Aaron swiveled toward me and smiled, eagerly pulling off the headphones and leaving a cowlick of crow-black hair angled out above one ear. I resisted the impulse to smooth it back—and the urge to ask him about the phone call that had interrupted our embrace last night. Not that we would have had much of an evening anyway, with Roger Talbot hanging around, but still…
“Nice try,” he said loftily, and I was so lost in thought that I wondered what he meant. Then he continued, “It could have been Coltrane, but I’m surprised a woman of your caliber doesn’t recognize the drum solo from that all-time surf guitar classic, ‘Wipe Out.’ It’s the number one choice of finger drummers across the nation. Have a seat.”
He nodded at the easy chair dominating his cubicle. It was upholstered in something that had once been plaid, and gave off a delicate bouquet of tortilla chips and long-dead coffee. The cube’s fabric walls were covered with Red Sox posters, clipped headlines, and typed quotations. Most of the quotes were about writing and journalism, but one by Benjamin Disraeli caught my eye: “Every woman should marry—and no man.”
I sat. “I’ve only got a minute, till Elizabeth gets here and Paul’s off the phone. Um, nice cube you’ve got here.”
“Not exactly The New York Times, is it? But it’ll do till I get on with The Seattle Times or The Oregonian. Listen, you want coffee or something? Tea? Me?” He lowered his voice. “Seriously, Stretch, are you OK about last night? You sounded kind of odd on the phone.”
“I’m fine. Did you say The Oregonian? You’re thinking of moving to Portland?” The idea was oddly distressing.
“It depends,” he said casually. “Meanwhile, are you going to be a good girl and let the police do the murder-solving around here?”
My casual and untruthful reply was interrupted by the bride-to-be. Elizabeth came striding through the newsroom like a warrior princess in Spandex, a bicycle helmet dangling from one hand and a cell phone in the other, her cropped chestnut hair slick with sweat. She nodded to a few people as she passed, and gave Aaron a friendly but peremptory smile.
“Hey, Carnegie. Paul’s still tied up. Come talk to me.”
But for once I was determined not to let Elizabeth rush me with her multi-tasking, time-is-money, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately manner.
“Say, Aaron, are you free for dinner Thursday?”
“That depends, too. No chaperones?”
“No chaperones. No pagers?”
“Promise.”
“Great. I’ll call you tonight. So, Elizabeth, where shall we talk?”
She frowned impatiently. “I’ll show you.”
She led me out through the lobby and into a rest room near the reception desk. It opened onto a locker room; apparently the Sentinel had a lot of joggers and bicycle commuters. Elizabeth dropped her gear on a bench and began to strip for a shower.
“I could wait outside—” I began. I was used to the locker room at the Y, but standing there fully clothed while she undressed felt funny.
“Why?” She peeled off her thermal vest and jersey, then her sports bra, and for just a moment I was back in high school, flat-chested and envious, complaining to my mother.
Don’t let it bother you, Carrie. You have nice red hair and a pleasant personality.
“I wanted to ask you something in private,” Elizabeth went on, bending down to untie her flat-soled riding shoes. I don’t know what I expected—a morbid question about Mercedes’ corpse, maybe, or a discussion of Corinne’s state of mind. Instead she said, “Does that wedding insurance you got us cover this kind of thing?”
“You mean, ‘this kind of thing’ as in murder?” She straightened and faced me. “Carnegie, Mercedes’ death was horrible and shocking. We all feel that. But you know damn well that she and I weren’t close friends, and I won’t be a hypocrite about this. I’ve got four hundred people and almost a hundred grand tied up in this wedding. Now, can I postpone or not?”
“Sure you can. But you’ll lose your deposits and plane tickets, and probably your first-choice photographer and band. These folks are booked up pretty far ahead. The special-event policy covers things like vendors failing to deliver, or your reception being cancelled because of bad weather. It doesn’t cover postponing out of respect for someone’s death.”
“That’s what I figured.” She nodded thoughtfully and stepped out of her bicycle shorts. I have really got to hit the gym more often, I thought. Like, twice a day.
“Does Paul want to postpone?”
