May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Of course not.” Aaron made a show of consulting his notes, but I could tell he was puzzled by all this candid cooperation. “And you think some of Jason's coworkers gambled with him, but you don't know their names?”

  The restaurateur sat perfectly still, blinking slowly as an owl. Then he made a slight sideways inclination of his silver head.

  “Unfortunately not. Some prominent gentlemen enjoy relaxing here in private, therefore we use courtesy names: Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones. I was shown a photograph of the dead man, or I would not know his name, either.”

  He gazed at each of us in turn. “A tragedy, a young man like that. I said so to the police. I must return to work now, but of course you may call me if you have more questions. Once again, I apologize for my niece. She has not been long in this country. I think she may return to China soon.”

  Out on the sidewalk, squinting in the low winter sun, I had a quick decision to make: bring Aaron to interview Li Ping, or not? But Madison made it for me, by asking Aaron for a lift uptown to the MFC building. She could easily have walked, I thought cattily, but maybe her stylish Italian boots weren't all that comfy.

  “You two go ahead,” I told them. Just as well, Li Ping is skittish enough already. “I've got some errands to run down here. Madison, you take care.”

  “I will.” With her pale impassive face, black hair, and dramatic eye makeup, she looked ready to go onstage. But then she was already playing the role of a woman who wasn't bereaved.

  Aaron, for his part, made a sudden detour into romantic comedy. He tugged at my coat sleeve as I turned away and brought his face close to mine. “Remember, we'll be getting together soon for that bite.”

  “In your dreams, mister.”

  He laughed and turned back to Madison, slipping an arm around her shoulders and murmuring something sympathetic. She leaned into him gratefully and they walked off, looking for all the world like lovers.

  I meant to stride purposefully away, just to keep up appearances, but they never glanced back. So I just stood there and watched them go, trying not to feel the way I was feeling. Then I pulled out my phone.

  “Hi, Eddie. I'll be out for a while yet. Did Sally call about the dinner party?”

  “Yeah, Friday night for sure, seven o'clock. And Frank Sanjek's coming over at three today, to talk about a new best man.”

  “I'll be there. See you.”

  There was just one problem about a rendezvous at Uwajimaya: The place was enormous. This being the week before Christmas, it was also mobbed. As I made my way through the cars crawling hopelessly around the parking lot, I was glad I'd left the van at a meter near the restaurant.

  Under the blue-roofed Uwajimaya entrance, I paused to watch the constant stream of people in and out, and wondered how to find my small, shy waitress amid the holiday crowds. Even here the Salvation Army Santas were ringing their bells, and why not? Besides its exotic edibles, Uwajimaya housed a sizeable shop full of housewares, clothing, and gifts from all over Asia, as well as a large book, music, and video store. For Christmas shoppers seeking something unique, it was just the ticket.

  Inside, the food store itself seemed to spread out for acres, with ranks upon ranks of fluorescent lights marching across the ceiling into the green-painted distance. Suspended beneath them was a huge Chinese dragon, big as a parade float, and below that were long grocery aisles offering everything from the most prosaic milk and eggs, to bento box lunches and elaborate sushi platters. In honor of the new year there were racks of tasseled red decorations like the ones at Noble Pearl, and rows of potted orange trees and pussy-willow bouquets. These last, I knew from a Chinese-American friend, were traditional New Year's gifts whose colors represented the gold and silver of prosperity to come.

  After a few minutes of wandering in admiration, I did the logical thing and returned to the main entrance. Li Ping would have to find me. I stationed myself just inside, by a wall of twenty-pound rice sacks, and hoped that my height and hair color would make me easier to spot. I was certainly the only close-to-six-foot redhead studying the labels on the Yinzhu Extra Fancy Short Grain and the Thai Gold Jasmine Long Grain. Not to mention the Dynasty Dehraduni Basmati. I had just about exhausted my interest in the infinite variety of white rice in the world, when I heard a hesitant voice behind me.

  “Come, quick!”

  Li Ping was wearing a cheap acetate jacket in a hideous mustard color—Too big for her. A hand-me-down?—which I had no trouble following along a busy aisle and around a corner display of rice cookers. We ended up near a deep cooler full of packages, all of them variations in the key of tofu. The girl stared into it for a moment, catching her breath, then looked up at me between the curtains of her black hair.

