“Stephanie, this is ridiculous! I didn’t know they made such contraptions. Are the others wearing this?”
“They don’t need it.” She silenced my protest by sliding the gown back over my head, then stepped back to let me view the result.
“Hey, that looks pretty good.” I peered over my shoulder, just as Corinne had done. “That looks very good.”
Stephanie dropped into a naughty whisper. “Carnegie, it looks sexy as sin.”
I had to admit, she was right. The bodice of the gown dipped alluringly over my newly created cleavage, and the low, open back showed off my shoulders. When I walked, the bias-cut satin slid and swirled around my legs in a definitely femme fatale kind of way. This bridesmaid deal wasn’t so bad after all.
Back in the living room, the other women were fluttering around comparing lipstick colors and putting on identical pink pearl earrings and pendants, their gifts from the bride. Even Elizabeth got into the spirit of it all, and helped Patty do her eyeliner with a sisterly camaraderie I hadn’t seen in her before. In the end, we lined up in processional order before the long wall mirror, and Lily pronounced us fit to be seen in public.
As we trooped back to change into our street clothes, I put on my wedding planner hat. “So, we’re settled on lipstick and nail polish. I’ll get my shoes dyed, Patty will schedule with a hairdresser for a French twist, and I’ll see you all at the rehearsal dinner Friday.”
“But the rehearsal isn’t this Friday, is it?” said Corinne, flipping through her little pocket diary.
“No, just the dinner,” I reassured her. “We changed the date because Paul’s parents are coming through on their way to Hawaii. The rehearsal itself is still a week from Friday. I’ll e-mail everyone with the updated schedule.”
My head was still full of times and dates as Lily and I stepped outside Stephanie’s shop and walked back to her car. But then, suddenly, I couldn’t think at all. Just down the street, leaning on a phone pole and dragging on a cigarette, was the purse-snatcher with the tattooed skull.
Chapter Thirteen
LILY CHATTED TO ME THE WHOLE WAY BACK TO HER CAR, and I didn’t hear a word. I was busy trying not to stare at the purse-snatcher. His tattoos, murky blue-black against the coarse, pallid skin, flowed down from his shaven head, disappeared into his torn and filthy sweatshirt, and emerged again on both forearms. I glimpsed snakes, spiders, and homely little sayings like “Only Death Is Real.” On one side of his head, above the ear, a bat spread blue-black wings over a giant eyeball. I was transfixed by the bat when the man turned his head to stare at me, with malicious little eyes that were clenched in a face as bony and muscled as a fist. I knew that face, and I was dead certain that he knew mine. By the time we got to the Volvo I was cold all over
“—never saw so much pink in my life!” Lily concluded, buckling her seat belt. “Hey, did you catch the tattoos on that guy back there?”
“Lily, that was him!”
“Him who?”
“The guy who tried to steal Elizabeth’s purse after the bridesmaids’ luncheon, the one I told you about!”
“Oh, my God, he looked absolutely poisonous.” She pulled away from the curb. “Why isn’t he in jail?”
“He’s out on bail until the trial. Lily, I think he’s following us.”
She checked the rearview mirror. “I don’t see him.”
“No, I mean following Elizabeth and her attendants. Everyone who was at La Corona that day, and saw him get arrested, was at Stephanie’s this morning. Elizabeth and Patty, me, Corinne and Angela. Everyone except… Mercedes.”
Lily’s eyes were wide. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know, but I’m calling Lieutenant Graham. Circle the block, would you?”
I rooted around in my bag for the detective’s card and punched the number into my cell phone. He picked up on the first ring.
“Homicide, Graham.”
I identified myself and began to babble about the man I now thought of as Skull. Graham knew about the purse-snatching attempt—he knew a lot about Mercedes by now— but he was strangely calm.
“He didn’t speak to you, or threaten you in any way?”
“No.”
“And what is he doing now?”
Lily cruised slowly by Stephanie’s, where the other women were piling gaily into Elizabeth’s SUV “Well, it looks like he’s gone. But Lieutenant, I have to talk with you. You’re in your office?”
