Died To Match Part 16

"Well, that was a while ago. Mr. Right African-American hasn't shown up yet. And I'm lonely. Don't I deserve somebody to love?"

I looked at her, and for the hundredth time or more, I marveled at this strong, beautiful woman who was my friend. "Of course you do, Lily. And the boys deserve a dad. Maybe-"

"Never mind." She set the mug down. "I don't want to talk about it right now, and I don't want to talk about Aaron anymore either. I said my piece. What I want is some lunch."

"Eggs?"

"I had eggs hours ago. Let's go out."

"OK, but someplace cheap." I kept talking as I went into the bathroom to brush my hair. "I've got a lot to tell you while we eat."

It was my morning for breaking things. As I tossed the brush onto a shelf, it caught the corner of the black-and-gold powder compact, sending it cartwheeling to the floor. I grabbed but missed, and it splintered open with a sharp little crackle, releasing an avalanche of tiny identical pills that rolled and slid across the tiles. "What on earth?"

Lily came to the doorway. "Did you break someth- Carnegie, what are you doing with those?"

"They're not mine! I don't even know what they are." I bent down to look. Weirdly, each pill had a minuscule smiley face impressed into one surface. I reached to pick one up, but Lily put out a restraining hand.

"This is serious, Carnegie. If they're not yours, whose are they?"

"The compact belonged to Mercedes Montoya. I picked it up at the party, and then after she died I just kept it. I'm not sure why. What do you mean, serious? What is this stuff?"

"I think it's Ecstasy. I'm going to go call Lieutenant Graham. Don't touch anything."

Lieutenant Graham, when he arrived, was not a happy man. He didn't seem to mind being called on a Sunday, but he was indignant that I'd "concealed" an item belonging to a murder victim. He was also skeptical of my ignorance about Ecstasy, and annoyed that I'd been talking to Rick the Rocket, even though my conversation seemed to clear the DJ in Mercedes' death.

"Ecstasy is MDMA," said Graham, sitting in my living room after bagging up the compact and pills. In a handsome blue fisherman's sweater, snug jeans, and shiny loafers, he was n.o.body's stereotype of a cop. "It's a neurotoxin, a middle-cla.s.s party drug that makes you feel wonderful while it's destroying some of your brain cells. And half the time it's mixed with something else-MDA, GHB, rohypnol- that's even worse. You see it at raves, clubs, house parties, everywhere. People who should know better go on the Internet and explain how to use it. Manufacturing costs are about two dollars a pill, and then the pills retail for forty or fifty dollars apiece. Quite a valuable stash you've got here."

"It's not mine, I told you that. It belonged to Mercedes, and she must have gotten it from Rick."

"Who has now disappeared, by the way. He had a plane reservation for Las Vegas, and never used it."

"Well, that's not my fault!" My headache was back, and now my stomach was rumbling.

Graham leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked infinitely tired. "Some people are going to think it is. Some people are already wondering about you. You take money from Mercedes Montoya, and she turns up as a homicide victim. You talk to Richard Royko, and he vanishes. And now you're in possession of a Schedule One drug, in a quant.i.ty that strongly suggests not just using but dealing."

"Lieutenant, what exactly are you accusing Carnegie of?" Lily, hands on hips, was standing her ground in the middle of the room. The sun had come out, a rare phenomenon this time of year, and she was surrounded by a corona of silver light reflecting off the lake through the sliding gla.s.s doors. Talk about your warrior princess. Lily might be annoyed with me, but she was still in my corner.

Graham smiled at her, a gentle, tired smile. "Nothing. Strangely enough, I believe that Ms. Carnegie Kincaid is an innocent bystander in this situation, and I'm going to record these pills as evidence that was discovered by accident and immediately turned over to the proper authorities."

Lily smiled back, and I was about to offer scrambled eggs all around when Graham said, "But there is a multi-agency task force addressing the party-drug trade in this area, and the DEA is not going to be pleased that they didn't get this evidence sooner. So, Carnegie, is there anything further you want to share with me about Mercedes Montoya or Rick the Rocket or anyone else connected with the case, before you promise to stay out of police business altogether?"

