Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  “Calm down!”

  “I am calm!” I shouted. “Stop patronizing me, and go get your damn breakfast.”

  “Fine.” He shoved his arms into the tangled sleeves of his jacket, got one arm stuck, struggled a bit, and yanked the jacket off again, glaring all the while. Then he stalked through the kitchen and out the front door, banging it behind him and leaving me with the world’s worst headache.

  “Fine!” I said to the door. Then I flipped the dead bolt and glared around the kitchen. That pineapple smells perfectly nice, I thought defiantly. I returned to the living room, sniffing the air. The reek of cigarettes was even stronger than I thought. Where does he get off complaining about smells—

  “Who the fuck is Angela?”

  The reek was coming from Lester Foy, who was standing just inside the glass door to my deck. He wore motorcycle leathers and massive boots looped with silver chains, and his face held an expression of such brute malevolence that meeting his gaze felt like warding off a blow.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing emerged except a feeble gasp. Then last night’s omelet tried to follow the gasp out, and I felt the cold sweat of nausea on my face. The room seemed to tilt.

  “Answer me!” His voice was harsh and raw. “You got Mandy so pissed off—”

  I may scare easy, but I don’t scare for long. The room straightened out, the omelet stayed put, and I inflated my lungs like bellows and shrieked for all I was worth.

  “Get AWAY-Y-Y!!”

  “Jesus!” said Foy

  I fled into the kitchen, meaning to grab my chef’s knife, but when I heard Foy’s boots clumping behind me, I snatched up the next best thing and whirled to face him.

  “Don’t touch me!” I warned, brandishing the pineapple. Granted, it wasn’t much of a threat, but it made him hesitate. Then came a shout and a rattle at the front-door knob, and Foy retreated back to the living room.

  “Aaron!” I hollered. “He’s in here! Help!”

  Still clutching my tropical weapon, I unlocked the front door, but no one was there. Aaron must have gone around to the back. I rushed into the living room with the vague notion of catching the intruder between us.

  Foy was standing outside on the narrow wooden deck. The weak winter sun, reflecting off the water, illuminated the dark designs on his skull and the backs of his hands. I could see the bat wings above his left ear as he faced the south end of the deck, the way he had come. But he wasn’t moving, and his jaw was agape in astonishment.

  I ran to the glass and saw, not Aaron but the beautiful, the glorious Buckmeisters, surging around the corner like the flying squad of some good-natured, unstoppable football team. Foy spun on his heel to flee the other way, then stopped again, stymied. My deck doesn’t run all the way around; it dead-ends at the north corner. He turned back to glare at me, with murder in his eyes. I knew I’d never get the sliding door closed in time, let alone fumble the mop handle into place.

  So I launched the pineapple.

  It sailed heavily through the open doorway, losing altitude fast and coming in at knee level. Foy deflected it with one grimy hand, and with the other flicked open a wicked-looking knife. But those precious seconds brought Buck Buckmeister bearing down on him like vengeance itself in a red bandanna. Snarling obscenities, Foy backed away from this new opponent and raised the knife.

  Unfortunately for Lester Foy, he backed up one step too many. He seemed to hang suspended for a moment, and then fell, spread-eagled and howling, into Lake Union. The enormous splash he sent up spattered the Buckmeisters and sent an arc of drops rat-a-tatting across my windows. I fell into Betty and Bonnie’s solicitous arms while their patriarch stared down into the water, breathing hard.

  “Who is this bastard?” Buck demanded. “Did he touch you? By God, I’ll kill him.”

  “I don’t think you have to, Daddy,” said Bonnie. “I think he’s drowning.”

  “Serves him right,” rumbled Buck. “Probably faking it.”

  But Foy was flailing around in a genuine panic, propelling himself farther away from the safety of the deck with every thrashing movement. His tattooed head slipped beneath the surface, reappeared, then went down again with a gargling shout.

  “Boots!” I said. “He’s wearing big leather boots.”

  “He’ll die,” said Bonnie.

  “Let him!” said Buck.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Betty in a small, vexed voice, and shucked off her jacket and shoes.

