Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Carnegie, wait a minute!” Soper’s voice sounded calm, even friendly.

  One of the party, a middle-aged woman in a leather coat, looked past me and waved a hand at him. “It was nice to see you tonight, Syd!”

  “You, too, Margaret,” Soper replied, walking up to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow about that committee. Good night.”

  They proceeded on to their cars, and as they did, more people emerged from the elevator nearby. This was a public garage, after all—hardly the spot for a solitary ambush. And now that I could see him clearly, Soper looked puzzled, not dangerous.

  “You called me today. What about?”

  “I… I’m just checking back with people after the party at the Aquarium. Making sure they got their costumes back, that kind of thing.”

  He wasn’t buying it. “Then why’d you run away? What’s Gold been telling you? I saw you with him at the Space Needle.”

  “Aaron hasn’t told me anything, Syd. I just heard footsteps behind me, and I didn’t realize it was you. I’m a little jumpy these days….” That was when I had my brainstorm about how to test him. Why didn’t I think of this before? I watched his expression carefully and said, “I found Mercedes’ body, you know. It was pretty gruesome, the way she was stabbed. And molested.”

  Soper flinched and grimaced as if someone had struck him in the face. “The bastard raped her? Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, a beautiful woman like that. And these goddamn liberals protest against the death penalty! I’m telling you, if it was their wife, or their daughter—”

  He went on at length, but I tuned out the words and focused on his face. Syd was passing the test: his shock and disgust looked absolutely genuine. I said something vague in agreement, and he walked me solicitously back to my car. Death was worried about me, for crying out loud. I drove home with a headache, and fell asleep thinking about Angela Sims.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I SLEPT LATE ON SUNDAY MORNING, AND MY PHONE RANG just as I was waking up. It was Lily.

  “Carnegie, can I come over for a few minutes? I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course. Something wrong?”

  “No, not exactly. I’ll be there soon.”

  “OK. I’m leaving for Mercedes’ funeral at two, but I’ll be around till then.”

  At least today I had time to get dressed. When Lily arrived I was stumbling around the kitchen in jeans and a sweatshirt, reluctant to put on my black slacks and sweater too soon. If Tommy Barry died, I was going to have to buy a proper black dress. Berating myself for such pessimism—and superficial pessimism at that—I pulled open the door to greet her.

  “Hey, there! You hungry?”

  “Not right now, thanks.” Lily settled comfortably at the kitchen table while I went back to the stove. She was wearing a royal-purple sweater with black leggings and the silver earrings I’d given her for her last birthday. “I had a phone call this morning. From Aaron.”

  I dropped the egg I was holding, and watched the shell crumple and the contents ooze across the counter. Then I swiped a paper towel over the mess and turned to look at her, all thoughts of murder suspects flown from my mind.

  “Aaron called you from Portland? Why?”

  “Why do you think?” she said peevishly. “I don’t like being in the middle of things like this, but he’s a nice guy, so I said I’d talk to you.”

  I abandoned the eggs and sat down. “OK, let’s talk.”

  She sighed. “He’s thinking about leaving Seattle for a job in Portland. He cares a lot about you, but he can’t figure out how you feel.”

  “That’s the trouble, neither can I.”

  “Well, maybe you should try harder!” There was an edge to Lily’s voice that I seldom heard. “Good men aren’t exactly easy to find, you know. If you’re waiting for somebody perfect, you’re going to have a long wait.”

  “Maybe I’m waiting for someone who doesn’t smoke like a chimney.” I was a little edgy myself. This was embarrassing.

  “For God’s sake, Carnegie, you’ve never smoked. You don’t know anything about it.”

  “But you don’t smoke either—”

  “I used to! Two packs a day, at one point. I quit when I got pregnant with Ethan, and then I started again during the divorce, and then I quit again.”

  “I had no idea.” I recalled with a wince all the comments I’d made to Lily about Aaron’s filthy habit. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just didn’t feel like talking about it. But honestly, you can’t imagine how hard it is to kick cigarettes.”

  “Aaron’s not even trying.”

