Bride and Doom

by Deborah Donnelly

  I dressed quickly and skipped breakfast—Joe was always good for a delectable pastry or two—and hurried down the dock still zipping up my jacket. A dense pale fog had settled in during the night, and though the air wasn’t all that cold, it clung damply to my face and hair.

  The fog swallowed my footsteps and veiled the other houseboats as they fell behind me. I thought I heard movement, a muffled footfall and then silence, but when I turned to look, I could see only shifting mist.

  “Larry? Is that you?”

  No answer, and I shivered a little. The hemmed-in visibility felt spooky, menacing almost. I told myself I was being paranoid—but I made sure no one followed me across the parking lot, and when I climbed into Vanna, I locked the doors.

  The fog was shredding into tatters as I skirted the south end of Lake Union and headed north again on Westlake Avenue. By the time I passed beneath the blue and orange girders of the Fremont drawbridge, the air had grown brighter and so had my spirits.

  I was still worried about Boris, of course, but the sun was shining and I was getting married. Me, the bride! I loved planning other women’s weddings, but the prospect of arranging my own was intoxicating—if a little overwhelming. And besides, maybe Joe could pitch in on the bail bond.

  Shaking my head at this weird mixture of ideas, I grabbed the first parking space I saw on 36th and walked down to Solveto’s Catering. Even on a Sunday morning the so-called Artists’ Republic of Fremont was bustling with shoppers and brunchers, and the faces I passed held a glow of surprised contentment that’s peculiar to Seattle. You could practically read the thought balloons over all their heads: Look, more sunshine! It’s October, and it hasn’t started raining yet!

  Still time to get in one last hike, I thought as I strode along. Maybe by the time Aaron gets back, the real killer will be in jail and we can forget all this and hike to Snow Lake. That was a favorite trail of mine, up in the Cascades just off Interstate 90. It led through a wide valley of forest and meadow, up over a ridge, and then down again to an aquamarine gem of an alpine lake. I bet the fall colors are beautiful up there, and the wet weather’s going to start any day now. We could use some quiet time together out of town.

  I turned the corner and dropped down toward the Ship Canal. In the old days Fremont was a funky neighborhood, but funky as in rough-edged, with bars I wasn’t comfortable going into. Now development had made it funky as in adorable for tourists, with tempting restaurants and pricey shops I had to struggle to stay out of.

  Joe ran his business from a sleek new building right across from the canal near the Fremont Bridge. His offices were upstairs, with a tasting room like a mini-restaurant down at street level.

  I entered the tasting room to find him lounging by the tall windows, gazing out at a handsome sailboat as it motored up the canal. The drawbridge bell clanged loud enough to be heard through the glass, then the bridge split in the middle to raise its iron arms to the sky and let the boat pass through.

  “I could watch that bridge for hours.” Joe sighed. “I must be getting old.”

  “Ancient,” I said. “Can I hit you up for a cappuccino before you expire?”

  In truth Joe was only a little older than me and quite a lot more beautiful. He had exquisitely tousled sandy hair above smoky blue eyes, and today his extensive wardrobe had produced a pair of faultless charcoal trousers and a mock turtleneck in wine-colored cashmere.

  Along with his good looks and his air of languid sophistication, Joe possessed a killer business instinct. He’d been generous with good counsel for Made in Heaven, and his occasional observations on my personal life were often right on the mark. I crossed the room and we traded air kisses. I know it sounds like that girl-with-gay-friend movie cliché, but we did it ironically. There’s a difference.

  “For you,” he said, “a double cappuccino.”

  Joe’s espresso-making was a minor religious ritual, and there followed a quarter-hour of grinding beans, tamping grounds, steaming milk, and prewarming two cups made of hand-painted Italian ceramic. But finally we were perched at a table with our steaming concoctions, a plate of golden croissants, a little crock of honey—and plenty to talk about.

