Died to Match (28 page)

“Y-yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”

“Of course you do. It’s a European tradition, Monica, that’s becoming quite popular at sophisticated weddings back East. The bride and groom have a flower-decked table
for two, very romantic, and the guests stop by their table to wish them well. Much less stuffy than a reception line.”

“But then where would I sit?” asked Monica, intrigued but not won over.

“Well,” I said, “maybe you could do me a favor. Let’s talk about it over a drink in the lobby, shall we? Paul, it was lovely to meet Enid. I’ll call you two tomorrow, all right?”

Once Monica and I were alone with a couple of gin-and-tonics, I gave her my pitch.

“Paul’s publisher is a man named Roger Talbot—”

“Oh, I met him!” she said. “When Paul showed me around at the Sentinel. He’s very attractive.”

“Isn’t he? And very prominent here in Seattle. The next mayor, everyone says. Well, he recently lost his wife, and I know he’s going to feel all at sea at the wedding. Could I possibly prevail on you to have dinner with him, keep him company a little?”

Monica glowed at the prospect, as I hoped she would. “I’d be glad to. Poor man…”

Now I just had to ask Roger to do me a favor and tend to Monica, and we’d be all set. I drove home feeling highly self-satisfied, and pleasantly hungry for a real dinner, a meal beyond pea pods. But when I entered the office and picked up the ringing telephone, my appetite vanished.

“Carnegie, it’s Corinne,” she said in a quavering voice. “I’m in terrible trouble!”

A
S I STOOD THERE
,
ALONE ON MY DARKENED HOUSEBOAT
, fear rippled over my skin like wind on water. Foy got away, he tracked her down…

“Corinne, where are you? Is Lester Foy there?”

“Oh my God!” she gasped. “He escaped! Oh my God—”

“Calm down and tell me where you are so I can call the police.” I fumbled for my wallet, where I’d tucked Lieutenant Graham’s card. Calling his direct line might bring help faster than 911.

Corinne said, “I’m at home—”

“Are you alone? Are the doors locked?”

“Yes, everything’s locked, but—”

“Where did you see him?”

“See him?” she parroted.

“Lester Foy! Where was he when you saw him?”

“But I didn’t see him.”

I sat in my desk chair and took a deep breath. “Then how do you know he escaped?”

“You just said so! You said he was coming here—”

“No,” I said wearily. “No, no, no. Do over. As far as I know, Foy’s still in jail.”

“Thank goodness! I thought you meant—”

“Yes, I understand what you thought. Now, what’s your terrible trouble?”

“It’s my dress,” she said defensively, as if this critical topic had been outshone by the mere threat of murder. “It’s too tight. I tried to let out the side seams but one of them tore and now it looks awful. What am I going to do?”

I could think of several things for Corinne to do, none of them polite, so I moved on to practicalities. “I’ll call Stephanie Stevens at home, and arrange for a quick repair. But I don’t think there’s much fabric in those seams to let out. Can you get the zipper closed even partway?”

“Oh, the zipper closes all right, but my tummy pooches out and the dress hangs funny.”

Quelle surprise. You’ve only been eating like a horse for weeks.

“Well, Stephanie can stitch up the tear,” I said, as if speaking to a child. A dim child. “Beyond that, you’ll just have to suck in your stomach and hope for the best.”

“But, Carnegie!” Corinne wailed. “I have to look my very, very best on Saturday. It’s important!”

Of course, I realized ruefully, she wants to dazzle Boris. A matchmaker should be more sympathetic.

“You’ll look fine,” I soothed. “Honestly, that shade of pink is just gorgeous with your hair and complexion.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. And the neckline is perfect for your… for you. You’ll be irresistible. Try not to worry about it, OK? Just drop off the gown at Stephanie’s tomorrow morning, and I’ll see you tomorrow night at the rehearsal. Everything will be fine.”

As it turned out, the rehearsal could not have been farther from fine.

I assembled my motley crew at EMP’s main entrance and
led them down to the private theater, with its state-of-the-art seating and display screens. A rather severe background for a wedding, but Elizabeth had vetoed having the ceremony out in the Sky Church, on the grounds that it would be a nuisance to clear the chairs afterwards for dancing. I suspected her real reason, though: in a huge space like the Sky Church, with its 85-foot ceiling, a mere bride would be barely noticeable. In the small, plain theater, her appearance would be electrifying.

