May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  “I just want you to stay back from me a little, because you're scaring me. Just a little, I mean, I know you wouldn't really hurt me . . .”

  I was babbling now, as I frantically tried to recall the layout of the building. There must be another exit somewhere. Why couldn't I remember where it was? I'd had a tour. . . . Of course, the tour ended when I cut myself on Lou's coffee mug. That settled it; I'd have to run back the way I came. The warehouse door might be farther away, but at least I knew where it was, and that Vanna was there waiting for me.

  Charles shifted impatiently. “Very well, you go on. I'll stay back. Here, do you see?”

  So sure of himself was he, in his madness, that he actually took a few steps away from the roaster, and away from me. On the instant I turned and ran, grabbing the tryer handle and pushing myself away from the roaster tank like a swimmer pushing off from the side of the pool. It took Charles a precious extra moment to realize that I was running for the warehouse, not the office stairs, and then he followed.

  My knee was agony at first, but soon the pain blurred into the fear, and my awareness narrowed to simply reaching the tiers of shelves. I ducked down one of the narrow aisles, acting on instinct like fleeing prey, but the instinct served me well, and by the time I reached the shadowy end of the passage I had another plan.

  I slipped into the narrow gap where the end of the shelving met the warehouse wall, pulling the tryer after me, and slipped out again in the next aisle over. Then I waited, hoping to make Charles commit himself to coming down the passage after me. Or at least to make him stop and think it over while I caught my breath.

  Luck was with me. Seconds later, Charles arrived at the mouth of the first aisle I'd taken, just too late to see where I'd gone. I froze, and listened to his labored breathing as he hesitated. I could almost read his mind: Did he have the wrong aisle? Should he follow it down to the end, and take a chance that I'd spring out at him from hiding?

  Perhaps I should have tried that. Perhaps I should have taken a stand and swung the tryer at Charles, on the chance that I could force the razor out of his possession. But my left hand still ached from the gash I'd gotten, and my memory still held the image of Lou's blood pooling on the corridor floor, and I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The thought of that dreadful blade slicing toward my face was more than I could bear.

  Charles made his choice. He plunged down the first aisle after me, toward the warehouse wall. I ran the opposite way, toward the mouth of the second aisle, praying that he wouldn't double back and cut me off. He didn't. I heard his faltering steps reach the end of the first aisle, and the scrabbling sound as he, too, slipped through the gap. I was out in the open central area by then, and loping for the door.

  Without the injured knee, I would have made it. But my lead narrowed fast, and I could hear Charles panting, getting closer. His breath was ragged, though; maybe another dash down an aisle would wear him out just enough to save me. I ducked into yet another narrow passageway, walled solid with coffee sacks, and stumbled my way to the far end.

  To the dead end.

  There was no gap here, not on either side. The shelving was bolted tight to the warehouse wall, and I was bottled in like a moth in a jar. I had a crazy thought about shifting some of the coffee sacks, to clear myself a tunnel. I set down the tryer—my fingers ached from clenching it—and yanked at the corner of one sack. They were jammed tight. And besides, what did Kevin say they weighed? A hundred pounds apiece? Two?

  “Waiting for me, my dear?”

  At the mouth of the aisle, Charles stood in silhouette against the muted glow of the safety lights beyond. His left hand was twitching, but his right, the one holding the razor, was as steady as death. Sobbing with rage, I picked up the tryer again, two-handed this time, and hefted it like a baseball bat.

  “I'm not falling down drunk like Jason Kraye, Charles!” I shouted. “I don't have my back turned like Lou Schulman!”

  He stood silent for a moment and then, without a word, he stepped away from the narrow slot of light and disappeared. I held my stance for one minute, then another, my knee trembling under me. I was desperate to sit down and rest. The tryer was getting heavy. I began to lower it, but I heard noises from somewhere beyond my line of sight, and lifted it again. Was he trying to lure me out there?

  It won't work, I thought grimly. I'll outwait him, if it takes all night.