  She executed a neat, shallow dive off the deck, coming up plumb in the center of the foamy ripples created by Foy’s struggles. Treading water and gasping from the cold, Betty stared at us bug-eyed for a moment, with her black curls plastered straight and streaming around her face. Then her apple cheeks puffed out as she took a big breath, upended herself and dove straight down, her diminutive feet in their gay plaid socks twinkling and then vanishing in the dark water.

  Bonnie grabbed my arm and moaned, but Buck was smiling.

  “Relax, honey,” he said. “Don’t forget, your momma was a lifeguard in Galveston when I met her. Just the prettiest little lifeguard you ever saw.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES—OR AN HOUR. ESPECIALLY if, in a single hour, your nemesis is arrested; your beloved van is pronounced ready to come home; and your not-quite-boyfriend apologizes abjectly after leaving you in the hands of a murderer for the sake of two eggs over easy and a side of home fries

  “I just hope it was a good, filling breakfast,” I said earnestly, “to tide you over while you identified my body.”

  “Enough with the guilt!” Aaron replied. “I’ve said I was sorry about ten times now. Any more of this and I’ll throw you off the deck. I should anyway, just to teach you not to lure psychos to your house when I’m not around.”

  But he held me tight while he said it. We were nestled together on my couch, exchanging small, comforting kisses while I calmed down. It was quite a relief to have the place to ourselves. Lieutenant Graham was still out hunting the downtown rapist, but the SPD dispatched some uniformed cops to haul Lester Foy off to jail, mute and soggy in his leathers. The combined clamor of that many loud-voiced men, plus the Buckmeisters, had been a bit much for a woman with a resounding hangover.

  With Skull safely gone, Betty had brushed off my concern about hypothermia, asking only for a towel and some hairspray, and the loan of some dry clothes. Once she was dry and curly again, I sent the Buckmeisters away with my heartfelt gratitude and a promise to discuss Christmassy place cards in exhaustive detail—some other time. Meanwhile, Pete the mechanic had called with the good news about the newly-repaired Vanna, and Aaron had returned from his breakfast to find me shaken but safe after the springing of my trap. Good news all around.

  “Tell you what,” I said, lifting my head from Aaron’s shoulder. “I’ll accept all ten of your apologies if you drive me to Pete’s to pick up my van.”

  “Deal. You want to tell people about Foy first?”

  I nodded. “I think I’ve got my breath back now.”

  Elizabeth was my first call, though it was Paul who answered her phone.

  “Thank God,” he said, “and thank God he didn’t hurt you.” Then, with his reporter’s curiosity kicking in, “I wonder why he went after you instead of Corinne this time?”

  “Who knows?” I lied. No point telling anyone else how foolhardy I’d been. “Right now I just want Elizabeth and Patty to know that they’re safe.”

  “They got him?” Elizabeth had picked up an extension. “They got the bastard?”

  “They got him.”

  “All right. I’ll call Patty. Carnegie, when can we meet? I need to talk to you before the rehearsal.”

  “So the wedding is still on?”

  “Absolutely. I’m going out right now to buy some shoes. These pumps just aren’t breaking in right.”

  She didn’t mention hiring another substitute bridesmaid, and I didn’t raise the issue. So what if we had an e
xtra groomsman? Aaron could still escort Corinne, and maybe after the ceremony I’d walk back up the aisle with Zack on one arm and Paul’s brother Scott on the other.

  Elizabeth and I set a time to meet the next morning, and then I called Corinne. She was nearly incoherent with relief, and handed the phone to someone else, who turned out to be Zack.

  “So everything’s OK now?” he said. “Awesome!”

  “My sentiments exactly. You did bodyguard duty with Corinne, I take it. How is she holding up?”

  He lowered his voice. “She was, like, awake all night being bummed out about Angela and everything.”

  “Well, tell her to call in sick and go back to bed.”

  “Sure.” Zack sounded a bit deflated, now that his heroic mission was over. “Can I, like, help with anything else?”

  “Just be at the rehearsal on time,” I told him. “Front entrance to EMP, seven o’clock Friday evening.”

