And I couldn't tell you what else, because I was stupefied. First with dismay at his mumbling monotone, and then with boredom. Kevin Bauer was handsome and considerate and a straight-arrow guy, but as a public speaker he was an absolute and total snore. I noticed the Times reporter fidgeting, and the woman from the Journal-American examining her manicure with intense absorption.
Even the TV cameraman panned around the warehouse just for something to do, and I panned my gaze around as well. Over near the coats, out of earshot, Ivy was in quiet conversation with Simon Weeks. It was business, apparently; he had his cell phone out, and was alternating speaking into it and consulting with her. Then he ended the call, gave her a quick hug and a not-so-businesslike kiss on the cheek, and strode toward the exit.
Ivy returned to her seat; she had plenty of time, as the speech droned on—and on. The Habitat employees, sitting at the decorated tables or standing in groups with their plates of party food, simply rolled their eyes and smiled in a “That's our Kevin” sort of way. The Meet for Coffee people, mindful of their CEO's eye on them, sat quiet and polite and drained their drinks.
Eventually, finally, at long last, Kevin finished, to a minor ripple of applause and quite a few sighs of relief. Then Ivy took the stage and woke everybody up.
ChapterTwenty-Six
“CHANGE IS NEVER, NEVER EASY,” IVY DECLARED IN A RINGING voice, and let the words hang in the air. The crowd fell silent. “Change is damn hard. You have a great little company here, a good team, a terrific boss, and then some bigger company marches in and takes over. So you're wondering, What the hell is the new year going to bring for me? I'll tell you what . . .”
And she told them, in her own bold, blunt, and mercifully brief way, that MFC was going to take Habitat's shade-grown coffee and serve it all over the country, and that the country was going to love it, and that everybody who worked hard to make that happen was going to earn a barge-load of money. Then she strode off the stage in her chic red suit, and there was nothing dowdy about her.
How often do you see a standing ovation at a corporate function? The reporters crowded around, the TV camera closed in, and Ivy and Kevin posed for picture after picture, clasping hands with every appearance of good will to all. Ivy stole a moment to kiss her husband on his haggard cheek, but then had to return to her interviewers.
Meanwhile, Ivy's new and old employees mixed and mingled with a pretty good will of their own. The DJ cranked up the dance music, couples flocked to the floor, and soon the overall noise level had risen to an uproarious clamor. The professional side of me could relax; my event was a rousing success.
“Isn't Ivy phenomenal?”
Madison was at my shoulder, and Darwin had moved away. I caught a tantalizing hint of musky scent, and recognized her perfume as one of those brands where a quarter-ounce costs more than a car payment. We both hesitated; it seemed that we were tacitly agreeing not to discuss Jason's murder tonight. Not when we were both working, and socializing as well.
“‘Phenomenal' is the word,” I replied. We chatted a little about the speeches, then I asked, “How is Charles doing? This must be a strain for him.”
“Oh, he'll be OK,” said Madison, with the cruel indifference of the young and strong. “His wheelchair's in the car. Ivy fusses about him too much.”
“I doubt if Charles thinks so,” I said sharply, resenting her cavalier tone. I noted the cool gray luster of her pendant and bracelet; that was platinum, all right. Silver has a much warmer quality. Must be nice.
Madison seemed to sense my disapproval, because she changed the subject—to one that reminded me I was in her debt for all the marketing advice. Definitely an alpha female.
“I saw that good-looking Frenchman of yours in the paper, Carnegie, the one who put you down on television?”
“Beau Paliere.” I finished my cider. “What's he up to now?”
“Just doing the usual sort of interview, but he worked in that ‘beauty and perfection' line a couple of times. So you see what I mean about summing up your message and then repeating it . . . Hi, Frank.”
“Hey, Madison.” The bridegroom was looking a bit furtive. “Uh, Carnegie, you didn't happen to bring my stuff from the bachelor party?”
“Shoot, it's the one thing I forgot. I'm sorry, Frank.”
“No problem, I just didn't want Sally to, uh . . .”
“The box is safe in my office,” I reassured him. “Why don't I keep it there until you pick it up?”
