too.” He smiled that devilish smile. “Give Erik a big wet kiss.”
Fat chance, I thought, considering this remark a short time later as I pulled out of Frugal Fred’s in a humongous bright-scarlet SUV. I’d talked to both Nyquists on the phone, and Erik struck me as a solemn, even formidable man.
Sigrid had been more forthcoming, especially when speaking of Mike. She called him Michael and said she simply couldn’t wait to meet his young lady. Both siblings retained slight Norwegian accents and spoke English well but a bit formally. Big wet kisses seemed out of the question.
Of course, kisses of any size or moisture content had been out of the question for me lately. I pondered this unfortunate deficit, and what I might do to correct it, for the rest of my drive.
Chapter Five
I retraced Roche Harbor Road northward, watching for my turn to Lavender and Lace. The bed-and-breakfast Mike had booked, the Owl’s Roost, was close by on a beach called Lonesome Cove—funny name for a honeymoon spot—so I could swing by there afterward.
The road names along here were descriptive, Limestone Point Road and Lonesome Cove Road, but nothing as fanciful as Afterglow Drive. Judging from the feat
hery clouds to the west, we were in for a lovely sunset, which meant a lovely afterglow. . . .
As I daydreamed about watching the stars come out from Owen’s porch swing, I overshot my turn and had to backtrack. I made a mental note to e-mail detailed driving directions to Lily, so she could forward them on to her guests. One advantage of intimate little weddings is that you don’t have to engrave every single detail on deckle-edge stationery six weeks ahead of time. It’s very relaxing.
The sign for Lavender and Lace was of beautifully carved wood, painted with a border of white lace and a spray of purple flowers. A smaller sign, with an arrow pointing up a gravel driveway, said OPEN 10 A.M–4:00 P.M. It was just after four now, but that was fine. I wouldn’t be keeping Sigrid and Erik from their customers.
My car crunched to a halt in front of the shop, a single-storied white building with deeply overhanging eaves and lace-curtained windows. The woodwork trim was freshly painted in a dark glossy green that matched the tall fir trees beyond, and the flagged path up to the glossy green front door was lined with—what else?—lavender. The upright stems bore silver-gray foliage and dark purple blooms, aromatic in the sun and buzzing gently with bees.
But lavender, as I knew from the Nyquists’ Web site, comes in hundreds of varieties. Off to one side of the shop, a picket-fenced display garden held what must have been two dozen beds of different lavender plants, all sizes and shapes and shades, each one with an explanatory plaque on a neat white post. A pickup truck parked beside the garden was filled with sacks and tools, evidence of the careful tending required to maintain this tidy scene.
Beyond the garden, fields of blooming lavender marched toward the woods in regimented rows, at one point curving around a pretty little pond where the ceremony would take place. As a perfect grace note, the sky blue of the pond was adorned with a single trailing willow tree and four or five preening white swans.
Oh, Lily’s going to love this.
Although the green door was closed and windowless, I could hear voices inside. But when I got close enough to knock I stayed my hand. The voices, a man and a woman, were raised in argument.
“Ruined!” rumbled the man. “If this goes on we are ruined, and it is your fault, woman! All your new ideas—”
“Good ideas.” I recognized Sigrid Nyquist’s precise diction. “Good for the future of the land—”
“What of our future?” said Erik—it had to be him—with a bitter laugh. Chagrined, I began to move silently away. “If this goes on we will have no—whose car is that?”
Heavy footsteps came toward the door. No help for it now, I’d just have to pretend I’d heard nothing. I rapped on the door and sang out, “Anybody home?”
An uneasy silence from inside, then the door was opened by a woman in her seventies. She was built like an oak stump and looked just as tough, despite her old-fashioned shirtwaist dress of flowered cotton. Her hairstyle was quaint as well, coiled in a circlet of graying braids above a weathered, square-jawed face.
The face was arranged in an expression of pleasant inquiry, but her hands, big and gnarled, were knotted tight together.
“Sigrid?” I said. “I’m Carnegie Kincaid, I left a phone message last night?”
She drew me inside, her voice warming with recognition and welcome. Or with relief?
“Miss Kincaid, of course. Erik, it is the friend of Michael’s bride! We are so honored that he will be married here.”
“How do you do,” said Erik, and shook my hand stiffly, his broad blunt fingers dwarfing my long narrow ones. He was exactly Sigrid’s height and build, with a steel-gray crew cut of military precision and shaggy gray eyebrows that were anything but. He peered up at me from beneath them and frowned. “But you have red hair.”
“Um, yes.”
“I liked you on the telephone,” he blurted, if so ponderous a voice can be said to blurt. “Usually I do not care for people with red hair.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, and he seemed surprised himself that he’d said it. Then Sigrid forced a little laugh, so I joined in, and the awkwardness passed while Erik busied himself with drawing up chairs to a small round table in one corner.
The shop was suffused with the camphor-sweet scent of lavender, at once soothing and invigorating. As we seated ourselves I tried to soothe things further by admiring the tablecloth. It was crisp white linen, hand-embroidered with a white-on-white pattern of eight-pointed stars.