"Wel-l-l," I said, and he rolled his eyes. "There is just one thing I'd like to pa.s.s on about Syd Soper."

"And that is?"

"He didn't kill Mercedes." And I explained how I knew.

Graham actually laughed. "Sydney Soper was one of your suspects?"

"He was wearing a black cloak, and he was at the party after eleven!" I said defensively. This was not exactly how I had planned to present my findings to the police. "He could have been the one who attacked Corinne-"

"If anyone did."

"I believe that someone did! And I believe that we should find out who it was. Corinne is scared to death, and Mercedes may have been dealing drugs but she still deserves justice."

"Of course she does," said Graham. He stood up. "And she will get it. But from the criminal justice system, not from wild guesses and woman's intuition. All right?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but then I caught Lily's glare and the shake of her head. "All right. Thank you, Lieutenant."

The phone rang as I closed the door behind him. Hungry as I was, I stopped to answer, half-hoping it would be Aaron. Instead, I heard a fussy, familiar woman's voice, one that never seemed to stop for breath.

"Miss Kincaid, this is Georgette Viorst, at Characters, Inc., and we're opening the shop on Monday, so I came in this weekend to get things organized, and saw that you left several messages, so I thought I'd better get back to you, in case it's important and you didn't want to wait until business hours. So, you were wondering who rented a Dracula costume for the Lamott party? I'd like to help you out, really I would, but I checked our inventory twice, and I could check it again but I don't think so, really I don't."

"You don't what? I'm sorry, I'm a little confused here. What are you telling me?"

"Miss Kincaid, we don't have a Dracula costume."

"What?"

"No, we had one, but you see the last person to rent it left it lying on his sofa and his cat just shredded the cape into ribbons! It was very careless of him, really, and he brought it in and offered to have it fixed, but you can't fix something like that, can you? You have to replace it entirely, and we've been meaning to do that because it's a popular costume, well, not that popular but it's a standard, and we like to have all the standards in stock for when-"

"Wait! Please, let me get this straight. You didn't rent anyone a Dracula costume for the party at the Aquarium last Sat.u.r.day night?"

"No."

"Or for any other party, any other night?"

"No. You see-"

"Thank you, Georgette. I'll call you tomorrow to check up on the rest of the costumes, OK? Good-bye." I hung up, and said to Lily, "That does it. I'm scrambling some eggs. If I don't eat in the next ten minutes, my head's going to explode."

Over eggs and toast and a lot more coffee, we talked about Dracula.

"Dracula was Skull!" I insisted. "He had to be. That's how he got into the party unrecognized. He wore a full rubber head mask that covered his tattoos."

Lily wasn't convinced at first. "What about height and build? I don't quite remember-"

"Medium-sized guys, both of them," I said. "It all fits! None of the other guests could figure out who Dracula was, and now we know why. Because he wasn't an invited guest."

"It does make sense," she said with growing enthusiasm. "And he didn't talk so he wouldn't give himself away."

"And he wore a black cloak, and he was on the premises after eleven. And even if his motive is kind of bizarre, at least he's got one, which Angela never did. With Rick and Soper in the clear, the list is down to one name. Dracula, aka Lester Foy "

"I'm not quite as sure as you are," said Lily, "but say you're right. What are you going to do next? I don't think Mike Graham wants to hear any more theories from you."

"No, I don't suppose he does."

As we looked at each other, perplexed, the phone rang yet again. And yet again it wasn't Aaron.

"Kincaid? Juice. I saw your guy."

"What guy?"

"With the tattoos!" She sounded quite pleased with herself. "I was getting off the bus on Olive and there he was, getting on, so I just sat down again, right next to him, and started talking. Man, he is a walking work of art, you know?"

"Juice," I said, feeling a little sick, "did you tell him I was looking for him?"

"Well, no. See, you got it wrong, it's not Les that's in the band, it's his girlfriend Mandy. They're called Slippery When Wet, and he's sort of their manager. I've heard them at clubs, and Rita even knows Mandy. Isn't that a coincidence?"