“That would be great.” He nodded vigorously, then gazed around with ponderous nonchalance. “It's really interesting, seeing these guys' operation. Hey, is that Aaron?”
Madison craned to look. “Yes, but he's late. I hope he caught the speech.”
It took Aaron a few minutes to reach us through the crowd, which gave me time to compose myself. Of course he's here, for his book. No big deal.
Aaron wore another oxford cloth shirt, blue this time, with a burgundy tie and a salt-and-pepper herringbone jacket, along with his special accessory—a wide, teasing grin.
“Hi, Frank. Maddie, my dear, your boss should run for office. I'd vote for her twice.” He gave her a hug—warmer than necessary, in my opinion—and gave me a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Hiya, Slim. Quite a bash. Who wants to dance?”
“I'm pretty busy—” I began.
“Love to!” said Madison, her green eyes bright.
She smiled and moved toward the dance floor, while Frank left me in search of Sally. Aaron turned back and spoke quickly in my ear.
“Talked to Schulman yet?”
“Nine o'clock.”
“I'll catch you later, then. I've got some news.”
“Good or bad?”
“Not good. Be careful, Stretch.”
Then he had Madison Jaffee in his arms, swaying slowly, their dark-haired heads close, her blue dress brilliant against his gray jacket. They danced well together. I watched for a moment with a queer feeling in my stomach. I must be hungry, I told myself. That must be it. I turned away and collided with a sour-faced, tipsy-looking woman who seemed vaguely familiar.
“I'm sorry, uh . . .” Why don't people wear their damn name tags? She stared at me, not helping, as I tried to connect the dots. The marketing department . . . the wicked witch . . . “I'm sorry, Nora. Merry Christmas!” Then, flustered, I blurted out what was uppermost in my mind. “Madison's very pretty, isn't she?”
The secretary made a sarcastic noise in the back of her throat. “She buys pretty things. Like all that jewelry she's been wearing lately.”
“I suppose Madison's quite successful in her work,” I said demurely. “The company must pay her well.”
“Better'n they pay me, that's for sure. You should see the car she just bought, like James Bonds. James Bondses' car. Who does she think she is?”
Not tipsy. Drunk. Good thing Fiona had reserved some taxis for this event. My view of Aaron was blocked as more dancers joined in, Sally and Frank among them. I was pleased to see they were behaving themselves, as ordered. But not at all pleased with Nora's company.
“Ivy's speech was wonderful, don't you think?” I said, looking for a harmless topic.
“Hunh. Simon Weeks probably wrote it for her.” Nora leaned toward me and leered. Not a pretty sight. “He does everything else for her, if you know what I mean.”
Of course I feigned not to know what she meant, but inwardly I was fascinated. So, I'm not the only one speculating about Ivy and Simon being lovers. Looks like Sally was right, after all.
I didn't reply except for a bland smile, meanwhile telling myself sternly to quit speculating. While it might be Sally's business if her mother was having an affair, it was certainly none of mine. I wished Nora a Happy New Year—fat chance—and went off to look for Kevin.
I found him deep in conversation with Rudy at the panini bar. The topic was Charles Tyler, but the chef looked less than enthralled.
“And I saw his last performance, at the Kennedy Center,” Kev
in was saying. “It was heartbreaking. . . . Hi, Carnegie. It's going really well, don't you think?”
“Couldn't be better.” Behind us, the DJ put on a fast song with an irresistible backbeat. Tapping my foot to it, I said, “The acoustics are great in here.”
“Yes, I suppose they are. You see, Rudy, Charles wasn't just a conductor. His compositions are so innovative, but still so—”
Rudy had a customer at that point, and I couldn't restrain myself any longer. “Hey Kevin, come dance with me.”
“Oh, I don't dance.”
“But it's a party—”
His lips tightened in annoyance. “I said, I don't dance.”
“Sorry!”
