May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  The new bride seemed quite at home, perched at a table in the soft, warm lamplight that was artfully calculated to stimulate the appetite. Joe himself was emerging from the cooler as I entered, with a split of champagne and a small plate of what I recognized as Alonzo's best appetizers. I owe you one, Joe.

  As he presented these goodies, I did a quick scan of my visitor: tall, blonde, model-thin and model-pretty, with expensive clothes and—even more expensive—bionic breasts. Her left hand bore a diamond ring the size of a compact car. I owe you big.

  “Carnegie, this is Andrea. I'll leave you two to talk.” Joe poured our bubbly, and gave Andrea a smile that conveyed his infinite regret at parting. Joe was good.

  “So nice to meet you,” I said. “What a gorgeous ring . . .”

  First consultations with brides are my favorite part of the job. But with so much else happening today, I wasn't at the top of my form. Fortunately, my visitor took the lead, asking about my qualifications and methods in some detail. That was fine with me; I gave her the rundown about Made in Heaven, and showed her my “look book” of happy couples, splendid receptions, and glowing letters of gratitude from various brides and their mothers.

  “Very impressive,” said Andrea coolly. “You must be one of the most successful wedding planners in the area.”

  I made a diplomatic reply—arrogance tempts the gods—and put forth questions of my own. These fell into various categories, beginning with the basics: budget, preferred type of venue, possible length of the guest list, and whether a date was already selected.

  Andrea had those down cold: she wanted a wedding weekend for two hundred people sometime next autumn, with a church ceremony, a formal dinner, and various subsidiary events. The budget was—sweet music to my ears—open-ended. That would satisfy even Eddie, I thought. Maybe we could finally upgrade our computer system.

  “We'd need to start looking at locations soon, to get the best choice,” I told her, “but since you're flexible about the exact date, I'm sure we could come up with something wonderful.”

  I sketched out my fee structure and showed her an outline of the general planning process. I also presented a breakdown of my services, from interviewing vendors to adjusting her veil to depositing her relatives back at the airport. If she hired me and Eddie, the buildup to Andrea's special day would be a major part of our working year.

  “Let's do it,” she said. Rather casually, considering she'd just met me.

  “Wonderful! I'll draw up a letter of agreement for us to sign.”

  She nodded and sipped her wine. “So, what colors do you think for the bridesmaids' dresses?”

  “Well, before we get that specific, let's daydream a little.” I personally was daydreaming of my bank balance, but that's not what I meant. “Tell me off the top of your head, if you could spend a day and night exactly as you wanted, anywhere in the world, what would it be like?”

  She frowned prettily. “What's that got to do with the wedding?”

  “It's a way for me to get a sense of your personal style. Also, it helps you to step back from your preconceptions about weddings, and think about the things that are really meaningful and joyful to you. Then we try to incorporate some of those elements into your wedding. I always ask my brides about their favorite books and movies, landscapes that speak to them, periods of history they find intriguing, things like that.”

  “Oh.” She seemed nonplussed. “I thought we could talk about dresses.”

  “We can, of course. It's just that—excuse me just a minute, would you?”

  Kelli was in the doorway, beckoning wildly. She drew me out into the hall and whispered, “You better come upstairs!”

  “Can't you see I'm with a client?”

  “I know, but does Eddie have high blood pressure?”

  “What?”

  “Because he's yelling at Filipo and turning kind of purple, so I wondered—”

  “I'll be there in one minute. Go.”

  I made a smooth apology to Andrea and charged back up the stairs two at a time. Eddie and the prep cook were squared off in the reception area, steam issuing from all four ears. My partner was purple, all right. He was used to peace and quiet when he worked, and Solveto's offered neither. Especially today.

  “He calls me thief!” Filipo appealed to me, his Latin melodrama at full throttle. “Carnegie, defend me to this man!”

  “Hang on, would you? Eddie, what's happening? Make it quick, I've got a bride downstairs.”