“On my way out. I’ve got to grab some lunch before a briefing at the Federal Building. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”
“No, wait! We’re on our way to First Avenue now. I have a meeting down there myself. Where are you eating?”
His voice was amused. “Sounds like you’re going to tell me.”
“By Bread Alone, the bakery on Seneca. They have great sandwiches, you’ll love it. Fifteen minutes?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
I ended the call and remembered my manners. “Lily, thanks for the lift. You were a big help at the fitting, too. You can just drop me on First—”
“Are you kidding?” she countered. “You’re not leaving me in suspense. I want to hear the rest of the story. And besides, I’m hungry.”
By Bread Alone was an organic, communal, whole-grain, save-the-whales bakery that had begun life in an obscure building in the south end. The business was already rising like yeast when their pain au levain was written up by a gourmet magazine, just at the magic moment when the foodies of Seattle discovered artisan breads. Now BBA, as the regulars called it, had a bustling bakery operation downtown, with a cheery little six-table café up front.
Lieutenant Graham, traveling on foot, was already seated by the time we stashed Lily’s car. He stood up when we joined him, shook Lily’s hand, and even took our coats over to the rack in the corner. Chivalry was alive at the SPD. Graham wore a two-button Ralph Lauren faille suit in dark olive, and an intriguing tie. Must be a high-level briefing. He looked better rested than he had on Sunday, though he still carried that perpetual air of disappointment. Nice shoulders, I thought absently, and plunged into my brand-new, made-up-on-the-spot theory about Skull.
“What if that’s the connection between Corinne and Mercedes?” I said. “Some kind of weird vendetta that started the day we got him arrested? He had plenty of time to get to know our faces, sitting there on the curb waiting for the police. Elizabeth’s wedding plans have been in the papers, along with her picture, so he’d know about the engagement party. He could have sneaked into the Aquarium carrying some kind of black cloth, killed Mercedes, and then tried to kill Corinne. And now he’s stalking the rest of us!”
The waitress arrived and we ordered. A smile tugged at Graham’s lips as he asked for the Wholey Grail Whole Grain special, but he turned serious again as he began to tick off points on his fingers.
“That’s an interesting hypothesis, but it’s got a few problems. First of all, why would Lester Foy—that’s his name, by the way, though I like Skull better—why would he plot this drastic revenge just because you saw him commit a robbery for which he’s already been arrested and booked? Serial murder is a very big-time enterprise to take on, and Foy is very small-time. In fact purse-snatching in daylight is not just small-time, it’s stupid.”
“But—”
“Second,” he went on, “how could someone as stupid and bizarre-looking as Skull—I mean, Foy—sneak into a party with security guards at the door? And third—”
“Now, you can’t say he’s not stalking us!”
He took a bite of his sandwich and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. He had a narrow mouth and a nice square-cut jaw. “Sure I can.”
I was indignant. “You think it was just a coincidence that he was standing right outside the dress shop this morning?”
“Well, it could have been. Coincidences do happen. But as a matter of fact, Lester Foy lives about two blocks from the address you gave me. I looked it up. It’s no crime to hang out in yo
ur own neighborhood.” As I sat back, deflated, the detective ticked off his final point. “Fourth, I’m not convinced that anyone at all assaulted Ms. Campbell on Saturday night. She and I had a brief conversation about it, and she declined to file a complaint.”
“That’s because she’s upset—” I began, but Lily cut me off.
“Lieutenant Graham, listen to me,” she said, with that imperious Cleopatra look she can summon at will. “Someone stupid and desperate enough for a daylight robbery could easily be stupid and desperate enough for murder. And even if he does live on Capitol Hill, it’s still quite a coincidence that Skull was watching the dress shop like that. And besides—”
“Besides,” I jumped in, “the boy who cried wolf was devoured by one. What if Corinne is telling the truth, Lieutenant? She may be a flake, but how are you going to feel if she’s murdered, too?”
“Ms. Kincaid,” he said, “things happen every day in this city that I feel just terrible about.”