  “I heard about the murder, of course,” said Joe, after I’d outlined the events at Yesler Field on Friday night. “The news said a suspect was in custody, but they didn’t give a name. Poor old Boris. Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

  “Of course I am!” I protested, spraying flakes of buttery pastry. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “Just think about it, sweetie.” Joe reached out with his napkin to dab a flake from my lips. “Take one Mad Russian, add vast amounts of vodka, and stir in a slanderous remark about darling Carnegie from this Duvall character. One could almost script the result. Try the honey, it’s got ginger in it.”

  I pushed the honey pot aside.

  “It wasn’t like that! All right, Boris threw a punch. But then he left the party. He says he only came back to apologize, and I believe him. And there’s something else.” I described how I’d heard a door closing in the side corridor. “I didn’t see the person, but I bet it was the killer.”

  “You told the police that, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  He smeared his own croissant with ginger honey. “Then they’ll look into it, won’t they? Come on now, you don’t think the police and the courts go around convicting people of murder without even investigating?”

  “I guess.” I made a milky design on the tabletop with the tip of my cappuccino spoon. “But meanwhile it’s awfully hard on Boris. And his business.”

  “True.”

  I looked up, straight into the smoky blues. “Joe, I want to try and bail Boris out before Nevsky Brothers goes to pieces. I don’t suppose you could help me raise the money?”

  Joe smiled ruefully. “You know I love you, Carnegie. But I barely know Boris, and money’s got such a nasty way of interfering with friendships. Let’s not go there, shall we?”

  I bit back a hasty answer. He was right. It wasn’t fair to get him involved, especially financially.

  “I understand,” I said. “But Boris is innocent. The police don’t believe it and neither does his lawyer, but I’m going to clear him.”

  “It’s quite a hobby with you, isn’t it, rushing in where angels fear to tread?” Joe leaned back and crossed his cashmere arms. “I’ll tell you what. Once this is resolved, I will personally steer every one of my clients to Nevsky Brothers. How’s that?”

  “That’s wonderful, Joe. Thank you.” I hadn’t been feeling weepy, but suddenly the tears were there and I pulled out a handkerchief. “I’ve been so worried—”

  “Now, now,” he said briskly. “Happier thoughts. Remember, you’re my client too, so let’s talk about this wedding of yours. I’m afraid we’ve had a setback about the Olympic Hotel. I know it was your first choice of site, but they absolutely will not let me do the catering. You use their chefs or no one.”

  “Well, to hell with them,” I said, sniffing. “I’d rather have you than the hotel.”

  It was a near run thing, though. The Olympic had been the grande dame of Seattle hotels for more than eighty years. I loved the vast three-tiered lobby with its gilded columns and barrel vault ceiling, its ornate chandeliers and towering flower arrangements. I’d even directed a few weddings there. How dare they bar my favorite caterer from the premises?

  “That’s very flattering,” Joe was saying as he cleared our dishes.

  Then he opened a manila folder marked KINCAID/GOLD. I got a pleasant little kick out of that. How many folders had I labeled with other couple’s names?

  “I must admit,” he went on, “I’ve come up with some fabulous ideas for you. Everyone around here has been salmoned to death, so I thought, why not trout? I could make it roulade, with a spinach stuffing, and then serve a lobster risotto with saffron—”

  “Are you sure we can’t get the Olympic?” I broke in. “Don’t you have connections
there who’d make an exception for you?”

  “Alas, no. What about the Chinese Room at the Smith Tower? All that red and black lacquer has a certain exotic charm.”

  “I don’t know. That space feels kind of claustrophobic to me.”

  “SAM, then?”

  That was the Seattle Art Museum. I shrugged. “Too conventional.”

  “The Petroleum Museum? Very offbeat and funky.”

  “Too unconventional. I had my heart set on the Olympic.”

  Joe closed his manila folder. “Oh, dear. It’s begun.”

  “What’s begun?”

  “Full-blown infection by the Bride Brain Virus. You should see yourself—you’re pouting.”

  “I am not!”

  I laughed a little but Joe didn’t.

  “A word of advice, Carnegie?”

