Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  He nodded and I turned to look. Syd Soper, Death himself, was sitting at a table full of cocktail glasses with three other men in business suits, laughing loudly and kidding the waitress who had just brought us our steamed clams. She didn’t look pleased.

  Neither did Aaron. He stared at Soper and tapped his cigarette lighter against the tablecloth, flipping the little steel rectangle end over end after each furious tap. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. “That’s the son of a bitch who killed Mercedes, not your creep with the tattoos. And he’ll probably get away with it.”

  “The police didn’t listen to you?”

  He waited till the waitress came and went, bearing our order for one seared ahi with wasabi mashed potatoes, and one prime rib, rare. Thanks, Mom.

  “They listened, but they can’t prove anything. Nobody saw her go down that corridor, and the party was so big that it’s hard to piece together everyone’s whereabouts or even who saw her last.”

  “But Aaron, the police aren’t going about it the right way!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They should be looking for the man who attacked Mercedes and Corinne. I know, you don’t trust Corinne’s story, but what if it’s true? It gives us much more to go on.”

  He smiled again, a genuine smile this time. “Us?”

  “Well, you’re going to help me figure this out, aren’t you? Remember, Corinne was smothered with a black cloak, and Soper was wearing one.”

  He nodded, intrigued in spite of himself. “So if we ask people whether they saw Soper go down the pier to where Corinne was—”

  “Not just Soper, though. Anyone in a black cloak. I’ve got the guest list, and I can get the costume list from Characters, Inc. We can eliminate the people in black capes who couldn’t have done it because they left the party before eleven o’clock—”

  “Or because they’re you and me.”

  “Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? We both had black capes. Well, we know we didn’t do it, so that cuts the list down right there. Soper was Death, and someone was a magician—”

  “That was Harry from Classifieds. He wouldn’t hurt the rabbit in his top hat, let alone kill anybody.”

  “Let’s think about motive later, OK? Who else wore a black cloak?”

  “OK. There was a Batman, I remember, and Darth Vader…”

  “… and the Three Musketeers!”

  It was almost like a game, and I began to forgive his earlier bad manners, especially after dinner arrived. The food was better than I expected, even if I’d been paying for it. Joe might have curled his lip, but I was feeling well fed, right down to the slice of praline apple tart that we split between us. I paid the check, then sat back, replete, and closed my eyes to replay scenes at the Aquarium: the martini bar, the buffet tables, the dance floor…

  “Rick,” I said. “Rick the Rocket, the DJ, he was a medieval monk and his robes were black. There was someone else, too, in some kind of religious—oh, Angela Sims. She was a nun in black. She doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t think she’d attack other women?”

  “You said to leave motive out of it, Stretch. Angela’s big and strong.”

  “Corinne was pretty sure it was a man,” I said doubtfully. “But OK, we’ll consider Angela. Who else?”

  “That Dracula, the one who kept quiet all night so no one could identify him. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, but Characters, Inc. can tell me. I’ll call the shop in the morning. Oof, I’m half-asleep with all this food. Let’s go out on the deck and look at the lights.”

  But Aaron dug in his heels again. “It’ll be freezing out there. Drink your coffee and let’s go home.”

  “Look, I’m the host here tonight, and I want to go out on the deck.” I tried to keep it good-humored, but it came out peevish.

  “Well, I’m your guest here tonight, and I don’t.” He didn’t even try for humor. “I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Well, OK.”

  “OK.”

  We parted ways, each in our own separate huff. It was freezing out there, with a big wet wind, but I was determined to stay long enough to make Aaron uncomfortable. Like a mule with red hair, my father used to say.

  My father, I thought suddenly. Of course.

  I marched back inside and found Aaron sitting with his elbows on the bar, a drink and an ashtray between them. I felt so contrite I didn’t even care about the cigarette. He deserved one.

  “It’s acrophobia, isn’t it?” I said quietly.

  “How did you know?”

