“Kevin's talked a lot about you. I mean, about your career.”
“And did he tell you that my career is over?” His entire arm twitched this time, and he imprisoned one hand in the other, to still it. “My body is proving quite disloyal.”
“I'm sorry,” I said, matching his bluntness with my own. “It must be very hard.”
Tyler looked around. Sally and Frank were just entering from a side door—I could have sworn their clothes were disheveled—and the other guests gathered around them. The group moved away, everyone talking merrily and refreshing their glasses at the handsome drinks cabinet across the room. The hiss and crackle of the fire lent the two of us a sense of privacy.
“It's hellish,” he said softly, and stared into the flames, his onyx eyes gleaming. Then he sat up straighter. “But my girls take excellent care of me. You'll help me get through my daughter's wedding, won't you? I'm really quite sound for the moment.”
“Of course I will!” Respect, not pity, was called for here. “Please let me know about anything you need, anything that will make you more comfortable. A wheelchair? . . .”
“I have one, my dear, though I rarely need it.” Tyler's smile was youthful as well, a charismatic smile. “Now, now, don't look so stricken! In truth, my doctors are adamant that I get my exercise. I drive myself to a park by the river almost every day, and take my constitutional. Ivy confers with my doctors constantly, you know, and enforces their edicts to the letter. Exercise and a battery of medications, to assist my equilibrium and coordination. Though I draw the line at ‘counseling.' ” He gave a comic shudder of distaste. “I always tell her, I keep my own counsel, thank you very much. But she harries me out of love, I know.”
This was happier ground. “Ivy seems devoted to you.”
“And I to her, young lady, and I to her. After all these years, we would do anything for each other. I wish you the same good fortune with Mr. Bauer.” The devilish note was back in his voice. “If he's your eventual choice, that is. Your dress suggests, how shall I put it, that you're keeping your options open?”
Blushing hotly, I said, “All right, Mr. Tyler, no wheelchair. What can I do to help?”
“Charles,” he said. “Just have an ordinary chair nearby at the ceremony, in case I need to sit. And if you would, a spare dress shirt somewhere at hand at the dinner. I occasionally spill something.”
The valiant dignity of the man had me almost in tears, so that Ivy's brisk announcement came as a relief.
“Into the kitchen, everyone. Andy's ready for us.”
The mansion's original Victorian kitchen was long gone, but the marvelously modern new space held all of us easily. We found our seats, guided by place cards of handmade rice paper: Frank and Sally at the far table with Lou, then Ivy between Frances and Eric, then Charles and Kevin at a table by themselves, as promised. I had Erica and Brittany on either hand, and a good view of the whole party.
Once we were settled, Eleanor brought cups of warm sake to each orchid-bedecked table. Then Andy delivered a lively commentary on the art and science of sushi, all the while slicing, rolling, and forming his creations. It made quite a show, just as Ivy and I had planned. And the food was amazing, even the mystery fish.
Sally, a raging fiend of perfectionism about her wedding and reception, had left this dinner entirely to her mother and me. Even now she seemed oblivious, absorbed as she was in conspiratorial and apparently hilarious murmurings with Frank. You expect some of that from an engaged couple, but this was bordering on insolence.
Lou, on Frank's other side, was left with nothing to do but stare across the kitchen at me, and tell the occasional heavy-handed joke to the group at large. After he'd favored us with a gem about an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scot who—what a surprise—go into a bar, he pressed his advantage. “So this rabbi goes to visit the Pope—”
“I believe we've heard that one,” said Charles in a loud, quelling tone. Lou subsided, but Charles continued to eye him with cold dislike throughout the evening. An old-fashioned gentleman, especially one who had to reserve his strength for special occasions like this, couldn't be expected to suffer fools like Lou gladly.
Ivy, meanwhile, was trying to drag her daughter back into the social circle. “Sally . . . Sally . . . I was just telling the Sanjeks about the wedding supper. What's that steak the Dahlia Lounge is so famous for?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Sally looked vaguely annoyed, and returned to her tête-à-tête.