  “What?”

  “Hire a wedding planner.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. This way lies madness.” He tapped the folder with one manicured fingertip. “Have fun with your gown and your menu, but let someone else work with your vendors and hammer out the logistics. You know too much, and you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “Myself, or everyone else?”

  He stood up. “I am far too diplomatic to respond to that. Now run along, my dear, and look over these menu suggestions. You might have months to make up your mind and then change it about every little detail, but you may as well start now.”

  Months, I thought as I drove back home and pulled into the parking lot. Can I stand to wait months to marry Aaron? A formal wedding can take a year to plan, and though I’d always thought I would gleefully immerse myself in the process, suddenly now I could imagine myself eloping.

  A wedding planner, elope? I frowned as I picked up my tote bag with Joe’s folder inside and climbed out of Vanna. That might be a nice respite from my professional tasks, but what would people say? Would my mother be horribly disappointed? Would Aaron? Or maybe he’d feel relieved.

  I was so preoccupied with these questions that I actually reached out to unlock the front door—and started in surprise when it swung loose at the touch of the key. The little dead bolt had torn free of the frame when someone kicked or shoved or somehow smashed the door open.

  Breaking and entering, I thought stupidly, staring at the lock. What do you know, somebody broke and entered.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m pretty sure that a solitary woman confronted by a busted-open front door should retreat at once and call the police.

  Scratch that. I’m absolutely sure. But I marched right into the houseboat anyway, for two reasons. First, because the air of utter stillness made it seem so unlikely that someone was lurking inside. And second, because I was furious.

  “Hey!” I said indignantly. “Hey, what the hell—”

  The kitchen was a mess. Not a sickening mess, with smashed dishes and food on the floor, as I’d once seen at the home of some unfortunate friends. This was just a ransacked mess of cabinets left open, drawers pulled out, and stacks of dish towels shoved aside, as if the intruders were looking for money or drugs. So, thieves rather than vandals.

  And frustrated thieves at that. My drug of choice was chardonnay, and what little cash I carried was safe in my wallet. As for electronics, you could barely sell my TV or CD player at a garage sale, let alone fence them for big bucks. But I did have a few pieces of jewelry…

  I dashed into the bedroom, where the dresser drawers were yanked open, the mattress lying askew on the box spring, and my jewelry box upended onto the bedspread. I poked through the sad little heap of treasure and found a couple of pieces gone, but they had no sentimental value. My turquoise earrings from that trip to Santa Fe, and the modest pearl necklace my father gave me for graduation, were still present and accounted for.

  “Not good enough for you?” I said aloud. The thought of strangers in my bedroom made me sick. “Bastards.”

  The living room was the same story. Books dumped off their shelves, personal papers swept from my little desk, even the wastebasket turned upside down. Nothing was missing here that I could see, but the search had been thorough. I didn’t touch any surfaces, out of some vague concern for fingerprints, but the sight of my last bank statement lying on the floor made me gasp in dismay.

  Paperwork—the office! What if Made in Heaven’s office was wrecked?

  I headed outside, where a flight of rickety wooden steps led from my living area to the second story of the houseboat. I flew up them two at a time, through a second busted door, and bounded across the “good room” where we meet with brides and into the office. There I stopped, sagging in relief to see that our computers were still intact.

  Once again all the office drawers had been rifled through and the shelves disarranged, but not much was missing. Just a camera—the digital one we used to document cakes and flowers and such—and the battered old binoculars that Eddie kept on the windowsill for watching boats on the lake. We’d gotten off lightly. But my heart was anything but light as I dropped into my desk chair and called 911.

  We all have our coping mechanisms for life’s little unpleasantries, like having a tooth filled or enduring a flu shot. I usually cope by observing the dentist or the nurse going about their technical tasks, noting the tools they use and the techniques they’ve mastered. Sort of Take Your Wedding Planner to Work Day.

  So when two of Seattle’s Finest showed up, I tried to bury my dismay at being burgled by watching them prowl around the houseboat. After being scolded, of course.

