Died to Match

by Deborah Donnelly

  The new Vanna rode like a Rolls after the clanking and stalling of the old one, and we pulled up smoothly to the undistinguished brick facade of the Hot Spot Café. At least there were no police cars in sight, and no ambulance.

  The front entrance was locked, so I hammered on it, and tried to peer through the gaps in the curtained front windows; no telling if anyone could hear me over the guitar music throbbing inside. After one last pound, I gave up and went around back, hugging myself against the cold.

  I’m not used to real winter weather. I still had on my most businesslike suit from a morning meeting, but the temperature had been plummeting all day, and the silk tweed blazer, though stylish, was no match for it. So now I was shivering as well as irritated and anxious.

  Out back, a wooden dining deck extended over a wedge of patchy grass and shadowy bushes that sloped down to an empty bike path and the wide, cement-walled lane of dark, still water. The Seattle Ship Canal is a major waterway; on sunny afternoons, the Hot Spot’s patrons could sit out on there with their beers and watch big sailboats and bigger barges move between Puget Sound to the west and Lake Union to the east.

  Right now, though, the splintered planks of the deck held nothing but stacked plastic chairs and a silver coating of frost that sparkled in the light from the bare windows and sliding glass doors. The glass doors were unlocked, so I stepped gratefully inside.

  A quick look around yielded a confused impression of milling young men, clouds of cigar smoke, puddles of spilled liquor, and a massive serve-yourself Greek mess. Empty plates and glasses littered all the tables, but the mess went far beyond that.

  From the demolished dolmathes scattered across the pool table, to the bits of fried calamari stuck to the ceiling, to the smear of spanakopita on the big-screen TV, Joe’s feast had clearly been enjoyed in ways he never intended. There was a bit of broken glass—apparently juggling retsina bottles is now a recognized indoor sport—but no broken heads that I could see, no blood, and no cops.

  And no Jason Croy Peering through the fumes, I spotted Frank Sanjek sitting stupefied near the television, on which two women with improbable physiques were cavorting in a hot tub. Though I couldn’t fathom his devotion to Sally, Frank was a sensible fellow, with a cleft in his square chin and an amiable look in his light blue eyes. So far he’d been quite pleasant to work with.

  Averting my gaze from the hot tub hotties, I headed toward Frank to ask for an explanation. But my path was blocked by three men, all of them in their early twenties and none of them sober.

  “Hey, she’s here!” shouted one, a beefy lad whose sweatshirt was adorned with something damp and garlicky. At least it smelled less disgusting than it looked. He was swaying a bit on his feet, and gazing at me with the oddest mixture of shyness and enthusiasm. He dropped a moist, heavy hand on my shoulder and repeated, “She’s finally here.”

  “Yes, I’m here,” I snapped, trying for patience and failing.

  Someone turned off the music, and in the heavy-breathing silence I removed his hand. “Brilliant observation. Now where’s Jason?”

  “How come you’re wearing, like, a suit?” inquired one of his companions, a sharp-faced sort leaning on a cue stick.

  “How come she’s so flat?” muttered the third, and there were nervous snickers all around.

  This drunken discourtesy left me speechless for a moment, and while I gathered my wits to tell him off, some of the other men, the ones who were still ambulatory, began to congregate around us. Not quite a wolf pack—the eyes were too dull, the movements too clumsy. More like a herd of cows. But still…

  “It ain’t whatcha got, it’s whatcha do with it!” yelled someone from the back. “Do it!”

  Catcalls and more lewd comments followed. Make that a herd of bulls. A sort of testosterone bellowing arose, and emergency or not, I decided to bail out. I didn’t have to put up with this. Then a new voice, familiar this time, cut across the others.

  “Shut up, you jerks! Carnegie, what are you doing here?”

  The speaker was a young black man, even taller than me and nearly as lanky, but with rock-solid biceps gleaming darkly against his sleeveless white T-shirt. He had large, ardent eyes, and a humorous curl to his wide mouth that I knew very well—from all the time I spent hanging out with his sister.