  “Well, you've got a groom up here,” Eddie retorted, hooking a thumb toward my office, “and he's asking for the box of gifts left behind at the Hot Spot after his bachelor party. Kelli says this character here stole it.”

  “Borrowed!” said the cook, his hands swooping through the air like distressed Venezuelan birds. “I see the sexy things in the box so I borrow it, for a small joke on mi amigo Alonzo.”

  “Never mind about the joke,” I said sternly. “Where's the box?”

  He shifted guiltily. “At Alonzo's apartment. I arrange a few things, you see, and when his girlfriend come home she will be mad at him. Very funny!”

  I closed my eyes. I'll rent, I thought, exasperated almost to tears. If Eddie and I don't get back in the houseboat soon, I'm going to rent an apartment and an office both. This is intolerable.

  “No, Filipo, it's not funny at all,” I said. “The things in that box are private property, and you took them without permission, which is called theft. I want you to go to Alonzo's right this minute and bring everything back.”

  “But I am cooking—”

  “Now, Filipo. I'll fix it with Joe. Now!”

  He made his exit, still gesticulating, and I entered my office to deal with Frank. The young bridegroom seemed calm enough, even a little embarrassed about the fuss. But Lou Schulman was distinctly ill at ease, pacing the few steps back and forth that my quarters allowed, flexing his meaty hands and blinking his small, dull eyes. I remembered what Fiona said about him: a genius with software, clueless with life in general. Some best man.

  “Hi, guys,” I said in a breezy, no-big-deal voice. “Frank, your party gifts were . . . misplaced, but we'll have them back shortly. Sorry about the delay.”

  “No prob,” he said. “I guess you heard about Lou being best man now.”

  “Indeed, I did. Welcome to the wedding party.” I extended my right hand, but Lou caught up my left one instead.

  “Is your cut OK? I'm really sorry.”

  “It's fine!” I said, disguising a wince of pain. I'd replaced the large bandage with some small adhesive strips. The gash was healing, but still tender.

  “I want to make it up to you,” he said. “I'll take you out to dinner tomorrow night, OK?”

  “Not necessary, really.” I proceeded quickly, torn between curiosity about these gambling buddies of the late lamented Jason, and eagerness to return to the well-diamonded Andrea. “Besides, tomorrow night is the rehearsal dinner at Ivy's house in Snohomish. Do you need a map?”

  Lou favored me with an insinuating smirk. “Are you going to it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “I'll drive then, and you can give directions. I've got a brand new Porsche. A 911 Turbo.”

  He offered this thrilling news with a leer, and I realized that Mr. Garlic was hoping for a replay of the bachelor party incident. Only without the slap. Right, bucko, the minute hell emerges from its next ice age.

  “Thanks anyway. Here's the map, and I'll get you the tuxedo rental form, and the schedule—”

  “You can take me and Sally,” said Frank. “You said I could drive the Porsche sometime, and she can fill you in on the wedding stuff.”

  Lou nodded sourly, and I changed the subject. “Frank, can I ask you something about Jason?”

  “Sure.” His eyes were guileless.

  “Did you ever go gambling with him? Either of you?”

  For a single suspended moment, the room fell silent. I could hear the click-clicking of
Kelli's keyboard out in reception, and the flat blast of an air horn from the Ship Canal, as some pleasure boat requested passage under the Fremont Drawbridge. Then both men spoke at once.

  “No!” said Lou.

  “Sometimes,” said Frank.

  The groom gave his best man a puzzled look, then I heard a quick intake of breath as he read the unspoken message on Lou's face.

  “Sometimes,” Frank amended, “but a long time ago. Not anytime recently. Um, we'd better go now.”

  “What about your box of gifts?”

  “Could you just bring it tomorrow night? Only, um, maybe you could—”

  “Put a lid on it, so no one sees what's inside?”

  He nodded thankfully, and they hustled out of Solveto's. I left the elevator to them and clattered down the back stairs, pondering several new questions. Frank Sanjek was the world's worst liar, but why lie about gambling with Jason? And was Lou just anxious about his role as best man, or had something else been preying on him?

