Bride and Doom

by Deborah Donnelly

  I snatched the phone from my pocket and saw that the caller ID said UNKNOWN. I moved to a corner of the room. “Hello?”

  “Carnegie, it’s Gordo Gutierrez.” His voice, normally so laid back, was oddly formal and self-conscious. “Could I talk to you for a minute? Alone.”

  “Sure,” I said. My heart was hammering. “Where?”

  “How about the interview room? You know where that is?”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  I excused myself to Rose with a vague comment about checking on something in the rotunda. But at the door of the suite, I hesitated. Gordo wouldn’t dare harm me this morning, I was sure of that. But there was no sense in being foolhardy.

  “I’m going to stop by the interview room as well,” I said. “To talk with Gordo. I guess he’s pretty nervous.”

  “Should I go?” said Rose. Then she grinned. “But he’s not supposed to see me, right?”

  “Right. You two stay here, and I’ll be back shortly.”

  I felt myself perspiring as I strode along, and at one point I stopped to take some deep breaths and fight off some second thoughts. Maybe I should have brought a tape recorder, in case he incriminates himself. Maybe I should have brought a security guard, in case he has a gun. Why don’t we screen for weapons at these big weddings, anyway?

  Maybe…maybe nothing. Just go. So I went and saw no one along the way, though I could faintly hear the noise of the gathering crowd down in the rotunda.

  To steady my nerves, I deliberately imagined the scene. People would be streaming through the stadium’s main entrance by now, and the press would be gathering up in their gallery. Soon the gates to the stands would be flung open, and the fans would pour in. They’d see the flower-decked pergola set up on the pitcher’s mound and hear the Dixieland band tuning up in the home team dugout.

  Soon the Reverend Francis Cornwell, an old friend of the bride’s father and a major baseball fan, would take his place beneath the pergola. All the Navigators, in full uniform and bearing regulation bats, would line up in double file to make an aisle leading to the mound from home plate.

  The fans would be given a wedding program—designed to resemble a baseball program, of course—which described each phase of the celebration. Including the fact that after the ceremony the bride and groom would return along the aisle under an arch of bats held aloft by Gordo’s teammates. Given the way that Digger died, I’d objected to the bats, but Beau had overruled me.

  All too quickly I had reached my destination. Still time to chicken out…No! You’ve come this far…

  I entered the interview room with a nasty sense of déjà vu. But instead of Nelly Tibbett ranting, there was the bridegroom sitting quietly in the front row of folding chairs. He was gazing at the wall of Navigator logos, looking large and dignified in his tuxedo. But when he turned toward me, the round brown face above the bow tie was young and anxious.

  I made myself approach him, though my pulse was thudding in my ears. “Hi, Gordo.”

  “Carnegie.” He rose, and I fell back half a step. The man was huge. The minute he says anything I can use, I’m out of here.

  He took a step toward me, and I made myself stand my ground. What a phenomenally stupid idea this was. Why did I do this?

  Gordo came even closer—and then went past me to the doorway, to peer up and down the corridor.

  “Listen,” he said stiffly, his voice strange and unfamiliar. “Did you tell anybody you’re talking to me?”

  Don’t tip him off. Make him commit himself.

  “No,” I said through sandpaper lips. “No one knows I’m here.”

  “Good.” He reached behind him and shut the door.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “It’s my lawyer,” said Gordo.

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Y-your lawyer?”

  “Yeah. He says this has to be real confidential.” Gordo heaved a vast sigh, and I realized that the expression on his face had shifted, not to anger or menace or guile but to embarrassment. “I want to help you out, I really do. But see, if anybody knew that I knew anything about…about what you said in your message…”

  He shook his head in frustration. “This is crazy, but Bernie told me not to even say that word.”

  “Bernie?” I felt like a parrot.

  “My lawyer. He said I shouldn’t talk to you about…you-know-what, that begins with S. But you been so nice to me and Rosie, I didn’t want to be rude.”

  “Rude.” The air was leaking out of my big balloon of a drama. “I don’t understand.”