  Darwin James was the younger brother of my best friend, Lily, and a coworker of Frank Sanjek’s at the headquarters of Meet for Coffee. The MFC chain of espresso shops had been giving Starbucks a run for their money. Frank was a brand manager, and Darwin, formerly an underground comics artist, was now a hip, much-in-demand graphic designer. He was also one of Frank’s groomsmen.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked him. “I had an urgent call to come talk to Jason. Is someone hurt?”

  “Not that I know of.” Darwin shrugged and gestured around the room with the bottle of orange juice he held in one long, muscular hand. “I think Jason’s playing pool. You want me to get him?”

  “Please.” The herd was dispersing, though Mr. Garlic stood his ground. I stepped away from him and added, “Why’s everyone staring?”

  “Mistaken identity,” said a light, mocking voice.

  From the pool room beyond the bar, the best man sauntered towards us through the debris-laden tables. Jason Croy’s face was long and lantern-jawed, with full, crisply carved lips and small gray eyes, just a touch too close together. His eyes held disdainful amusement, as they often did, and a spark of malice.

  Or is that my imagination? I wondered. I didn’t like Jason Croy

  “So Carnegie,” he continued, “we need some more booze around here. Some of these gentlemen brought their friends. Make it a mixed case, OK? And another rack of beer.”

  “What?!” Curiosity about his first remark vanished in indignation about his second. “You called me over here to make a liquor run?”

  The full lips stretched into a slow, arrogant smile. He, too, was weaving a little on his feet. “Well, you’re in charge of the food and drink, aren’t you? That’s what Sally said.”

  “If Sally had told me this on the phone—” But of course, that’s why she hadn’t told me what Jason needed so urgently. Because I wouldn’t have come.

  “Come on,” Jason wheedled, “you’ve got your car out anyway, why not do us a favor? All my plastic is maxed out.”

  “Listen up, Jason,” I said, and I could feel my face getting hot. “If you want more liquor, you can get your ass to a Seven-Eleven. I’m off duty.”

  My exit would have been more dignified if I hadn’t stumbled on a shish kabob, but I kicked it aside and strode over to the glass door. It slid open as I got there, and in walked, no kidding, Santa Claus.

  I was still puzzled—Salvation Army on overtime? A late guest with a sense of humor?—when a howl went up from the men.

  “That’s her!”

  “She’s here!”

  “Merry freakin’ Christmas!”

  St. Nick glared at me and said, in a low but distinctly female tone, “Hey, I work alone.”

  I took a closer look, past the rippling white beard and padded red suit, and realized that this particular Santa Claus was wearing glossy scarlet lipstick, extravagant false eyelashes, and high-heeled black boots.

  Enter stripper, exit Carnegie. I spotted three other, legitimate Santas on my drive back to Joe’s office, and I snarled at every one of them.

  I don’t usually work in Fremont. Under normal circumstances, I live in a houseboat on the east shore of Lake Union, with the Made in Heaven offices located conveniently upstairs. At the moment, and hugely inconveniently, I was working at Joe’s catering office and sleeping on Lily’s fold-out couch.

  The culprit was that ancient enemy of damp wood, Serpiaa lacrymans. Dry rot. My houseboat was infested with the fungal friend, and my horrified landlady had launched a barrage of chemical and mechanical assaults to annihilate it.

  Mrs. Castle barely gave me time to load up my PC and some file boxes, and stuff my suitcase, before s
he had the place cordoned off and swarming with guys in hazmat suits. At least I was saving some rent, which had gone to the down payment on Vanna Too.

  So tonight, the award for My Least Favorite Entity on Earth was a split decision between Serpiaa lacrymans and Jason Croy His outrageous demand for delivery service had interrupted a frantic search: I was trying to unearth a particularly nice photograph of one of my brides to show at a television appearance in the morning. I’d never been on TV before, so naturally I was nervous.

  Not that I expected an interrogation or anything; this was just a segment about weddings on a local morning show, with a perky interviewer and some softball questions about my job. But my fellow guest would be Beau Paliere, a very hot wedding designer from Paris by way of Hollywood, who’d arrived in Seattle to keynote a bridal expo.

  Beautiful Beau—as the celebrity magazines called him—was very big time, and I didn’t want to look like a yokel in contrast. Besides, this could be terrific publicity for Made in Heaven—if I carried it off well.

  All that anxiety has to channel itself somewhere, so earlier this evening I had become suddenly and unreasonably convinced that my on-screen success hinged on having the camera pan across this one damn photo. I’d riffled through each of my files at least twice, and now the minutes were counting down to zero hour. I had to be awake, dressed and mascara’d by five a.m.

  How do TV people do it? I thought as I drove through Fremont. They must sleep in their makeup.

  Back at Joe’s building, I took the lobby elevator up four floors to his storeroom. Most of Made in Heaven’s stuff was downstairs in my tiny borrowed office, but I knew that my partner Eddie Breen had dropped off a file box of his own before leaving town for a few days. Joe’s staff had put it in the storeroom, out of the way, until Eddie could come sort it out on Monday. It was a long shot, but maybe that box held the photo I needed.

  The fourth floor was dark and empty, except for the one light I’d left on, and my footsteps sounded loud in the corridor. I turned on the staff’s radio in the corner—it was set to a talk station—and jingled my keys loudly, reminding myself to lock everything up before I went home for the night. Joe was pretty casual about security, but I wanted to be a good temporary tenant.

  The storeroom was piled with treasure.

  Like most caterers, Joe relied heavily on indestructible or inexpensive dishes and glassware; tonight’s bachelors had gotten plastic only. But when Solveto’s put on a festive meal for more responsible folk, the buffet table and the serving stations always included a few eye-catching pieces of hand-painted Italian ceramic, vintage English silver, or rare Depression glass.

  Rumor had it that Joe began the practice so he could write off his exotic vacations as buying trips, but in any case the clients loved it. Sort of a signature Solveto’s flourish.

  The storeroom was lined on three sides with shelves bearing a splendid assortment of platters, pitchers, trays and tureens. When I flipped on the lights, reflections winked from massive gilt candelabras and sparked across to a cobalt-blue cut glass cake stand.

  Along the fourth wall, under the windows, a long work table was stacked neatly with cartons and bubble wrap for transporting these treasures. A huge silver punch bowl sat ready, with a pad of inventory forms beside it for recording which items were in use, and where. Joe was brilliantly creative, but strictly organized.

  Underneath the table I found Eddie’s box. I hauled it onto the table top and began to lift out the top layer of contents: a squat steel pen and pencil jar, a favorite oversized coffee mug, none too clean, and a framed photograph of the freighter Eddie had sailed on, back when he and my late father were cadets together in the merchant marine.

  Eddie’s seagoing past explained the next item in the box: a pair of small, powerful binoculars that he used to observe the pleasure boats and sea planes on Lake Union. I set each item carefully aside, pulled out the stack of file folders at the bottom of the box, and sat down at the table to search.

  No luck. There were checklists for the Tyler/Sanjek events, a detailed timetable for Bonnie Buckmeister’s Christmas-themed wedding next week, and notes on all our current marketing efforts, including my TV appearance tomorrow and the Made in Heaven booth at the bridal expo. But no photos.

  I propped my chin on one fist and stared absently out the windows. I’d just have to do without. There were other pictures I could use, a wedding cake, one of our bridal couples dancing, and of course the Made in Heaven logo in curly copper lettering, which I would try my hardest to get on camera. But first I had to get some sleep.

  As I stood up to re-pack Eddie’s box, something across the Canal caught my eye: a brilliantly lit window, with a tiny figure in scarlet clothing moving back and forth across it, like an erratic actor on a garish stage. Santa Claus. The Hot Spot was directly across the Canal from Joe’s office building, and from my upper-story vantage point I could see right into the café. Not that I wanted to, of course. I swept up all the files I’d opened, tucked them back into the box, and set the mug and the pencil jar on top of them.

  Then I picked up the binoculars.

  I was innocently nestling them into Eddie’s box when it occurred to me that maybe I had knocked them out of focus, or out of alignment, or whatever. And how else could I check except by aiming them at something? That brightly lit window, for example, would be a perfect way to test them out…

  Whoa. Nothing wrong with the focus. With the lenses at my eyes, the Hot Spot’s rear window leapt into brilliant clarity, as did the Saint Nick chick. She had shed the padded red trousers and the beard, and while I watched, fascinated, she strutted back and forth, moving to music I couldn’t hear, in just her fur-trimmed jacket, tasseled red hat, and high black boots.

  If I were a young man—or an old one, or one in between—I would have said she had thighs to die for.

  Santa’s audience, mostly cut off from my downward view by the edge of the café’s roof, seemed not to realize that they were sharing the show with any passing sailboat—or hidden observer. But in fact, you’d have to be up in a crow’s nest, or up where I was, to get just the right angle.

  If the bachelors had thought of that, they sure didn’t care. As I watched, Frank Sanjek sat heavily on the floor at his comrade’s feet, and someone invisible to me poured a beer on his head. He didn’t appear to notice.

  I could see why. Dipping and swaying, always in motion, Santa dropped the jacket off one smooth bare shoulder, then the other, each time letting the white fur border of the garment slip lower and lower down the curves of her breasts.

  Then, perhaps responding to some climax in the music, she suddenly turned her back to the boys and her front to me, bent forward, and flipped the jacket up behind. If she was wearing much of anything under the jacket, it was too small for the binoculars to pick up. Frank fell over sideways.

  I was hastily putting the binoculars down—honest, I was— when my phone rang again. Something told me it wasn’t Jason this time.

  It was my erstwhile hostess, wondering when I’d be home for the night.

  “Oh jeez, Lily, have you been waiting up for me?”

  “No, but I’m going to bed now, and I wanted to be sure you have your key.”

  “Yep, I’ve got it. I’ll probably be there soon.”

  “Did you find your photo?”

  “No, I should have given up hours ago. Then I wouldn’t have gotten dragged over to the Hot Spot.” I told her about Jason’s summons, and the arrival of Santa.

  “So did you stay to watch?” she inquired archly.

  “Of course not!” I glanced over at the binoculars. The back of my neck was damp. “Why would I do that?”

  “Just kidding. Seriously, though, you didn’t happen to see Darwin, did you? I shouldn’t worry but I can’t help it, I still feel like he’s my baby brother. And he was so out of control before he got this job—”

  “Actually, I talked to him,” I told her. “He seemed OK. Come to think of it, he seemed sober.
Doesn’t he drink?”

  “Not any more. He’s been in A A for a year now.”

  Lily had never disclosed this about Darwin before, and I wasn’t sure how to reply. “Oh…well, I wasn’t at the party for long, but honestly, he was fine.”

  “Forget I asked, OK?” She hastened to change the subject. “Did you see Aaron?”

  “Aaron Gold?” I almost dropped the phone.

  “Are you in love with some other Aaron?” I could hear the wicked smile in her voice. “Dar said he was invited tonight.”

  “You know perfectly well I’m not in love with Aaron. I’m not sure I ever was.”

  Just to prove it, I should have changed the subject myself. But I couldn’t. “I thought he was still in Boston, anyway. How does he know Frank?”

  “I don’t think he does, really,” said Lily. “Darwin told me Aaron’s working on some book about the CEO of Meet for Coffee. He’s gotten friendly with the guys in Creative Services, so they asked him to the party. I guess he didn’t go, though.”

  “I guess not.” Unless he was in that side room shooting pool with Jason. I wonder…

  “Um, Lily, I’d better get back to work here. I want to make one more pass through the files, and then get some paperwork done. This TV thing tomorrow has really thrown me off.”

  “Good luck. I’ve set the VCR for you.”

  “Thanks, Lily. Good night.”

  I did spend some time downstairs in my borrowed office— but not much. Aaron was on my mind, and so were those binoculars. Rolling my eyes at my own foolishness, I took the elevator back up and focused on the window again. Not that I cared whether Aaron was there. Not that I cared about Aaron.

  Not that I could see him, either. Santa had left the area near the lighted window, and the revelers seemed to be milling aimlessly inside, as if the party was winding down. I spotted Mr. Garlic, but no one else familiar—until a sudden tangle of movement drew my attention to the grassy slope below the deck.

  There in the frost and the shadows, two tall, lanky figures were struggling together, dodging and flailing in clumsy counterpoint. I had no trouble recognizing them: Jason Croy, and Lily’s baby brother. The best man was obviously drunk; maybe Darwin was taking his car keys away?