  More odd noises, a grunting and whining, somehow familiar. Then something blocked the light at the mouth of the aisle: a forklift. It rolled slowly but inexorably toward me, bearing a pile of coffee sacks on a wooden pallet. A pile taller than me, which would pin me to the wall so that Charles could take his insane revenge.

  I couldn't see Charles behind the sacks, I couldn't hear my own sobs above the whining motor, I couldn't think anything except: This is so unfair, Aaron and I have just found each other and I'm going to die before I see him again . . . But I didn't wait to be crushed, or slashed. I staggered forward, and in blind defiance threw the steel tryer under the wheels of the forklift.

  What happened next was like a monster dying. The machine whined and screamed and slewed sideways, but there was nowhere for it to go. The pile of heavy sacks struck the shelves on one side, then the other, swaying and tottering.

  Then the forklift and its load—and its operator—toppled over to the floor away from me in a slithering, deafening crash. Charles must have gripped the razor to the last, because at least one sack was slit from end to end.

  As I stood watching, aghast, the sack disgorged its contents in a hissing, clicking stream of coffee beans that poured across his broken body like a hundred pounds of small, dark pebbles, and spread out on the floor around him like a pool of blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I SPENT CHRISTMAS MORNING LYING FLAT ON A COUCH—BUT instead of Aaron's amorous attentions, I had to make do with ice packs on my swollen knee.

  The company was wonderful, though, even with Aaron far away in Florida. Mike Graham had raced up to Snohomish when he got the call about the situation at Habitat, and although he himself needed to remain on the scene, he'd had one of his men drive me and Vanna back to Seattle, to Lily's house. Apparently, if you're a witness and a victim both, they take care of you first and question you later. As I curled up under Lily's quilts, late at night on Christmas Eve, I decided it was a fine, fine policy.

  On Christmas morning, Lily brought me a giant croissant and a mug of cocoa doctored with rum, and sat with me to watch Marcus and Ethan open their presents. I slid into a contented, half-asleep haze of warmth and safety, occasionally rousing myself to admire a new treasure displayed by one of my honorary nephews.

  “Need anything else?” Lily asked, over the boy's excited chattering.

  “Just hand me my cell phone, thanks. I want to try Aaron's motel again.”

  But once again the Miami number rang and rang, and then switched to a voice-mail system. This time I left a message, though I couldn't say much with the boys in the room.

  “Aaron, it's me. Um, Merry Christmas. Sorry, I can't remember that happy holiday phrase you told me about. Doesn't matter. Oh, God, I miss you! Listen, you might hear something on the news, about Charles Tyler's death. It's a long story, but I'm safe, and I miss you. Call me, OK? Bye.”

  I set the phone down and nestled back into the cushions with a disconsolate sigh.

  “Still not there?” said Lily sympathetically.

  “No. It's a three-hour time difference, so I guess he's out somewhere with his grandfather.”

  “Have you called your mother? They're not saying your name on the news, but if she knows that you're working for the Tylers, she might wonder.”

  “I left a message at the house in Boise. She's still in Cannon Beach with her friends, but I don't have a number for the cottage they rented.”

  The doorbell sounded then and Marcus scampered to answer it, brandishing his new cowboy hat.

  “It's Uncle Dar!” he shrieked, dropping the hat
to the floor and wrapping his pajama-clad arms and legs around the new arrival.

  Little Ethan joined him, bouncing up and down like a wind-up toy, and chanting, “Unkadar! Unkadar! Unkadar!”

  Above the shouting, giggling children, Darwin stood tall, gazing at his sister like a man who's come home from a long and fearsome journey. Lily rushed to embrace him, and the four of them blurred in my vision through the happy tears.

  I wiped my eyes on the cuff of my borrowed nightgown, and saw Mike Graham standing over by the Christmas tree, surveying the reunion with a quiet smile.

  “Carnegie, how are you doing?” Mike sat down beside me. “Is your leg—”

  I cut him off, with a hug and a grateful kiss. “How'd you get Darwin out so fast?”

  “It's Christmas,” he said simply. “I called in some favors to have things expedited. Hey, there!”

  Lily had plumped herself down on Mike's lap, and now she laid a kiss on him, just as grateful as mine, but far more vigorous.

