Veiled Threats (29 page)

“I bet you are. Well, I've got to circulate. If I see Corinne I'll tell her you're waiting for her.”

“Thanks, Wedding Lady,” said Aaron. “Save a dance for me, OK?”

“I'll save two.”

What's wrong with this picture? I asked myself as I pushed open the ladies’ room door a short while later. I'm at a party, Aaron's at the same party, and what am I doing? I'm keeping an eye out for his date. What a world. Still, I felt for Corinne. Weddings are hard when you're brokenhearted, and I'm a sucker for broken hearts. That's why I started
Made in Heaven
, I suppose. What better business for a hopeless romantic who likes to throw parties?

Inside the restroom, preening in solitary glory, was Mercedes Montoya. I wondered if Syd Soper was outside somewhere, resting his scythe and hoping for another dance. If so, he was a patient man; a fortune in designer cosmetics lay spilled across the counter, and Mercedes was employing all of it. No wonder the camera loved her. She obviously loved herself.

“The wedding planner!” she announced gaily, shaking back her midnight hair. Her eyes, meeting mine in the mirror, were suspiciously shiny and hugely dilated. Was it only alcohol flying her kite, or a little something extra? I really didn't want to know. “I was just thinking about you! About hiring you.”

“Really? I didn't know you were getting married. Who's the lucky man?”

Mercedes clapped a hand to her lips. With the other hand she clutched my arm, tight enough to hurt. “No! It's a secret! Yo u can't tell a soul. Not a single
Sentinel
soul!”

She gave a long peal of melodious laughter, then blinked vacantly and seemed to forget why she was laughing. Definitely something extra. I retrieved my arm. “I won't breathe a word.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Good. Roger would be furious.”

“Roger?”

She gasped again. “How did you know? Yo u have to keep it secret!”

“Keep what secret, Mercedes?”

She leaned close, her ropes of beads clicking and swaying.

“I'm going to marry the mayor!”

I thought I'd heard her wrong. “Mayor Wyble's already married.”

“Not
him
, Roger Talbot! Roger's going to be mayor next year, after I help him beat Wyble.” Mercedes was suddenly cold and shrewd. She was cycling through moods like a kaleidoscope.

“We'll have the wedding right before the primaries. The grieving widower finds happiness. People will eat it up.”

Apparently the widower wasn't all that grieved, not that it was any of my business. Brides were my business, but I wasn't sure I wanted this volatile prima donna as a client.
And yet
, I thought, while Mercedes went back to fluffing her hair and humming a Motown tune, landing another big-budget, high-profile wedding could put
Made in Heaven
in the news, maybe even in the trade magazines, and definitely in the black. I was still several thousand dollars in debt from starting up my business, and the dock fees on my rented houseboat were killing me. Well, time for those calculations later. I couldn't very well hold her to a decision made under the influence.

“Congratulations,” I said, wondering if she'd apply my comment to the engagement or the election. Probably both. “But there's plenty of time to plan. Yo u don't want to choose a bridal consultant on a whim. Think it over.”

“You don't believe me,” she pouted. Mercedes had a superb pout. She slid a hand down her ragtag gypsy bodice and drew out a long gold chain with twisted herringbone links. Suspended from it, swinging inches from my astonished eyes, was a monster diamond on an ornate platinum band. “You'll believe a girl's best friend, won't you?”

“Mercedes, that's stunning!” I wanted to get away from her and her secrets, but for a moment I was mesmerized. The diamond swung back and forth, like a hypnotist's watch. “It must be nearly three carats! Is it antique?”

“Family heirloom,” she said complacently, and lowered the treasure back into its cozy hiding place. X marks the spot. “It was his grandmother's engagement ring, and now it's mine. I told Roger, I'll keep our secret, but I have to have something to put under my pillow, don't I?”

“It's a wonder you can sleep.”

She laughed. “I sleep very well. Roger makes sure of that.”

I wasn't going anywhere near that one. “Well, like I said, think it over—”

“I don't have to, I want
you
.” The kaleidoscope was turning faster; now she was sulky and stubborn. She rummaged in her patchwork shoulder bag and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here, take this. For a deposit.”

“Mercedes, you don't have to—”

“Take it!” she said shrilly.

“OK, OK.” Anything to calm her down. I took the money; there were twenties, and at least one fifty. “Let's count it and I'll write you a receipt.”

