Death Takes a Honeymoon

by Deborah Donnelly

  “There she is!” The high-ceilinged lobby echoed with high-spirited voices as a gaggle of pretty people in swimsuits and robes rushed toward us from the hallway that led to the swimming pool. “Tracy, darling!”

  Celebrities are de rigueur at the lodge, whose walls are studded with black-and-white photos of Lucille Ball and Leonard Bernstein and Clark Gable and the like, all smiling on the ski slopes. I didn’t recognize the faces of these present-day celebrities, but they had to be actors. They had that beautifully groomed, larger than life air, as if ready to strike a pose or sign an autograph at a moment’s notice.

  Around the lobby the other lodge guests, mere civilians, murmured and stared at the glamorous group. Most of Tracy’s friends had fabulous skin, and right now most of it was showing.

  “Here comes the bride,” warbled a bronzed fellow in a Speedo. “Isn’t she too gorgeous?”

  “Sweetie, look at your deltoids!” A luscious blonde, her thong bikini accentuated rather than obscured by a diaphanous little wrap, embraced the bride like a long-lost sister. “That trainer of yours is a genius, sweetie. A genius!”

  “Olivia!” trilled Tracy, “Carnegie, this is Olivia, my maid of honor. You must recognize her, she plays the dog groomer.”

  She rattled off a string of other introductions, which in my overheated state I didn’t quite follow. The pretty people were indeed actors, but there were some normal-looking types, as well, whom she referred to by first name and title.

  “Susie is Makeup and Marjorie’s Hair, Peter is Props...”

  Tracy’s agent had come, too, along with her manager, her lawyer, her business manager, her masseuse, and someone called D.P., though whether that was his title or his name wasn’t clear. I tried to keep the names and functions straight— Marjorie Hair, Peter Props—but there were just too many.

  My own function wasn’t explained at all, but from the treatment I was getting from the bride it was clearly on the level of production assistant, not show runner. As the swimmers dispersed upstairs to change and she trotted along with them, Tracy tossed me a brief directive over her shoulder, to “go find Cissy.” So I crossed the lobby, passing an espresso bar that was new since my day, and stepped through the grand double doors.

  The scene before me could have graced a tourist brochure. On the flower-decked brick terrace, well-dressed and vivacious diners crowded the tables beneath a roof of stretched white canvas. Beyond them, past a lawn of emerald grass, lay Sun Valley’s famous year-round ice rink, shaded by a black fabric awning that snapped and rippled in the blazing high-altitude sun.

  Beneath the awning, skaters in summer clothes swooped and pivoted along the rail. Out in the center, their little faces solemn with concentration, a gaggle of eight-year-old Olympic hopefuls attempted toe loops and double Salchows to the applause of an imaginary audience. That’s Sun Valley for you.

  I found Cissy Kane sitting by herself in the bright and flattering shade of the white roof, stirring a snow drift of sugar into a tumbler of iced tea. She was gazing around happily, accepting a wave here and throwing an air kiss there.

  Just like her daughter, Cissy was in her element in public view, and being mother of the famous bride was just frosting on her already-delectable cake. Some women in this role struggle with jealousy, but she had long been convinced, in a silly but rather charming way, that she was just as young and pretty as her daughter.

  I hadn’t seen Cissy in years. She was plumper than ever, her double chin tripled if not quadrupled, but her creamy skin was still flawless and her baby-fine hair was still resolutely blonde. Only the subtlest of dye jobs would do for our Cissy. She was always exquisitely turned out.

  Today her dress, a ruffled lilac silk, was precisely matched to her faultless manicure, her kitten-heel sandals, and her fancy little purse. Not to mention her jewelry. An amethyst the size of a walnut flashed and sparkled as she blinked her ice-blue eyes and beckoned to me, twiddling the delicate fingers of one chubby hand.

  “Carrie! Here I am, sweetie!”

  I threaded through the tables and bent to kiss her cheek. It was soft as an infant’s, and I caught a whiff of her signature perfume. Like Cissy, the perfume was flowery and girlish and a bit too much, but so sweet that you liked it anyway. She beamed up at me, then pursed her lips like a petulant child as she caught sight of someone over my shoulder.