  “Bernie says, if you have any information about anything illegal, you got to take it to the police right away.” Gordo forced the words out in a rush, as if he’d rehearsed them. “Don’t tell me about it, or tell anybody else in the Navigators, ’cause then we could get subpoenaed.”

  “But—”

  “Por favor!” he pleaded, looking very young indeed. “I don’t want to get in trouble and mess up my honeymoon. Rosie would kill me.”

  I almost laughed aloud, as relief flooded through me like warm brandy. Thank heavens I never voiced my suspicions to anyone but Aaron!

  “Digger tried to interview me about drugs,” Gordo was saying. “But everybody said not to talk to him.”

  “Everybody?” I asked quickly. “Do you think anyone else on the team was using steroids?”

  “No way! Mr. Theroux makes a big deal about that, every season, and he’s always doing drug tests.” He grinned. “On the Navigators, you get good at peeing in cups.”

  This time I did laugh. There was still the chance that Gordo was bluffing, but I didn’t believe it. He was transparent in his innocence. Suddenly my whole edifice of suspicion and theory and guesswork came tumbling down upon itself like a house of cards.

  Of course Nelly Tibbett had killed Digger Duvall. Being back in this room only served to confirm it. Why else had Nelly confessed to me right here on this spot, and why else had he ended his life? Boris was free, Gordo was blameless, and Rose would have a wonderful wedding day.

  “Don’t worry,” I said warmly. “I’ll take…my information to the police, and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. You were nervous about the ceremony, and I reassured you. All right?”

  “All right.” He grinned. “Thanks, Carnegie. How’s Rosie doing?”

  “Just fine. In fact, I have to go help her get dressed. You look very handsome, Gordo.”

  “You think so?” He squared his tuxedoed shoulders and puffed out his substantial chest. “I thought it would feel weird, but special clothes for a special day, right?”

  “Right. Off you go, then, or Beau will be frantic.”

  The grin grew wider. “That guy’s a real character, isn’t he? Like in a movie. Thanks again.”

  And off he went. As his footsteps faded down the hallway, I heard the bridegroom whistling “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  “There you are,” said Sheila, when I returned to the suite. “Isn’t it time to suit up?”

  “I suppose so,” I said absently, preoccupied with my thoughts. Once again I’d made a murderous mountain out of an accidental molehill. I’d have to explain to Aaron that—

  “Carnegie?” Rose had put her jacket on over her underwear. She looked chilly and nervous. “Carnegie, it’s eleven-fifteen.”

  “What?! I mean, yes, of course, let’s get you both dressed. You first, Sheila.”

  Once the maid of honor saw herself in the three-paneled mirror, her fashion objections died away. The royal blue of her gown suited her coloring beautifully, and so did the wrapped-V neckline.

  “Am I hot or what?” she crowed, swaying this way and that before the glass. “Can’t I open up the front to go lower? If you got it, flaunt it.”

  “No,” I said hastily. Sheila’s left breast bore the tattooed image of a death’s-head skull with a dagger through it, and the dress barely covered it now. “No, you can’t. Ready, Rose?”

  Even Sheila gave a wonderi
ng sigh at the vision of Rose in her wedding gown. She helped me fan out the gleaming curves of the fluted skirt, and then I lifted the veil from its special Le Boutique box and stood on a chair to let it fall free. As I set the headpiece on Rose’s dark curls, the yards and yards of silk tulle floated down around her like a blessing from above.

  “Beautiful,” I said, my voice breaking and my thoughts adrift. Should I wear a long veil? Should I hire a planner to help me with it, as Joe suggested? And do I really have to wait a year? It seems like forever.

  Rose smiled shyly at her reflection, her eyes showing huge and dark behind the filmy tulle. “Am I really?”

  “Really and truly.”

  I was so transfixed, I almost fell off the chair when my phone rang again.

  “Eh bien,” said Beau. “The bride is ready?”

  “Ready, willing, and—”

  “Very well. You will come downstairs at once.”