Happily, the conversation grew general at that point. As we nibbled on Andy's delicacies and chatted about restaurants, I actually began to relax. But not for long. When Frank's sister left the stool beside me, to take some family snapshots, the seat was quickly occupied by Lou Schulman, plate in hand.
Showtime. I knocked back my sake, took a bite of tuna roll, and asked Lou to explain what made the 911 Turbo so darn special. Greater love hath no woman than to lay down her evening for her best friend's brother.
As long as Lou didn't want me to lay down anything else. He kept edging his stool closer to mine and urging me to try some of his flying fish roe. Kevin frowned at us over his shoulder, then turned all his attention to Charles, who had launched into an anecdote about the London Philharmonic.
I'll explain later. I projected the thought at the back of Kevin's handsome russet head. Just give me the benefit of the doubt for another twenty minutes. . . .
It took far less than twenty minutes to get Lou talking about his dot-com experience. The abundance of sake on the table, and the scarcity of fabric on my dress, did the trick in five.
“Dark Canyons,” he slurred at me. “Darkcanyons-dot-com. You heard of it, right?”
“N-no, I can't say I have. What did you sell?”
“Not selling,” he said with disdain. “Leveraging. Leveraging connectivity to, uh, optimize vertical marketing channels. Or something. Jase made up all the bullshit like that.”
“You worked with Jason Kraye, then?”
“Yeah, so what?”
I backpedaled. “So, nothing. What does that mean, exactly, leveraging connectivity?”
He grinned slyly. “We made pop-up ads. It was so cool, because if you program them right, they keep coming up on the screen even if the target computer has lockouts. See, this is how it works. . . .”
As Lou was explaining the coolness of it all, Andy set down his knives with a final flourish and bowed to our applause. Then he came forward to be personally introduced to Eric and Frances, the guests of honor, who plied him with eager questions. Ivy, I could see, was glowing over her success as a hostess.
“. . . so either way, they've got to read the ads! Smart, huh?”
I know little enough about Internet technology, but I know what I hate, and that's pop-up ads. Still, I wasn't wearing this purple number for nothing. I leaned close and dropped a hand on Lou's arm.
“Very smart!” I said. Softly, so maybe Kevin wouldn't hear. “So, do you invest much in tech stocks, since you're such an expert?”
“Nah. Stock market's for suckers. When I make money, I like to drink it or drive it.”
Ivy was leading the guests back into the living room, but I stayed in my seat. “You must have made a lot of money at Dark Canyons, then.”
“I did OK.” Lou leaned forward and ran a hand up my bare arm to my shoulder. “I'm doing better now. In fact, I guess you could say I'm investing in technology.”
“Really!” There was a revelation coming, I could feel it. “I'd love to hear—”
“Excuse me.” Ivy, damn her, spoke coldly from the doorway, and Lou's face closed down. She gave him a venomous look—jeez, his jokes weren't that bad—and then addressed herself to me. “Carnegie, if you're not too terribly busy, could you get your butt in here and help me serve the green-tea sorbet?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE GREEN-TEA SORBET WAS A BIG HIT, BUT I REMAINED IN THE doghouse with Ivy. I had company, too; over dessert by the fireplace, Ivy became more an
d more exasperated with her errant daughter. But the more she bristled, the more Sally acted up, giggling uncontrollably and repeatedly trying to unbutton her fiancé's shirt. At least Frank had the grace to look embarrassed when Ivy snapped at him. She even snapped at Charles once, when an anecdote went on too long for her taste.
Well, I'd seen worse behavior in the run-up to weddings, and poor Ivy had a wedding and a merger colliding on her calendar. So I did my best to make the remainder of the party a success, drawing everyone into the conversation and answering questions about the plans for New Year's Eve. Unfortunately, this meant neglecting Lou for a while. I was impatient to hear more about his financial dealings—if I hadn't lost the moment for good.
“Would you all like a tour of the house?” asked Charles after a time, setting down his glass. “Come, my dear, let's show these people our little castle.”