  I stopped at the tasting room door to catch my breath and switch my brain to wedding mode. But the questions lingered. Why hadn't Frank, or Lou either, asked the reason for my probing into Jason's gambling? Why not tell me to mind my own business? Then I pushed open the door and another question arose.

  Where the hell was Andrea?

  Her coat was gone, her wineglass stood empty, and a ballpoint scrawl on the paper napkin beneath the glass said only, “Had to run. I'll call you.”

  My lucrative new client, no, my lucrative new potential client, had vanished. And I, too mired in Jason's death to truly mind my own business, didn't have a letter of agreement from her. In fact, I didn't even know her last name.

  Chapter Nineteen

  AFTER THE ANDREA FIASCO, I HAD A BLESSEDLY QUIET NIGHT IN Ivy's guest bed, and then I swore to spend all day Friday hard at work. My own work—like placing reminder phone calls to Bonnie Buckmeister's vendors, and arranging all the embellishments to the Habitat Christmas party. Kevin Bauer had agreed to an early announcement of the merger, Ivy's secretary Jenna had told me, so I should go ahead and shoot the works. Money was no object. I love it when money is no object.

  I made a good start on both projects, even though my partner had gone AWOL. When I got to my borrowed desk Friday morning, I'd had a message from Eddie, couched in his own inimitable style.

  “Look, sister, I'm not getting a damn thing done around there, so I'm taking some time off, at least a week. You know where the files are, and you can call me if you need to.” A pause as he began to hang up, and then a postscript: “I might not answer, though. Merry Christmas, anyway.”

  His bailout was annoying, but not entirely unreasonable. Eddie's half-time work for me often stretched to full-time, while his paychecks—when he agreed to cash them—didn't stretch at all. He was never sick, as a matter of principle, and he'd taken a vacation maybe twice in the three years of Made in Heaven's history.

  Well, I could handle the Habitat party on my own, and his behind-the-scenes work on Tyler/Sanjek and Buckmeister/Frost was all done. Still, I'd miss his grumpy company. I'd thought about inviting him out to Christmas dinner. I sure wouldn't be welcome at Lily's house.

  Maybe by next week, I thought, erasing the message, I can welcome Eddie back to the houseboat and then take some time off myself. We'll get Andrea's wedding on the calendar, then I'll take a day trip with Kevin . . .

  But I set aside that agreeable thought. Better not jinx it by getting ahead of myself; better to see how things went at the Habitat party first. Feeling virtuous and resolute, I plowed into my phone calls, and when I received a call from Aaron, eager to compare notes, I put him off until lunch and kept working.

  “I don't have much time,” I told him, over the same table at the Fisherman's Daughter where we'd had breakfast two days before. We even had the same waitress, a stark brunette with Unemployed Actress written all over her. She gave Aaron a sultry, welcome-back smile, though she seemed to have forgotten me entirely. Funny about that.

  I was still debating whether to tell Aaron about Li Ping. He was a newshound, after all, despite his current role as author, and I was afraid he'd insist on following that particular trail, with disastrous results for the girl. I put off the decision by asking about his calls to the other bachelor-party guests.

  “Not much luck,” he told me. “The guys who were sober enough to remember had the same impression I did, that the atmosphere was rowdy but not dangerous.”

  “Did you talk to Lou Schulman?”

  He flipped through his notes. “Let's see . . . left the same time as some other guys, drove home alone, didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Apparently, no one saw Kraye's scuffle with Darwin except you. Frank doesn't remember it. Too busy puking.”

  “So the police are still fixated on Darwin?”

  “Yeah. Mike Graham is doing what he can. He's got a search going for Darwin's discarded clothes. Of course, the killer wasn't necessarily splashed with blood, but finding the clothes without blood on them would at least support his story.”

  “Darwin still can't remember where he drove on Sunday night?”

