Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  “—and there is only so much tennis a girl can watch,” Monica burbled on, like a mountain stream that’s going to make it to the ocean, no matter how long it takes. “So I just hopped on a plane! That’s the kind of person I am. Impetuous. You never know what I’ll do next. Besides, now that the wedding date is upon us, I knew that Liz would want my advice. I used to give fabulous parties, you know, when we lived in Santa Barbara. I was interviewed in the newspaper about my parties! But then Burt insisted on moving to Seattle, where we didn’t know a soul.”

  Except Lars, I thought dryly. “That’s so interesting, Monica. It’s actually a little late to make changes now, but Elizabeth and I are meeting on Thursday, so maybe you could join us—”

  A sharp, no-nonsense knock, and the door swung open to reveal the bride herself, with a furious glint in her own wide brown eyes.

  “Mother! Paul said you called from your hotel. What are you bothering Carnegie for?”

  Monica stiffened but maintained her smile. “Since you were out shopping, I just thought I’d stop by to introduce myself and share a few of my tips for successful parties. I told Paul that on the phone.”

  Elizabeth smiled back quickly and coldly, a fencer deflecting her opponent’s blade. “And I told you last week that we have everything under control.”

  They held each other’s gaze, the family resemblance quite striking now, as their lips tightened and nostrils flared. When dogs get to this point in a conversation, the growls are low-pitched but the teeth start to show.

  “Control is hardly the right approach to a festive affair.” Monica sounded like one of my least-favorite bridal magazines. “Proper planning allows you to ‘go with the flow’ and—”

  “Is that what you and Mr. Swedish Open have been having, a festive affair?”

  Monica gasped, then shifted her stance like a pro.

  “Lizzie, you know perfectly well that Lars is Norwegian,” she said sadly, a faint tremble in her voice, then turned her syrupy eyes to me. “You’d think my own daughter would want to see me happy after all I’ve been through….”

  “Your own daughter is not named Lizzie,” said Elizabeth, with a flash of fangs.

  Normally I’m willing to give my all for the pre-wedding peace process. But I’d had enough drama for one day, and decided to bail out before I got bit. “We can talk about the reception details Thursday—”

  “Hi, Monica.” Paul was in the doorway, looking like the soul of reason. “Hi, Carnegie. Took me a while to park. Did I miss anything?”

  “Nothing to miss,” I said decisively. “We were just confirming our meeting for Thursday. Elizabeth, I’ll have all your paperwork ready then, and I’ll look forward to hearing Monica’s ideas….”

  I was herding them all to the door when a cell phone chirred. The women dipped into their purses, but it was Paul’s. He spoke a few words, listened intently, and broke into a huge, elated grin.

  “It’s Tommy!” he told us. “That was Roger, calling from the hospital. Tommy’s awake, and he must be doing OK because they’re allowing visitors. Honey, let’s go over there right now.”

  This last to Elizabeth, but she balked. “I’ve got a million things to do this afternoon. I’m still looking for shoes, and—”

  “Lizzie hates hospitals,” Monica confided to me in a perfectly audible whisper, getting in one last thrust. “She thinks sick people are weaklings. She doesn’t mean to be unkind, but I always notice, because I’m the kind of person who notices things like that.”

  Elizabeth’s face darkened dangerously, and I hastened to intervene.

  “Paul, why don’t I take you to Harborview? That way Elizabeth and Monica can go on… chatting.” Relief was fizzing through me like champagne. “I’ll be so glad to see Tommy.”

  Family feuds could wait, and so could groceries and sleep. This day was getting better and better.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  TOMMY LOOKED GHASTLY. THEY HAD SHAVED HIS BUSHY gray hair to stitch up various head wounds, and the face below the naked, knobby skull was slack and weary. But his leprechaun’s eyes lit up at the sight of us, and when Paul embraced him gingerly, bending over the hospital bed, Tommy smacked him on the back with vigor.

  “What a sight you are, Paulie!” he said. “And you brought my favorite redhead! Carnegie, dear, you look like a bride yourself.”

