May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  But not quickly enough. Charles reached one twitching, clawlike hand across the air between us, and slid slowly to the floor.

  Chapter Thirty

  “ARE YOU SURE HE'S ALL RIGHT, JENNA?”

  “Ms. Tyler says he just needs rest. He was pushing himself, going to the concert so soon after that terrible business at Habitat.”

  It was Wednesday morning, the day before Buckmeister/Frost. With Bonnie's arrangements under control, I was once again on the phone with Ivy's secretary, trying to find out what was happening in the Tyler household. Ivy disliked being called at home at any time, but I especially didn't want to intrude on her today.

  “That's a relief,” I said. “He looked like death for a minute there.”

  After a short, frightening silence, Charles had insisted that he wanted only his wife, not a doctor or an ambulance. Mary Ellen, distressed but capable, had taken charge of the situation the way I would have at one of my weddings, dispatching me to the music room to fetch Ivy, and sending Kevin to bring the Tyler car around. Then, with Charles on his way home, she'd made a discreet announcement to the audience, and directed the quartet to finish their performance. I couldn't have done it better myself.

  I asked Jenna to keep me posted, and got back to work. But I was soon interrupted by a call from a happily agitated Kelli.

  “Carnegie, guess who was just here, in person this time? Beau Paliere! He had more flowers for you and everything. I told him how to get to your houseboat. Isn't he cute?”

  “You told him . . . Kelli, remember how I asked you just to take messages for me?”

  “Oh, that's right. But he was so disappointed when you weren't here.” Big giggle. “And he's so cute, I just couldn't say no!”

  You and a lot of other women, I thought. But all I said was, “I understand. Be sure and let me know if Eddie calls in, would you, Kelli?”

  “Sure. I bet you're lost without him!”

  “You can't imagine.”

  In his own way, Beautiful Beau was as much a force of nature as the Buckmeisters. He stepped into the good room a few minutes later with a gust of wintry air, a dazzling smile, and a fine cluster of royal-blue irises whimsically arranged in a cocktail shaker. He was dressed, as before, entirely in black.

  “Vintage silver,” he announced, setting the shaker on the table with a flourish, “and here is the top for it, so that we can share a cocktail next time I am in Seattle. But now, let us be off!”

  “Off where?”

  He blinked his bedroom eyes. “To Mariella's trunk show, of course. Ten o'clock, I said in my message. Come, come, or we shall be late.”

  “I didn't get any . . . oh.” The light dawned; Kelli said “in person this time” because Beau had called earlier. She'd just neglected the little detail of informing me about it. How does Joe put up with her?

  “Beau, I wasn't invited to Mariella Ponti's show.”

  “But I was, and you will be with me.” His quiet laugh was liquid, debonair. Then he lowered his voice, and stroked his fingertips lightly along my cheek. “I think you will enjoy being with me.”

  Personally, I don't enjoy having my face poked at in the middle of a conversation. I know women in the movies love it, but they're so often idiots, aren't they? I took a quick step away and considered this sudden dilemma.

  On the one hand, Beau was insufferable. On the other hand, the one that paid Made in Heaven's bills, the Ponti trunk show would be Rich Bride Central. And even better, Rich Mother.

  “Let me grab some business cards and tell Kelli where I'm going.”

  And make sure the little twit hasn't forgotten a call from Andrea as well. But no, Kelli swore that my mystery bride had not been heard from, so we took off. Beau's limo—black, of course, and longer than my houseboat—conveyed us downtown to Le Boutique, an exclusive bridal shop across from the Olympic Hotel. From the shop's second-floor display window, a row of white-gowned mannequins gazed disdainfully down on the mere mortals below. Once they were upstairs, customers could see the detailing on the back of each gown—exactly what wedding guests see a lot of during the ceremony.

  Le Boutique's owner was an entirely un-French woman named Hazel Cohen. Her selection of gowns was always up to the minute, and she was ever so well-connected to the top designers. Hazel could get you that Basque-waisted dress in pink Duchess satin that your client just saw in a magazine, and she could get it for you in two months instead of five—if you were on her good side. Cross Hazel Cohen, and you could just wait your turn.

  So far, the grande dame and I were on nodding terms only. But that was about to change.