  “Why should he? Why should he rearrange his life to suit you, when you won’t even make a commitment to him?” Lily stood up and paced around the kitchen. “You’ve got to accept people the way they are, whether it’s their habits or their careers or… Are you going to offer me a cup of coffee, or not?”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Of course. You know, I appreciate your trying to help—”

  “Well, I just hate to see you mess up a good chance like this.” She accepted the mug I gave her and took a healthy swallow. “I’d give a lot to find a man just like Aaron for myself and my boys.”

  “But he’s—”

  “White?” She took another sip and said softly, “Why do you assume I’d only want a black man?”

  “I’m not assuming anything, Lily. But a while ago you said that a mixed-race marriage would be hard on Ethan and Marcus.”

  “Well, that was a while ago. Mr. Right African-American hasn’t shown up yet. And I’m lonely. Don’t I deserve somebody to love?”

  I looked at her, and for the hundredth time or more, I marveled at this strong, beautiful woman who was my friend. “Of course you do, Lily. And the boys deserve a dad. Maybe—”

  “Never mind.” She set the mug down. “I don’t want to talk about it right now, and I don’t want to talk about Aaron anymore either. I said my piece. What I want is some lunch.”

  “Eggs?”

  “I had eggs hours ago. Let’s go out.”

  “OK, but someplace cheap.” I kept talking as I went into the bathroom to brush my hair. “I’ve got a lot to tell you while we eat.”

  It was my morning for breaking things. As I tossed the brush onto a shelf, it caught the corner of the black-and-gold powder compact, sending it cartwheeling to the floor. I grabbed but missed, and it splintered open with a sharp little crackle, releasing an avalanche of tiny identical pills that rolled and slid across the tiles. “What on earth?”

  Lily came to the doorway. “Did you break someth— Carnegie, what are you doing with those?”

  “They’re not mine! I don’t even know what they are.” I bent down to look. Weirdly, each pill had a minuscule smiley face impressed into one surface. I reached to pick one up, but Lily put out a restraining hand.

  “This is serious, Carnegie. If they’re not yours, whose are they?”

  “The compact belonged to Mercedes Montoya. I picked it up at the party, and then after she died I just kept it. I’m not sure why. What do you mean, serious? What is this stuff?”

  “I think it’s Ecstasy. I’m going to go call Lieutenant Graham. Don’t touch anything.”

  Lieutenant Graham, when he arrived, was not a happy man. He didn’t seem to mind being called on a Sunday, but he was indignant that I’d “concealed” an item belonging to a murder victim. He was also skeptical of my ignorance about Ecstasy, and annoyed that I’d been talking to Rick the Rocket, even though my conversation seemed to clear the DJ in Mercedes’ death.

  “Ecstasy is MDMA,” said Graham, sitting in my living room after bagging up the compact and pills. In a handsome blue fisherman’s sweater, snug jeans, and shiny loafers, he was nobody’s stereotype of a cop. “It’s a neurotoxin, a middle-class party drug that makes you feel wonderful while it’s destroying some of your brain cells. And half the time it’s mixed with something else—MDA, GHB, rohypnol— that’s even worse. You see it at raves, clubs, house
parties, everywhere. People who should know better go on the Internet and explain how to use it. Manufacturing costs are about two dollars a pill, and then the pills retail for forty or fifty dollars apiece. Quite a valuable stash you’ve got here.”

  “It’s not mine, I told you that. It belonged to Mercedes, and she must have gotten it from Rick.”

  “Who has now disappeared, by the way. He had a plane reservation for Las Vegas, and never used it.”

  “Well, that’s not my fault!” My headache was back, and now my stomach was rumbling.

  Graham leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked infinitely tired. “Some people are going to think it is. Some people are already wondering about you. You take money from Mercedes Montoya, and she turns up as a homicide victim. You talk to Richard Royko, and he vanishes. And now you’re in possession of a Schedule One drug, in a quantity that strongly suggests not just using but dealing.”