"Yeah, a coincidence. Did you mention me at all?"

"No, I thought I'd better talk to you first. Are you sure you want this particular band for your client? I don't wanna tell you your business, but if you think I'm scary, you should see these girls. Mandy's really hot on guitar, but still-"

"I'm sure you're right," I said hastily. "Sounds like the wrong band. Absolutely. But thanks for letting me know."

"You're welcome," she said. "Tomorrow at seven for the tasting, right? I'm b.u.mmed that it has to be so early, but they're rewaxing all the floors at nine. BBAs closed on Mondays, remember, so I'll let you in the side door.... Are you still there?"

"Yes. The side door. See you then." I hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment without seeing it. Thank goodness Mandy's band was so scary. The last thing I needed was for Skull to hear that I was asking around about him.

"Now I know what I'm going to do next," I said, turning back to Lily. "First I'm going to call Graham and tell him just the facts, ma'am, about the Dracula costume. Then I'm going to install a floodlight over my front door. And then I've got a funeral to go to."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

FUNERALS SHOULD HAPPEN IN THE RAIN. THERE SHOULD be dark clouds, at least, and a doleful wind, and a decent dimming of the light be dark clouds, at least, and a doleful wind, and a decent dimming of the light But when I arrived, late and fl.u.s.tered, for Mercedes Montoya's graveside service, the low-hanging November sun shone, bright and almost warm, from a sky of extraordinarily clear, deep blue. The priest, a small man built like a wrestler, cast a blocky shadow across the casket, already lowered into the gaping grave. The sun's glare made the mourners squint and shield their eyes with their hands, and illuminated the faces of the grieving family with cruel precision. Clouds would have been kinder.

I'd hit a traffic jam on I5, then gotten lost trying to find the church in the southern suburbs, so I missed the funeral ma.s.s entirely. But I'd spotted the hea.r.s.e and followed the short procession of cars to Greenwood Memorial Park, a modest cemetery with an adjacent funeral home. Another burial service was just getting started, a larger one than Mercedes', and other visitors, solitary or in pairs, were walking the paths across the flat green plane of gra.s.s and headstones and bouquets, all of it far too gay and colorful in the sunshine.

From the edge of our little a.s.sembly I stood scanning all the faces, while Mercedes' brother Esteban, a gangling, good-looking youth, made some remarks in Spanish. His voice broke several times, and his mother, standing tall in her black suit and long veil, wept silently but without pause. Among the mourners who were strangers to me, some were surely Spanish-speaking family friends, while others-the young and stylish ones-were probably colleagues from the TV station where Mercedes had begun her rise to fame.

I saw Paul with Elizabeth, and several more people from the Sentinel, including Corinne Campbell and Valerie Duncan, both wearing sungla.s.ses. I wondered if Aaron would have attended had he been in town. He should have called me, not Lily, the b.u.m.... I noticed that Angela Sims was there as well. I'd almost forgotten that she and Mercedes were not just bridesmaids together but sorority sisters. The one figure missing, besides Aaron, was Roger Talbot. Was he too grief-stricken to attend, or just wary of letting his grief be seen in public and interpreted for what it was, mourning for a lost lover?

"Um, hi," murmured a voice behind me.

It was Zack, solemn and wide-eyed. I touched his arm briefly, then returned my attention to the priest, who was p.r.o.nouncing a final prayer. Several people made the sign of the Cross; Corinne was one of them, and I recalled that she was Catholic. Valerie Duncan was not, apparently, but she was murmuring a private benediction to herself. Or was it something else? She had little reason to bless Mercedes. At the grave's edge, Esteban and his mother each dropped a blood-red rose onto the casket. I don't cry easily, but I felt tears on my face. Good-bye, Mercedes. We'll find out who did this. You would have been a lovely bride. Beside me, Zack gave a sharp little sigh.

