Died to Match (8 page)

Holt Walker had been another matter. Smitten, I’d kept Holt to myself, away from Eddie and his opinions. And then my handsome and successful suitor had turned out to be a particularly unsavory sort of criminal. I sure can pick ’em.

I was still getting over Holt, in more ways than one. Maybe that was the real reason I was hanging back with Aaron. That and the fact that all he really wanted now was some juicy quotes about a murdered corpse. I dumped my jacket on a chair and did what I always do when I’m tangled up inside my own brain: I poured a glass of cheap white wine and, ignoring the message light on my phone, I called Lily.

“Hey, you caught me just coming in,” she said. “I took the boys to their friend Dylan’s for a campout.”

“A campout? Lily, it’s raining again, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Calm down, Honorary Aunt. They’re in Dylan’s basement. Kids have no nerve endings, they can sleep on concrete and love it. Now, what on earth happened to that
Montoya person last night? She’s the TV star, right, the gypsy?”

“She was.” I gulped some wine and gave her my tired little routine about not discussing the details.

“I get it,” she said. “But you must be in shock. You want some company?”

“No, that’s all right…. Actually, yes, I would like company. If you don’t mind having dinner with Aaron Gold?”

“Aha, the cute reporter. Cute guys always welcome. Don’t you want him all to yourself?”

“No,” I said. “No, tonight I definitely do not want Aaron all to myself.”

D
INNER STARTED OUT AWKWARD AS HELL
. S
TANDING IN MY
living room, faced with a trio instead of a duet, Aaron masked his surprise with a bland and off-putting courtesy that was worthy of Zorro, and Lily responded in kind. The two of them had heard plenty about each other from me, so I knew there was some sizing up going on as they shook hands and commented on the weather.

Lily looked smashing, in a royal-purple sweater and skirt that set off her statuesque figure and coffee-colored skin. Aaron was less rumpled than usual in yellow dress shirt and spiffy black leather jacket. I wore jade silk and an uncomfortable smile. Despite my second—and third and fifth— thoughts about Aaron, I really wanted these people to like each other.

My two companions did have one thing in common: both of them assumed I was upset by what I’d witnessed and persisted in treating me with kid-glove kindness. If Aaron was going to tackle me for an interview, it wouldn’t be tonight.

“I made reservations at Toscana,” he said as we walked out to the parking lot. The rain was thinning again, to the sloping mist so typical of Seattle. “I hope that suits you, Lily?”

“Sounds wonderful, Aaron,” she replied graciously, but then frowned at the sight of his vintage Volkswagen Bug, recently acquired third-hand from someone at the Sentinel. It was banana-yellow, with appropriate brown spots of rust. “Umm, how about if I drive?”

I was just as glad—at least Lily’s Volvo had some legroom—but that left the brave caballero scrunched in the backseat with her sons’ toys and soccer gear. Hardly the way to start a romantic evening. Serves you right for conspiring with Eddie, I thought, but without much spirit. Then, as we drove to the University District making the smallest of small talk, I stopped thinking about Aaron and thought about whether I was truly as upset as he and Lily believed me to be.

Certainly I felt sad for Mercedes, and revolted by the horrible way that I’d found her. But as more time passed, there was also plain old vulgar curiosity. Who, of all the masked revelers at the Aquarium last night, had gone home with blood on his hands? And did those same hands try to drown Corinne, or was she fantasizing? Was the killer’s motive as deep and murky as Elliott Bay, or as simple and sharp as the glint off a diamond ring?

The Italian bistro Aaron had chosen was dim and intimate, perfect for lovers but a bit much for new acquaintances. We had our choice of tables on a Sunday evening, so we settled ourselves into a corner booth flanked by shelves of wine bottles and hanging plants. The waiter lit our candle, poured our Chianti, and left us. We reviewed the menu, then fell into an uneasy silence.

“So, Lily,” said Aaron after a moment. We both turned to him brightly, a couple of nice girls waiting for the boy to start the conversation. “Carnegie tells me that you’re African-American.”

Lily gaped, stared, and let out a whoop of laughter. Aaron stayed deadpan, but his eyes were sparkling.

“Yes,” she replied, once she got her breath back. “Yes, I’ve been Black for quite some time now. And how about yourself? One of the Chosen People, are you?”

Aaron grinned. “As Chosen as they come. Pass the wine.”