“Yes and no,” said Elizabeth. “He thinks it’s kind of coldblooded to keep going, though of course he’s clueless about the cost of rescheduling. The main thing is, he doesn’t want to disappoint Enid.”
“That’s the great-aunt?”
“Yeah. Nasty old bitch.”
I must have looked startled, because she added, “Just because someone’s nearly a hundred doesn’t mean they’re doddering and sweet. Enid’s sharp as a tack and she hates me! But Paul’s lined up a nurse to drive her down from Vancouver and stay with her through the whole wedding, and apparently that’s all she’s talked about for months— how she’s going to live to see her darling boy on his wedding day. Hand me a towel?”
I complied, and she dug out some travel-size soap and shampoo from her knapsack.
“Well, that’s it, then. I can’t get my money back, so Auntie Enid gets her heart’s desire. I’ll be ready in a minute if you want to wait in Paul’s office.”
After the newsroom and the locker room, Paul’s office was refreshingly ordinary, with piles of file folders on the desk and credenza and a rain-streaked window looking out at the mushrooming condos of Belltown. He was still on the phone, but he waved me to a chair at the little conference table wedged in the corner. As I laid out the wedding paperwork, I took a long discreet look at him. What did hard-charging Elizabeth see in soft-spoken, sweet-tempered Paul? Good looks, certainly, and a keen mind, and a shared enthusiasm for long-distance bicycle races. But as time went by, would he chafe against her bossy ways, or would she find a safe harbor in his easygoing calm? Weddings are wonderful, but marriages are utterly mysterious.
Elizabeth joined us just as Paul hung up the phone, flushed and fresh from her shower. They kissed in the easy, happily-sated manner of two people who are getting absolutely all the sex they want, and we got down to business. I asked them how they wanted to proceed, Paul talked about his great-aunt, and Elizabeth made a gracious show of pressing on for Enid’s sake without mentioning her nonrefundable deposits.
So we went ahead and reviewed the buffet menu, the flower arrangements, and the band’s playlist, almost as if nothing had happened. Almost.
“I talked to Corinne again,” said Elizabeth. “She says she’s feeling OK and she’ll be at the dress fitting. Good thing, too. She’s put on weight lately.”
“Did she tell you what happened on the pier?” I asked.
“You mean that somebody pushed her in? Yeah, she’s telling everybody.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
“I don’t know what to believe. People were drinking, but they weren’t drunk, except maybe Corinne herself. So who would do that?” Elizabeth raked her hands through her hair, helping it dry. “I’m thinking maybe she stumbled and fell in, and then when she heard about Mercedes she got carried away with the thrill of being at a crime scene. She used to pull this kind of shit back in college.”
“Take it easy on Corinne,” said Paul, ever the kind heart. “She’s still upset about that guy Boris. That’s probably why she’s eating so much.”
His beloved, ever the cynic, shrugged. “Whatever. Angela is convinced that she’s lying, but Patty is really rattled. She thinks there’s a stalker around. Either way, Corinne’s getting on my nerves. I made her sign a nondisclosure about the wedding, but she keeps asking if she can’t write just one little article.”
“Paul,” I said, to change the subject, “I don’t want to be pessimistic, but have you thought about who you’re going to want as best man if
Tommy’s still in the hospital?”
“I’m sure your brother would step in,” Elizabeth offered. Paul’s brother Scott was a city planner in Baltimore.
But Paul shook his head. “I’d rather not. Scotty understood why I chose Tommy instead of him in the first place, but I don’t want to rub it in by substituting him at the last minute.”
“But anybody you ask is going to be a last-minute sub,” protested Elizabeth. “You can’t stand up there by yourself.”
“Well, you could,” I said, just thinking out loud. “Judge Overesch could mention Tommy in his remarks. You know, our good wishes are with him today. Or would that be too much of a downer?”
“No,” said the bridegroom.
“Yes,” said the bride.
I riffled diplomatically through my paperwork while they had a telepathic conversation. She frowned, he smiled ruefully, she sighed fondly, and the thing was done.
“No,” Paul repeated. “It wouldn’t be a downer, it would be exactly how I’m going to feel if Tommy’s not up and around by then. We better cancel the bachelor party, though, that is, if Tommy actually planned one.”