  Downstairs, near the archway leading out to the diamond, Walter McKinney awaited his daughter. Daylight penetrated the shadows of the hallway where he stood, glinting on his glasses and lighting up the white shirtfront of his tuxedo. The black jacket disguised the hunch of his shoulders, and the gratified smile on his face took ten years off his age.

  “Rose,” he said. “Oh, Rose. Your mother would be so happy.”

  I half-expected her to bristle, but instead she lifted the veil and held aside her deep-blue bouquet so that she could embrace him. He pressed his lips delicately to her cheek, careful not to muss her lipstick.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered. “Thanks for everything.”

  God, I love this job, I thought. Then, more pragmatically, I looked around for our chief sound technician. As he hurried forward to fit Rose with her wireless mike—where on earth had he come up with a white one?—I gazed out at the diamond, shielding my eyes from the brighter light.

  The backstop behind home plate had been removed, and I could see all the way to the far end of the double file of ballplayers. Gordo stood wide-eyed on the pitcher’s mound with Rob Harmon beside him. Charmin’ Harmon, I thought appreciatively, was born to wear a tux. Then I caught a flicker of movement closer to the archway: Beau, waiting impatiently in the on-deck circle, had put his fists on his hips. I waved to him that we were all set.

  Beau lifted his hand. The Dixieland band played “Here Comes the Bride,” surprisingly well. I sent Sheila out into the sunlight, counted out the interval, then nodded at Rose and Walter to proceed. As they stepped across home plate, the eager crowd broke into a storm of applause.

  Once again I had to admire Beau Paliere’s expertise. His marketing slogan was “Beauty and Perfection in Every Detail,” and for the McKinney/Gutierrez nuptials he delivered exactly that. Gordo and Reverend Cornwell were miked as well, so every word of the ceremony was carried into the stands with nary a hiss or a crackle. The soloist was excellent, the videographers and still photographers worked briskly and inconspicuously, and even the arched bats seemed like a good idea after all.

  I watched from my hidden vantage point, attempting as always to maintain my professional distance and analyze the logistics of the event. But then, as always, I gave way to sentiment and blinked away tears when the reverend said, “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Only this time, as my clients embraced, I caressed the ruby ring on its gold chain. I’d have it resized Monday, then ask Aaron to slip it on my hand. Meanwhile the kiss was over, and I gasped and cheered along with everyone else when Rose Gutierrez suddenly turned into Honeysuckle Hell.

  “All right!” she shouted, pumping her fist—and then she leaped into her husband’s arms.

  Even drug free, Gordo was a powerful man. Without the slightest sign of effort, he carried his wife the entire length of the arch of bats. Rose’s veil lifted and rippled in their wake, to trail teasingly across the faces of his grinning teammates.

  Rob and Sheila followed the happy pair, laughing gaily. This unorthodox recessional continued across home plate and on through the archway, where Gordo set his bride down right in front of me.

  “Congratulations!” I gave them each a heartfelt hug. “You’re amazing, both of you.”

  “Vite, vite!” Beau appeared and flapped his hands at us. “To the gazebo, at once!”

  “All right, we’re going,” I told him, as Rose and her father embraced. Then, because I was happy for my bride and feeling generous, I added, “You’re a master, Beau. It was a lovely ceremony.”

  “Of course it was, except for this—this prank at the end,” he muttered venomously. “I make precise plans, and then this bizarre little ’Oneysuckle ruins them with her—”

  “You know what, Beau?” Still giddy with relief about Gordo, I threw caution to the winds. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you’re a freakin’ drama queen.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  As Beau stared at me, astonished, I turned my attention to the bridal party. Rose and Gordo were lost in each other’s eyes, and Sheila had seized the moment to plant a big wet kiss on the best man. Rob looked startled at first, then returned the favor with interest—so much so that when they broke the clinch, her skull was showing. Then Rob smiled at me invitingly, and I briefly considered following Sheila’s example. After all, I missed out on that kiss at Snow Lake…

  No. I’d had enough trouble with Charmin’ Harmon, I decided. So I confined myself to a firm handshake—which he used to pull me quickly toward him and deliver a chaste but impudent peck on my cheek. I felt his breath across my earlobe, caught the musky scent of sandalwood—and had to pull myself together before my knees gave out from under me.