  I sat on the barstool beside him. We were enclosed in a buzz of voices, over which floated the pianist’s haunting rendition of “Send in the Clowns.” I love that song. “I should have known right away. My dad had a fear of heights, a bad one. He hid it as best he could. I tried to take him and Mom up here once for their anniversary and she had to explain why it wouldn’t work. Aaron, why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Why do you think?” He angled his head and ran one thumb along his eyebrow, hiding his face from me. “I was embarrassed. I know how you feel about big, strong men—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He turned to me. He had the nicest eyes, a dark, polished brown. “I’m talking about how you can hardly stand to go out with a short guy, let alone a short guy with phobias.”

  “Aaron, that’s not true! Look, I was tall and gawky as a girl, and I’m still a little self-conscious about my height. That’s all. Doesn’t mean I’m looking for some macho monster.”

  “So who are you looking for, Stretch?” He put out his cigarette and finished his drink. “Are you looking for me?”

  “Wel-l-l, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

  “So talk.”

  The bartender showed up just then, which bought me a few minutes. I ordered brandy, inhaled the golden fumes, and took a sip. And then I took the plunge.

  “Aaron, I need some time. I’m still shaken up by what happened this summer with Holt, and I feel like you’re trying to rush me into bed.”

  “Rush you?” He looked genuinely puzzled, and laid his hand on mine. “I’m not trying to rush you, Slim.”

  “But you talk about sex all the time—”

  “That’s just talk!” He smiled, that wonderful, winning smile. “You know, repartee, wordplay, romantic banter? I’m just letting you know how attractive you are to me. I’m not laying down an ultimatum.”

  “So you don’t mind waiting?”

  “Of course I mind! You drive me crazy. But if you need some time, you’ve got it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I felt a warm glow of relief, and brandy.

  “Of course, there is one problem,” he went on. “You’re going to have to help me out tonight. ’Cause if I don’t get what I want from you tonight, then it’s all over.”

  The glow faded. “What do you mean?”

  “Well…” He was trying not to smile, but it broke through. Zorro was back. “Well, I am shit-scared of that elevator ride, and if you don’t hold my hand on the way down, I’m going to have to jump down to the monorail.”

  I began to laugh. “I think that can be arranged.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  REHEARSAL DINNERS CAN BE MORE FUN THAN WEDDINGS— more intimate and relaxed, imbued with hospitality instead of stage fright. They’re flexible, too, having evolved far beyond the simple function of nourishing the wedding party after the rigors of the rehearsal. Sometimes the dinner is a formal first meeting of the bridal pair’s parents; sometimes it’s a casual thank-you evening for all the friends who have pitched in with the wedding preparations. I’d organized everything from pizza feasts to private sushi bars for my clients, and my batting average was close to perfect. But this was the first time I got to plan my dinner and eat it, too

  Paul and Elizabeth’s Friday-night rehearsal dinner was taking place a week before the rehearsal itself, to accommodate Paul’s parents.
They had an overnight layover in their flight from Minneapolis to Maui, where Howard had a sales conference and Chloe was going to see a real palm tree for the first time.

  I’d ordered Hawaiian flowers for our table for twelve: the engaged couple, their parents and attendants, and Valerie Duncan, the Sentinel’s managing editor, who had graciously agreed to fill in for Roger Talbot tonight. It was an amiable group, and the evening took on the air of a bon-voyage party for Paul’s homey, unassuming parents. I was especially taken with Chloe, who took me aside to thank me for filling in as bridesmaid. I just hoped she never found out I’d been paid.

  “It’s so important to Enid,” Chloe said to me over cocktails and appetizers, blinking her pale brown eyes behind their thick glasses.

  “Is she your aunt, or Howard’s?”

  “Mine, though I hate to admit it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, Enid can be such a… a bitch,” said Chloe daringly, savoring the word. “She’s very demanding, and she just hates Elizabeth! Don’t tell anyone I said so, though.”

  “Trust me.”