“He picked a date and drew up a guest list,” I told him, “but that was all. I’ll make the cancellation calls.”
“Thanks. Of course, when Tommy is up and around, I’m going to knock him flat for driving drunk. Did you see him leave the party, Carnegie?”
“No,” I said. Misleading, but accurate. The police were keeping mum about Tommy’s role as a murder witness, and so would I. “No, I didn’t see him leave.”
“I’m just sorry you had to see Mercedes,” he said. “It must have been awful. I don’t suppose you can give me a short statement—”
“No!” I said, more vehemently than I intended. I stood up and began to gather my checklists to cover the awkwardness. “I’m sorry, the police asked me not to discuss it, especially with the press, and that means you, doesn’t it? I’ll let you get back to work. Elizabeth, I’ll see you at the dress fitting—”
“Hang on, Carnegie,” she cut in. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
My mind went blank. We had all the contracts, the valet parking, the final head count… “What?”
“I need another bridesmaid.”
“Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes,” she said decisively. “You.”
Chapter Eleven
MY FIRST THOUGHT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ETIQUETTE. INSTEAD it was breasts.
Sure, the etiquette was tricky. Would it really be proper for a professional wedding consultant to fill in as bridesmaid, a role traditionally taken by the bride’s sisters and girlfriends? Would it compromise my work as wedding-day coordinator if I were also a member of the wedding party?
But those thoughts came second. What came first was an image of myself in the bridesmaid’s gown, which was pink, plunging, and painted-on snug. The daring décolletage would have displayed Mercedes’ ample charms quite nicely, and Corinne and Angela were going to look like scrumptious confections. I, on the other hand, would look like a celery stalk draped in bias-cut rose-petal satin. When it comes to cleavage, I have very little to cleave.
“Well?” demanded Elizabeth.
“The thing is,” I stalled, hugging my notebook to the bosom in question. “The thing is, I’m going to be so busy that day. And besides, we don’t really know each other, not as friends. Are you going to want me in your wedding photos for years to come?”
“What I want is a third bridesmaid.” She stood as well, and picked up her knapsack and helmet. “Having a gap is going to remind everybody of what happened at the Aquarium. Come on, you’re going to be there anyway, and you won’t be all that busy during the ceremony itself. It’s the obvious solution.”
“But I’m sure you have friends who—”
“Let’s face it, Carnegie. Anybody else I ask is going to be freaked out by the idea of wearing a dead woman’s dress.”
“And you think I’m not?”
“It can’t be any worse than finding her body!”
Paul, who’d begun to look concussed, was saved by the bell: his phone rang. He snatched it up eagerly and turned away from us with an eloquent show of body language: I’m busy working, see? Leave me out of this female stuff. My bride and I obliged him, heading out to the lobby and into an elevator. It was empty, though I’m not sure the presence of strangers would have deterred Elizabeth. Bulldogs could have taken tenacity lessons from Elizabeth.
“Will you do it?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Bottom line,” she said. “How much?”
“You want to hire me as your bridesmaid?”
“Call it a bonus. I can cut you a check today. How does two grand sound?”
“Honestly, I’m just not comfortable—”
“Three, then.”
The elevator set us down at street level, offering escape.
“Elizabeth, I’ll think about it, really I will. Right now, I’ve got an appointment with your florist. Are you sure you don’t want to be there?”
“Too busy,” she said. “You know the look I’m after. But don’t think too long. The bridesmaids’ fitting is tomorrow.”
“I know that. I’ll see you there.” And I’ll put on that pink dress when hell freezes over.
Rather than walk in the strengthening rain, I battled the traffic down to Pioneer Square in Vanna. A brand-new engine noise, a sort of muffled clank, reminded me once again to call my mechanic. Or maybe I should call a faith healer. The metered spaces were all full, so I used an exorbitant parking lot on Occidental and walked along a block of restaurants, blues bars, and touristy shops, most of them closed on a Monday, to reach Nevsky Brothers Flowers, which was open seven days a week.