The rehearsal could have used some electricity, or at least a smile or two. I had rarely seen a more disgruntled wedding party. For starters, the bride and groom weren’t speaking to each other. Elizabeth wore that smoke-and-flame expression I had seen at the Alexis, and Paul was maintaining a dogged silence quite unlike his usual affability. Evidently the path of true love had developed a pothole that afternoon, but no one was saying why.

I considered playing therapist, then let it go in favor of my role as stage manager. Which was tough enough, given my cast of characters.

“It’s not very pretty, is it?” mused Monica, gazing critically around. “Not like a church.”

“When’s the last time you were in a church?” Burt inquired sardonically. “You some kind of Swedish Lutheran now?”

“He’s Norwegian,” she pronounced, as if Burt were hard of hearing. “And I’m just saying that it’s not a very decorative place. I’m the kind of person who—”

“I think we know what kind of person you are,” snapped Burt, and everyone in the room stiffened, like dogs hearing distant thunder.

“We’ll have some fabulous flower arrangements, Monica,”

I said, cheerfully deaf. “And softer lighting, and the music. Now, if you could all just take a seat, we’ll get started in a moment….”

Monica subsided—at a pointed distance from her husband—and her daughter Patty, red-eyed and pale, sat next to her. Not that Monica seemed to care. Patty must be working night shifts, I thought. Nurses lead a dog’s life sometimes. And so do least-favorite daughters. The maid of honor wore white slacks and clunky white walking shoes, along with a shapeless rain parka that she kept clutched around her, as if to emphasize the fact that she’d rather be elsewhere.

That was the bride’s family; the groom’s kin was hardly in better shape. Paul’s brother Scott, the third groomsman, was a slight, balding fellow who seemed to be surgically attached to his cell phone. He had barely arrived from Baltimore, jet-lagged and cranky, and his mind was still back in his office three thousand miles away. Howard and Chloe, the groom’s parents, had returned early from Hawaii with the most spectacular sunburns I’d ever seen. Their faces were puffed and scarlet, the skin stretched tight and shiny over the affronted flesh. It hurt just to look at them.

Chloe merely sat and winced, but Howard had bought himself a digital camera for the trip, and was conquering his pain by annoying his wife and everyone else in a relentless pursuit of close-up candids.

“Big smile,” he kept saying, as he zoomed in on one victim after another. “Come on now, big smile!”

I wondered if the lobsteresque in-laws were the source of Elizabeth’s pique. In the heady rush of getting everything they desire for their special day, some brides lose touch altogether with the real world, and expect their wedding photos to look like movie stills. But you can’t get friends and relations
from Central Casting. At Elizabeth’s orders, the two mothers had bought dresses in harmonious shades of coral—which would now clash with Chloe’s peeling countenance.

Well, the bride would have to get over it. At least Howard and Chloe had showed up, unlike Aaron, who was inexplicably late. Zack told me that “something, like, happened to him at the newsroom,” which would have sounded ominous except that he smirked when he said it. Zack was the only person present who seemed to be in a good mood, smiling at nothing and almost bouncing in his seat with youthful energy.

Corinne, meanwhile, sat eating celery sticks from a plastic bag, looking ravenous and despairing. I’d seen brides try to lose weight at the eleventh hour, but never a bridesmaid. I felt for her, but the crunching was getting on my nerves. The three musicians, a hotshot local sax player and two cronies on bass and clarinet, stood in one corner exchanging sardonic remarks and looking bored. Or maybe that’s how jazz players are supposed to look. Their music certainly bores me.

The ceremony was to be simple enough: jazz stylings for the prelude, processional and recessional, readings by both bride and groom, and brief remarks before the vows from an eminent judge too busy to join us tonight. Much as I disliked the music for this wedding, I loved the readings, which were just as quirky and personal as such things should be.

Paul was going to recite a Yeats poem, Had I the Heavens’ Embroidered Cloths, and Elizabeth would reply with the lyrics to a charming song from the 1940s, “Come Rain or Come Shine.” Monica thought it was all very odd, which pleased Elizabeth no end.

“How nice to see all of you,” I said brightly, deciding to
press on without Aaron. “This will be an informal run-through, and then you can all go out and enjoy the museum.” Or jump off the Space Needle, for all I care.