  Hazel stood at a delicate gilt reception desk, complacently surveying the flock of ladies and girls who cooed and twittered around the shop. Barely five feet tall, she was dwarfed by the towering flower arrangement on the desk. But there was nothing delicate about Hazel Cohen; she looked like a very short linebacker in a Chanel suit.

  “Beau! Always a pleasure. And I see you brought your friend.” As Beau made the introductions, Hazel peered up at me. “Carnegie, huh? That's a funny name.”

  “Well, my father—”

  “Whatever.” She waved a maroon-taloned hand at the sheer white curtain that billowed behind her, dividing the shop in half. Beyond the gauze, I could see an abbreviated runway surrounded by rows of gilt chairs, all empty so far. “Mariella's still tweaking her models. Get yourselves some champagne, look around. Go, circulate.”

  So we did, though it was more like holding court. Beau was not only famous and gorgeous, he was the only spear carrier in the room. Matrons who might have brushed me off at a bridal show were only too eager to meet me, just to get close to my masculine companion. One daughter, starry-eyed but clever, even asked for my card and then dropped it right where Beau would reach down and retrieve it for her. Every woman in the place, except me and Hazel, was suddenly in love. The man was a master.

  And he knew his wedding gowns, I had to give him that. If last night's musical argot was beyond me, today's talk of cowl backs and mermaid skirts, Juliet caps and Watteau trains, was right up my alley. But also his. Without usurping Mariella's authority as the designer du jour, Beau managed to convey his intimate knowledge of styles and fabrics, as he assessed the face and figure of each bride in turn and offered suggestions for her to consider. Flattering suggestions, of course.

  “I see you in strapless,” he said to one porcelain-skinned debutante, “with a chiffon bolero, to draw the eye to those exquisite shoulders.” And then, to a wisp of a Japanese-American girl, “A poem! In gossamer tulle, very soft and flowing, you would be a poem. Ask Mariella what she's done in tulle this season.”

  I was agreeing with him—and admiring his technique—when I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure through the gauzy curtain. Was that Andrea crossing behind the runway from one dressing room to another? I was about to find out, because Mariella Ponti herself, tall and formidable, was stalking up on the other side of the gauze.

  She threw the curtain open with a grand gesture. “Ladies! Welcome to my new creations.”

  Just as she spoke, heavy footsteps came pounding up the stairs by the reception desk. Then a second spear carrier entered the harem: Mike Graham, out of breath and way out of his element. He glanced around at the buzzing women, spotted the one he wanted, and made a beeline for me, speaking intently as came.

  “Carnegie, when you saw the stripper through your binoculars, how did you know it was her?”

  I felt myself go scarlet. Unhappily for Mike, and even more so for me, silence had fallen the moment he appeared, so that every word of his question rang clear across this shrine of femininity. A whispering, tittering tide of reaction arose, as the detective lieutenant went red-faced himself, and I hustled him back down the stairs and out to the sidewalk.

  “Sorry!” I'd never seen him blush before. As Kelli would say, ‘Cute.' “I'm really sorry. That receptionist just said you were at some kind of store, and if it was important I could go find you. I thought
. . . never mind. This is important. I was going over what you told me at Lily's. You said you saw the stripper walking away from the Hot Spot that night. But could you see her face clearly enough to be absolutely sure it was her? Because a woman could have slashed Kraye, it wouldn't take much strength—”

  “I didn't see her face at all,” I said, sorry to puncture his new hypothesis. “But I didn't need to. She was wearing her Santa Claus costume.”

  “What? You never said anything about Santa Claus. You just said you saw the stripper leaving the area on foot.”

  “But I did see her! She was wearing a Santa outfit. I saw her when she arrived and I saw her leave again.” I clamped my fists in my armpits and shivered. “Mike, I'm freezing out here—”

  He tore off his own overcoat and wrapped it around me, but with an entirely impersonal expression on his face. It echoed the way he'd looked at the Bayou, when he realized I knew something about Jason's murder.

  “Carnegie, listen to me. Strippers don't put their costumes back on after a performance! They just slip on a coat and leave. And that's what this one did. Valoree Wells, we tracked her down and she told us. She wasn't sure of the exact time, but she put on a tan raincoat and carried her costume with her in a tote bag. Walked two blocks west from the Hot Spot, drove away in a Honda Civic, met a friend for a drink. No connection to Jason Kraye, no motive. We didn't question her again.”

