Died To Match Part 17

"I'm sorry! Please, go ahead." Embarra.s.sed, I strode off toward the far end of the cemetery, looking for some privacy and maybe a bench.

What I found was Skull.

He was standing alone, his thick arms folded and his booted feet planted wide, glaring at me as I walked toward him. Oh, G.o.d. He must have come to gloat over the woman he killed, and stayed to watch the rest of us with murder on his mind. I could feel the heat rush to my face as I veered aside, trying to act as if I knew where I was going.

Fortunately, the other, larger burial service was still underway a few hundred yards across the cemetery from my nemesis. Ignoring the curious glances from the family members seated in folding chairs, I took a place on the other side of the grave, among the standing mourners, as far as I could get from Lester Foy What could he do, jump over the casket and attack me? I kept a close watch on his inked-up bald skull beyond the heads of the peevish silver-haired widow and her brood of antsy teenagers. Whoever the dear departed was, n.o.body seemed all that sorry to see him go.

Skull hadn't followed me. In fact, he didn't move a muscle as the presiding minister droned through the eulogy. No wonder the widow looked peeved; this guy was a lousy preacher, and he didn't seem too inspired by the life and death of Harold Baird. That was the departed's name, evidently, though at one point the clergyman called him Howard.

"Harold," snapped the widow, and one of the teenagers snickered. The minister frowned, corrected himself, and droned on. I was determined to stay safely inside this group until we all drove away, but after a few minutes I was longing for hymns or hysteria or something to break the monotony.

"... that he may rest in peace. Amen."

And about time, too. I exchanged polite half-smiles with a few of the mourners, and turned to accompany them along the path to the parking lot. Suddenly my way was blocked by the widow.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she hissed. No kidding, she actually hissed. "You b.i.t.c.h!"

I glanced around, hoping to see the guilty party standing behind me, but no, I was the only one in her crosshairs. Everybody else was steering clear, leaving us alone on the path.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand-"

"I knew it was a redhead. Did you think I didn't know? How dare you come here!"

"Mrs. Baird," I said firmly, scanning over her shoulder for Skull. He was walking toward the parking lot, and, to my surprise, there was a woman with him. Mandy? "Mrs. Baird, I think you've confused me with someone else-"

"Don't give me that, you-"

I pressed on boldly, my blood p.r.i.c.kling with relief at Skull's departure.

"You see, I just had to pay my respects after Harold was so kind to me. So kind to a stranger," I added hastily. Skull and Mandy were climbing into a battered red pickup with a skull-and-crossbones flag on the antenna. "You see, I... I had an accident once, in my truck, and he drove me to the police station. I've always been so grateful." The pickup pulled out of the lot and disappeared. "Harold was such a modest man, that's probably why he never told you about it. Nice meeting you. Lovely ceremony. Fabulous sermon. Bye!"

I left her sputtering behind me. Inside ten minutes I was cruising back up the freeway, with no red pickups anywhere in sight, and inside the hour I was home with my doors and windows locked against the gathering darkness, on the phone to Lieutenant Graham.

"I got your message, Ms. Kincaid. I really don't see that the absence of a Dracula costume at that particular shop means much, but in any case-"

"But there's more!" I told him. "Skull is following us again. He was at Mercedes' funeral!"

"You saw Lester Foy? When and where?"

I gave him the details, including the flag on the truck. "So you're looking for him now? You believe me?"

"Ms. Kincaid, I was about to say that in any case, Lester Foy has moved out of his apartment without notifying us, which means he has jumped bail. So yes, there's a warrant out for his arrest, but only on the robbery charge. As I said, I don't think this business about the costume means much."

"But-"

"Ms. Kincaid, it's Sunday afternoon. I'm still at the office, and I'm going to be here all Sunday night, too, if I don't get back to work. Call me immediately if you see Lester Foy again. And please, leave the homicide cases to me."

Chapter Twenty-Three.