“Hardangersom lace,” said Sigrid. “We were born in Hardanger, in Norway, and now it is our specialty.” She gazed around the room with shy pride. “As you see.”
I did indeed. Half the wooden shelves around us held organic lavender products, from tubes of body lotion to vials of aromatherapy oil to pyramids of glass jars full of golden honey. But the others were lovingly stocked with tablecloths, pillowcases, sachets, baby clothes, and other items, all edged and embellished with snowy lace.
“Marvelous,” I said, and meant it. If I had a business bent for goods instead of services, a shop like this would be just my cup of lavender-scented tea. Though I’d probably stock chocolates as well. “Lily is really looking forward to seeing this place. Now, about the wedding . . .”
We began to review my notes, which progressed from a general timetable for the wedding day to a list of the specific bouquets, wreaths, and corsages to be provided by Lavender and Lace. I’d never had a wedding venue act as florist, and I wanted everything clear.
Erik was tense and taciturn at first—at least I assumed it was tension, though his face was as wooden as the sign out front—but gradually he involved himself in the conversation, adding useful comments about the farm’s parking and restroom facilities.
In contrast, Sigrid was almost too garrulous, asking about Lily’s wedding gown and digressing into fond recollections of “Michael” as a young bachelor. She continued to address me as Miss Kincaid and referred to Lily as Michael’s Bride, as if it were an imperial title.
“And you are friends with them both,” she said, beaming at me. I felt like I’d been adopted.
“Very much so. The boys call me Aunt Carrie.”
“Oh, the children, yes! Is Michael good with the children?”
“Terrific.” I glanced at my watch. “But if we could just finish up with the flower list? I can always visit again later this week. In fact I’ll need to, because I’d like to walk around the pond area at the same time of day as the ceremony and see how the light’s going to fall for the photographs.”
This was above and beyond for my usual clients, but then, they had top-flight photographers with star-studded portfolios. Lily had only her brother Darwin and his newly bought digital camera. I was already combining the roles of wedding planner and maid of honor, but I was determined to play art director as well.
“Of course, of course.” Sigrid hastily consulted her own three-ring binder. “Let me see. The Lodden Blue makes a wonderful corsage, so colorful, but it has finished for the season. But Sharon Roberts is in its second flowering now, and Fred Boutin is a late bloomer.”
“Me too,” I quipped. She looked blank. “Never mind. Please go on.”
“Let me see. Provence is a bit pale, but very sweet-smelling; we will mix it in with the others. Lily—such a pretty name—Lily can dry her bouquet and it will keep so nicely. We are trying out a pink variety, Melissa, that might be—”
She broke off as Erik rose, his fearsome eyebrows drawn together. “That one is not for harvesting yet. You will excuse me, I must give the men instructions.”
I looked up from my notes. “We haven’t talked about the ceremony—”
“Later.”
“All right, I’ll call you.” Then, as he reached for the door, I said, “Oh, I had a message for you. Guy Price says hello.”
Erik’s massive head jerked toward me. His dark eyes were the bottomless blue of a fjord, and about the same temperature. He nodded but didn’t speak, and when he left the shop he closed the door slowly and deliberately behind h
im.
“He does not mean to be rude,” said Sigrid with an anxious smile. “The farm is a great deal of work, and he is not so young now. We must pay for helpers, which makes him . . .”
“Uncomfortable?” I offered. “It can be hard to delegate. I have a small business myself. I know how it goes.”
This was a polite fiction. I didn’t so much delegate my finances to Eddie as fling them gratefully in his direction. But I liked the Nyquists, and I felt secretly guilty about eavesdropping on their argument. Secretly curious too, of course. What “new ideas” of Sigrid’s had put their future in such peril?
“Anyway,” I went on, “Guy asked me to say hi. I suppose the island’s like a small town, no one’s a stranger except the tourists?”
Her lips thinned to a stubborn line. “There are some strangers among us. How is it you know Guy Price?”
“I don’t, really. I mean, I only met him today. My mother is . . . a friend of Owen Winter’s, and I’m visiting them. Guy’s the caretaker there, but I suppose you knew that.”
“Yes,” she said crisply, closing her notebook. “Yes, I did know. Our house is near Mr. Winter’s.”
“On Afterglow? That is such a great name.” I was nattering now, made uneasy by whatever undercurrent of anxiety or anger was affecting Sigrid. I was working up to a headache, and I wanted to be gone. “Much more interesting than Sunset Boulevard or Twilight Lane or whatever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Afterglow, sunset? I assume the name is about the view to the west?”
“You are mistaken.” She smiled more naturally this time. “The road is named for Afterglow Vista.”
“Which is what?”
“A family mausoleum, there in the forest.”
“In the woods? That sounds interesting.”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “A gloomy place, not interesting at all— Oh!” She jumped as the phone rang, and the color fled from her cheeks. Her voice wavered as she said, “I must answer.”
“Of course.” I rose from the table. “Thanks so much for hosting this wedding, Sigrid. I know it means a lot to Mike.”
You May Now Kill the Bride Page 3