  “No, I mean before that.” The petulant tone was back in his voice. “I want to see you.”

  “Zack, I’m going to be really busy for the next few days.”

  “Not every minute.”

  “Yes, just about every minute.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.” It’s hard not to scold when someone’s acting like a child. “I appreciate all your help, I really do, but I can’t see you till Friday night. Just get Corinne calmed down, OK? She’s been through a lot.”

  After the calls I went to rejoin Aaron on the couch, but he was getting to his feet.

  “Sorry, Stretch. If you want that ride, it has to be soon. I want to go home and shower before I check in at work.”

  “And explain why you came back early? I hope it’s not a big problem.”

  “Nah, I was pretty much done.”

  I took a deep breath. “Aaron, Lily told me about the job offer in Portland.”

  “I knew it!” He surprised me by laughing. “I told her about it in confidence, but I had a bet with myself that it would get back to you. I’ll have to give her hell about being such a blabbermouth.”

  “Never mind that.” I was still holding my breath. “Are you going?”

  For reply, he kissed me, not a small comforting kiss but a long, provocative one. Then he slapped me on the fanny. I would have sworn that only my father could slap me like that and live, but I was so off-balance from the kiss that I let it go.

  “I told them I needed time to think about it,” said Aaron. “A long time. Come on, let’s go rescue Vanna.”

  As we drove, I spared a thought for Zack. I shouldn’t have spoken to him that way, but preserving his manly dignity was becoming a bore.

  And Aaron was becoming a mind reader. “Sounds like Robin Hood’s getting to be a pain in the ass.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing. You know, Stretch, you might want to keep your distance with Zack. He’s been acting kind of strange since Mercedes died.”

  So would you if you thought you were the one who killed her.

  But of course I couldn’t say that. “Surely it’s not all that strange to enjoy my company?”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. He just strikes me as being kind of a weird kid. And I think he might have lied about his background to get on at the Sentinel. I was talking to a friend of mine in Boston—”

  “Boston? I thought he was from St. Louis.”

  “No, he told Paul he was with an on-line start-up in Cambridge, and he came out here after the company went belly-up. But my Boston buddy says he never heard of them.”

  Poor Zack, trying so hard for his fresh start. He must not even want to mention St. Louis.

  “These little companies come and go all the time,” I said. “Your friend can’t know all of them. Why were you investigating Zack, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t investigating,” he said sheepishly. “I just thought it was odd. Besides, Zack is starting to look familiar to me, like I’ve seen his picture somewhere.”

  A likely story, I thought. You re jealous! Zorro was jealous of Robin Hood. I was tempted to tease Aaron about it, but really, it was kind of sweet. So I changed the subject instead.

  “There’s a left turn coming up,” I said. “Pete’s is two blocks after that. I can’t wait to get my van back.”

  Pete had Vanna parked right out front. The repaired fender was smooth and seamless, the copper-colored Made in Heaven logo gleaming in the mild winter sun. I could feel my cramped muscles relaxing just to look at her. No more soup cans! I gave Pete a hug and a hefty check, and climbed happily behind the wheel, sliding the driver’s seat all the way back with a satisfied sigh.

  “You look like a kid with a new toy,” said Aaron, smiling at me through the open window.

  “Now if I could just sleep for about sixteen hours, I’d feel like a kid. Thanks for the lift. And…”

  “And what?” He paused in the act of pulling out a cigarette, and quirked one eyebrow.

  “And thanks for galloping in to my defense. Really.”

  “You’re welcome. Really.”

  Aaron leaned into the window for a kiss, and this time I gave as good as I got. Then he walked over to his VW—he looked good from the back, too—and drove off. His apartment building was on the shore of Lake Union, not far from my houseboat, and somehow I liked that sense of him being nearby.

  As I put Vanna in gear, marveling at the absence of clanking noises, I decided that Bonnie Buckmeister’s wedding wasn’t the only thing I’d have to focus on after the EMP ceremony. My relationship with Aaron Gold was right up there at the top of the list. Maybe I wasn’t quite so wounded after all.