  “But I saw her . . . No, I saw somebody dressed as Santa Claus, walking up the street away from the café. Walking east. Mike, did I see the murderer?”

  Shoppers and office workers—the midday crowd—brushed past us on the sidewalk. Mike ignored them, his eyes focused on me like lasers.

  “I'd bet money on it.”

  I recalled the red-suited figure I had seen that night. He—she?—had been striding along, with the look of a job well done. I shivered again. Madison Jaffee? If I told Mike my theory, I'd have to tell him about the blackmail, and expose Ivy by explaining about the spy camera and—

  “Oh, my God!” Now I recalled something else: Aaron's voice on the phone, as I stood in Ivy's kitchen yesterday with the spy camera. I'm meeting with Maddie tomorrow, he had said. I'll feel her out about this Tokyo business. If she was really the killer, if she thought Aaron suspected her . . .

  “What?” Mike asked. “Is there something else? I should get back to the office and get on this.”

  “Nothing,” I said slowly, and slipped off his coat. “I have to make a phone call, that's all.”

  I skulked back up to Le Boutique, where I endured a few more titters, and waved a vague “got to go” sort of gesture at Beau. He looked irked, and Hazel Cohen looked curious, but a model in a one-shouldered Greek-column gown was gliding down the runway, and they couldn't speak to me without stopping the show. I snatched my coat and bag and took off, tapping in Aaron's number while I was still descending the stairs.

  No answer, just his recorded message. Probably at lunch. Out on the sidewalk, I tried to remember where I'd parked. But of course, I'd come in Beau's limo. I tried the number again with clumsy fingers, remembering that hideous pool of blood. I'm probably wrong anyway. Got a wrong number this time. Tried again, got the recording again. But if I'm right . . .

  I looked up and down Seneca Street, as if the answer could be found there. And I found it: the taxi rank in front of the Olympic. I jaywalked—ran—across two lanes of traffic, got myself yelled at, and slid into a cab just ahead of a matron who would have fit right in at Le Boutique, except for her regrettable tendency to nasty language.

  I didn't know the exact address of the Lakeshore, but I gave the cabbie—a huge fellow in a turban—the general idea and a fifty dollar bill. I was out of twenties. “Fast as you can, please. It's an emergency.”

  “You will pay any tickets?” he inquired happily, in an Indian singsong.

  “Sure. Just—whoa!” I was flung sideways as he hooked right on Fourth, then I was slammed back against the seat as we went screaming up Westlake. We tore out Fairview Avenue along Lake Union, with blaring horns and shrieking brakes fading away behind us, and renewing again at every intersection.

  “Up there on the left,” I gasped, an amazingly short time later.

  The cab bucketed to a halt in the Lakeshore's parking lot. I got out, wondering whether to ask the cabbie to come with me. But I guess he was afraid I'd ask for change; he tore off again with a screech of wheels and a foul-smelling burp of exhaust. I barely noticed, because I was running past a line of parked cars, then around a corner of the building toward—

  Toward Aaron and Madison, strolling away from me. Aaron, in shirtsleeves, had a folder of papers in his hand; Madison wore her long wine-colored coat. He escorted her to a fancy little red sports car in a farther section of the parking lot, held the door as she entered, shut it, and waved as she drove away. What a gentleman. What a goddamn gentleman. I waited, feeling nine kinds of foolish, until he returned.

  “What's up, Stretch, you miss me?”

  I told him what was up. Standing there in the parking lot, I told him about Mike's brainstorm, and my woeful ignorance of the ways of strippers. I just didn't tell him I'd been afraid for his life. “So you see, Madison could have been at the Hot Spot that night!”

  “But so could anyone else,” he said slowly, shocked out of his sarcasm. “Even Ivy, or . . . Come inside, OK?”

  Aaron still hadn't personalized his furnished apartment, unless you counted the welter of books and papers that covered every surface of the living room. He swept clear a space on the couch, but I was too excited to sit down. I still didn't believe Ivy was the killer, and I'd thought of a way to make sure.

  With Aaron watching me, I called Ivy's office again.