  “Danny, you look dreadful! What on earth is wrong?”

  “Late night,” her stepson croaked. Danny Kane was truly in hangover hell, I realized. I was merely in purgatory. His skin was pallid, almost greenish, and his eyes looked like poached eggs. But still, he made an admirable attempt to be social. “Hi, Carnegie. You having a good visit with B.J.?”

  “I always do,” I said. “She’s such a character.”

  “You can say that again. She was flying high last night.” He turned his head slowly, as if it pained him. “Listen, Cissy, I’m not really up for lunch—”

  “Of course you are, sweetie, you just need to sit down and have something to drink first.” As Danny sank into a chair, she went back to fussing over the menu. “I’ve ordered an appetizer already, but I can’t decide between the Cobb salad and the club sandwich. I had the club yesterday and they didn’t put enough bacon on it. I hate that, don’t you? Where is Tracy? That girl is always late.”

  Cissy herself was famous for her last-minute arrivals, so I smiled at Danny over the rim of my water glass, and he smiled weakly back. It wasn’t the most diplomatic moment to ask questions on B.J.’s behalf, but I had to start somewhere.

  “Danny,” I said quietly, remembering the effect of B.J.’s braying on my own painful head, “I was wondering about Brian’s personal effects. Have they been sent back to his family already?”

  “I don’t know.” He sipped some water. “You’d have to ask the L.O. The logistics officer.”

  “What about Brian’s PG bag? Jumpers keep mementos and things in their bags, don’t they?”

  I waited nervously for Danny to ask why I was being so nosy. I had a cover story ready, but I didn’t get a chance to use it, because just then the waiter brought Cissy’s appetizer: smoked trout on toast, its pungent aroma rising distinctly in the heat of the day. Danny gazed at the plate in horror and turned a whiter shade of pale.

  “Excuse me,” he mumbled, rising from his chair. “Tell Tracy...’scuse me.”

  He fled, jostling the waiter in his haste and nearly colliding with a woman clad in chic but unsummery black. She sidestepped him with a scowl and kept coming, bearing down on our table like the wedding planner of the apocalypse.

  “Oh, bad to worse,” muttered Cissy. Then she turned up a smile, like turning up a dimmer switch. “Over here, sweetie! Sit down and say hello to Carnegie Kincaid, your new assistant.”

  Shara Mortimer was a surprise. Beau Paliere was known for his coterie of female staffers, each one prettier than the next. But “Beau’s Girls” tended to the blonde and willowy, while this one was olive-skinned and strong-featured, with thick black hair in a severe chignon. Her shoes were small, her earrings large, her briefcase sleek and expensive.

  The whole look screamed Manhattan. Here was a woman who made maître d’s grovel and cabbies quake. Be afraid.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” I said, baring my throat to the alpha female. “Shara, that’s an interesting name.”

  I waited for her to make a similar comment about my name, but she just stared at me. I fumbled onward. “I, um, met Beau in Seattle last Christmas—”

  “I know all about that,” said Shara in an unmistakable New York accent. She sniffed indignantly and reached into her briefcase, drawing out a sheaf of papers with a redtaloned hand. “Monsieur Paliere contacted me this morning from Italy. If Ms. Kane chooses to employ an on-site wedding coordinator in addition to myself, that person must be a temporary employee of Paliere Productions. Otherwise we will not be held liable for the success of the event. Sign at the X and initial each page.”

  She offered me th
e papers, a fancy fountain pen, and a look that said the success of the event was a long shot at best, but she herself no longer gave a rip. Here was a woman who wanted to get Tracy Kane married and then get the hell out of Idaho.

  “This is awfully formal,” I protested. “I was just going to help out.”

  “That is what you’re doing, sweetie, helping us out.” Cissy barely glanced up from her inspection of the menu. “Just sign so we can eat, all right?”

  “Give me a minute.” I scanned the document. Other than stipulating a remarkably generous payment for me, it was vague about my responsibilities, lumping them under “Duties As Assigned.” I hated the idea of working for Beau Paliere, but since he wasn’t actually going to be here in person, and since Eddie and I were in serious need of the revenue... “Well, it looks pretty straightforward, Cissy, if you’re sure this is what you and Tracy want.”