  “Why’d you go inside?” said Officer Rybinski, a fortyish woman who was taking the lead. She was husky, with smooth fair hair skinned back into a disciplined knot, while her partner was a gawky fellow who looked too young to shave. “You took a big risk, you know. Could have been a junkie with a gun in here. Show me the bottom of your shoe?”

  I nodded meekly and turned up my foot. She frowned at it, made a scribble in her notebook, then followed her partner into the bedroom, examining the floors as well as the mess. I followed, observing their observation.

  “Too bad I cleaned yesterday,” I said. “There might have been footprints.”

  She flicked her eyes at me, looking for sarcasm. “You mind if we dust for fingerprints?”

  “Of course not. Why should I mind?”

  “Powder’s a bitch to clean up.” She produced a tin of dark gray particles, dipped a brush in them, and twirled the brush over the lid of my jewelry box. “Be sure and vacuum it off before you use a cleaning product.”

  But in the end her dusting was fruitless—the intruder had worn gloves, even at the front door.

  “Pretty careful for a user,” Rybinski commented to her partner, and he nodded importantly. Before they left she handed me a sheet of paper. “Stolen property report. Fill it out later, after you’ve had time to calm down and look around some more.”

  I felt like protesting that I was calm, but she clearly wasn’t interested. I was, though. It was curious that I wasn’t more upset about the break-in. But having a good friend arrested for murder put the whole thing into perspective. Aside from wishing that Aaron was around, I was OK. A few stolen items, no real damage, no danger to me. Like they say, No harm, no foul.

  As I showed the officers to the door—what remained of it—I saw Mike Graham coming down the dock toward us. Lily’s new husband wore a coat and tie, and with his neatly trimmed brown hair and shined shoes, he might have been a middle manager or rising young executive. Until you noticed the dogged set of his jaw and the jaded sadness in his eyes.

  The younger officer went right past him, but Rybinski recognized him as a homicide detective and stopped briefly to converse. Then she went her way as I accepted a hug of sympathy from Mike and welcomed him in.

  “Can I get you something?” I asked him. “Coffee, tea, fingerprint powder?”

  He shook his head. “I’m working today so I’ve just got a minute, but I heard ‘houseboat’ on the scanner and realized
it was you. I hope you didn’t come inside here by yourself?”

  I shrugged. “Guilty as charged. But it’s not too bad, just a few things missing and nothing damaged except the doors.”

  “The smart ones know that vandalism is a separate charge from theft, sometimes with bigger penalties.” He looked around the kitchen and into the living room. “Must be a nasty feeling, though, having your home violated. Lily’s off work today and home with the boys. Maybe you’d like to go over there for a while?”

  I thought about it—Marcus and Ethan, who called me “Aunt Car,” were great little spirit-lifters—but then I declined.

  “Thanks, Mike, but I’d better stay here and clean up the mess. I’m glad to see you, though. I want to talk to you about Boris Nevsky.”

  His face changed. “I’m not on that case.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Carnegie, I cannot and will not interfere with one of my officers’ investigations for personal reasons. Lily told me how upset you are, and I understand—”

  “It’s not a matter of my being upset! It’s a matter of justice. Boris is innocent, I know he is. Someone else killed Digger Duvall. I just don’t know who yet.”

  “Yet?” He rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. “Tell me you’re not getting involved in this.”

  “I’m already involved. Boris is my dear friend, and I want to help him.”

  “Then go visit him. Cheer him up. But stay out of—”

  “I can visit him in jail?”

  “Of course you can. It’s not a gulag, you know. In fact, he’s being held downtown and not at the regional center out in Kent, so you won’t have far to go. Just call first and check on the visiting schedule.” Mike patted my shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. I know all this is distressing for you, but try and have some faith in the system. And get some better locks put on these doors, OK?”

  “Sure,” I said, already preoccupied. An emergency locksmith shouldn’t take long, and I was only minutes from downtown.