  “Lieutenant, what exactly are you accusing Carnegie of?” Lily, hands on hips, was standing her ground in the middle of the room. The sun had come out, a rare phenomenon this time of year, and she was surrounded by a corona of silver light reflecting off the lake through the sliding glass doors. Talk about your warrior princess. Lily might be annoyed with me, but she was still in my corner.

  Graham smiled at her, a gentle, tired smile. “Nothing. Strangely enough, I believe that Ms. Carnegie Kincaid is an innocent bystander in this situation, and I’m going to record these pills as evidence that was discovered by accident and immediately turned over to the proper authorities.”

  Lily smiled back, and I was about to offer scrambled eggs all around when Graham said, “But there is a multi-agency task force addressing the party-drug trade in this area, and the DEA is not going to be pleased that they didn’t get this evidence sooner. So, Carnegie, is there anything further you want to share with me about Mercedes Montoya or Rick the Rocket or anyone else connected with the case, before you promise to stay out of police business altogether?”

  “Wel-l-l,” I said, and he rolled his eyes. “There is just one thing I’d like to pass on about Syd Soper.”

  “And that is?”

  “He didn’t kill Mercedes.” And I explained how I knew.

  Graham actually laughed. “Sydney Soper was one of your suspects?”

  “He was wearing a black cloak, and he was at the party after eleven!” I said defensively. This was not exactly how I had planned to present my findings to the police. “He could have been the one who attacked Corinne—”

  “If anyone did.”

  “I believe that someone did! And I believe that we should find out who it was. Corinne is scared to death, and Mercedes may have been dealing drugs but she still deserves justice.”

  “Of course she does,” said Graham. He stood up. “And she will get it. But from the criminal justice system, not from wild guesses and woman’s intuition. All right?”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but then I caught Lily’s glare and the shake of her head. “All right. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  The phone rang as I closed the door behind him. Hungry as I was, I stopped to answer, half-hoping it would be Aaron. Instead, I heard a fussy, familiar woman’s voice, one that never seemed to stop for breath.

  “Miss Kincaid, this is Georgette Viorst, at Characters, Inc., and we’re opening the shop on Monday, so I came in this weekend to get things organized, and saw that you left several messages, so I thought I’d better get back to you, in case it’s important and you didn’t want to wait until business hours. So, you were wondering who rented a Dracula costume for the Lamott party? I’d like to help you out, really I would, but I checked our inventory twice, and I could check it again but I don’t think so, really I don’t.”

  “You don’t what? I’m sorry, I’m a little confused here. What are you telling me?”

  “Miss Kincaid, we don’t have a Dracula costume.”

  “What?”

  “No, we had one, but you see the last person to rent it left it lying on his sofa and his cat just shredded the cape into ribbons! It was very careless of him, really, and he brought it in and offered to have it fixed, but you can’t fix something like that, can you? You have to replace it entirely, and we’ve been meaning to do that because it’s a popular costume, well, not that popular but it’s a standard, and we like to have all the standards in stock for when—”

  “Wait! Please, let me get this straight. You didn’t rent anyone a Dracula costume for the party at the Aquarium last Saturday night?”

  “No.”

  “Or for any other party, any other night?”

  “No. You see—”

  “Thank you, Georgette. I’ll call you tomorrow to check up on the rest of the costumes, OK? Good-bye.” I hung up, and said to Lily, “That does it. I’m scrambling some eggs. If I don’t eat in the next ten minutes, my head’s going to explode.”

  Over eggs and toast and a lot more coffee, we talked about Dracula.

  “Dracula was Skull!” I insisted. “He had to be. That’s how he got into the party unrecognized. He wore a full rubber head mask that covered his tattoos.”

  Lily wasn’t convinced at first. “What about height and build? I don’t quite remember—”

  “Medium-sized guys, both of them,” I said. “It all fits! None of the other guests could figure out who Dracula was, and now we know why. Because he wasn’t an invited guest.”

  “It does make sense,” she said with growing enthusiasm. “And he didn’t talk so he wouldn’t give himself away.”