  “My uncle will be angry.” Her voice was breathy and her accent thick, though it sure beat my mastery of Mandarin or my command of Cantonese. “He told everyone at the restaurant not to talk of Jase, to anyone.”

  “Why did you want to see me, then?” I asked gently. “Li Ping, you can tell me. Do you think your uncle had something to do with Jason's death?”

  She looked entirely taken aback, and even affronted. “No, no! They were friendly, most friendly. He loaned money to Jase.”

  “To cover his gambling debts?”

  She nodded, and went on with a rush, “Jase was going to pay it back, all the money, on Sunday night. Then he would come to me, but in secret. You cannot tell my uncle!”

  “Of course I won't.” Whether Jason Kraye had really cared for this girl, or had simply preyed on her naïveté, she was as much bereaved as Madison Jaffee, and with far fewer resources to help her recover. “What happened on Sunday night? Did your uncle go out to meet Jason?” And perhaps to kill him?

  But Li Ping's next words blew that theory right out of the water. “No, he waited and waited, after the restaurant closed. He waited all night! I know, I waited also, upstairs.”

  “But Jason never came.”

  Her breath caught on a sob. “Never. He will never marry me.”

  I touched her arm in sympathy, and she gripped my hand with both of hers and squeezed it with all the desperation that she was trying to keep out of her face, here in this public setting. But she needn't have worried; all around us shoppers moved past without a glance, mesmerized by the bountiful merchandise.

  “You were his friend,” she whispered. I shook my head, afraid of what was coming, but she didn't raise her eyes. “You were friendly to me. Tell me, did Jase talk of me before . . . before he died? Did he say we would marry?”

  At that point I damn near broke into tears myself. Only a monster would destroy her illusions now. “Li Ping, you have to understand, I only knew Jason slightly. He wouldn't have confided in me, not about something so . . . so secret and important. I'm sorry.”

  She bit her lip forlornly, as I tried to think my way through this tangle. Do I have to report all this to the police, like I reported on Darwin? But look at what happened to him. Peter Yan is obviously not the killer, and this poor kid would get into such trouble . . .

  “Listen, I think it's better that you don't ask other people about Jason.”

  “I understand,” she said, and released my hands. “I will go home.”

  “To your uncle's?” I thought she meant today, this afternoon, but I misunderstood.

  “To Hong Kong.” She drew a long uneven sigh. “I did not want to come to the United States. I am a student of music, not a waitress. I do not want to be American. My uncle will send me home.”

  That brought me back to my own problem with a jolt. “Li Ping, wait! I'm trying to find out who killed Jason. Can I ask you some questions?”

  She looked at me dully. Jason was gone, that was all that mattered. She didn't even seem to wonder why a mere acquaintance would want to solve his murder.

  “What questions?”

  “Well, first of all, who did Jason gamble with? Your uncle mentioned ‘prominent gentlemen.' Did you recognize any of them, maybe from the newspaper or the T
V news?”

  I talked fast, in case she took flight, but Li Ping seemed rooted to the spot, listless in her despair.

  “My uncle said they were very important men.” She sighed. Only one of the men had been important to her. “Some were on TV. I don't know the names.”

  I remembered the Smith and Jones business. “Well, never mind. Did Jason ever bring friends with him?”

  A nod. “One friend, sometimes two.”

  “Can you describe them?” If someone knew he'd be carrying a lot of money, someone who was at the bachelor party . . .

  “Men,” she said, frowning. “Young men.”

  “What did they look like?”

  At first we hit a road block; just like Westerners who can't tell a Chinese face from a Korean from a Japanese, Li Ping could only tell me that the two men were “tall like Jase.” Given how diminutive she was herself, that could mean anything. But when I described a few of the taller guys from the bachelor party, and watched her nod or shake her head in turn, it was clear to me which friends the dead man had gambled with: Frank Sanjek and Lou Schulman.

  “But Jason didn't ever bring a black man with him? You're sure?”

  “I am sure,” she said, her black hair swinging. “No black men there, only white and Chinese.”

  “And how much money was Jason supposed to deliver to your uncle?”

  “Many thousands of dollars.”