  “Of course we do,” she said absently. “Or maybe the crab cakes. What are you having, sweetie?”

  “Not sure.” As I initialed, I asked Shara Mortimer, “Are you joining us for lunch?”

  “No.” She closed her briefcase with a vicious snap and rose to her feet. But she must have heard how rude she sounded, because she unbent just a little. “I’ve already eaten. I’m meeting the photographer for a drink by the pool. You and I can get together later.”

  “Sure. Where?...”

  But the New Yorker, finished unbending, was already striding away.

  “She’s staying here at the lodge,” Cissy said. “I lined up this gorgeous suite for Beau, and now it’s going to waste on her. I’m going to try the Cobb salad. Or maybe the Asian orange duck salad. Do you suppose those are mandarin oranges? Because I’m not sure I like mandarin oranges...”

  I saw Shara pass Tracy on the terrace steps; the two women exchanged distant nods but didn’t speak. What have I gotten myself into? Well, I’d just keep everything smooth and cooperative with Ms. Mortimer, win her over with my professionalism, and I’d be fine.

  Meanwhile, I watched Tracy as she sailed across the terrace like a breeze across a wheat field, leaving a murmuring stir in her wake. Her layered ensemble was a mix of textures, fluttery silk and nubbly cotton and airy chiffon, that also mixed shades of white, from ivory to cream to champagne. Very feminine, very aristocratic, very wow. I made a mental note to put together a white-on-white outfit for myself, next time I had the funds to go clothes shopping.

  As Tracy took her seat, excuses were made for Danny and air kisses were exchanged, then we ordered Cobb salads all around. The bride, perhaps mindful of her waistline, indulged in three or four bites, and given my condition, I didn’t exceed her by much. But Cissy cleared her plate gallantly, sopping up the dressing with a roll, then ordered raisin rice pudding and coffee, extra cream.

  And all the while, she talked. The rosebud lips managed to have food going in and words coming out, simultaneously, for every minute of the next three-quarters of an hour.

  “I was going to stay with purple, Carrie, you know how that’s my special color, but then I saw this dress in pink, not pink-pink, you know, but more shell pink...”

  Tracy, having heard all this before, sat gazing at the skaters without much interest, waving vaguely at a friend or two, and autographing napkins for the waiter, the busboy, and four tittering women at the next table. I found myself watching her: the way she didn’t fidget with her hair, not even once, the way she drank her coffee with a straw to preserve her lipstick. Always onstage, always perfect.

  The few times Tracy took her shades off, her eyes were distant and preoccupied. Or was that just boredom?

  “...but then when I had my pumps dyed they came out more of a rum pink, so I had to find new ones, which took even more time, and I’m already as busy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs...”

  I was starting to glaze over myself when a shriek from inside the lobby cut Cissy short. All the conversations around us halted as all eyes turned to view Domaso Duarte dashing out among the tables, swearing and shouting, with Shara Mortimer hot on his heels. He looked flustered enough, but she was soaked to the skin and apparently homicidal. Be very afraid.

  “What on earth?” squeaked Cissy.

  I was just as astounded as she was, until the object of the pursuit appeared right under my nose. Gorka, his tail beating the air triumphantly, flung his front paws onto our table and lovingly placed Shara Mortimer’s dripping wet briefcase onto my lap.

  Chapter Nine

  “YOU LAUGHED, I SAW YOU. YOU WERE LAUGHING ALONG with the rest of them. You call yourself a professional?”

  Shara Mortimer was beautiful when she was angry, and just now she was spitting mad. She stalked around the luxurious suite, spreading the contents of her briefcase to dry on every available surface and snarling at me. With her black hair swinging loose around her shoulders and her slim, tanned legs flashing beneath a white terry-cloth robe, she truly looked like one of Beau’s Girls.

  “I couldn’t help it,” I said meekly, peeling apart yet another vendor contract. “But you have to admit—”

  “I don’t have to admit anything. Hand me my cell phone. It’s probably ruined.”