  He shook his head. “Complete alcohol blackout. Mike's got people showing Dar's picture around, and also a picture of his car. So far, no luck.”

  “Aaron, have you talked to Lily? How's she holding up?”

  “Not well. She's gone back to work, and of course the boys are a distraction, but it's going to be a lousy Christmas.” He sighed, and then got back to business. “What makes you zero in on Schulman? The fact that he groped you once?”

  “He doesn't want to stop at once. Yesterday he offered me a ride in his Porsche.”

  “So, did that make you go all weak at the knees? I'd better start saving up.” Aaron drove a banana-yellow Volkswagen Bug with an extensive collection of rust spots.

  “Very funny. But listen, I asked Frank and Lou straight out if they ever gambled with Jason. Frank's such a Boy Scout that he started to say yes, but then Lou gave him the sign and he switched to no. They were obviously lying!”

  “Obvious to you is one thing,” said Aaron. “Conclusively proved is another. And besides, a casual game of cards here and there doesn't mean much.”

  “I wouldn't call thousands of dollars ‘casual.' ”

  Oops. His tuna sandwich stopped in midair.

  “Who says they were playing for thousands of dollars?”

  “Never mind. I don't want her involved.”

  “Her? Madison? She would have told me . . .” His eyebrows rose. Aaron was very, very quick on the uptake. “The little waitress! The one who dumped lunch on you. I thought you looked secretive when you came back from the rest room. Was she pouring the Tsing Tao at these card games?”

  “What's Tsing Tao?”

  “Chinese beer. Quit stalling. Was she?”

  I bit my lip. “It's more than that. She was in love with Jason.”

  Aaron put the sandwich down in disgust. “What is it with these women, that they'd fall for a slimy type like him? I can understand the girl, she must be, what, nineteen? But Maddie's an alpha female if I ever saw one.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, look at her! She's beautiful, she's sophisticated, she's got a hotshot job, why would she bother with Jason Kraye?”

  “I can't imagine.” I was shooting for a tone of utter indifference, but apparently I missed.

  “Hold the phone, Stretch, is that jealousy I'm hearing?” Aaron left off theorizing to peer at me, his chocolate-brown eyes full of amusement. Very irritating amusement. “Because if you care enough to be jealous, then there's hope for me yet, and I don't need a Porsche. You're saving me a bundle here!”

  “Oh, shut up. I agree with you, Madison's extremely attractive—”

  “Yes, she is.” He reached over and brushed the back of my hand. Just once, but the sensation seemed to linger. “She's also in mourning. Carnegie, Madison's boyfriend just died. I don't think they were soul mates, from the way sh
e's acting, but it must have been traumatic. I would hardly come on to her at a time like this, OK?”

  I reached for my bag and fussed around paying the check. There were any number of things I could have said at this point, like “Does that mean you'd come on to her at some other time?” and “What's it to me anyway?” and oh, all kinds of sensible things like that. Instead, once the busboy was out of earshot, I just muttered, “OK.”

  “Now,” said Aaron, sitting back and slapping the table. “Let's get Noble Pearl on the phone.”

  But a conversation with the gum-chewing son told us we were too late. Yes, Li Ping used to work there, but no, not anymore. Li Ping had returned to Hong Kong. A phone number? No, they didn't have a phone number for Li Ping. She planned to go traveling for a while, somewhere in China. No itinerary, no forwarding address. No deal.

  I was remorseful. “I should have told you right away, and Mike Graham, too. But I just couldn't. She was so young, Aaron, and so brokenhearted.”

  He touched my hand again, and this time I began to turn my palm up to meet his. But he'd already withdrawn it, to get out his notebook, and I got hold of myself, instead. No doubt he held hands with his wife, too.

  “Don't beat yourself up,” he was saying. “I might have done the same thing. Just tell me exactly what she said.”

  “All right, but then I really have to get back to work.” I related my conversation with Li Ping, word for word where I could. It was little enough, except for the bit about investments.