Suddenly I understood Graham’s air of disappointment. It came from constantly being appalled at the sins of mankind, and constantly watching them committed all over again.
“So you won’t pursue this.”
“I didn’t say that.” He stood up, wrapped the rest of his sandwich in a napkin, and dropped a bill on the table. “I’ll see if I can find out what your friend Skull was up to on Saturday night, and I’ll talk to Ms. Campbell again. And then if you don’t mind, I’ll continue to do my job and investigate why one of your party guests killed Mercedes Montoya. Now, I’m late for my briefing. Thanks for your input. Nice meeting you, Lily.”
We finished our lunch in discouraged silence, and then Lily had to go to work.
“Thanks again for carting me around today.”
“No problem.” She chuckled. “It was worth it to see you all dolled up like that.”
“And thanks for sticking up for me with Graham. You made my case better than I did, even if it is a pretty feeble case. I’ll take care of the check.”
She left, and I sat folding sugar packets into origami and thinking about Corinne. I knew she wasn’t just telling a theatrical fib, I could feel it. Professional victims, to use Aaron’s phrase, feed on the attention and concern that they create with their histrionics. They revel in victimhood. Corinne was trying to go on with her day-to-day life, doing her interviews and writing up her columns, but she was hardly reveling. She was badly shaken, I could see it in her eyes.
The question was, now that I’d alerted the police, what else could I do? Elizabeth and her attendants were already on the alert; no point spooking them further by telling them my theory, which was probably wrong anyway. These were sensible women, after all. They weren’t about to go strolling down dark alleys with a guy who looked like Skull.
“Hey, Kincaid. My shift is over. What’s up?”
Standing before me was a spherical young woman wearing tiny cat’s-eye glasses with huge rhinestone frames. Her hair was dyed chartreuse and shaved into a checkerboard pattern like clear cuts in a national forest, and when she spoke, you could see the steel stud through the end of her tongue.
“Hey, yourself,” I said. “How’d you like to bake a wedding cake for me?”
Chapter Fourteen
JUICE NUGENT WAS EVEN MORE INTERESTING THAN SHE looked—and considering her outfit today, that was saying something. I was only five or six years her senior, but my linen trousers and tweed jacket came from a different planet than her ebony leather bustier and heavy denim jacket, and the startling stretch of plump, milk-white leg between the raveled edges of her very short shorts and the scalloped tops of her purple snakeskin boots. The jacket’s shoulder seams were stitched with dozens of earrings, fishing lures and other trinkets that quivered and jangled at her slightest move, and a button on the lapel read “Queer and Proud. Any Questions?”
“You bet your ass I want to bake a wedding cake for you!” she said. Juice had a raspy voice with a lot of mileage on it. “I’ve only been telling you so for months. Wait, I’ll get us some coffee.”
As a teenage runaway, Juice had lived on the streets of Seattle for almost a year before hooking up with FareStart, a program that trains homeless people for food service jobs. They discovered her genius for baking, and she discovered self-respect. Now Juice was the diva of Danish and the goddess of galettes, and more than that, flat-out obsessed with becoming a sought-after wedding-cake designer. Her bosses at BBA, a middle-aged lesbian couple, loaned Juice cooler and oven space for freelance cake projects. She made a mocha mousse filling to die for, and did remarkably elegant work with tricky material like poured fondant.
The trouble was, Juice scared the clients. Green hair and blue language worked fine at a counterculture place like BBA, but not with your typical mother of the bride.
“So who’s the lucky girl?” she demanded, returning with a refill for me and a cup for herself.
“Her name’s Bonnie Buckmeister, and it’s a very Christmassy wedding. She and her folks have looked at several designs, but so far nothing seems quite right.”
She snickered. “So it’s last-resort time, huh?”
“Juice, I’ve told you before, your cakes are fabulous, but cakes aren’t everything. People need to be comfortable with you.”
“And I’ve told you, Kincaid, people are gonna get comfortable with me once my reputation takes off. I just need to prove myself.”
“Well, here’s a chance to start. Do you want to take a crack at it?”