  I complied in silence. I had already apologized once, as a courtesy, and I was damned if I’d do so again. Domaso Duarte had been profuse in his regrets, and Gorka, unrepentant, had been banished from the premises. He was probably lolling in Domaso’s front seat, having a little doggy chuckle over his delightful game of tug-of-war, which had ended with Shara toppling into the swimming pool, and Gorka plunging in after her to retrieve the briefcase and leave its owner floundering.

  I secretly wished I’d been there to see it. If Shara didn’t simmer down soon, I might just banish myself from this wedding altogether. Except that I already signed the damn contract, and if I broke it, Beau Paliere would probably sue me—

  A bold knocking sounded from the corridor. Shara waved at me to answer it and whisked into the bedroom, pulling the double doors shut behind her.

  “Hey, Red! Look at you, girl, pretty as ever!”

  Sam Kane, father of the bride, shambled into the suite with his Stetson in his hand and a big grin on his homely old face. Sam was a cartoonist’s dream, a walking caricature, all bulbous nose and flapping ears and oversized hands and feet, with long scrawny limbs in between. He’d lost some hair since I’d seen him last, just like his son Danny, and gained a bit of a paunch, but he still wore his trademark brown suede sports coat with the elbow patches and an enormous brass belt buckle with his initials on it. There was nothing small, subdued, or modest about Sam Kane.

  “But what am I saying?” He gave me a long, fatherly hug. “My deepest sympathies, truly, on the loss of your cousin.”

  “Good to see you, Sam,” I said. I was tired of explaining my nonrelationship with Brian, so I didn’t. “Congratulations about Tracy.”

  It really was good to see him. I had fond memories of Sam teasing the Muffies about their boyfriends that summer, flirting with us himself with clumsy gallantry, and taking us out for the occasional sumptuous dinner. Tracy had plenty of spending money back then, but B.J. and I were counting pennies, and Sam always picked up the whole tab on the pretext of treating his darling daughter. Everybody in the Wood River Valley liked Sam, even his business rivals, and I was no exception.

  “Thank you kindly, Red. I don’t know which one of ’em’s luckier, her or Jack.” He glanced around the sitting room at the papers that lay curling on desk, chairs, and coffee table, and shook his head. “Cissy told me what happened. I swear, that New York girl has been nothing but trouble.”

  I was about to counter this unfair assessment when Shara appeared. She had repaired her makeup, put on a tailored blouse and slacks, and knotted her hair in place, all in a few minutes. She was bitchy, but she was good.

  “Mr. Kane,” she said sternly. I’d never heard anyone call him that. “Mr. Kane, I was going to review some contractual details with you this afternoon, but as you can see, that will have to
wait. However, I do need your approval to hire more waitstaff for the reception, now that the head count is increasing, and to hire a second truck to carry the sound system and dance floor up to White Pine.”

  “You do whatever you need to,” said Sam grandly. I suspected he was showing off for me. Sam Kane didn’t get rich by overlooking details. “With Carnegie here to keep you on track, this whole thing should go real slick.”

  I winced inwardly, and Shara bristled like a cat.

  “Things were going perfectly smoothly already,” she said in a tight, dangerous voice. “As I told Mrs. Kane, with the catering manager’s assistant at my disposal, it’s quite unnecessary to have a second coordinator here this week. I agreed to take her on as a favor to Tracy—”

  “Whoa, you’re doing us favors now?” Sam squared his bony shoulders and hitched his thumbs into his belt. “Seems to me we’re the ones who have to keep on accommodating you and your almighty checklists.”

  Shara backpedaled just a little. “You have to understand, an event of this scope takes a great deal of organization.”

  “That’s exactly why you need Carnegie.” He grinned and dropped his arm around my shoulders. “Ain’t it?”

  “I don’t need her.” The cat was hissing now. “Now that all the planning is in place, a single on-site coordinator is perfectly sufficient. I keep explaining that to your wife.”

  Her voice held just the faintest hint of disdain when she referred to Cissy. And that was Shara Mortimer’s undoing, because Sam Kane, who was utterly unemotional when it came to business, utterly adored his wife.

  “Well, I’ll explain something to you, missy,” he drawled. Sam only drawled when he meant to. “You are absolutely right. We only need one coordinator, and we got ’er.” He gave my shoulders a little shake. “So you can just pack up your bags and go back where you came from. Come on, Red, I’ll buy you a drink.”