  “And he wore a black cloak, and he was on the premises after eleven. And even if his motive is kind of bizarre, at least he’s got one, which Angela never did. With Rick and Soper in the clear, the list is down to one name. Dracula, aka Lester Foy ”

  “I’m not quite as sure as you are,” said Lily, “but say you’re right. What are you going to do next? I don’t think Mike Graham wants to hear any more theories from you.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he does.”

  As we looked at each other, perplexed, the phone rang yet again. And yet again it wasn’t Aaron.

  “Kincaid? Juice. I saw your guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “With the tattoos!” She sounded quite pleased with herself. “I was getting off the bus on Olive and there he was, getting on, so I just sat down again, right next to him, and started talking. Man, he is a walking work of art, you know?”

  “Juice,” I said, feeling a little sick, “did you tell him I was looking for him?”

  “Well, no. See, you got it wrong, it’s not Les that’s in the band, it’s his girlfriend Mandy. They’re called Slippery When Wet, and he’s sort of their manager. I’ve heard them at clubs, and Rita even knows Mandy. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “Yeah, a coincidence. Did you mention me at all?”

  “No, I thought I’d better talk to you first. Are you sure you want this particular band for your client? I don’t wanna tell you your business, but if you think I’m scary, you should see these girls. Mandy’s really hot on guitar, but still—”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said hastily. “Sounds like the wrong band. Absolutely. But thanks for letting me know.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Tomorrow at seven for the tasting, right? I’m bummed that it has to be so early, but they’re rewaxing all the floors at nine. BBAs closed on Mondays, remember, so I’ll let you in the side door…. Are you still there?”

  “Yes. The side door. See you then.” I hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment without seeing it. Thank goodness Mandy’s band was so scary. The last thing I needed was for Skull to hear that I was asking around about him.

  “Now I know what I’m going to do next,” I said, turning back to Lily. “First I’m going to call Graham and tell him just the facts, ma’am, about the Dracula costume. Then I’m going to install a floodlight over my front door. And then I’ve got a funeral to go to.”

  Chapte
r Twenty-Two

  FUNERALS SHOULD HAPPEN IN THE RAIN. THERE SHOULD be dark clouds, at least, and a doleful wind, and a decent dimming of the light

  But when I arrived, late and flustered, for Mercedes Montoya’s graveside service, the low-hanging November sun shone, bright and almost warm, from a sky of extraordinarily clear, deep blue. The priest, a small man built like a wrestler, cast a blocky shadow across the casket, already lowered into the gaping grave. The sun’s glare made the mourners squint and shield their eyes with their hands, and illuminated the faces of the grieving family with cruel precision. Clouds would have been kinder.

  I’d hit a traffic jam on I–5, then gotten lost trying to find the church in the southern suburbs, so I missed the funeral mass entirely. But I’d spotted the hearse and followed the short procession of cars to Greenwood Memorial Park, a modest cemetery with an adjacent funeral home. Another burial service was just getting started, a larger one than Mercedes’, and other visitors, solitary or in pairs, were walking the paths across the flat green plane of grass and headstones and bouquets, all of it far too gay and colorful in the sunshine.

  From the edge of our little assembly I stood scanning all the faces, while Mercedes’ brother Esteban, a gangling, good-looking youth, made some remarks in Spanish. His voice broke several times, and his mother, standing tall in her black suit and long veil, wept silently but without pause. Among the mourners who were strangers to me, some were surely Spanish-speaking family friends, while others—the young and stylish ones—were probably colleagues from the TV station where Mercedes had begun her rise to fame.

  I saw Paul with Elizabeth, and several more people from the Sentinel, including Corinne Campbell and Valerie Duncan, both wearing sunglasses. I wondered if Aaron would have attended had he been in town. He should have called me, not Lily, the bum…. I noticed that Angela Sims was there as well. I’d almost forgotten that she and Mercedes were not just bridesmaids together but sorority sisters. The one figure missing, besides Aaron, was Roger Talbot. Was he too grief-stricken to attend, or just wary of letting his grief be seen in public and interpreted for what it was, mourning for a lost lover?