He smiled and took my hand. “No, I'm the one who's sorry. Let's go sit somewhere and talk, all right? Maybe we could leave a little early—”
“Kevin Bauer, that's dereliction of duty!” Embarrassment made me extra-cheery, and the contrite look on his handsome face made me think, Dancing isn't everything, after all. “We're both here until the bitter end. In fact, right now I'd better get back on my rounds. See you later.”
“All right, but first tell me, are you free for a concert Tuesday night?”
“Yes, I think so. Some kind of Christmas event?”
He smiled almost shyly. “Much better than that. The Next Music Consort is coming down from Vancouver B.C. to play a program of Charles Tyler's work. It's at a private home in Seattle, and Ivy's invited us. Charles might even be there!”
“Oh. That sounds . . . wonderful.” Except that your hero despises me at the moment, and Joe says his music is a chore to sit through. “Let's talk more about it later, OK? I really should get to work.”
No kidding; it was eight-forty already. What was I doing, thinking about dancing when I had a party to run, and a rendezvous to keep? And why did I make the rendezvous so late? The wait was nerve-racking.
I checked in with the waiters, and cued the carolers for their final set. Eight-forty-five. Picked up another cup of cider and set it down again. Did the same with a glass of wine. Ten to nine.
I didn't see Lou anywhere; he must have slipped away already, though it was hard to tell for sure in the constantly shifting crowd. The buffet looked good, but I couldn't bring myself to eat anything.
Finally, at five minutes before the hour, I left the confines of the party and headed toward the roasting floor. Along the way I decided on a quick detour to the ladies' room, to redo my lipstick; might as well play my own role properly. As I detoured, I saw Frank Sanjek coming around the corner from the coatracks and gave him a big encouraging smile.
Just keep behaving yourself, I thought, and keep a lid on Sally tonight. Then, walking down the corridor to the rest rooms, I passed Madison coming the other way. She nodded to me, her platinum earrings swaying, but didn't speak, and I wondered sourly if she was hurrying back to Aaron.
The corridor was dim and utilitarian, its flooring bare cement that was soiled now by all the guests coming in from the parking lot. There was a puddle on the floor, too, some thin dark liquid, coffee or wine, spreading out from under the closed door of the men's room. Well, I told Kevin there'd be spills, but I don't have time to deal with it now . . .
Then I got closer, and caught the reflection of the overhead light in the surface of the puddle. The dark liquid was opaque, not clear, and the reflection's gleam was ruby-red.
Not coffee. Not cider, or mulled wine.
Blood.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I NEVER HEARD ALL THE DETAILS—I NEVER WANTED TO—BUT I did hear that the cause of this second death was similar to the first: massive blood loss. Only this time, the killer's blade severed the carotid artery of the throat. No murder weapon was found, only a pair of bloody rubber gloves, lying in the sink where the weapon was apparently rinsed off.
The setting was similar as well. The murderer struck at the site of a lively party, leading to confused recollections about which individuals were at which location, at what time and in whose company. There was one important difference, though, at least to me; I didn't have to identify the body.
Because everyone at Habitat knew Lou Schulman.
The reporters had a field day, of course, although your basic business writer lacks the gut instinct for a crime scene. The TV camera wasn't a live feed, but the minute the police let them go, the television people raced back to their studio and ran some footage on the late-late news. Kevin and I had seen them roaring out of the Habitat parking lot, when he'd excused himself from the police and walked me out to Vanna. It was hardly the romantic end to the evening that we'd envisioned.
They were running the footage again now, on Sunday morning. It was only eight A.M., but I'd given up on sleep hours ago. Bundled in sweats and slippers, I was hunched in a kitchen chair, staring dully at the portable TV I keep on the counter. At least I'm home again. I needed to be home.
“An extraordinary scene last night at a coffee-roasting plant in Snohomish County,” said the lacquered brunette on the little screen. “A man was murdered during the company Christmas party at Habitat Coffee. While scores of people were celebrating nearby, the victim, whose name has not yet been released, apparently bled to death from—”
She hit the word “bled” with a nice mix of gravity and excitement. Isn't this terrible? Isn't this thrilling? I turned off the sound and watched the silent images. A pan of the party, and then the corridor, crowded with milling figures. No puddle of blood, but there was the men's-room door swinging open, and stunned faces emerging. Then the film cut to the Habitat visitor center and a tense gentleman from the Snohomish County Sheriff's Office.