“No, no, I trust you. Oh, Carnegie, isn't it exciting? I'm getting married!” Looking suddenly girlish, Mercedes gave me an impulsive hug, laying her head against my shoulder. Her hair was perfumed, sweet and musky. Then she wrenched herself away.

“Just remember, wedding planner …” She fixed me with a dark, straight stare, a tiger's stare. “You keep your mouth shut.”

Mercedes swept up her paints and swept out of the room. A black and gold powder compact lay overlooked under the balled-up paper towels. I picked it up, but then didn't go after her. I'd had enough schizophrenic gypsy glamour for the moment. Instead, I stood pondering this unexpected glimpse into Roger Talbot's private life. His wife had only been dead a month or so. If Mercedes and Talbot had a whirlwind courtship, it must have blown at gale force, unless they'd gotten involved while Helen Talbot was still alive. A nasty thought. Aaron had mentioned once that Mercedes was constantly in the publisher's office. Maybe she'd been negotiating more than her salary. Maybe her move to television was really part of Talbot's campaign. I hated to be that cynical, but—

A sudden sound, at once revolting and unmistakable. The room had appeared empty, but someone was in the farthest stall being spectacularly sick. I heard ragged breathing, then a moan.

“Hello?” I called, sliding the cash and the compact into the ample pocket of my witch's gown. “Can I help?”

The stall door swung wide to reveal one very unkempt and unsteady Greek goddess. In wordless sympathy, I ran a paper towel under the faucet and handed it to Aaron's long-lost date. Corinne dragged it across her mouth, her long fake fingernails a startling crimson against her pale, trembling lips. How much champagne did it take to drown the memory of Boris Nevsky? A double latte had done the trick for me, but then I never wanted to marry the man.

“I'm going to die,” said Corinne. She looked at herself bleakly in the mirror
hairdo
in ruins, satiny toga crumpled and soiled
and
took a long sobbing breath. “I want to die.”

“You'll get over him,” I offered. “You'll feel better, really you will.”

She glared at me. Her eyes were a weak, watery blue, but the look in them was somehow scarier than Mercedes’. “What do you know about it? How do you know how I feel?”

“Corinne, I just meant that you'll find somebody else—”

Her eyes went wide and rolling, like a panicky horse about to bolt. “I'll never find anyone like him.
Never!
”

Then she pushed past me and was gone.
Aaron
, I thought,
Aaron
,
she is all yours
. While I waited for the gypsy queen and the drama queen to get a good head start, I belatedly remembered about “Northwest Shores.” I radioed Morrie, one of my security guards, and asked him to close it off. Then I left the ladies’ and went back to my rounds, checking on each of the bars and food stations. The Halloween menu I'd designed with Joe Solveto, my favorite caterer, was definitely a hit, especially the all-chocolate dessert bar. Good thing we had generous reserves; running out of food is an event planner's highest crime.

Before I could pat myself on the back any harder, I was accosted by a large leprechaun.

“Carnegie, you look glorious! Who are you supposed to be, exactly?”

Tommy Barry, the
Sentinel’
s legendary sportswriter, was also a legendary drinker of Guinness, and when Tommy drank he got very Irish. A shamrock-bedecked hat sat askew on his bush of grizzled hair, and one of his curly-toed leprechaun slippers was missing. I had gently suggested a more reliable best man— and Elizabeth had demanded a more photogenic one
but
Paul was adamant. Tommy was his mentor and his pal, so Tommy it would be. This was my first wedding where the best man went on pub crawls with the florist.

“I'm supposed to be a witch,” I told him, “and you were supposed to be here at eight. We had to do the toasts without you. The maid of honor is working tonight, so I was depending on you. Yo u will be on time for the wedding, won't you, Tommy?”

“Of course, of course. Tonight I gave Zack here a ride,” he said proudly, as if this were quite a feat. In his current inebriated condition, maybe it was.

Zack Hartmann, the bashful young Internet whiz working
on the
Sentinel
Web site, was Paul's third groomsman. He was usually shy and slouching, but not tonight. Tonight Zack was the Prince of Thieves, with a quiver of arrows over his green-cloaked shoulder and a couple of martinis under his belt. Tall and rangy, with crisp fair hair and long-lashed cobalt-blue eyes, he stood next to Tommy with his shoulders back and his head high. Maid Marion would have been thrilled to bits.

