Death Takes a Honeymoon (23 page)

“I’m sure he was a fine man,” I said, with a glare at Aaron. “I’m sure it was a hero’s funeral.”

“Not a funeral, a memorial service.” Even in distress, she was precise and pedantic. “They were never able to retrieve his body from the lake. It was such a shock to everyone. We had no idea that Roy meant to take his life. If only he had confided in me, I might have helped him....”

The tears were raining down now, and she turned her face away to hide them. Horrified, Aaron reached toward her to comfort, to apologize, but I grabbed his arm and towed him out to the hallway. If Julie Nothstine was going to break down, we’d let her do it in private.

“Jesus,” he said as I closed the door behind us. “I didn’t realize the guy meant that much to her.”

“She was in love with him. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from his suicide, and here you are calling him a criminal.”

“I didn’t call him—”

“You implied it, though, didn’t you? Aaron, maybe we’re jumping the gun here. We’re just blithely assuming that Roy Kane was a thief, but he’s only a name to us, not a person. Julie actually knew him.”

“Yeah, but did she really?” he said, the skeptic in him reasserting itself. “Love is blind, remember? Crooks sweep women off their feet every day. You are such a pushover for a romance, Stretch.”

“Keep your voice down, she’ll hear you!”

I was nearly in tears myself, for some reason. But no, if I was honest, I knew the reason: my mother’s romance had me way off balance. And I felt dreadful for Julie Nothstine. To have someone you care about take his own life...

The door swung open behind us. Julie had wiped the tears away, but her voice was still husky. “Thank you for lunch. I believe I’ll go home and rest a bit. I hope you enjoy tonight’s festivities.”

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked, but she shook her head.

“I generally prefer to be at home in the evening. I shall attend the wedding itself, however, with great pleasure.” I had the sense she was talking to recover her composure.

“I’ll walk you out to your car,” Aaron offered, moving to take her arm. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to be sorry about, young man,” she said, and waved him off with one strong and sinewy hand. “You’re simply mistaken. As I’m sure you’ll come to admit, once this matter is resolved.”

She held his gaze for a moment, unblinking and proud, then began to make her slow, laborious way down the corridor. She leaned heavily on her cane, and her twisted leg made a
shush
ing sound as it dragged along the carpet.

We stepped back inside, and Aaron leaned his hips against the conference table and folded his arms. “So what are you saying, Stretch? You think the buried crown is a myth, and we’re back to suspecting the smoke jumpers again? Because now that I’ve spent time with them, I just can’t buy that.”

“It’s not smoke jumpers in general we suspect,” I pointed out. “It’s Todd Gibson and the Tyke. Talk about a pushover. One kiss and you’re ready to swear she’s innocent.”

“That really got to you, didn’t it?” He chuckled in that infuriating way he has. “Like I told you last night, Stretch, it was just a little fun.”

Fun. Just like Beau’s fun with the chambermaid.

“No problem,” I said, turning my back on him to crank up the air-conditioning. “You go have some more ‘fun’ and I’m going back to work. It’s going to be a crazy afternoon, so I’ll see you at dinner. Scram.”

Aaron shrugged. “Be that way. But I’m telling you, I can’t wait to ask this guy Domaso some questions.”

“Well, you won’t have to wait long,” I said. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE REHEARSAL DINNER WAS A SMASH HIT—IN MORE WAYS than one, unfortunately.

It began graciously enough, in the golden glow of a high country summer evening. Under the canvas roof of the terrace, each table was a masterpiece of blush-pink linen and glittering crystal and the restrained but sensual curves of white lilies.

And that was just the tables. The mellow twilight laid a gloss of goodwill and good looks on all the faces, as well, from Sam’s suited-up business friends to Tracy’s fashion-forward crowd, to the casual vitality of the smoke jumpers.

I was heading into the kitchen to consult Food Bob about the dessert course when I ran into Sebastian the entertainment director, his ponytail bedraggled and his geeky glasses askew. He carried a suitcase and looked like a corpse.