An hour later we were all full of penne puttanesca and the two of them were arguing about jazz.

“Chuck Mangione?” Aaron protested, flourishing his fork. He’d shed his jacket and rolled back his cuffs. I vaguely recalled the musician’s name, but mostly I was busy admiring Zorro’s sword arm, which was very brown and strong-looking. “Mangione is a sure cure for insomnia! You can’t listen to his stuff and operate heavy machinery.”

“It is beautifully hypnotic,” Lily insisted. “I used to fall asleep listening to him.”

“You weren’t falling asleep, you were falling into a stupor. Mangione isn’t fit to tie Coltrane’s shoes.”

“Oh, not another ’Trane snob!”

“Bite your tongue,” Aaron shot back. “Next thing you’ll be telling me you listen to Yanni and Kenny G!”

Lily bridled. “And what’s wrong with Kenny G?”

“A lot of brides want Kenny G played at their weddings,” I chimed in. “But only after the ceremony.”

They looked at me, puzzled. I think they’d forgotten I was there.

“Why after?” asked Lily.

“They don’t believe in sax before marriage.”

They both chortled, and Lily threw her napkin at me, saying, “Bad jokes from the woman who hates jazz.”

Aaron looked at me in horror. “You hate jazz? Say it ain’t so, Slim. Say it’s only Sominex jazz like Mangione’s.”

“It’s true,” Lily insisted. “Carnegie loathes everything except Dixieland. She’s hopeless.”

I tried to take a dignified sip of wine, but my glass seemed to be empty again, so I put it down. “Just because I don’t like irritating music with no melody and no rhythm—”

“Philistine!” said Aaron. “She’s beautiful, but she’s a philistine. What am I going to do with her?”

Lily snorted. “I bet you could think of something, a Chosen guy like you.”

“I bet I could,” he said, doing Groucho Marx with his eyebrows.

“OK, time out,” I said. “No more of this.”

“Well, then,” said Aaron, “let’s talk about murder.”

I could swear the candle flickered when he said the evil word, but maybe it was just the shadow that descended on our spirits. Then the flame rose again, and I got mad.

“Dammit, Aaron, I should have known—”

“Hey, it’s no crime to be curious. Besides, I’m just wondering how you’re doing, after what you’ve been through.”

A likely story. “Aaron, this evening is off the record.”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m serious,” I told him. “If I see one word in the Sentinel—”

“Look, if you think I’m so unscrupulous, how come—”

“ ’Scuse me!” Lily, her diplomacy radar on full alert, made off for the ladies’ room and left us to argue in private.

Aaron sat back, breathing hard, and folded his arms. “Stretch, when I say something is off the record, it’s off. You can bring along a chaperone if you want, but don’t question my integrity, all right?”

“It’s just that after seeing you there last night, it’s hard to separate the person from the reporter.”

“Well, I’ve done the separating for you. I took myself off the story, as soon as I realized you were involved.”

“Really?” I said, abashed.

“Really. Paul assigned it to someone else. We hashed it all out in the newsroom this morning.”

“Oh.” I thought about Zack’s reaction to the news. “How’s everyone at the Sentinel feeling about Mercedes?”

“They’re shocked, of course. But they’re news junkies, they’re fascinated. And, of course, some of them weren’t crazy about Mercedes in the first place, including me. But nobody wanted her dead.”

“Well, somebody did.” It occurred to me, for the first time, to wonder if Mercedes’ secret fiancé was as blissful about their engagement as she was. Suspicion is a poisonous thing. “How did Roger Talbot react?”

“He wasn’t there, just left a message asking everyone to cooperate with the police, and tapping Paul to do the obituary. To tell you the truth, I think everybody’s mostly concerned about Tommy. More wine?”

“I’d better not.”

We ordered cappuccino for three, and when the waiter was out of earshot I asked, “So, who do you think killed Mercedes?”

“Soper,” said Aaron promptly. “Gotta be. Look how he came at me with that sickle thing.”

“But he wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Of course not, but it shows how short his fuse is. I think Mercedes let on that she knew about the bribery, and he went ballistic. I think Death killed her.”

Lily overheard him as she slid back into the booth. “That’s what kills everybody. But you’re talking about that guy with the scythe, aren’t you? Why would he kill Mercedes Montoya?”