UP NORTH IN SEATTLE, YOU PAY FOR THE LONG J JUNE AFTERNOONS with the dark winter mornings. It always seems like a good deal in June, but never in November. I had expected some nightmares about Skull, but instead I slept dreamlessly until Monday morning. A good thing, too, since I had to be up early for Juice's audition with the Buckmeisters. It seemed extra-early when my alarm went off; the weather had shifted yet again, to the kind of dank, cold fog we'd seen up at the Salish Lodge, and between the fog and the time of year, it was still half-dark I scanned the dock carefully from my front door, but the only people I saw were various neighbors setting out for work. Grateful for their presence, I scurried out to the parking lot, locked my car doors and drove off, keeping a wary eye out for Skull's red pickup. I didn't see it, and by the time I stopped for my usual latte and bagel, and then parked downtown, the streets and sidewalks were so full of cars and people that the day quickly took on a more prosaic atmosphere. Cold and gray, but prosaic with the dark winter mornings. It always seems like a good deal in June, but never in November. I had expected some nightmares about Skull, but instead I slept dreamlessly until Monday morning. A good thing, too, since I had to be up early for Juice's audition with the Buckmeisters. It seemed extra-early when my alarm went off; the weather had shifted yet again, to the kind of dank, cold fog we'd seen up at the Salish Lodge, and between the fog and the time of year, it was still half-dark I scanned the dock carefully from my front door, but the only people I saw were various neighbors setting out for work. Grateful for their presence, I scurried out to the parking lot, locked my car doors and drove off, keeping a wary eye out for Skull's red pickup. I didn't see it, and by the time I stopped for my usual latte and bagel, and then parked downtown, the streets and sidewalks were so full of cars and people that the day quickly took on a more prosaic atmosphere. Cold and gray, but prosaic "Hey, Kincaid, you're late!" said Juice, letting me in by the side door to By Bread Alone. She wore a white ap.r.o.n over a T-shirt, along with her usual short shorts and cowboy boots-brown ones this time-and her hair was its usual violent green. "Sucky time to get up, isn't it? 'Course bakers have been awake for hours by now. Your clients are late, too."

I wondered again how the Buckmeisters, especially Betty, would take to Juice. "They'll be here. They only show up early when you're not expecting them at all. Aren't you ever cold in those shorts?"

"I'm hot-blooded. Just ask Rita."

Laughing, she led me through the kitchen, with its giant mixers and long counters for kneading, to the cafe section out front. Most of the tables were bare, but one was set with dessert plates, cake forks, coffee cups, and a vase of carnations. The table beside it was spread with a white cloth, an empty stage waiting for the star's big entrance. Presentation is half the battle in the food business, and Juice knew it.

"So what have you got to show us?" I asked.

"Surprise," she said smugly. "You're gonna have to wait."

I noticed she had blisters along one forearm. "Let me guess. Something wonderful in pulled sugar?"

Pulled sugar creates lovely, brittle fantasy shapes-not unlike Dale Chihuly's blown gla.s.s-but it has to be kept hot while it's worked, and even careful bakers end up with a burn or two. The smart ones keep a bowl of ice water close at hand.

"You got it," said Juice. "But I'm not saying anything else."

She went back to the kitchen, and I went to look out the window through the thin hazy fog, in case the Buckmeisters came to the wrong door. Across the street, up on the utility roof of a south-facing apartment building, I saw something odd: a uniformed policeman, visible only from the waist up, behind some ventilation equipment. There was no one else around, but he wasn't slouching, or smoking, or fidgeting. He was standing very still, and something about the somber look on his round young face made me curious to know what he was doing up there.

"Carnegie! You ready for some cake for breakfast?" The familiar voice boomed across the empty room and resounded from the plate-gla.s.s windows. Buck, Betty, and Bonnie trooped in, bundled against the chill, all six cheeks rosier than ever. Juice followed them in, and when they reached the center of the room and turned to get a better look at her, I held my breath for the reaction.

"Goodness!" said Betty, her black curls bouncing. "I can't believe it!"

For all her bravado, Juice looked a bit discomfited. "Believe what?"

"Ray Jones peanut-brittle lizard! Look at that toebug!"

I thought Betty had lost her mind, but Juice smiled broadly and stuck out one foot. "Like 'em?"