“Montezuma’s revenge,” he said hollowly. “Don’t ask, don’t even ask. The flight from Cabo was ghastly, but I’m here. Everything copacetic?”

“Why, sure,” I said. “Except for that little business about the Ladislaus Quartet canceling.”

“What?”

“If you’d bothered to call in, you’d know that. But I took care of it. We’re having the...” Did the kids have a name? “...the Quartetto Polizia. You’ve heard their latest CD, of course?”

“Of course,” he said nonchalantly. “Nowhere near the caliber of the Ladislaus, but—”

“But it’s a done deal and that’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me—
agh!
” I wasn’t
agh
ing at Sebastian, but at the drooled-over oven mitt that had just been dumped at my feet. “Bad dog, Gorka! Where did you get that?”

“Got it right off my goddamn hand,” panted Food Bob, coming up to us with his eyes bulging and his mustache all aquiver. “Is that your dog? You ought to—”

“He’s not mine!” I protested. “He just . . . brings me things.”

Gorka let out a bark of agreement and beat his tail against the floor.

“Just get him out of here, would you? Doggone dog in my doggone kitchen...”

Bob bent to retrieve the mitt, but snatched his hand away when Gorka snarled low in his massive throat. Apparently this treasure was meant for me and me alone. I picked it up and handed it back to its owner.

“Sorry, Bob. As I was saying, Sebastian, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Come on, Gorka.”

But as I slipped my hand under the brass-studded collar, Gorka once again shook me off and bounded away, out of the lodge and into the night. Well, at least this meant that Domaso was around. Aaron was itching to talk with him.

When I returned to the terrace most people were digging into dinner, though a few continued to circulate, greeting friends or paying their respects to the bride and groom. The ceremony tomorrow would be videotaped, of course, but tonight the cameras flashed like summer lightning as Photo Bob and his helpers recorded the occasion with posed shots and candids.

Satisfied that all was running smoothly, I made my way back to my own table, which was unoccupied except for Aaron. He was looking good—very good—in a pink shirt and the linen blazer he’d worn in Miami on New Year’s Eve. Even as I smiled at him, I was cringing inside at the memory of that night, and my unfortunate remark about the nonexistent engagement ring. If I hadn’t said that, how would things stand between us by now?

Let it go,
I told myself.
The way Aaron and I rub each other
wrong lately, it might be just as well.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he smiled back and cut into his lamb chop in phyllo. “How’s it going backstage?”

“Well enough, but Domaso’s dog invaded the kitchen.”

“So he is here tonight.” Aaron drummed his fingertips on the table. “Once I find our Mr. Duarte, I’ll drop a few hints about the crown and see how he reacts. That should give us something to go on. Is that him over there?”

I looked. “No, not hairy enough. I told you, Domaso’s unmistakable, like a really tall wrestler with a broken nose. So when you do find him, be careful.” I tried a forkful of salmon. Perfect. “Oh, there’s Chief Larabee, with the blue jacket and the scowl. And that must be his wife, poor woman. Boy, Sam’s invited half the town. I guess he can afford to—”

“Muffy!” B.J. appeared beside us and made a show of inspecting my dress. “My, my, look what they’re wearing in the rainy city these days. Is it waterproof?”

She herself wore the same black velvet dress as in the photograph she’d shown me, with a black ribbon holding back her curls and the silver syringa blossom gleaming at her throat.

Aaron turned his head to find B.J.’s cleavage at eye level. “Hi, there. That’s quite a...necklace.”

“Present from my husband,” she told him, with a wink and a giggle for me. She took a seat. “What’s up?”

“Plenty.” I told her briefly about the Crown of Silla, and Aaron put in his two cents about Domaso as his prime suspect for murder.

“I suppose it’s more likely to be him than one of the smoke jumpers,” said B.J. thoughtfully. “And the way he’s built, he’s certainly strong enough. You know, guys, the sooner you turn this over to the police, the better.”