As the music started, I had Zack and Scott practice escorting Chloe and Monica to their seats, and then lining up at the front of the room with Paul. Corinne came down the aisle, stiff and self-conscious, with me following, and with everyone in the room trying not to think about Mercedes and Angela. Tommy Barry made a happier thought; he was home from the hospital, in his daughter’s care, and might actually make it for the ceremony.

“All right, Patty,” I called to the sisters, now waiting at the theater’s doorway. “You’ll be next. Listen for your cue from the trio…. OK, nice and slow… now Burt, you take Elizabeth’s arm…”

We made it through the processional, and Paul delivered his poem in a rushed, impersonal voice; the last line—“Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams”—was certainly ironic, given Elizabeth’s demeanor tonight. After he finished, there was a long pause, as she stood facing him but not meeting his eye, her lips tight, too irritated to speak words of love.

“Elizabeth?” I prompted.

“I’ve rehearsed it already,” she snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Elizabeth, if there’s something you’re not happy about concerning the ceremony, please say so now—”

“Hi, guys! Sorry I’m late.”

We all looked back, startled, toward the doorway. Aaron’s sudden entrance set off a barrage of reactions: Paul and Zack erupted in laughter, the fathers grinned, the mothers gasped, and the bride boiled over.

“How am I supposed to be happy with that?” she wailed.

She was referring to Aaron’s face, and she had a point. Aaron was sporting a black eye of spectacular magnitude, swollen almost shut and positively pulsating in shades of deep purple and olive green.

“What happened?” Chloe and I asked simultaneously, but by now Aaron was chortling as well and couldn’t answer. Howard and Burt joined in the hilarity, and even the musicians looked entertained.

“They were playing football in the office,” said the bride venomously, over the men’s howls of laughter. “Like a bunch of children.”

“Honey,” Paul managed to get out, “be a sport, would you? It’s no big deal—”

“It is to me! You’ve ruined everything!”

And with this histrionic pronouncement, Elizabeth stalked up the aisle, past Aaron, and out of the building, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake. Everyone looked at me uncertainly.

“Well…” I said. Why is it again that I love weddings? “Well, I think we’re done for this evening. Good night, everyone.” Then, as the room emptied, “Aaron, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He came down the aisle, looking a bit guilty, and then a bit irked as he tried to kiss me and I turned my face away. “Hey, is it my fault if I fumbled a pass?”

“Shut up and listen,” I told him. “There’s going to be a stylist here tomorrow, an hour before the ceremony. I’ll tell her to bring stage makeup for you, so for God’s sake, be on time.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not wearing makeup just so some self-centered bride can—”

“Self-centered! You think she’s self-centered? Tomorrow is one of the most important, most public moments of
Elizabeth’s life and everyone will be looking at you. She’ll have photographs she’ll want to show her grandchildren, and all they’ll want to know is the story behind your goddamn eye. Grow up, Aaron.”

“Grow up? You of all people—”

“What about me of all people?” I’d been restraining myself all evening. If he wanted to fight, I was more than ready. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaron looked away, and I could see the muscles in his jaw go taut. Then he turned a cold gaze back to me. “Forget it. It’s not worth the trouble.”

And he walked out, leaving me to stew in my own complicated juices. Forget his objection to makeup? Or forget about him and me? I jammed my clipboard into my tote bag and pulled on my coat, muttering savagely under my breath all the while.

“How did it go?” Rhonda Coates, the EMP’s chic and ultra-efficient coordinator for private events, poked her head in from a side door. “Anything I can do to help?”

Only if you’ve got a magic wand to wave, I thought. “We’re all set, Rhonda, thanks.”

“Are you going to stay tonight and cruise the galleries? There’s a new exhibit on honky-tonk artists—”

“Wish I could,” I fibbed, “but I’ve got more paperwork to do tonight. You know how it is.”

“All too well,” she said. “Break a leg tomorrow.”

“That or somebody’s neck.”

She grinned and said good night. I walked up the aisle to the theater exit, and gave a silent groan when I opened the door: Zack was waiting for me right outside, slouching against the wall with his arms folded and his brow furrowed. He perked up visibly when he saw me—a warning sign right
there if I hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice. “Are you all done now? We could have dinner in the café here.”