"Dear Lord," said Buck, in the quietest tone I'd ever heard from him. Then he reverted to his usual bellow. "Young lady, where in the name of I don't know what did you get a pair of handmade Ray Jones boots? He's been gone for decades!"

"My girlfriend found them for me at a p.a.w.nshop in Oklahoma. And they fit perfect. It's like they were destined for me, y'know?"

"I'm giving my fiance a pair of Henry Camargos for a wedding gift," said Bonnie, blushing like, well, blushing like a bride. "Cognac alligator."

Juice sighed. "Cooool."

The Buckmeisters went on exclaiming and admiring and agreeing about the destiny of footwear for about ten minutes, and by the time they took their seats at the tasting table, the color of Juice's hair was clearly immaterial. So far, so good. But could she get Christma.s.sy enough for these Yuletide fanatics?

I shouldn't have doubted. Juice swaggered into the kitchen- now that I was looking, they were pretty nice boots-and reappeared with a tray bearing three small, exquisite cakes decorated as Christmas gifts, wrapped in three different and elaborate ways, swathed in gossamer ribbons and bows, and surrounded by Christmas tree ornaments in glittering, stained-gla.s.s colors. The Buckmeisters were struck dumb-for once-so I spoke up.

"Juice, those are fabulous! But we have three hundred guests-"

"I'll do a different cake for every table, like centerpieces," she said, trying to be nonchalant but br.i.m.m.i.n.g with pride in her creations. She set the tray on the second table so we could marvel at it from all sides. "This one is white chocolate hazelnut torte with raspberry liqueur filling, then there's mocha mousse torte, and this one is 'lemon impossible,' that's golden sponge cake with lemon curd filling. It's awesome."

Buck found his voice. "I have never seen anything so pretty that you could eat!"

After four other tastings, Betty was learning the lingo. "Is that what they call gum paste?"

Juice bridled. "I freakin' hate gum paste. You can model it like clay, but it tastes gross."

"Sorry, dear. No offense. What is it, then?"

"The wrapping is poured fondant, the ribbons are pulled sugar, and the ornaments are blown sugar."

"It's a very tricky technique," I told them. "Juice is a real artist when it comes to sugar work."

"She surely is!" said Buck. "I could look at these all day."

"You look all you want while I get you some coffee," Juice offered, then winked at me. "You wanna help me back here?"

I followed her into the kitchen. As we a.s.sembled a thermos pot and the cream and sugar tray, I whispered, "Juice, are you crazy? You can't possibly charge enough to cover that many individual cakes. Not ones that elaborate, anyway. It would cost a fortune!"

"I'm only gonna charge them three-quarters of a fortune. I'll still end up working for chump change by the time I do all the custom work on these puppies, but I figure it'll make such a splash that snotty guys like Joe Solveto will start taking me seriously."

"Still, that's an immense amount of work."

She shrugged. "Rita's out of town the first half of December. When I'm not getting any, I got energy to burn."

We poured coffee for the Killer B's, now looking sweet as honeybees, and Juice began slicing cake. I declined-I can't handle sugar that early in the day-and took my coffee cup over to the window again. It was lighter now, the flat shadow-less light of winter in Seattle, and I could see the rooftop scene across the way with eerie, two-dimensional clarity.

The policeman was still there, joined now by three men in suits. One of them carried what looked like a doctor's bag. The others deferred to him, and when he knelt down with his bag, out of my line of sight, the young policeman grimaced and turned away. Off to one side, a janitor in coveralls stood holding a bucket and wearing long rubber gloves. The hair on the back of my neck began to stir.

"Come taste this lemony one!" Betty called to me. "It's just divine."

"No, thanks," I said faintly. I was trying to remember the cross streets in this part of town, and figure out which building that utility roof belonged to. I had a guess, but maybe I was wrong. "I'm really not hungry."

"These are dee-lish, every one of them," Buck announced. "Now, young lady, what's all this pretty cake going to set me back?"

I turned to watch, expecting some price resistance, or at least shrewd negotiation. Juice looked Buck right in the eye and named an astounding sum of money. The ladies fluttered a bit, but Buck just half-closed his eyes and worked his jaw for a minute.