  He meant my armful of flowers. I had stopped at Nevsky Brothers on the way, where Boris commanded Irina to turn over what seemed like half her stock. What a summer’s treasure to enjoy in November: sheaves of royal-blue irises, glossy tulips like huge crimson goblets, and an entire thicket of sweetheart roses in white and blush pink.

  I held my armload aside while I kissed Tommy’s forehead, then set them down on the vacant second bed and went out to beg some vases from the nurses’ station. As I went, I could hear Paul explaining that Aaron and some other friends from the Sentinel would be coming by the next morning so as not to overwhelm him with too many people at once. Likewise, I planned to refrain from asking Tommy what he had or hadn’t seen at the Aquarium. At least for a few minutes.

  Of course, maybe the police had already questioned him. There was still a patrolman stationed outside Tommy’s door, a gray-haired man who looked bored and cross. I nodded at him in passing, figuring that he’d be relieved of this dull duty soon enough. Down the hall, Roger Talbot emerged from the men’s room.

  “Carnegie!” In the cold fluorescent hospital light, I could see the strain and sorrow in Roger’s dark eyes, but his clothes were pressed and his silver hair recently trimmed. He no longer had the haunted look of a man on the edge. “Is it true? They found the one who killed her?”

  “Her,” not “them.” Of course, he barely knew Angela, the other victim. Just a quick introduction at the Aquarium to a nice-looking blonde who then disappeared, leaving hardly a memory.

  “It’s true, Roger. I don’t know if he’s been charged with murder yet, but he jumped bail for the purse-snatching, so he’s not going anywhere.”

  His face twisted in a spasm of pain. “Purse-snatching! A petty criminal does something as stupid as purse-snatching, and Mercedes ends up… ends up…” His eyes filled, and he looked away, blinking hard.

  “Hey,” I said gently, “let’s get some coffee and sit down for just a minute, OK? And then you can help me with Tommy’s flowers.”

  We sat in the little lounge with our Styrofoam cups, and as usual, I thought about my father. But only for a moment. Over the years, the pain was fading to something softer and easier to bear. How long would that process take for Roger Talbot, who had to do his grieving in secret?

  He sipped mechanically at his coffee, then set it down and sighed. “Tommy doesn’t remember what he saw.”

  “How do you know he saw anything?”

  “It’s obvious. With the guard there, he’s either a witness or a suspect. So I simply asked him. He remembers being at the party, but that’s all. Then I had a word with his doctor.”

  “And?”

  “His memory may return all at once, or in fragments over time, or not at all.”

  It’s interesting what people will tell an influential man. I bet the doctor in question would have stonewalled someone like me. Well, now I wouldn’t have to distress Tommy further by asking him myself.

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” I said. “Now that the police have Foy in custody, they’ll be able to check for DNA traces and all that. They won’t need an eyewitness.”

  “I need one,” said Roger fiercely. “I need to know how it happened.”

  “No, you don’t,” I insisted. “Whatever Tommy did or didn’t witness, you need to remember Mercedes as you last saw her. She made such a beautiful gypsy!”

  “She was always beautiful.” He smiled bleakly, and I could see that the healing had begun, however long and slow it might be. I tried to nudge it along.

  “Roger, are you coming to the wedding?”

  “Of course!” His public persona roused its
elf. “People expect me there.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Come on, let’s get back to those flowers.”

  When we reentered the room, laden with vases, Paul was recounting a football game to his bedridden best man. They both seemed quietly satisfied by the humiliation of some team I didn’t recognize, and by the victory of some other.

  To say that I don’t follow football is to vastly understate how mind-numbingly tedious I find it, so I busied myself with the flowers at the tiny sink in the corner of the room. Roger loaned me a slim gold penknife to trim the stems, and dutifully set the bouquets around the room at my direction.

  “There you are, Tommy,” I said when we were done. “You could practically hold a wedding in here. I’m sorry you can’t be with us on Saturday.”

  “Who says I can’t?” he demanded, looking up from his pillows with a rebellious gleam. “They tell me I might go home in a couple a’ days, and if I can get dressed and go home, then I can surely put on a monkey suit and see that this character doesn’t leave his girl at the altar.”