The sheriff made a brief statement, declined to answer questions, walked away past the microphones and the antique coffee equipment. Standing gravely in the background were Kevin Bauer and Ivy Tyler, both of them pale and numb with shock. My joke about staying to the bitter end was no joke. Charles Tyler had departed in a wheelchair, with Sally at his side, but Ivy and Kevin had remained in place like captains going down with the ship.
I wasn't on camera at all, which suited me fine. I had been sequestered in an office with a sleepy young deputy, making photocopies of the guest list and confirming the names of people I had seen in the course of the evening. In offices throughout the building, guests had been questioned, lists cross-referenced, and massive amounts of notes taken down. It all took a very long time.
Searching the site for a murder weapon would take even longer, of course, with all that machinery . . . all those sacks of coffee beans . . . debris in the coffee beans . . . I nodded off and then awoke, startled and disoriented, to the sound of a knock on the kitchen door. Kevin? I ran a hand through my hair and pulled the door open.
“The light was on, Stretch, so I figured you were up.”
Aaron looked awful, his face almost as pale as his long white scarf.
“I was, sort of. Come in, I'll make more coffee.”
I had already brewed and consumed a pot full, using the Habitat beans Kevin gave me just a few days ago. So long ago. Was it only Tuesday that I toured the roaster? I mused, waiting for the kettle to boil. This is Sunday. Two weddings in the next two weeks, and Christmas in there somewhere. I've got to get organized.
But I wasn't disorganized; I was simply in shock. And the shock was yielding to caffeine at a pretty good clip. The thought of Christmas brought Lily and the boys to mind, and with them, Darwin. Would he be suspected of this murder, too?
No doubt about it: Aaron and I would have to turn over Jason's CD now, even if we got in trouble for withholding it in the first place. It was evidence that the murderer was a blackmail victim. Unless . . . I had a hunch, but it was still shaping itself in my mind, like a Polaroid image slowly emerging from its gray void.
I carried two mugs to the table and put one in front of Aaron. We hadn't spoken to each other in all the confusion at the warehouse, but now I recalled our earlier conversation near the dance floor.
“You had some news, yo
u said. Bad news.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if it hurt. “Remember I had someone who might be able to decrypt the video? Guy from the Sentinel. It wasn't his fault.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. The file almost opened, but then it self-destructed, just like the READ ME document. So now we've got nothing but an unlikely story. And both the blackmailers are dead.”
“Not necessarily,” I said slowly.
Aaron frowned. “You don't think Lou and Jason were working together?”
“No, I do think that. I just wonder if there was a third blackmailer.”
“Such as who?”
I tapped my coffee cup with a fingernail. Over Aaron's shoulder, I could see the lake turning silver as the morning brightened into another fine winter day. Not silver, though. More like platinum.
“Such as Madison Jaffee.”
“What?”
“Well, look at it, Aaron! She was Jason Kraye's girlfriend, she could easily have been in on the scheme. You said yourself you wondered what she saw in him. Maybe she saw money. She was wearing expensive new jewelry last night, and apparently she just bought some kind of sports car.”
“That's not much to go on.”
“But there's more.” The mental image sharpened. “When I met with her last Wednesday, she said she'd just come in from Tokyo the day before. I've been trying to remember something she said at the party last night, and it just came to me. She talked about Beau Paliere, this wedding planner who one-upped me on television.”
“So what?” Aaron began stirring sugar into his coffee.
I tapped faster. “So, the TV spot was on the air Monday morning. How did Madison see it if she was in Tokyo?”
He stopped stirring for a moment, and then shrugged. “Maybe she didn't, maybe someone told her about it. Or maybe you misunderstood about Tokyo.”
“Or maybe she set herself up with an alibi for Jason's murder! And that's why she wanted to know everything we were finding out, in case we suspected her.”
“Why would Madison kill her own partner, who was also her boyfriend? It's absurd.”
May the Best Man Die Page 18