  Family drama was a pleasant distraction from thoughts of murder, and from the dense November fog pressing in at the windows. Elizabeth’s father—in town for the week to get some business done before the wedding—groused a bit because he couldn’t see “this famous so-called waterfall” from our private terrace. He was a self-made real-estate tycoon of the old school, proud and loud, and he wanted his money’s worth.

  But the rest of us enjoyed our beautifully presented dinners, sipping the fine wines appropriate to each course, and making conversation about every imaginable topic except murder. Afterwards, we settled cozily in the glow of the leaping, aromatic fire. When the combo in the foyer began to play, I opened the French doors to let the music drift in, then took my coffee from the sideboard and sat a little apart to try and clear my head.

  Elizabeth’s father soon joined me, cradling a snifter of brandy against his beltline. “Well, Miss Kincaid—”

  “Call me Carnegie, please.”

  “And I’m Burt. Carnegie, this is a nice little party you put on. We’ve got some fine-looking women here tonight, starting with my daughter.”

  He nodded across the room at Elizabeth. She wore a chic little black number, outshining her sister’s long-sleeved floral print, as she must have outshone her in general for most of their lives. Patty, trying out her new French twist, began the evening animated and almost pretty, but her father gave her only cursory attention; his compliments and smiles were all for the bride. Now his older daughter had grown silent, almost sullen, frowning into her coffee cup as if the bitterness she felt was concentrated there.

  Over by the fireplace, Angela Sims lounged on a hassock, negligently lovely in a dove-gray tunic and long skirt. She was deep in animated conversation with Valerie Duncan. Valerie, a handsome dark-haired woman in her forties, had been a bit reserved at first. But she was growing more voluble as the night went on, and had gratified Paul’s parents no end by praising their son during dinner. Valerie and Angela were both sharp-witted professional women, and they looked to be well on the road to friendship.

  Still seated at the dinner table was Corinne, overripe but succulent in a short peach-colored frock, working on her second slice of vanilla bean cheesecake with raspberry coulis. No wonder her bridesmaid gown was tight. She was talking shop with Aaron, who looked quite urbane in a herringbone jacket and charcoal slacks. He laughed heartily at some anecdote of hers about a recent benefit ball, and then moved off to chat with Patty.

  With no best man on hand, and Scott, the third groomsman, detained back in Baltimore by a crisis at work, Aaron was doing his duty and being attentive to all the ladies. I was grateful to him, because Zack was no help at all. Woefully underdressed in cords and a misshapen green sweater, Zack spent most of the evening moping around and gazing at me.

  “This Roger Talbot, the publisher who couldn’t make it tonight,” Burt was saying. “He’s the one whose wife died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poor bastard.” He stared into his brandy. “Still, there are worse things.”

  I kept tactfully silent. Elizabeth’s mother, Monica, had also recently departed from her marriage. But instead of heading for heaven, she had gone straight into the arms of Burt’s private Norwegian tennis coach. The specter of Monica and Lars attending the wedding had raised some very sticky seating questions.

  Now, however, it appeared that a killer backhand might come to the rescue. Lars was slashing his way through the semifinals of a tournament in Connecticut, and if he made it to the finals, Monica would fly in solo for the wedding. That would be uncomfortable enough, but nothing compared to putting Lars and Burt in the same building. This interactive rock-and-roll museum ain’t big enough for the both of us, you ornery sidewinder.

  Joe Solveto, a major tennis buff, was keeping me posted on the tournament results. Elizabeth seemed to find the whole thing mildly amusing.

  “And who’s the kid again?” asked Burt. “I didn’t catch all the names.”

  “That’s Zack Hartmann. He’s been working at the Sentinel.”

  “Something funny about that kid. Won’t look me in the eye.”

  I was saved from replying by Aaron’s approach. Corinne had disappeared, presumably to the ladies’ room, but since she didn’t seem to be drinking tonight, I wasn’t worried about a repeat of last Saturday. Aaron held out his hand.

  “Mr. Lamott, may I steal the lady from you? They’re playing her song.” The combo had begun “Lady in Red,” and I was wearing my best dress—a deep clear red with a full, fluid skirt.