  My informant was getting restless, and I was close to giving up, when one last question occurred to me. “How did Jason get so much money, anyway? Why was he suddenly able to pay back the loan?”

  This sparked more of a response. “Jase was very smart! He had investments.”

  “Investments in what?” The stock market had been moribund for months.

  Another frown, as Li Ping groped for the words. “High . . . technology. Big investment in high tech, he told me. He would be wealthy, and we would marry.” Her eyes went dreamy, and then—I could actually see it happening—she dragged herself back to the cold, comfortless present. “I must shop for my uncle. I must go back.”

  She drew herself erect, and unfolded a slip of paper covered in Chinese characters. The top of her dark head didn't even reach my shoulder, but she was tapping some kind of inner strength, strength that would take her back home to China, and away from the memory of Jason Kraye.

  Touched by her courage, I pulled out a Made in Heaven card and pressed it into her hand. “Listen, if you have any problems with your uncle, or if you just need someone to talk to, you can call me, all right?”

  She pocketed the card without looking at it, and turned away without another word. As I watched her go, my cell phone sounded. I answered on autopilot, my thoughts all on Li Ping and her journey, but the caller got my attention fast enough.

  “Carnegie, are you going to condescend to come to work today or not? It's like Grand Central Station around here!” Eddie sounded nearly unglued. My partner is not a people person, and working in Joe's busy establishment was getting on his nerves.

  “Take it easy, Eddie. What's going on?”

  “Every damn thing you can think of. I got Ivy Tyler raising hell, something about a confidential situation showing up in the newspaper. The Sanjek kid and his new best man, fellow named Schulman, are on their way over and they want some box from the bachelor party, but I don't see any damn box. And then this girl shows up without an appointment and wants a new-client pitch from you personally. Won't even talk to me.”

  Clever girl, I thought, as I hurried out of Uwajimaya and down the block toward Vanna. “Ask Joe to make nice to the bride, down in the tasting room, give her a glass of wine, whatever. I'll deal with Frank when he gets there. Meanwhile, put Ivy in my office. She'll cool off.”

  He snorted. “Fat chance.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHEN I WAS A KID MY MOTHER, AT HEART A GENTLE SOUL, would sometimes lose it. If my father had been out to sea for months, and my brother and I were raising more than our share of Cain, she would sometimes round on us with a fierce eye and a tight mouth and snap, “Just stop it, both of you! I Am In No Mood.”

  That's how I felt when I got back to Solveto's and faced Ivy Tyler. On the one hand I'd seen a brokenhearted Li Ping, her suitor slain and her dreams despoiled, trudge off into her lonely future. On the other I saw a beautifully groomed multimillionaire fulminating in my office, accusing me of leaking her secret deal to The Seattle Times. This on top of the fact that my best friend wasn't speaking to me and the man I—well, the man I liked a lot—was not only married but was now off somewhere consoling the lovely and talented Madison Jaffee, was just too much.

  I was in No Mood.

  “It must have been you!” said Ivy. Her throat was mottled red above the cowl of a lush white cashmere sweater. “I told you to be discreet out at Habitat, and then someone saw you dining at Etta's with Kevin Bauer, for God's sake!”

  “My dinner with Kevin is in the Times?”

  “Of course not. But this is, and I want to know how it got there!”

  She slapped the business section on my desk, and I glanced at the headline: “MFC Gulping Down Habitat? Ivy Tyler Won't Rule Out Holiday Layoffs.” Then I looked up at my accuser with a fierce eye and a tight mouth.

  “Sit down! Right now.”

  It wasn't the response she expected; fear and trembling would be more like it. But she dropped into a chair, looking startled by my tone, and maybe by her own outburst. Maybe playing coffee mogul and mother of the bride simultaneously was getting to be a bit much, even for her. I sat behind my desk and took a deep breath.

  “My professional reputation is of the utmost importance to me.” I measured out the words, quiet but emphatic. “Betraying the privacy of my clients would destroy my reputation. Ivy, you and I have been working together for months, and I'd like to think we've become friends. Now either you trust me or you don't. Which is it?”

  Ivy began to bluster, but she ran out of steam almost immediately. “We've kept a lid on the merger all this time, and when I heard you were out with Kevin, naturally I thought . . .”