“We were a tad late, perhaps,” Tommy was saying, “but now we're raising the roof and showing the girls a good time, aren't we, Zack? Yo u go dance with Carnegie, and I'll just stop by the bar.”

“I'm really awfully busy,” I began.

“Nonsense!” he rasped. Tommy had a voice that could strip paint. “Too busy to dance with Robin Hood? Off you go, both of you.”

I liked Zack, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. “Sure, just one dance.”

As I followed him out onto the dance floor, the DJ ended the Motown set and changed musical gears with the Righteous Brothers, “Soul and Inspiration.” I hadn't bargained on a slow dance, but it had been a long night, and if I couldn't have Zorro's arms around me, Robin's looked like a decent substitute. For a few minutes I even relaxed and enjoyed myself. But once the song ended I'd have to go check with Donald, the other security guard, up on the observation deck, to make sure no one had gone skinny-dipping with the seals or feeding paté to the puffins or some damn thing. Not that my presence would prevent them, but—

“Is something wrong?” Zack blurted. I realized he was trembling a bit, and there were spots of hectic color on his cheekbones. What I'd taken for head-high confidence was just a rigid façade. Whether it was the drinks or the awkward social situation, Robin Hood was strung up as tight as piano wire.

“Nothing's wrong. I was just wondering how the rest of the party is going.”

“Well, if you're too busy to dance with me, I totally understand.” He sounded slightly miffed, and very young.

“Not at all. You dance very well.”

Actually, he just danced very tall. Try as I might, slow dancing with a shorter man always made me self-conscious. Aaron had wanted us to go as Rocky and Bullwinkle tonight, for crying
out loud. What was he thinking? We were clearly incompatible. Oil and water. Chalk and cheese. High fashion and low comedy. Comedy was the operative word, though. Aaron could always make me laugh. I liked that.

“Tommy was right,” said Zack, forcing the words out after a stiff silence. “You really do look beautiful tonight.”

Right words, wrong guy. Still, nice words.

“Thanks, Zack. You're pretty gorgeous yourself.”

In the shifting underwater light, I couldn't quite see him blushing, but I could feel it. He began to reply, stammered to a halt, then settled for holding me a little tighter. I subtly tried to put a bit of space between us, but the press of bodies kept us close. I peeked over Zack's shoulder, checking the crowd. I didn't see Aaron and Corinne, but Paul and Elizabeth were there, clinging tight, or as tight as they could given the bride's bronze and leather breastplates. She was wearing his Indy fedora on her long black Xena wig and smiling dreamily. Happy clients, that was the ticket. Happy clients who would recommend me to their happy, wealthy friends. My silent partner Eddie Breen, never silent for long, was always pushing me to advertise more, while I favored word-of-mouth among brides and their mothers.

One thought sparked another. “Zack, are you full-time with the
Sentinel
now or do you freelance elsewhere? My partner's been pestering me about jazzing up our Web site.”

It was like flipping a high-voltage switch.

“Sure!” Zack's face lit up and he stepped firmly on my foot. “I'd do it for cheap, too, I need more stuff in my portfolio. We could start right away.”

“Whoa! Eddie and I need to brainstorm a bit first. Right now the site is just a scan of our print pamphlet—”

“Brochureware!” he groaned. “That is so lame.”

“Well, excuse me!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean … that's what everybody starts with, really. But you can do, like, tons more than that. I'll help you brainstorm. I'll come tomorrow afternoon, OK?”

“Well, OK. Eddie's not usually there on Sundays, but he's wrestling with some new software, so he said he'd be in.”

“Oh. Will, uh, you be there too?” He tried to look nonchalant.

“Yes, I'll be there too. So tell me, what could we do that wouldn't be lame?”

The Aquarium's rental rules called for low-volume music in the dome room, which made dance floor conversation possible, and Zack took full advantage of the fact. He regaled me feverishly with the online wonders he could perform for
Made in Heaven
, becoming almost agitated as he raved about JPEG files and animated GIFs and why frames, like, totally suck. Amused but sympathetic
I w
as shy at his age too
I m
ade fascinated and admiring noises, and kept my feet out from under his.

“You're really interested in this stuff, aren't you?” he asked at one point.

“Sure,” I lied. “Why wouldn't I be?”