  “You staying for Christmas dinner?” she asked. “We're having a picnic in the living room, so Carnegie doesn't have to get up.”

  “Can't.” He kissed her once more, and they stood up regretfully. “We'll be piecing this case together for quite a while yet. Carnegie, you'll be getting a call from Bill Bates, about taking your statement. You sure your leg's OK?”

  “I'll be staggering around any minute now,” I told him. “In fact, I'm going back to the houseboat tonight.”

  Lily laughed. “She's been in exile so long, she's spurning my hospitality! I told you, stay as long as you like.”

  But I was anxious to be home, and after our midday picnic and another nap, Darwin helped me load Vanna with some leftovers and my own presents—a luscious shawl from Lily and a bottle of lemony hand lotion from the boys. Then he gave me a gift of his own.

  “Lily told me what happened,” he said. His eyes, so like Lily's, were shining. “I'm grateful.”

  “The police would have figured it out,” I told him. “Mike's being nice about it, but I think mostly I got in the way.”

  Darwin smiled, and gathered me in his arms for a hug to rival one of Boris Nevsky's.

  “I feel like I've got two sisters now. Merry Christmas.”

  Good thing I'd hurt my left knee and not my right, and that Vanna Two was an automatic, and that I drive pretty well while I'm crying.

  I parked as close to the dock as I could, and hobbled stiffly through the drizzle to my door, taking special care on the ramp that spanned the brief gap of dark water between the dock and my deck. Inside, the early dusk made a chilly near-night, so I turned up the heat and switched on all the lights. Aaron still hadn't called back on my cell, so I checked for messages on my personal line and also Made in Heaven's. Nothing.

  Not from Aaron, anyway. I did have a call from Eddie, saying he'd be back at work on Monday, and another from Joe Solveto, saying he was furious about the cooler, delighted that I was safe, and curious as hell about Charles Tyler.

  I didn't have the energy to call him back. I didn't have much energy at all, in fact, so for the rest of the evening I laid on my own couch, dozing and pondering. Some things about the last few days I understood, like the Santa Claus costume, and Charles Tyler's phony call to Joe's office. Kelli had never spoken to the real Kevin Bauer, so how was she to know?

  What I couldn't figure out was Madison Jaffee's role in all this. Charles hadn't even mentioned her, so if she was involved in the blackmail scheme as I thought, he hadn't discovered it. But Madison must have been involved, or why else would she have locked me and Aaron in the cooler? Unless it was someone else wearing the same perfume . . . a perfumed burglar . . .

  With this improbable thought I fell asleep, so deeply that I was slow to recognize the chirp of my cell phone and dig it out of my coat pocket.

  “Hey there, Stretch.”

  “Aaron? Is that you?”

  “The one and only. I'm sorry, were you asleep?”

  “Yes, but never mind. I'm just so glad to hear from you.”

  “Same here.” There were voices in the background; he was out in public somewhere. “So what's going on? Tyler died?”

  “Yes. I thought you might have heard about it.”

  “Why would I? He's not that big a celebrity.”

  I yawned and shook myself awake. “It's a really long story. Tell me first, do you miss me?”

  “Of course,” said Aaron, but there was something odd in his tone. “The truth is, Slim, I've mostly been thinking about Izzy. That's my grandfather, Isaac. He had a stroke yesterday, while I was flying down. That's why I wasn't around to get your call. I'm at the hospital now.”

  “I'm so sorry! Is he, I mean . . .”

  “He's going to live. In fact, they now think it was fairly minor. But I'm sticking close.”

  “Of course.”

  So much for asking Aaron to fly back early. I couldn't be that selfish. And after all, I had work to do. Even if Tyler/Sanjek was postponed—which seemed a certainty—there was still the wrap-up on Buckmeister/Frost.

  “I'm glad you're there for him,” I said with my best imitation of sincerity.

  “Me too. So tell me, what's all this about you being safe?”