Boris Nevsky’s floral business was unusual—just like everything else about Boris Nevsky. For starters, he didn’t have a brother in the flower business; he just thought the name sounded good. A small army of young men, most of them named Sergei and all of them darkly handsome, joked and squabbled in Russian as they hauled in wholesale flowers, assembled them under the master’s savagely perfectionist eye, and trucked away the finished creations. If someone inquired about the Nevsky siblings, Boris just collared the nearest Sergei and introduced him ardently as “my only family here in your country.” It worked like a charm.
Boris also didn’t have a typical retail showroom, with display coolers of the standard flower arrangements and racks of hard goods—vases, mugs, picture frames—or impulse buys like greeting cards and scented soaps. Instead, he ran a tiny bucket shop out front, tended by a tiny Russian crone named Irina who sold blooms by the stem, bought wholesale for the purpose or left over from his design work.
I greeted Irina, shook the rain off my jacket, and braced myself for the patented Boris bear hug.
“Kharrnegie!” Sure enough, when Boris emerged from the workroom, he clamped me to his broad, sweater-clad chest and expelled all my oxygen. Then he held me at arm’s length—quite a length, too, given the simian stretch of his arms—and beamed at me with blue-flame eyes that gleamed beneath his thatch of wiry hair like lanterns in a cottage window. “You luke rravished!”
I ducked the big wet kiss that often followed the hug. “I think the word you want is ravishing. Nice to see you, too, Boris. How are things?”
He frowned. “My things are well, but not your things, I think. A corpse at your party, that is very bad for you.”
“Pretty bad for her, too.”
He shrugged. Strangers were nothing to Boris, friends were everything.
“Come inside and have tea.”
The Mad Russian Florist was an oversized man, and his workroom was built to scale. There were long sturdy design tables and vast humming storage coolers, with skylights high overhead and exposed brick walls bearing shelves of supplies and photographs of various floral triumphs. The fanciest restaurants in Seattle relied on Boris, and s
avvy wedding planners booked him a year ahead.
Boris’ private office, as far as anyone could tell, was in his car, and his employee break room was a samovar in the corner and an alley behind the building, perpetually blue with the smoke of Russian cigarettes. The workroom itself smelled like springtime, like roses and freesias and lilies of the valley all at once, which was why I loved to visit. And today, of course, I had an ulterior motive.
“I must work while we talk,” he said, nodding at a half-completed biedermeier on one table.
Biedermeiers are formal bouquets made in concentric circles, each tightly-packed ring composed of a different flower. This one had a center of creamy white tulips surrounded by pink lisianthus, then a ring of deeper pink sweetheart roses. A pile of hydrangea blossoms, white and palest blue, lay ready to form the lacy outer border. At the far end of the room the Sergeis came and went, but this bouquet was getting the Boris touch. He never staffed out the bride’s flowers.
I perched on a stool to watch. “That’s charming. Who’s it for?”
“Bah, a silly liddle girl who will not appreciate. I should give her kharnations and cabbage leaves. Bring us tea.”
The deep-seated belief that women were born to serve had been a sticking point when I dated Boris, but now that he was just one of my top vendors, I had no problem with drawing him a steaming glass from the samovar.
“None for you?”
“Not just now.” I knew from sad experience what the smoky devil’s brew would do to my stomach lining. We talked briefly about Mercedes, and I explained that the wedding was proceeding despite her death. “So what’s the plan for the EMP flowers?”
“The sketches are over there. Bring them.”
Some florists just list the plant variety and number of stems for each vase or bouquet, but Boris made these wonderful colored-chalk sketches. I fetched the folder marked “Lamott” and spread them out on the worktable.
“Wow! Double wow.”
“EMP is big and loud, it needs big loud flowers.”
These were loud, all right. Elizabeth’s gown was sizzling orange chiffon, strapless, with a shoulder wrap of cherry pink gauze. Sort of Academy Awards meets the Tequila Sunrise. The bouquet Boris had envisioned was a thick pillar of frilly red-orange gloriosa lilies, rising like a snow cone from an electric green cloud of lady’s mantle. Strange, but perfect for the dress. The bridesmaids, in their glamour-girl gowns, would each carry a dozen coral calla lilies clasped around a hot magenta heart of parrot tulips. The centerpieces for the buffet were equally audacious, mixing peonies, poppies, ranunculus, and amaryllis in a splendid clash of pink, crimson, orange, and scarlet.
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