Then he slapped a hand on the plate-filled table and said, "Done! You get what you pay for, isn't that right, Mother? Juice, honey, you got yourself a deal."

It's the boots, I thought, trying not to think about the man with the doctor's bag. And then, absurdly, Maybe they'll start showing up at Juice's place for breakfast instead of mine.

The Buckmeisters began the long happy process of deciding on flavors, and as the delectable terms filled the air- cappuccino truffle, strawberry b.u.t.tercream, Grand Marnier praline-I signaled to Juice that I'd be right back. I jaywalked across the street, glancing down the block as I approached the sign at the intersection.

My guess was right. The utility roof was on the south side of a building whose main entrance was around the corner, facing west. A building I had been inside just two days before. I hurried around the corner, into the lobby, and onto an elevator, pa.s.sing cl.u.s.ters of people with eager, horrified faces. As the doors slid closed I heard one of them say to a new arrival, "Some woman fell-"

The moon-faced young policeman stopped me partway down the hall of the thirteenth floor.

"Excuse me, miss, may I ask where you're going?"

I pointed silently to the door beyond him.

"Did you know the occupant?"

Did. Not do. Past tense. Oh, G.o.d.

Angela Sims was dead.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

BY THE TIME I I GOT BACK TO GOT BACK TO B BY B BREAD A ALONE, THE Buckmeisters were gone and Juice was clearing away the cake plates. Buckmeisters were gone and Juice was clearing away the cake plates.

"Hey, where'd you go, Kincaid? Buck and the gang said they'll see you later. Man, they are great people! And you were afraid-What's the matter? You look like death."

I heard someone laughing, as if from a distance. It was me. She left the plates and came over to take my arm.

"No kidding, you look like you're gonna keel over. Here, sit down." I sat, taking long shuddering breaths, while Juice brought me a mug of milky coffee. "Lots of sugar. Good for shock. Now, what's up?"

"I... had some bad news about a friend," I said at last. I didn't feel up to explanations. Not that there were any; the cop had just taken my name and address and sent me on my way. I knew what had happened, though, as surely as if I'd been there myself. But why hadn't Angela secured her door? And why, I asked myself painfully, why hadn't I warned all the attendants about Skull the day of the dress fitting? I could have saved her life.

Juice was staring at me, waiting for more, but I shook my head.

"It's a long story, and I have to get back to the office. Um, congratulations about the Buckmeisters. You really impressed them. I'll get back to you later about the cake contract, OK?"

"No prob. Sorry about your friend." Then she frowned angrily. "What the h.e.l.l does she want?"

Someone was banging on BBA's locked front door. Juice stomped to the window and gestured at the Closed sign, but the pounding continued, and I heard a woman's voice.

"Carnegie, open up!" It was Corinne, wild-eyed and frantic. I pointed toward the side entrance, and went through the kitchen to let her in.

"I saw him!"

Corinne stumbled through the door and into my arms. Her raincoat was unb.u.t.toned, the belt dangling, and her upswept hairdo was coming down. For a moment I felt her panic infecting me as well. But only for a moment. It's funny; nothing helps you pull yourself together like somebody else falling apart. So I reacted as I usually do in a wedding crisis, and started ordering people around.

"Juice, lock that door, would you? It's OK, Corinne, you're safe, he's not coming in here." It didn't sound as though she knew about Angela, and I didn't intend to tell her until she calmed down. "Now sit here and tell me what's going on."

"I saw the tattooed man! I was going to have breakfast at the Athenian Cafe, but when I saw him I just kept going through the Market and I think he followed me! I was looking for a policeman but then I saw you through that window and, and..."

"Here, take a swig of this."

Juice, instead of interrupting with questions, had very sensibly kept silent and brought over the rest of my coffee. As Corinne sipped at it, there was another knock at the front window, businesslike this time, and Juice went to unlock the front door for three burly men in coveralls-the cleaning crew, here to do the floors.

"Kincaid, I kinda need you to leave, I gotta help these guys. If your friend's OK now?"