  “Be my guest,” the tycoon replied, knocking back his brandy. “I’ll just chat with Karen when she gets back. Seems like a nice young lady.”

  “It’s Corinne,” I told him. “Yes, she’s very nice.”

  As he escorted me out to the foyer, Aaron murmured, “Gorgeous as you are, Ms. Kincaid, I have decided not to make passionate love to you on top of the piano. But it was a near-run thing.”

  That’s how he was handling my need for breathing space in our relationship: with patience and a laugh. Some men I knew would have dropped me at the nearest corner and never looked back.

  “You’re being so nice about this,” I said.

  “A man will do anything,” he replied in a confidential whisper, “if he thinks it’s foreplay”

  We circled among the other couples, many of them from a family reunion being held in one of the larger dining rooms. As our own room came back into view, I saw Burt talking intently to Corinne, and Paul’s parents coming out to the foyer to dance. Howard had tucked an orchid behind Chloe’s ear, and she was smiling like a bride. How nice to know little, and care less, about Mercedes Montoya.

  “So what’s the word from the costume shop?” asked Aaron.

  “Nothing yet. Apparently Characters, Inc. always closes down for a week after Halloween, to give the owners and the staff a break. I keep leaving messages, but I don’t know when I’ll hear back, and the owner’s home number is unlisted. I bet we could put together the list of black cloaks from memory, though.”

  Aaron nodded. “You know, I’m beginning to come around to your view of Corinne’s story. She’s trying to cover it up, but she’s really frightened.”

  “So can we get together tomorrow and go over the guest list?”

  “I’ll come by early and take you out to breakfast.”

  “Sounds good. Oh, no—” As the song ended I saw Zack approaching, his jaw set in grim resolution. “Aaron, be a prince and fend off Zack, would you? I’m just not up to conversations about the Internet tonight.”

  He turned. “Zack, my man! Come have some brandy with me on the terrace. I need a smoke.”

  I cut through the dancers to the concierge desk, just to let them know how well our evening was going. An unnecessary errand, but it would save me a phone call tomorrow, and I really was pleased with the Salish Lodge. If the Buckmeisters started to di
ther again about their rehearsal dinner, maybe I’d bring them here.

  “Message just came for you, Ms. Kincaid,” said the bright young man at the desk. “I haven’t even had time to write it down yet.”

  “From Joe Solveto?” I’d accidentally left my cell phone at home, and felt naked without it.

  “Yes. He said Lars Kvern won in straight sets, and you’d know what that meant.”

  “Oh, thank God! You just made my night.” I paid my compliments to the chef and the lodge, and returned to my party.

  Howard and Chloe were still dancing, and Zack and Aaron were out on the terrace with the French doors shut, but most of the other guests were nowhere to be seen. Valerie Duncan, still ensconced by the fire, told me why.

  “It seems that Burt Lamott simply had to see the Falls, so they’ve all gone trooping across the parking lot to that viewpoint pavilion farther along the canyon. He must think the fog is going to lift and the Falls are going to light up, just for the VIP. I decided to stay here and stay warm.”

  “Very wise,” I said. “But I’d better get out there and make sure no one goes astray.”

  “Carnegie, before you go—”

  She looked so grave that I sat down beside her.

  “What is it, Valerie?”

  “Why didn’t Roger come tonight? It’s because of Mercedes, isn’t it?”

  Oh, hell. “I, um, couldn’t say.”

  “You don’t have to. Your face is too honest.” She sat back and sighed, fingering the fringe on her challis shawl. “I always wondered if they were lovers. Roger’s terribly discreet with all his women, paranoid, really, so there was never a sign. But she was so beautiful. And young. I’m not young anymore.”

  “Valerie, I shouldn’t be discussing this.”

  She seemed not to hear me. There were two snifters on the table beside her, one of them already empty. She reached for the other, with a hand that was blunt and mottled, not slim and brown like Mercedes’. She drained the brandy. “He’s been completely cold to me since we… since he… He can make you feel so cherished, and then be so cruel.”