The crowd stirred and began to drift apart, some people stepping forward to offer their condolences to Mrs. Montoya. I moved to follow, but Valerie Duncan came across the gra.s.s and drew me discreetly aside.

"Valerie-" I began.

"Please forget I said anything," she whispered, not meeting my eyes, and keeping her back turned toward her coworkers. "At the rehearsal dinner. You know what I mean."

"It's completely forgotten, believe me."

The rest of the Sentinel crew came over to join us, looking at a loss about what to do next.

"Of course Roger cares," Paul was saying, in answer to someone's question. "It's just that he's not up to another funeral so soon after his wife's death."

"I'm sure that's why Roger isn't here," said Valerie smoothly.

Given that she knew about Roger and Mercedes, it was a nice job of acting. But I guess if you're going to have affairs with married men, you learn how to act a part.

"This has been difficult for everyone," Valerie continued. "Why don't we go back to the Two Bells for a drink? I know I need one. Carnegie, you're welcome to join us."

There were murmurs of agreement, and they set out toward the parking lot. Zack lingered behind with me.

"What happened with the DJ?" he asked.

I told him about Rick the Rocket's demand for money, and my deduction that he was innocent. I didn't mention the diamond ring; Mercedes' affair with Roger Talbot was none of his business.

"Syd Soper is off the hook, too," I concluded. "When I told him that Mercedes had been stabbed to death, he believed it."

"Hey, that was smart!" said Zack.

"I thought so."

"So that just leaves Angela and the Dracula guy." As he spoke, I could see Angela over his shoulder, her smooth hair gleaming and her willowy form casting a long shadow on the erratically-trimmed gra.s.s. She stared after the Sentinel people, then suddenly hurried after them and spoke intently to Corinne. I wondered why.

Zack turned and followed my gaze. "You think it was Angela after all?"

"What? No, I was just being nosy. My big news is about Dracula. Characters, Inc. never rented a Count Dracula costume! I've been thinking it over, and I'm sure that my first idea was right. This guy Lester Foy is on some kind of bizarre revenge trip, and he crashed the party."

"But that means you're in danger, too!" Robin Hood was back on the scene, ready to defend Maid Marian. "You should tell the police."

"I already did. At least, I left a message for Lieutenant Graham about the costume. And I'll keep calling to make sure he follows up. Meanwhile, I'm being extra-careful."

"I'll totally hang with you as much as you want," said the hero of Sherwood Forest. "I got a ride here with Valerie, but I'll go back with you and we can meet up with them at the tavern."

"Oh, Zack, I'm in no mood for a bar right now." And in no need of more gossip about me and the younger man. "You go ahead, please. It's broad daylight. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Go."

He grinned and loped across the gra.s.s after his friends. And why not? Zack was still basking in his deliverance from guilt, back in the land of the living after his nightmare. As they climbed into their cars, I noted with interest that Angela was still talking to Corinne, two blondes in black dresses in the bright sunshine. They both seemed tense.

I considered strolling over to eavesdrop, but Corinne made a sudden sharp gesture with her hands and turned away. She nearly b.u.mped into Valerie, who had just come after them, apparently to say that her carload was leaving. As Corinne entered Valerie's sedan, Angela looked after her with a puzzled expression. Then she got into her own sporty model and drove off.

I was left alone, wondering idly about that encounter, and pondering, much more seriously, about Aaron. Lily was right, good men were hard to find, and perfect men were impossible. I stood there in the peaceful hush, wishing for a bench where I could sit in the sun and think. Maybe Aaron's phone call to Lily just proved how serious he was about our relationship. Maybe the only unknown in this equation was me. How could I calculate how serious I was? Should I ask Aaron to stay in Seattle? And if I did, what then? And why on earth had I ever kissed Zack Hartmann? It was all very- "Excuse me, lady."

I was so lost in thought, it took me a moment to peg the man with the shovel as a gravedigger. He wore a gigantic handlebar moustache and a look of long-suffering patience.

"Do you mind if we finish up here? I don't mean to rush you if you need some one-on-one time with the deceased and all, only my crew is going off shift-"