“She was working on an exposé about his company,” Aaron said quickly, with a significant look at me. I got the message: the bribery story was still under wraps. “So it’s a scythe? I thought it was a sickle.”

“A sickle’s got a small handle,” Lily told him. “Death carries a scythe.”

“You librarians, you just know everything, don’t you?”

“Never mind that,” I said impatiently. I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I just had to talk about Corinne, and these were two of the smartest people I knew. “Why would Syd Soper have attacked Corinne?”

They stared at me and spoke at once.

“Corinne was attacked?”

“That woman who almost drowned?”

I held up a hand. “Wait, I’m coming at this backward. I went to see Tommy Barry this afternoon—”

“Who’s Tommy Barry?” Lily set her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “If you’re going to tell me about this, tell it from the beginning.”

So I did. I began with Mercedes’ startling announcement about marrying Roger Talbot, and the equally startling amount of cash she was carrying. The former seemed to overshadow the latter, at least for Aaron.

“Engaged?” he said. “With the guy’s wife barely cold in her grave? Or maybe even before then. Man, Talbot can forget the mayor’s office if people find out he was cheating on a dying wife.”

“I assume that’s why the engagement was secret. And it’s got to stay secret, OK? I’m only telling you two because I’m trying to figure out what was going on at the party.”

“Sure, we won’t go spreading rumors,” said Lily. “But
what about all that money? Maybe someone killed her for that.”

“Maybe,” I said, “or maybe for something else.”

I described the disappearing diamond, Tommy’s disappearing act from the murder scene, and Corinne’s little bombshell about being attacked. And, of course, Father Richard’s skepticism about Corinne. The only thing I left out was exactly how Mercedes was killed; I meant to keep to the letter of my deal with Lieutenant Graham, even if I was violating the spirit. After all, what harm could it do to puzzle it over a little with Lily and Aaron? So we drank cappuccino and ate tiramisu, and contemplated the trustworthiness of Corinne Campbell.

“Because what it boils down to,” I said, “is that either Corinne’s lying, and somebody killed Mercedes specifically, or else she’s telling the truth, and somebody was sneaking around the party in a black cloak trying to murder people in general.”

“A serial killer dressed in black?” said Lily. “That’s pretty far-fetched.”

“And what do Corinne and Mercedes have in common,” Aaron chimed in, “that would make them targets of the same murderer?”

I shrugged.

“Listen,” he continued, “I know Corinne. She’s a professional victim. Everything’s a crisis, and nothing’s ever her fault. She craves attention in a major way. I felt sorry for her after she got dumped this time, because she seemed so happy for a while and then she crashed and burned. But that doesn’t mean I’d take her word for anything. You know, when I was first hired at the paper, I heard that she accused some poor SOB of rape, and then went back on it.”

“I heard that, too,” I admitted. “Apparently her name is mud with the police. But even if you believe that she’d tell such a serious lie, do you really believe she’d try to kill herself over Boris Nevsky?”

Lily frowned into her coffee cup. “I’m no fan of the Mad Russian, but it’s not his character we’re looking at, it’s hers. This woman sounds kind of unstable. And people do crazy things for love. Carnegie, you went out with Boris. Would he be really nasty about breaking up with her? He is such a megalomaniac. Maybe that’s what pushed her over the edge. Sorry, bad pun.”

“Whoa!” said Aaron, setting down his cup with a clatter. “You dated the guy that Corinne’s been moping around about? The flower seller?”

“Briefly! Very briefly, quite a while ago. And Boris is a floral designer, a very good one.”

“My, my,” said Aaron. I could see him trying to cover his first reaction with flippancy. “I must meet him one day.”

“You will, smart-ass,” I said. “Elizabeth invited all the principal vendors. I think she wants to be able to yell at them in person if anything goes wrong. Meanwhile, I’m going to talk with Boris about Corinne.”

“Why?”

“Well, to see if he thinks she’s lying.”

“No, I mean why are you getting involved?” Aaron looked over at Lily. “Back me up here, Ms. Know-It-All Librarian. The three of us speculating is one thing, but with a murderer running around, shouldn’t Carnegie mind her own business?”

“Of course she should!” said Lily. “Doesn’t mean she will.”

We were quiet on the drive back to the houseboat, lost in
our own thoughts. Mine were still focused on Corinne, and the fear in her eyes there at the parking garage. Aaron knew her better than I did, and his argument made sense, but surely this was a woman in serious trouble.