“We will,” I promised. “As soon as we get enough to convince them to investigate. We don’t want Larabee throwing us out of his office like he did Dr. Nothstine.”

“Gotcha.” She shifted uneasily. “Listen, I’d offer to help some more with this, but...”

She trailed off, and I realized there was something that B.J. didn’t want to say in front of Aaron. Something like “but I don’t want my husband to think I have any interest whatsoever in Brian Thiel.”

“But Matt’s only home for a little while before his next trip,” I filled in. “I understand. You stick with him and we’ll work this out ourselves. Have fun tonight.”

“No fear. We’ve got our ice skates in the car.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and went back to her table.

Quite a few guests had brought their skates, and something about playing on the ice in their good clothes brought out a childlike gaiety in them. As the long summer dusk faded to darkness, the lights came up on the ice rink, illuminating the artful spins of some guests and the clumsy lurching of others.

By the time we were served our white chocolate crème brûlée with raspberry coulis, there were enough skaters out there to make entertaining viewing for the rest of us—especially when a woman in a red evening gown fell on her butt, and then joined in the laughter that spread across the terrace.

My date wasn’t laughing, though. He was drumming on the table and jiggling one foot and generally being less-than-stellar company.

“Aaron, if you want to smoke, go ahead. At least we’re outdoors.”

“Where the hell is Duarte?” he said, as if he hadn’t heard. He half stood to peer over the heads of the other diners. “I still don’t see him.”

“Maybe he’s taking his dog home. Aren’t you eating your dessert?”

“No. Listen, I’m going to wander around and look for him, and maybe do some skating. Want to come?”

“No, I need to keep an eye on things, but you go ahead.”

As I watched Aaron move away between the tables, I wondered. Was he anxious about talking to Domaso, or looking forward to it? “You don’t get that intensity working in an office,” he had said. Maybe office work was hemming him in these days. Maybe all the smoke-jumpers’ stories were making him restless.

Or maybe he was just a guy trying to quit smoking. I shrugged and ate my crème brûlée, and after a moment’s hesitation, I ate his, too. Wondering is hungry work. Then I gulped my coffee and went looking for my mother and her date. Murder wasn’t the only mystery on my mind tonight.

It took me a while to locate her, because Photo Bob had some questions about this evening’s cast of characters. There always seems to be one self-effacing aunt who has to be roped into a picture, and one self-important acquaintance who has to be nudged away from appearing in all of them.

I also socialized a bit, with the smoke jumpers and the actors both. Between the masculine attention and the feminine appraisal that I got, the turquoise dress felt like a good idea after all.

Especially when I stopped by the head table to check in with Tracy. As I waited for her to finish speaking with an older couple, Jack raised his eyebrows at me and whistled. A little too enthusiastically, considering the occasion, but I can’t say that I minded.

“Look at
you,
” he said. “Look at the devil with the blue dress on. Hot, hot, hot.”

“Thanks.” I added, with a flicker of malice, “It’s Aaron’s favorite.”

Jack laughed, and nodded as if to say “Touché.” “I meant to tell you, by the way, I’m impressed with your guy Aaron.”

“With the way he gets along with all kinds of people?”

Jack shrugged. “That, too, I guess, but what I meant was, he almost beat the Tyke at arm wrestling. Not bad for a desk jockey.”

“What’s not bad?” asked the bride, turning her big blue eyes to us. She looked even more absolutely fabulous tonight, in an emerald-green gown with a mermaid silhouette, and a spray of diamonds in her hair. She looked like a star.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure your wedding dress arrived all right, and that you’ve tried it on?”

“Oh, Tessa got it here, no problem, but I’ve been too busy. Anyway I told you already, I don’t need to try it on. Don’t you ever listen?” Tracy sounded like a spoiled child, and for once she seemed to notice the fact. “It’ll be fine, Muffy, thanks for following up. In fact, thanks for all your help this week. You’ve been great, really.”

You’re damn right I have,
I thought. But I just smiled and wished them well, and continued on my search for my mother.