  The long story got even longer, at first because Aaron had so many reporter-type questions. And then, before I got anywhere near the end of the story, Aaron's emotional relief at my escape somehow turned to thoughts of a more corporeal nature, and I happily set aside the subject of murder for the rest of the conversation. I'd never understood the appeal of phone sex before, but by the time we hung up, I was beginning to get the idea.

  I spent Sunday working out the stiffness in my knee, and indulging in domestic pleasures—opening Christmas cards, restocking the kitchen, and generally settling back into my floating home. But not reading the paper or watching the news. I wanted to forget about Charles Tyler for a little while, until the nightmare memories had faded.

  Not that I had much success. Reporters kept calling me, and I kept hanging up, but I left the phone on in case my mother called. She did, finally, and we had a long conversation, reassuring for her, but rather a strain for me. Even Eddie, when he checked in to say he'd be back in the morning, demanded a complete explanation of “what the hell happened at that coffee place.” Maybe it was better this way; telling the story over and over began to put the nightmare at a distance.

  Sunday night was better. I had another fervent and purely personal talk with Aaron, during which we agreed not to talk about anything murderous until we could do so in person. That was followed by a long, uninterrupted sleep. Heaven—but a lonely heaven. Suddenly the bed was too big.

  Monday morning found me bright-eyed at my desk, determined to keep myself busy till Aaron's return. I had just pulled out the bulging Tyler/Sanjek folder when Eddie came in, shaking the drizzle off his jacket like a fastidious cat.

  “I see the cold spell's over,” he said gruffly. “Don't know which is worse, that or the rain.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Eddie. Merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, right. Brought you something. Merry Christmas.”

  He set a plastic bag in front of me and then busied himself at his own desk, shuffling papers and powering up his computer. Santa's little helper.

  Inside the bag was a small driftwood sculpture, a leaping dolphin whose sleek contours were perfectly delineated by the silvery grain of the wood.

  “Eddie, it's beautiful!”

  I turned it over to look for the sculptor's name, and noticed an inconspicuous sticker with the name of the gallery: Cannon Beach Treasures.

  “That's funny, my mother went to Cannon Beach for Christmas. I'm surprised you didn't run into her. . . .”

  My partner kept his back turned. But even by the dim winter light from the window, I could see the blush rising up the back of his neck from his starched white collar and into his silky white hair.

  “Eddie? Are you the friend Mom spent Christmas with? She never sai
d a word on the phone!”

  “Damn clerk was supposed to take the tag off,” he grumbled. Then he swiveled his chair to face me, still blushing. “Louise said she didn't know how to tell you.”

  Louise was my mother, and Eddie's oldest friend. Or whatever.

  “Tell me what, exactly?” Then I blushed myself. “No, I don't mean exactly. I mean, OK, you took a trip to the Oregon coast together. That's nice.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Eddie Breen, with a slightly defiant nod of his head. “It was damn nice. Might do it again.”

  We were interrupted, at this highly interesting juncture, by a knock on the office door. Eddie turned back to his desk, apparently considering the subject closed, and I crossed the good room to meet our visitor—who turned out to be Kevin Bauer. My heart sank. I'd completely forgotten about the uncomfortable conversation that lay ahead of us.

  “Kevin, come in.”

  But he stayed out on the landing, and said in a subdued tone, “I'm sorry not to call first. I'm on my way to a meeting downtown, at MFC, but I couldn't decide whether to come by or . . . Could we talk downstairs?”

  “Of course,” I said, and added inanely, “I never showed you around after the concert, did I?”

  “That's OK. I don't really have much time.”

  Kevin followed me down the stairs and into the first floor of the houseboat. I was braced to fend off a kiss, but he stayed near the door and kept his coat on. It was the chestnut-colored leather jacket I had admired on our dinner date, though it looked rather ordinary now.

  “Carnegie, I know this is lousy timing.” He shifted uncomfortably, and stared past me as if fascinated by the surface of my kitchen table. “But I thought it was best to be honest right away.”

  “Honest about what?”

  Murder? I thought wildly, so closely did I associate Kevin with the roasting plant, and all the horrors that had happened there. Or blackmail? Was it Kevin all along, and not Simon Weeks, who was Ivy's lover?