We all went with him eagerly, Andy Mikami included. Charles walked well enough, and our admiration of the grand rooms seemed to please him. We saw the library, and the enclosed terrace looking out to the lake, invisible now in the winter darkness.
We were on our way to the conservatory when I noticed uneasily that Sally was missing. I dropped back, and found the petulant princess in the living room, standing by the fire. As she jabbed at the flames with a long antique poker, I took the opportunity for some gentle diplomacy.
“Sally, I think your mother needs you to be a little more involved with the guests tonight.”
“What?” She peered at me, her milky skin flushed and her pale eyes glassy.
“Are you all right?”
She smiled slowly, seraphically, and I realized with a sinking heart that my bride was more than all right. She was stoned out of her gourd.
“I'm just wonderful,” she said, dropping the sooty tip of the poker to the floor and letting it drag along the carpet. “I am won-derfully won-derful. Hey, where's Frankie?”
“Frankie will be back in a minute.” I removed the poker from her limp fingers and restored it to its place. “Why don't you come with me to the kitchen and we'll get you some coffee? Come on, that's a girl . . .”
She came with me, docile enough for now, and perched on a stool with her pretty little heart-shaped face propped in her hands. I almost liked Sally better this way; at least she wasn't sniping at me.
Eleanor poked her head in, but I waved her away. Then I got out two cups and brewed a French press of MFC's finest. If I can just send her home before she does anything outrageous . . . and if Frank is high, too, I'll drive them both myself . . .
“Dammit, Carnegie, you keep disappearing—Sally! What the hell is wrong with you tonight?” Ivy entered the kitchen and bore down on us with blood in her eye. “I've been cutting you slack for months now, but this is too much.”
Then the pot perfume reached her and she stopped dead.
“There's nothing wrong,” Sally began, but her words trailed away as Ivy erupted.
“Not again! You are the most thoughtless, inconsiderate . . . Do you have any idea how upsetting it would be for Charles, to have some kind of scandal in the family? I'm a public figure, Sally, do you know what that means? I told you after the staff party, for someone in my position to have illegal drugs on the premises is just begging for trouble!”
“Oh, screw your position,” the girl muttered.
I quit edging my way out of the room. Better stay and prevent domestic violence.
“Young lady, my reputation pays for the clothes on your back, and every room in this house, and every goddamn dollar of your very expensive wedding, and if you can't show some common sense and some discretion, you can pay for it yourself!”
“Discretion?” said Sally, goaded out of her lethargy. “Oh, like you're so discreet, with your little hideaway in the Market. People at the company talk about that, you know, Frank told me. Half the time when I call you there, Simon Weeks answers. What's up with that? What if Charles called?”
Ivy caught her breath in a startled gasp. Then she laughed, a little wildly. “Charles knows perfectly well why I need that apartment, and he knows I sometimes meet with Simon there.”
And with Kevin Bauer, and with Aaron, too, I thought. The girl's being absurd. Or is she? I'd found Simon quite attractive myself. He and Ivy were two vigorous, ambitious people who spent a lot of time together. And Charles was older, almost an invalid . . .
“You let me take care of my own affairs,” Ivy continued, regaining command of the situation. “You concentrate on behaving yourself. You have no idea what kind of scrutiny I'm under right now. If I catch one whiff of this on you at Habitat tomorrow night, I'll cancel the wedding, I swear I will.”
Sally jutted her lower lip. “Frank and I aren't going tomorrow night. It sounds like a big bore.”
Ivy strode around the table then—it was as though I'd become invisible—and put her face very close to her daughter's.
“You will both be there.” She bit off each word. “You will speak cheerfully to the reporters, and smile for the cameras, and do nothing, nothing, to harm my reputation. Is that clear?”
A dangerous pause, and then Sally nodded, her blonde hair swinging. “Whatever.”
“You're damn right, whatever. Now, Carnegie, let's get these people on their way.” She looked back at her daughter, clearly having the same thought I had, about Frank's possible condition. “These two will stay here tonight.”