  “Jenna, I meant to ask you before, where was it that Ivy stayed when she was in San Francisco? She recommended it to me, but I forgot the name.”

  Efficient as ever, Jenna provided both the name and the phone number. I hung up and then called it.

  “Golden Gate Inn, may I help you?” said a cheery woman's voice.

  “I'm calling from the accounting department at Meet for Coffee in Seattle,” I said, trying to sound like an utterly bored office worker. I used to be one, actually; that's why I took up wedding planning. “I just need to verify an expense report for Ms. Ivy Tyler, for the night of Sunday, December twelfth. Or was that two nights?”

  “Let's see . . . no, just the one. Did Ms. Tyler receive the bracelet all right?”

  “Bracelet?”

  “Yes, she was so worried about it she had the taxi come back. I was afraid she'd miss her plane! We found it later Monday morning, and mailed it to her.”

  “Oh, right, the bracelet,” I said. “It got here just fine. Thank you so much.”

  I put away my phone, and related the conversation to Aaron. He threw himself onto the couch and looked at the ceiling.

  “So Ivy didn't leave San Francisco until Monday morning,” he said, “which means she couldn't have killed Jason on Sunday night. But eliminating Ivy doesn't point the finger at Madison.”

  “It narrows the field of suspects, and Madison's one of them! Did you ask her how she saw me on TV if she was in Tokyo Monday morning?”

  “Yeah, I did. Somebody at the office knew that you were doing Sally's wedding, so they taped the show.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged. “She didn't say.”

  “And you didn't press the point? Aaron, you're not acting like a reporter anymore. What's going on?”

  “Nothing!” He stood up and started pacing. “Look, I'll find out who taped the show, and if I have to, I'll call Tokyo to verify Maddie's alibi. Will that satisfy you?”

  “That and one other thing,” I said. “Promise me you won't be alone with Madison until this is all settled.”

  Aaron cocked his head at me and chuckled. “Stretch, are you worried about my safety, or about her feminine wiles?”

  “Shut up,” I explained. “I've got enough on my mind, getting Bonnie Buck
meister married tomorrow. So just shut up and promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  BONNIE BUCKMEISTER, SOMEWHAT TO MY SURPRISE, MADE A fairy-tale bride. Not the elongated, enervated, white-sugar sort of Disney princess, but something far more womanly, vivid, and vital. A folktale bride, from a mythic medieval winter of regal panoply and firelit feasts and snowy forests full of wolves and woodcutters. She might have been daughter to Good King Wenceslas.

  Royal and voluptuous and clad in velvet the color of rubies, Bonnie came down the aisle of St. Mark's with a dignified bearing and a secret smile. A hooded cape was thrown back on her shoulders, and a circlet of holly leaves and berries, entwined with gold cord, nestled on her dark curls. Waiting wide-eyed at the altar, Brian Frost reflected all of her joy and even some of her splendor, the young prince in his formal black tailcoat with white tie and vest. The choir swelled, the guests sighed, and I dabbed at a tear, with murder and mayhem forgotten, at least for tonight.

  An hour or so later, under the sparkling chandelier that hangs from the dome of the Arctic Club's ballroom, I was surprised again: Buck Buckmeister asked me to dance. The band I'd hired included the usual guitar, keyboard, and horns, but also four unusually talented vocalists, male and female, now nearing the end of their pre-dinner set. They had just segued from a whimsical “Baby, It's Cold Outside,” to the languid harmonies of “I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas,” when Buck marched up, bowed, and began to sweep me skillfully around the circular parquet floor. Who'd have thought such a big Texan would be so light on his feet?

  “You did a fine job for my little girl,” he told me, his usual roar moderated to a contented rumble. “Her mother and I will never forget that.”

  “I'll never forget this wedding,” I said, quite sincerely. “Bonnie's an angel.”

  Two hours after that, the angel's crown of holly was dangling from the chandelier. Bonnie had flung it there during the after-dinner dancing, which grew more vigorous and more uproarious with every song. Awed by the ceremony, enchanted by the Yuletide decorations, and wined and dined into a state of sated bliss by Joe Solveto, the Buckmeisters' nearest and dearest were now getting seriously down. Soon Juice Nugent's gift cakes would be served, and boost their energies even further.