Died To Match Part 2

"Then let's not, Stretch. Let's do this instead."

He'd been moving closer as he spoke and now he kissed me, one brief kiss and another, and then another, longer this time. He didn't touch me at all except with his lips, warm on mine. He was right, I was the Wicked Witch: melting, melting...

Then several things happened at once, none of them pleasant. A scream. A splash. A shout of alarm. "Somebody's in the water!"

People surged toward the railing, roughly jostling me and Aaron as we peered downwards. The green-black water of the harbor was dappled with light and dotted with debris: cigarette b.u.t.ts, a paper coffee cup, chunks of sodden driftwood. And one wavering luminous shape, trailing strands of fair hair, and edges of pallid cloth that rippled just below the surface, slowly sinking and rising. Two ghostly arms spread wide, the pale fingers parted as if to conjure something up from the depths.

Then the man who made the splash diving in-it was Donald, the security guard, I recognized his crew cut- reached the body, hooked an elbow neatly under the chin, and towed it to a wooden ladder that rose up along a piling. A cacophony of shocked, excited voices filled the night, and people fell over one another in their haste to help him hoist his dripping burden to the pier.

I stepped back from the melee and called 911.

Chapter Four.

THE M MEDIC O ONE GUYS SAVED C CORINNE C CAMPBELL, BUT IT was touch and go. They say King County is the best place in the world to have a heart attack, and it's an auspicious spot for a near-drowning, too. We had a fire truck on the scene in minutes, and the paramedics shortly after. Aaron and I stood rooted, our hands knotted in each other's, while they resuscitated Corinne and swathed her in blankets. was touch and go. They say King County is the best place in the world to have a heart attack, and it's an auspicious spot for a near-drowning, too. We had a fire truck on the scene in minutes, and the paramedics shortly after. Aaron and I stood rooted, our hands knotted in each other's, while they resuscitated Corinne and swathed her in blankets.

When they went for a stretcher, we crouched beside her on the deck. Rivulets of water snaked from Corinne's hair and costume, making a puddle that soaked through the thin skirt of my gown. I was distantly aware of Marvin, my other guard, directing the crowd back out of the way, and of Lily, ever practical, borrowing a blanket for the soaked and shuddering Donald. Elliott Bay is deep, and deadly cold.

Through all this I chafed at one of Corinne's hands, trying to will some life into her. Her hand was icy, the nails bitten to the quick, and her face was a blue-white mask, violated by grotesque smears of mascara and lipstick, and traces of blood from a deep abrasion on one cheek. She was silent at first, then began an agonized muttering.

"How could he!?" Her head swung rapidly from side to side, as if she were being slapped. "How could he, how could he..."

"Corinne!" said Aaron, his features contorted with distress. He cupped her face gently in his hands. "Shhh. Don't think about Boris. Everything will be all right."

I felt a pinp.r.i.c.k of jealousy, and guiltily suppressed it. They were coworkers, of course he cared about her. As a friend. The paramedics reappeared and shunted us briskly out of the way. Elizabeth, stiff with shock but self-possessed, climbed into the ambulance with Corinne, her broadsword and leather kilt bizarre among the high-tech medical gear. Paul, hovering nearby, moved forward as if to follow but she waved him away, in command as usual.

"Follow us in the car," she told him as the doors swung shut. "Carnegie, handle everything!"

Paul turned to me with a dazed air. "What about the party?"

"Party's over," I told him. "Marvin and I will clear the building. You just take care of Corinne."

The ambulance rolled away at the stroke of midnight, so we were actually on schedule, though we ran a bit behind because of the explanations. Everything's fine, Marvin and I repeated endlessly. Yes, someone fell from the pier but she's now getting help, and please, the party's over, drive safely, thank you for coming, yes, everything's fine, she's getting help, good night. Some of the revelers, especially the Sentinel crowd and the people who'd seen Corinne in the water, went away with shocked expressions and hushed voices.

Other guests had left before it happened: I didn't see Syd Soper, with or without Mercedes, or Roger Talbot either. I did talk to the Visigoths, but not Dracula, and I wondered idly if he had scored with the hippie chick. Zack, apparently, had taken himself and his romantic impulses out of the way, which suited me fine. The rest of the guests now departed calmly enough, strolling out into the night, trailing their costumes and props, and calling boisterously to each other as they headed for their cars. I saw Angela, the third bridesmaid, departing with Barney the Dinosaur. She had her pregnancy-pillow under her arm and her nun's habit in black billows around her, and she was laughing. A good time was had by almost all.

Corinne got help, but it was almost too late, I kept thinking. If only I'd helped earlier. Whether she was drunk and lost her balance or was distraught enough to jump, as her words suggested, surely I could have hung on to her in the ladies' room for a heart-to-heart talk. I said as much to Aaron as he accompanied me on my final walk-through of the Aquarium. The grottos were empty, the corridors dim, and our footsteps echoed on the decking.

"She was taking this breakup much too seriously," I said as we pa.s.sed the marine mammal tanks. The wavering upward light sent little rings of brightness and shadow chasing across our faces. "There are lots of men who'd be interested in Corinne. I should have warned her about Boris in the first place. He's strictly good times and no strings. I should have-"

"Carnegie, you can't take charge of this, too," Aaron exclaimed.

"What do you mean, too?"

"I mean you're always stepping in, taking charge, knowing best. You can't manage everybody's life for them."

"I don't manage people's lives! Just their weddings. If I happen to have an opinion-"

He snorted. "You always have an opinion."

"Aaron, is this about Corinne or about us? It's not my opinion that smoking can kill you. It's a fact. But you won't even try to quit-"

"Why the h.e.l.l should I?" He reached reflexively for a cigarette, remembered the no-smoking rule, and smacked the railing instead. His mouth was tight with anger. "You keep me at arm's length, and then you want to dictate my behavior. We might as well be married!"

"What?! Is that your idea of marriage?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, what are you saying? If I sleep with you, then you'll stop smoking? Is that the price tag on the deal?"

"There's no deal, Stretch." He sighed and stared down into the tank, tired and discouraged. His dashing black costume was damp and smudged and his hat, along with mine, lay forgotten somewhere back on the pier. A harbor seal, huge and sleek, cut a sudden arc on the illuminated surface just below us, but Aaron didn't seem to notice.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "The truth is I'm mad at myself, not you. Corinne was my date, I knew she was depressed, I should have stayed with her instead of wandering off with you. Christ, if she'd killed herself-"

"Well, she didn't," I said, pushing away the image of her pale, pale face. "We don't even know if she meant to. She could have just fallen. Either way, blaming yourself won't do anyone any good. Look, why don't you go on home? I'll be here for another hour at least; I've got a cleaning crew coming."

"You don't need a ride?"

"Nope. Lily took Donald home in a cab, so I've still got Vanna White." That was my aging but faithful white van.

"All right, