Death Takes a Honeymoon (14 page)

Boris Nevsky.

Chapter Sixteen

“SO WHO’S BORIS NEVSKY?” ASKED B.J. “PASS THE WASABI.”

“My very best floral designer. Best in Seattle, in my opinion. He’s on vacation this week, so thank goodness Eddie was able to track him down and talk him into coming. Here, I’ll trade you for the gari.”

“The what?”

I pointed. “The pickled ginger.”

“Well, aren’t we too, too Pacific Rim today, Muffy.”

“Well, shut up, Muffy.”

B.J. and I, a bit giddy after our bizarre night, were lunching at a Ketchum treasure called Sushi on Second. A tatami room, a comfortable bar, and paradise on a plate. It felt better not to be around meat today.

I’d asked Dr. Nothstine to join us—in fact, I offered to bring lunch out to her—but she was already on her way to the smoke-jumper base. The Wood River grapevine was very efficient, and once Dr. Nothstine heard about this second homicide, she had demanded a meeting with BLM officials in order to press her case about the first one.

“They’ll have to listen to me now,” she’d told me when I phoned. “If they don’t, I shall go to the police. I intend to resolve this matter if I have to resort to a citizen’s arrest!”

Something of a handful,
Sam had called her. No kidding.

“Promise me you won’t do anything risky,” I pleaded. “Why don’t B.J. and I join you at the base and—”

“Absolutely not. Part of NIFC’s resistance to my interpretation of your cousin’s death was their reluctance to make false accusations against a smoke jumper. The presence of outsiders like yourselves would only hinder my efforts. And by the way, young woman, you have no standing whatsoever to extract promises from me. Don’t do so again.”

“My apologies,” I said stiffly.

“Accepted. But thank you for your concern. It’s rather sweet. I shall contact you later.”

With that she had hung up, and I’d gone into Ketchum to meet B.J. for lunch and strategy. But since our strategy was short and simple—check alibis as best we could and wait to hear from Dr. Nothstine—we had moved on to less serious topics. Though they seemed serious enough at the moment. I had far too many wedding details to attend to, and far too little time.

“I don’t suppose Boris will get a flight till tomorrow,” I mused, sipping at my green tea. “But he’ll be on the phone with Wallace today, so I can leave the flowers to them for now. The food is under control and so’s the music, but I’ve got to check the weather forecast and then talk to Joan about the tents.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked B.J.

“Hmm?”

“My necklace!”

“Muffy, listen to me.” I clicked down my porcelain cup and fixed her with the steady glare that I reserve for especially frenzied mothers of the bride. “You have to give up on the necklace.”

“But—”

“But
nothing.
The ready shack is a crime scene, for heaven’s sake. Dr. Nothstine is over there right now telling the people in charge that Brian’s death is connected to that security guard’s. You think they’ll let us waltz into that locker room and start digging around in Brian’s belongings? Not to mention the fact that we might draw the murderer’s attention. Remember that Pulaski.”

“Like I’m ever going to forget it,” she said with a shiver. “But what’ll I say to Matt?”

“You say ‘Welcome home, take off your pants.’ Then later on you can tell him you lost the necklace and leave it at that. There’s soy sauce on your chin.”

She dabbed it off and sighed. “All right. But I’m still afraid Matt will hear about it somehow. I feel like Brian is cursing me. I guess I deserve it, don’t I?”

“Cut it out,” I told her briskly, but not without sympathy. “What’s done is done. Forget it, and just be good to that man of yours from now on, OK?”

“OK.” She waved for the check. “So, how should we tackle the Tyke? Maybe we can get her drunk at the bachelorette party.”

“That woman could drink all the bachelors under the table, let alone us,” I retorted. “I’m not sure what we should do, except be there and wait for the right moment. What’s this business about wearing red?”

“Didn’t Tracy tell you? She’s invited a photographer from some wedding magazine. She wants a bunch of cute, un-posed pictures of us looking exactly like she tells us to, including all of us wearing a red dress to the spa. Heart Health for Women Awareness Week, something like that. Makes her look like a do-gooder. What kind of dress did you bring?”

“I didn’t! Nobody said anything about a red dress.” I pushed open the door of the restaurant and stepped into the blast furnace of midday. “Tracy will have to get over it.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” B.J. slipped on her sunglasses. “We’ve got two hours. You want to watch her throw a fit, or you want to go shopping?”

So we shopped. It was like old times, but with more disposable income, and it made a soothing antidote to that nightmare in the parachute loft. We strolled through the downtown boutiques, sighing over the clothes we liked and making faces about the ones we didn’t. There were plenty of both, Ketchum having its fair share of women with more money than taste.

“Six hundred bucks!” B.J. hissed at me from behind a rack of scarves. “For a shirt with holes in it!”

“Those aren’t holes,” I murmured. “They’re artful slashes. It’s probably conceptual or something. Come on, let’s go somewhere with real clothes.”

Too late. The owner, a handsome and fearsome personage, descended upon us.

“A casual ensemble, perhaps, for each of you?” she inquired, and flicked her long fingers. Instantly, two handmaidens produced an array of shorts, slacks, and tops, all of which she pronounced perfect for either one of us. Considering the difference in our coloring and figures, I had to wonder what the personage had been smoking lately.

“Nothing for me,” said B.J. cheerily. “She needs a red dress, though.”

Another flick, and I was whisked into a changing room while various scarlet frocks were whisked off their hangers and presented to me. Some of them cost more than a car, and all of them were outlandishly fashionable. Still, it might be fun to try one on. I slipped into a tight, low-cut number with a poufy skirt, and twirled in front of the three-way mirror.

“What do you think, is it me?”

The personage said, “Delightful.”

The handmaidens said, “Charming.”

B.J. said, “Ballerina slut.”

So I said thanks anyway, and got us out of there.

The next shop we tried was more our speed: consignment clothing, upscale stuff at medium-scale prices. I love consignment shops, and this one was tended by a shy little salesgirl who left us to our search while she chatted on the phone. She had a low, melodious voice and a heavy accent of some Eastern European sort, which made it hard to tell if she was even speaking English. I thought I heard the name Vermeer, but I wasn’t sure.
Funny coincidence,
I thought idly.

“How about this one?” asked B.J. after a few minutes, hoisting a hanger.

“Mmm, I’ve got a dress like that at home. No long sleeves, anyway, it’s too hot.”

The salesgirl ended her conversation and joined us, gesturing toward a circular rack of sundresses. “These are best for hot weather. The ones with noodles.”

“Noodles?”

We looked at her blankly, and she tapped herself on one shoulder. “Noodle straps?”

“Spaghetti straps!” said B.J. The girl laughed along with us. “That would be fine, but it has to be red.”

“Oh, there is a pretty one in the back.”

She fetched the dress, which was indeed pretty, a simple sheath in a muted terra-cotta tone that would pass for red without clashing too badly with my hair. I bought it, along with a wide belt to break up my beanpole silhouette. I don’t have much of a waist, so I had to emphasize its presence.

I didn’t say that out loud, though. B.J. and I had a long-standing pact not to complain about our figures, and thus avoid the slippery slope of self-loathing that traps far too many women. Early on we agreed that I wasn’t scrawny, I was slim, and that B.J., whatever her current weight, was voluptuous. It worked for us.

On our way out of the shop, some odd impulse made me pause and ask the salesgirl, “Were you talking about the Vermeer exhibit in Portland?”

She nodded sadly. “I want to see it, but it is gone two weeks now.”

“Really? I thought... Never mind. Thanks for your help.”

“What was that about Portland?” asked B.J., as we changed clothes at her place. Her red dress was a jaunty cherry-colored knit that set off her dark hair.

“Oh, nothing.” I must have misunderstood what Tracy had said about her visit to the art museum. Why would she lie about a thing like that? “Come on, we’d better hurry.”

All my wedding paperwork was still at the lodge, so we took separate cars. The Peak of Pleasure Spa and Salon turned out to be an intensely southwestern-style building, all cactus plants and faux adobe, just north of town. Tracy, deliciously draped in silk the color of rubies, stood posing in the main entrance while a photographer fussed with lights and reflectors.

“Use the side door,” she called out. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“No rush,” said B.J. Then she muttered to me, “What do you bet the whole red thing was just so she could outshine us?”

It was half an hour before the bride joined the laughing, chattering flock of red-clad women in the main lounge. The flock consisted of Olivia the maid of honor, Ilsa the stylist, three bridesmaids who were also actresses, and the spa novices: the Tyke, B.J., and me. We lolled on our bandanna-patterned chaises around the coyote-shaped fountain, sipping champagne and prickly pear cocktails and nibbling chipotle cheese biscuits. All except Ilsa, who had probably never lolled in her life.

We also smiled every time the photographer’s assistant told us to, which was tediously often. Olivia and Tracy, I noticed, managed to be in the foreground of every shot, while we three civilians kept being arranged in the background like furniture.

Still, spas are not a routine part of my life, and I must admit I was enjoying myself. When else would a motherly white-coated lady present me with an entire tray of nail polish colors to choose from? Should I go with the pale sparkle of “Durango Dawn,” or the dark shimmer of “Sedona Sundown”? Decisions, decisions.

During the manicure I cast an eye over her motherly shoulder to watch B.J. Once her nails were done she wandered across to chat with Tracy and the Tyke, who stood beside a rather bizarre metal sculpture of Kokopelli, the hump-backed flute player of Anasazi legend. Or rather, B.J. and Tracy were chatting. The smoke jumper, her nails unpolished, was eating hors d’oeuvres and looking uncomfortable.

I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the awkward duckling next to Tracy’s swan. She’d worn red, all right: a red T-shirt with a BLM smoke-jumper emblem, shorts, and red Converse high-tops. I thought the high-tops were a nice touch.

“Kokopelli was a fertility figure,” said Mrs. White Coat in a cozy tone, buffing my final pinky. “Is the bride hoping for a big family?”

“Good question. Excuse me.”

But just as I joined the group at the sculpture, a distinguished-looking fellow arrived bearing a steel tray of syringes in his rubber-gloved hands. Botox time. The women gathered around him, twittering with either nerves or excitement, and I saw Ilsa heading for me with a crusading look in her eye. I took a hasty step backward and bumped into the Tyke, who was also retreating.

“None for you?” I asked her.

“Right, like I’m going to shoot poison into my face. I only came today because Jack asked me to.”

“I’m glad you did.” Which was true, though it felt weird to say so to someone who might have killed my cousin. But then the champagne was going to my head, so everything felt a little weird. Especially the sight of syringes. “Sometimes the best man has to make sacrifices, so you’re doing your job.”

“He told me you were OK about that. ‘Perfect choice’ and all.” The warmth in her voice surprised me. “So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She smiled. “Tracy hates it, big time.”

“She’ll live.” We both smiled, and I took a chance. Surely this was the right moment to tackle the Tyke. “You know, I have
really
got to get away from those needles. Want to step outside?”

We retreated out the side door and around the corner to a shady little area overgrown with tamarisk and Russian olive trees. I checked around, but we were alone except for a mourning dove hidden somewhere in the leaves. In the afternoon stillness, the dove sounded four soft, owl-like notes, again and again.

Once we’d settled onto a bench, the Tyke surprised me again—by reaching into her back pocket and producing a joint. She lit up nonchalantly, sucked in a hit, and offered it to me.

I had two simultaneous thoughts:
I can’t get stoned, I’ve
got work to do!
and
What an opportunity.
So I accepted the joint, faked a quick inhale, and handed it back. We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. When she toked up a second time I declined, wondering how exactly to ask about her whereabouts last night.

More silence, then she said in a dreamy voice, “Jack’s a great guy.”

I examined my glossy new nails. “Yes, he’s—”

“Bastard with women, though.”

“Well, he’s—”

“But a great guy.” This might not be the Tyke’s first joint of the day. The prospect of doing the spa thing with Tracy must have required some sedation. The brown eyes drifted shut and she hummed a little. “He was telling me about you, last night at the Pio.”

“Really. What time last night?”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Just that I was there myself,” I lied. She couldn’t know that I’d been in the parachute loft instead—unless she’d been there, too, wielding a Pulaski. “It must have been around eleven o’clock. I didn’t see you and Jack, though.”

I waited, hoping for a nice clear alibi. I didn’t want her to be guilty.
But face it,
I thought,
I don’t want any of the three
smoke jumpers to be guilty, and one of them must be.