“Hell, yeah!” The jacket jingled as she leaned forward, her arrogant expression suddenly earnest. “You’re not going to regret this, you’ll see. I’m gonna be famous. I am going to be the freakin’ Dale Chihuly of cake.”
“I’m sure you will, Juice, but meanwhile could you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“When I bring the Buckmeisters in for a tasting, lose the tongue stud?”
She agreed, reluctantly, and I gave her the rundown on the Buckmeister/Frost nuptials: number of guests, buffet menu, reception decor, and what I was able to surmise of the Buckmeister aesthetic approach. We made a date for the tasting, and then as we were leaving the table a thought struck me.
“Juice, you live on Capitol Hill, don’t you? Have you ever seen a guy near Olive and Broadway, with tattoos all over his head?”
“On his face, you mean?”
“No, his skull is shaved and tattooed. There’s a big one above his left ear, a bat hovering over an eyeball.”
“Cool! I woulda noticed that if I’d ever seen him. I love tattoos.”
“But you don’t have any yourself.”
She shrugged. “My girlfriend Rita likes my skin the way it is. How come you’re looking for this guy?”
“Oh… I just wanted to talk to him about, um, a band he’s in. For a client party. It’s no big deal, forget it.”
Which was what I needed to do myself. Lieutenant Graham was going to check out Skull’s alibi, and I was going to forget about him and get back to work. But first I bussed up to Westlake and rented a car. My current finances restricted me to a charming little vehicle, lovingly crafted in Eastern Europe, that combined the roomy elegance of a soup can with the horsepower of a sewing machine. Vanna, I vowed, I’ll never complain about you again. All is forgiven, come home soon.
As I stitched my way back to the houseboat, I reflected on the classic entrepreneur’s dilemma facing Made in Heaven: when you’ve got business in hand, you’re too busy to drum up new clients. But when the feast is over, the famine is there waiting. Eddie and I had to do our very best for Elizabeth and Bonnie, but we also had to line up some brides after them. It was enough to make me nostalgic for a paycheck. Sometimes.
Up in the office, Eddie was covered in smiles and my desk was covered with paper.
“What’s all this?”
“Our new software!” he crowed. “Now that Zack got it to work, we’re going to save all kinds of time and trouble. Look at this. It’s a graph of revenues versus expense
s for the last six months.”
I took the sheet he handed me and sat down. “We lost that much in just six months?”
He wasn’t listening. “And this one charts the RSVPs for Lamott/Wheeler, with columns for gifts received, thank-you notes sent, the whole shebang. You check off which columns you want visible on the screen.”
“Hmm. His relatives back East still haven’t answered. I need to give Joe a final head count soon.”
“… and this one is a pie chart of expenses allocated for Buckmeister/Frost. You can edit the captions for each wedge, see?”
“Are the flowers really running that high? Those amaryllis must be made of platinum.”
“Carnegie!” Eddie glowered at me and chomped his cigar so hard it nearly imploded.
“What?”
“Are you interested in this software or not? I’ve been busting my butt at the computer all morning while you went around trying on clothes, and now all you can do is pick nits!”
“Of course I’m interested!” The only treatment for this kind of computer fever was to feign enthusiasm and pray for a quick recovery. “This is just what we need to get a handle on the business. Why don’t you e-mail me some of these, so I can see them on-screen? Save a little paper, anyway…. Hey, did Zack call?”
“Yeah, he’s coming by tomorrow afternoon. He apologized all up and down about how he acted the other day, but I told him it was only natural seeing how a friend of his just got killed. He’s a nice kid. Smart.”
“According to Paul, he’s a genius with web-site design. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with for Made in Heaven. Anything else going on?”
“Joe Solveto wants to talk to you, so I told him to come on over. And that Talbot fellow called, but he wouldn’t say why. Too bad about his wife. I remember reading about it.”
“Yes. Yes, that really was too bad. I’d better make some calls before Joe gets here.”
I started with Roger Talbot.
“Carnegie, about this rehearsal dinner on Friday,” he said. His voice sounded ghastly.
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