  Paul shook his head fondly. “You take it easy, Tommy. I’d love to have you there, but you do what the doctors tell you, all right?”

  “Ah, you’re just afraid I’ll frighten the ladies with my new hairdo.” Tommy gave a pat to the grizzled stubble atop his head. “I think I’ll keep it this way. Aerodynamic.”

  We all laughed, and didn’t notice at first that the door had opened on two more visitors: Corinne, her heavy makeup not quite masking the effects of a sleepless night, and Valerie Duncan, brisk and tailored with her dark hair tucked back behind large copper earrings. Beside me, I felt Roger shift uncomfortably. Valerie’s eyes went flat and cold.

  “I’d better be going,” said Roger curtly. “Tommy, you take care.”

  “Oh, don’t leave—” Corinne began, but the publisher pushed past them both and left the room. Tommy let him depart with a wave, happily distracted by the influx of “ladies.” As they fussed over the patient, Paul drew me out into the hallway, out of earshot of the policeman. Roger, just ahead of us, strode down the hall to the elevator without looking back.

  “We can’t let Tommy come to the wedding,” Paul said urgently. His kindly young face was shocked and troubled. “He looks horrible.”

  “Well, he could hardly look good at this stage,” I pointed out. “And who knows, maybe it would help his recovery to have something to look forward to. Let’s leave it up to him and his doctors.”

  “But—”

  “Look, if Tommy does come, I’ll keep an eye on him, and make sure someone takes him home early. How’s that?”

  Paul nodded, not quite mollified. “He just looks so old, you know? Of course he’s older than me, I know that, but I’ve never really thought about it. I guess I didn’t want to.”

  “I understand. My partner Eddie is my mother’s age, and I keep thinking they’ll both be just the way they are forever. All you can do is be Tommy’s friend, here and now.”

  He nodded again, and set his face in a cheerful expression that looked almost natural. “We should go back in with the others.” Then, switching gears, “Corinne must be relieved to have that guy off the street.”

  “She’s not the only one.”

  Corinne was sitting on the edge of Tommy’s bed, flirting outrageously, while Valerie watched with an indulgent smile. Tommy was lapping it up, but I could see that his strength was flagging, and I was relieved when an amiable Filipina nurse looked in to tell us we really should leave soon. Aaron’s opinion notwithstanding, I don’t always want to take charge of things. I’d be ordering most of these people around soon enough.

  I thought Corinne and Valerie had come to the hospital together, but it turned out they’d only met on the way in. Down at the lobby, Valerie said good night—which made me realize that it was indeed evening already, and that I had a post-hangover hunger for a nice bland meal. Corinne, riding the elevator down to the parking garage with me and Paul, took the words right out of my mouth.

  “Y’all want to get something to eat?” Seeing Paul hesitate, she added, “But I suppose Elizabeth’s waiting for you.”

  He gave a small, rueful laugh. “Her mother got in today. I think I’ll let them entertain each other.”

  “Don’t you like your mother-in-law?” Corinne teased him.

  “Oh, she’s fine. But she and Elizabeth really set each other off.” He frowned, resisting an unwelcome thought. “I guess they’re both pretty strong-willed. So’s her father. I don’t think he approves of us getting married.”

  Corinne seized his arm in that melodramatic way she had. “Don’t worry about other people, Paul! If you truly love someone, that’s forever. No one can stand in your way.”

  Paul, taken aback by these greeting-card sentiments, said, “Um, thanks. Carnegie, you up for dinner?”

  I hesitated. I was so damn tired, but I knew there was nothing edible back at the houseboat. Starve a fever, feed a hangover, right?

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Great. There’s a sushi place up the block.”

  “Well, maybe not sushi…”

  We ended up having Chinese, which in my case meant lots of rice, a few pea pods, and careful sips of tea. I was off Pinot Noir for life. Corinne ate her own dinner and most of mine, chattering away about how nice it was to see Tommy. She had certainly rebounded quickly from her fear of Lester Foy

  “Now what was that policeman for?” she asked, popping one last sweet-and-sour shrimp between her lips. “I didn’t say anything, in case Tommy was under arrest for drunk driving or something embarrassing like that. Are y’all going to eat your fortune cookies?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Paul, and he didn’t mean the cookies. “My guess is that Tommy saw something at the Aquarium, so he’s a murder witness and they’re protecting him. What do you think, Carnegie? You were there yourself that night. Afterwards, anyway.”