  With my eyes on everything and everyone but Rob, I escorted the wedding party up the elevator and along the corridor to the owners’ suite.

  “Bathroom break, everybody,” I announced. “And then you’re on stage again for the duration. Rose, let’s hang up your veil, and Sheila, let me fix your hair. You’re a little tousled.”

  When everyone was sorted out, I ushered them out to the gallery above the flowery, festive rotunda. The crowd had poured back inside, and another round of applause and camera flashes greeted the foursome as they descended to the main floor and then mounted the steps of the gazebo. Beau, I noticed, was busy chatting with the governor’s wife—who just happened to have a marriageable daughter.

  “Welcome, guys and gals, welcome!”

  Today’s master of ceremonies was a popular local DJ named Drive Time Tony, a tiny fellow with an enormous voice. As he boomed out his greeting to the crowd, I retreated and checked my watch. I had a few moments to myself before starting my rounds of the serving tables. Beau, of course, would stay in the spotlight, while I kept track of the food and drink supply.

  The press of people was getting denser by the minute, but I pushed my way through to the escalator and rode it upward, scanning the faces below for Aaron. I was bursting to tell him about Gordo’s innocence, hopefully without admitting to the risky method I’d used to confirm it. Beau saw me ascending above him and nodded graciously, so either he’d forgiven my rude remark or—more likely—he hadn’t understood it.

  “Kharrnegie!” There was Boris at the head of the escalator, resplendent in a three-piece suit and flinging open his bearlike arms. “You left restaurant so quickly last night, I did not say proper goodbye.”

  Naturally, the Mad Russian’s definition of proper involved a rib-crunching embrace and a lengthy kiss. His beard smelled like vodka.

  “Is wonderful party, no? You like my flowers?”

  “They’re as fabulous as always, Boris. I especially love the gazebo. Although I wish they’d turn down the microphone.”

  Down in the gazebo, Drive Time was loudly introducing Rob Harmon, Seattle’s own soon-to-be Hall of Famer, three-time winner of the Cy Young Award, a man with a remarkably long and brilliant career, a pitcher of deadly accuracy and astonishing speed, blah, blah, blah…

  He concluded with a
n off-color quip about the effect of Rob’s movie-star looks on what he called “all the broads.” Nearby I saw Leroy Theroux, the general manager, scowling fiercely.

  “What a stupid thing to say,” I protested.

  “But true,” said Boris, pursing his lips. “Rob Harmon looks good, even smells good. Women like that.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmured. “Sandalwood.”

  “Nyet.” The Russian shook his head with authority. “Musk, amber, with midnote of lavender and leetle jasmine.”

  “You would know,” I said, amused. “You’ve got the nose for flowers. Maybe you should find out his brand and wear it yourself.”

  Boris surprised me by hoisting his shoulders in a shudder of revulsion. “Beh. It would remind me of finding corpse. Deeger, he wore this same cologne.”

  “Really? I thought—” Someone tapped my shoulder, and I turned. “Aaron! Listen, I have to tell you something—”

  But Aaron was making up for his ill-tempered departure from Canlis last night.

  “Congratulations, Nevsky. Welcome to the free world.”

  Boris pumped the hand he was offered. “Thenk you! And my congratulations to you too. You will be good husband to my Kharnegie, no?”

  “I’ll certainly give it a shot.” Aaron straightened his tie, dislodged by the force of the Russian’s handshake. “Got a minute, Stretch? We need to talk.”

  “We sure do. See you later, Boris.”

  Aaron and I took a spot at the gallery rail directly above the chocolate fountain. From there I could keep an eye on the proceedings, and we could converse privately under cover of the general noise.

  “So, what’s the big news?” Aaron asked. “Swell party, by the way.”

  “Thanks. The news is that Gordo didn’t do it.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re certain of that?”

  “Positive. I, um, happened to discuss steroids with him—”

  “You what?”

  “It just came up.”

  “Of course it did.” Aaron’s disbelief was obvious. “You know, you are the most—”