  Back at the office, Eddie had arrived—he kept his own hours—and was playing with his pet software, his white hair ruffled and an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. When I came in he stood up and stretched, then squared his shoulders. Eddie has the best posture in the world.

  “I saw the note you left me,” he said over the hum and grunt of our bottom-of-the-line printer. “How’s Vanna?”

  “Good as new, if not better.”

  “And this fellow that killed the bridesmaids, he got arrested downstairs this morning?”

  “Yep.”

  “Right after you start dating a cop. Funny coincidence.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” I said airily.

  But he wouldn’t be put off. Folding his arms, he said, “Carnegie, you been up to something?”

  “Not a thing! All that matters is that Foy is locked up, and Lamott/Wheeler is on schedule for Saturday. In fact, I have Elizabeth coming by tomorrow morning, so could you update her budget report?” Cunningly, I went for the sure-fire distraction. “I don’t suppose you’ve got it in your new program yet…”

  Eddie snorted, happily indignant. “ ’Course I have! And it’s our program, sister. We’re in the twenty-first century now. You better start learning this stuff yourself.”

  He went on grousing gently, while I settled in at my desk with a smile of contentment. You couldn’t say all was right with the world, but it was a damn sight righter than it had been yesterday. I called Lily at the library to tell her so but got her voice mail, so I left her a cheery message, made myself a cup of stomach-settling instant soup at our little one-burner kitchen in the corner, and got down to work.

  Ten minutes later, I gave up.

  “Eddie, I’m half-asleep. I’m going to take Vanna to the supermarket, and then I’m going to shut off my phone and crash.”

  “Let me take a look at her before you go.”

  “Sure.”

  We stepped to the office door, but when I opened it there was a woman standing outside, evidently about to knock. An attractive woman: a youthful fifty, maybe fifty-five, small and slender with a tip-tilted nose, warm wide eyes the color of maple syrup, and chestnut hair that fell in loose waves against the shoulders of her stylish wool coat.

  “Oh!” she said, in a soft, burbling voice. “You must be Carnegie Kincaid. And this is your
partner, Mr. Breen. I looked you up on the Internet, you know! Now, is it Ed or Eddie? No, never mind, it doesn’t matter, because I’m going to call you Edward. You have that kind of dignified air about you.”

  “Well…” said Eddie, who never bantered with women. Ever.

  She was inside by this time, looking around delightedly. “What adorable wicker furniture! You know, Edward, I’m the kind of person who loves things or hates them, and I just love wicker. Wicker and chintz.” She perched herself on the love seat and sparkled up at Eddie, who was still finding his voice. “I guess I’m just a country girl at heart.”

  “I’m so glad you like the office,” I said, assuming an air of suave professionalism while I futilely racked my brain for a name, or at least a function. Vendor? Potential client? It wasn’t like Eddie to forget an appointment, but the way things had been going lately, it was a lot like me.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall—”

  “How silly of me!” She laughed, one of those silvery-ripple laughs that some women have. “I thought you knew I was coming. I’m Monica Lamott.”

  O-ho, I thought. So this is Monica, lover of Lars, betrayer of Burt. So much trouble in such a sweet little package.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, sitting down myself, though even then I topped her by a foot or so. “I wasn’t expecting you until the rehearsal.”

  “Well…” Eddie muttered. “Well, I’ll just take a look at that fender on the van.”

  Monica watched regretfully as he sidled out the door. She had a sweet tooth, I could see, not so much for men as for men’s attention.

  “You’ve been on the East Coast?…” I said delicately.

  “With Lars. We hardly got out of bed for days.” The mother of the bride shook back her hair and closed her eyes with a reminiscent sigh. So much for delicacy. Then she frowned a pretty little frown. “But all that changed when he made it to the semifinals. When Lars is this close to winning, he gets ridiculously single-minded, if you know what I mean. An absolute monk! He’s afraid I’ll break his serve.”

  I murmured my sympathy and offered her coffee, which she declined. Feeling my eyelids droop, I poured myself a hefty mugful. Just a grocery run and an early bedtime, is that so much to ask?