  Corinne gazed at me, her blue eyes round and spooked, a glistening dab of shrimp sauce on her chin. “That’s right, you were. Did Tommy see that tattooed man, do you think? Or did you?”

  “Well, I wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but now that he’s been arrested, I guess it doesn’t matter.” I was suddenly exhausted, and sick of the whole dreary business. “But this is off the record, Paul, OK?”

  “Swear to God. So tell us, did Tommy see the killer?”

  “I think so. Once his memory comes back—if it ever does— his testimony could nail down the case against Lester Foy But I’m sure they’ll charge Foy anyway. Someone must have spotted him at Angela’s building.”

  “Even if they didn’t,” Paul said, “he showed up at your houseboat! Why would he do that if he wasn’t stalking all of you?”

  Why, indeed? It occurred to me, disconcertingly, that Foy could always claim that he only came to my house because of Juice’s phone call. But no, Graham would find more evidence, now that he had his man. I’d done part of his job for him—with a little help from the Buckmeisters—and now he could do the rest.

  “The important thing,” I said to Corinne, as we parted ways in front of the restaurant, “is that Lester Foy is in jail, and we can all concentrate on the wedding. We’re safe now.”

  “That’s right,” she replied, buttoning up her raincoat for the solitary walk back to her car. “We’re safe now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE FINAL DAYS BEFORE A MAJOR WEDDING HAVE A HEAD-LONG momentum that can be nerve-racking, but also a hell of a lot of fun, an adrenaline high. I started this particular final lap by going straight home from the Chinese restaurant, calling Lily for a cathartic conversation about my escape from Lester Foy and then sleeping like a baby with a clear conscience until nine o’clock Wednesday morning. It felt wonderful

  On Wednesday, with the help of Eddie and his magic software, I threw myself into the final preparations for Lamott/Wheeler. As usual, we had a slew of little snags and surprises, but after the recent horrors, they seemed pl
easantly mundane. The wedding announcements, for example. To be strictly proper, announcements should be postmarked on the wedding date itself. Elizabeth might be wearing an unorthodox gown, but she wanted propriety elsewhere, so I had lined up a calligrapher for the envelopes well ahead of time. Fran was a single mom who worked at home, using a spare bedroom as an office.

  Unfortunately, Fran’s oldest daughter chose this particular week to learn how to operate a doorknob. Result: A through L tipped over on the floor (mussed but salvageable), and M through Z smeared with peanut butter (a total loss). There was nothing else for it; I swallowed my pride and called Dorothy Fenner.

  “The other calligraphers on my list are busy doing holiday invitations, but I was hoping you could—”

  “Why, Carnegie, I’m always here to help you with your little problems,” said Dorothy, graciously complacent. “I’ll just make a few calls. I’m sure I can find someone who’ll make a special effort for me.”

  I thanked her effusively, all the while thinking Scottsdale, any day now she’s moving to Scottsdale. Then I pressed on with my telethon, calling to confirm with the photography studio, the videographer, the judge, the jazz trio for the ceremony and the sound man for the dancing, and the stylist who would do the bride’s hair and touch up the bridesmaids’ faces—including mine.

  The knowledge that I’d soon be slinking around in a bridesmaid’s gown added a certain personal frisson to my professional frenzy. So after Eddie left for the day, I squeezed in a call to Lily at the library, just to calm my own jitters.

  “That pink satin’s so clingy, it’s not going to cover even one sin, let alone a multitude,” I fretted to her. “What if my invisible bra comes unstuck?”

  “Just reach down your cleavage and pull it out,” she suggested. “You can throw it to the crowd when the bride tosses her bouquet. Start a whole new tradition!”

  “Lily.”

  “You’ll be fine. Want me to come over Saturday and help you get dressed?”