The party had begun to break up, with handshakes and hugs and Eleanor bringing coats. Ivy and I pasted on smiles and did our duty. Lou and Andy had already left, but I showed Brittany and Erica out, enjoying their lighthearted chatter after the drama in the kitchen.
As I closed the door behind the girls and turned back to the hallway, I saw Kevin standing by the Victorian Christmas tree. He looked old-fashioned himself, in his beard and his top coat. Old-fashioned and solid, a serious man.
“Can I talk with you a minute?” His face was impassive, but he had a pair of leather gloves in one hand and he kept slapping them softly against the palm of the other. Nervous? Annoyed with me?
“Of course, Kevin.” With Lou gone anyway, I could please myself. “I'm sorry we haven't had much time tonight—”
He lifted a hand. “Carnegie, this is awkward, but . . . are you involved with Lou Schulman? I know it's none of my business, we've only been out once, but I am his boss, and—”
“No!” I blurted. “No, unh-unh, absolutely not! It's just . . .”
Just what? How could I explain my behavior without divulging my suspicions about Lou? Kevin was looking at me quizzically. He really did have the handsomest eyes. I took a deep breath, and took the plunge. Aaron wouldn't approve, but to hell with Aaron.
“Kevin, can I tell you something and ask you not to repeat it, not to anyone? Because I might be completely wrong about this.”
“Of course I won't repeat it. Wrong about what?”
“About Lou. I think he might know something about Jason Kraye's death.”
Kevin's gloves dropped to the floor, and he bent to retrieve them. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, I think they knew each other better than Lou lets on, and they might even have had some investment scheme going on. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to find out. Well, me and some other people.”
I told him briefly about Lily, and how this reporter friend and I were trying to clear Darwin. I didn't mention Madison or Li Ping, and I sure as hell didn't go into my strange situations vis-à-vis Aaron Gold.
“I might talk with Lou again tomorrow night, but all I'm looking for is information, not . . . not anything else. OK?”
He frowned. “Shouldn't the police—”
“Anything I find out I'll take straight to the police, believe me. They just need a little help with this part.”
He shook his head. “You're amazing. So you're still my date for the party?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, because this nice little wine bar just opened in Snohomish, and I'
d like to take you there.”
And I'd like to be taken, I almost said, and then rephrased it. “Sounds great.”
We might have kissed then—a good kiss, I could see it coming—but Eleanor appeared out of nowhere.
“Is this your scarf, sir?”
“No. I mean, yes.” He smiled at her. He had an excellent smile. “Thank you.”
Then, when she showed no signs of disappearing again, he murmured to me, “It's a nice private wine bar. Good night.”
Back in the living room, the host and hostess were at the fireplace, still conversing with the Sanjeks. Oh, good, the in-laws have connected. That was half the battle, sometimes. Frank had apparently been dispatched to deal with Sally in the kitchen.
I approached the foursome. “Ivy, is there anything else I can do?”
“You've done plenty already,” she retorted, but I realized with relief that she was teasing me. The storm had blown over. “Go on home and I'll talk with you tomorrow.”
Eric and Frances chimed in with their compliments on the dinner, and I made my farewells. Outside in the courtyard I ran into Andy Mikami, having a cigarette before he drove away. In the light from the front door, his white chef's jacket showed pale beneath his dark parka.
“My wife hates smoke in the car,” he explained.
“But she doesn't mind you smoking? I mean, the health issues?”
He shrugged. “It's my business, isn't it?”
“I guess it is.” That was certainly Aaron's attitude. But it still wasn't mine. “Andy, you did terrific work tonight. Thank you.”
“Thanks for the gig,” he said. “How's Joe doing these days?”
We went on talking shop for a few minutes, until the cold got to me. “I'm getting Popsicle toes, Andy. See you soon.”
I had to walk around a big SUV to get to Vanna, thinking as I did that the Sanjeks must have rented it for their visit. The rest of the courtyard was almost empty, and presumably Ivy kept her vehicles in a nice warm garage. But is that a Porsche over there under the trees? I thought Lou already—
May the Best Man Die Page 15