I found her seated next to an empty chair with a man’s jacket over the back, and her trusty Folger’s jar right out there on the tablecloth next to her beaded evening bag. The bag was ruby and silver to go with her outfit, a soft tunic and skirt in a deep red that set off her feathery silver hair. I tried to see her as Owen might, and was startled when the words “classy” and “sexy” came to mind.

The other guests at her table were deep in conversation. I slid into Owen’s chair and said, “How was the bike ride?”

“There you are, Carrie. Goodness, are you warm enough in that dress?”

“Mom, it must be eighty degrees still. If you don’t like the dress, say so.”

I tugged irritably at my short hem, and squared my shoulders to keep the neckline from gaping. This was not how I meant to begin the conversation.

“It’s very nice, dear.” She said it absently, and then hurried her next words. “It was a bit hot for the bicycles so we just had a picnic. Owen found the nicest salads at that little organic café—”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

She bit her lip and looked away. Voices and laughter babbled all around us, but I swear I heard her sigh. “Oh, I’m going about this all wrong, aren’t I?”

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Mom. You’ve got a right to...to have a social life.” And to love someone who isn’t
Dad.
The unspoken thought was loud in both our minds. “I’m not surprised that you’re dating, I just don’t understand why you haven’t even mentioned Owen before. Actually, I don’t understand what happened with you and Eddie.”

“Eddie Breen?” She sounded shocked. “Eddie and I are friends, Carrie, we’ve always been friends. What made you think—”

“Well, what about that trip to the Oregon coast?”

“Friends go on trips,” she said simply. “Goodness, Eddie is more than ten years older than I am. He wouldn’t want to play tennis or go bike riding or”—here she blushed—“or anything. Owen and I are so compatible, I felt it right away. I didn’t tell you about him at first because I was afraid to... well, to jinx things. I suppose you think that’s silly.”

“Not at all, Mom. I’ve done the same thing myself. But this isn’t ‘at first’ anymore. How long have you been seeing him? And is he divorced, or still single? A man his age—”

I stopped short, dumbfounded at hearing myself ask exactly the sort of intrusive questions that I resented so much when she asked them of me. “I’m sorry, Mom. He seems really nice, and I’m glad you’re happy.”

She laughed. “Is that how I’m supposed to do it when you tell me you’re seeing someone? You’re going to make an excellent mother some day.”

“I have an excellent role model.”

We both teared up a little, but Owen returned before things got too mushy—and before Mom spoiled the moment by asking me whether Aaron liked children.

“Private conversation?” Sam was right, Owen Winter was a good-looking fellow. His cuffs were folded back on brawny forearms, and he had loosened the tie on his broad chest. His voice wasn’t so bad, really. “I can come back.”

“Not at all.” I got up from his chair. “Actually, I should get back to work.”

“Sorry to hear that. We haven’t really had a chance to talk yet. Maybe tomorrow after the wedding, when you’re not so busy?” He touched a hand to my mother’s shoulder, and something in the nature of his touch caught at my heart. “Louise, they’re loaning ice skates tonight, and I bet they have our sizes. What do you say?”

“Well, I—”

Mom’s answer was lost in a sudden racket: shouts, thuds, a woman’s startled scream. And then a confusion of alarmed and curious voices as we all converged on the skating rink to see what was causing the commotion.

Out on the ice, most of the skaters were backing away to the rails, some slipping and falling in their haste, while a few others stayed in the center, tangled together in a grunting, flailing knot. Then the knot resolved itself into two men, grappling feverishly, almost hidden from view by the four or five peacemakers trying to pull them apart.

Just what a wedding planner wants at the rehearsal dinner. A goddamn fistfight.

Hitting another person is unreasonable to begin with, in my book, but hitting someone with both of you on ice skates is entirely ludicrous. The laws of physics won’t cooperate, it’s the old equal and opposite reaction thing. The opponents have to cling fervently to each other with one arm, just to keep upright as they pummel away with the other, and the whole business looks like a slow dance gone wrong.