  “Which is it?”

  A pause, but only a brief one. “I trust you. Of course I trust you. I just hate being blindsided . . . and things have been difficult lately.” She slumped in her chair, massaging her temple with the fingertips of one hand, suddenly looking her age.

  “I live in a fishbowl, Carnegie. The success of MFC depends far too much on my personal image. Rags to riches, the mom who made good, America's hostess. This story makes me out as a coldhearted bitch, when all I'm doing is behaving like any normal CEO. Male CEO. But that's my problem, not yours. I apologize.”

  “Accepted.” I opened my calendar, trying to hide my relief that she hadn't fired me on the spot. “So where does that leave us? For whatever reason, the merger isn't secret anymore. Do you still want a January press conference at the Habitat plant?”

  She shook her head in resignation. “The whole thing will be old news by then. I've lost control of the story.”

  “Then take it back!” I had a sudden bright idea, the kind that goes straight from my imagination to my mouth without due diligence on the part of my brain. “Habitat's Christmas party is Saturday. Why not make the official announcement then, with a big show of holiday cheer and an assurance that everybody's job is safe? That would make a terrific image. You could pick up the tab for the party, bring in some fancier food and drink, and invite a couple of reporters.”

  “Wait a minute, who said all the jobs are safe? Layoffs don't look necessary at this point, but I like to keep my options open.”

  I took an even bigger chance then, and stepped right over the wedding planner line. “Ivy, your options are these people's livelihoods. You know what the job market is like right now. The Habitat employees are one big family. If you want to make this look like a change for the better, then firing family members at Christmas, or even leaving them in limbo, isn't exactly the way—”

  “All right, already, we
'll have a party!” She was laughing at me now, but fondly. “Kevin must have swept you off your feet. And here I thought you and Aaron had some potential. Which one sent the roses?”

  “Neither,” I said, scribbling furiously to cover my blush. “It's just, um, floral samples. From a colleague. OK, once you get the go-ahead from Kevin about the party, I'll contact whoever's planning it . . . probably Fiona . . . let's see, music, beverages, food . . . Joe can put antipasti together on short notice . . . oh, hell!” I'd forgotten that Joe was downstairs in his tasting room, baby-sitting a bride. “Ivy, I've got a prospective client waiting for me. Can we go over this tonight at the apartment?”

  “Of course.” Mention of the apartment raised the specter of last night's intruder, for both of us, and Ivy's brow furrowed in concern. “Carnegie, I should have asked right away, are you sure you're not hurt? My secretary said you weren't, but getting bowled over in the dark like that must have been so upsetting.”

  “I wouldn't care to repeat the experience,” I said ruefully. “But I'm perfectly OK.”

  “Thank God. I had new locks put in this afternoon, and the Market management is beefing up security. Still, I'll understand if you don't want to stay.”

  The thought of moving once again was more than I could bear. “I'll be fine. I should have my houseboat back soon, but meanwhile, if it doesn't inconvenience you, I really appreciate having somewhere so nice to hang out.”

  “That's the spirit. Here's a key for you, then.” Ivy rose and took the key from her purse, a designer item costing more than everything now on my body. “It's no inconvenience in the least. I'm spending most nights in Snohomish anyway. You go tend to your new bride, and I'll see you this evening before I drive home. Don't forget, my dinner party for the Sanjeks is tomorrow night. Come early.”

  Of course, she should have been apologizing again, instead of issuing instructions. But people like Ivy, self-made successes, rarely apologize the first time. I shrugged it off, grabbed some new-bride paperwork, and headed down the back stairs.

  Solveto's tasting room was a smaller version of those you see in wineries: a pleasant, hospitable space on the ground floor of the building. Joe had conceived it as an elegant mini-restaurant, complete with two-burner stove, warming oven, and a walk-in cooler in one corner. The cooler was an old one Joe had salvaged and installed as an afterthought, but even then he'd had it paneled in tongue-and-groove white cedar to match the rest of the room. Tall French windows faced the Ship Canal, a doorway opened to the sidewalk, and a staff-only inside passage led through from the back stairs and the kitchens. At the long bar or the scattered tables, clients could sample a new entree, compare various wines, or just review their menus and contracts.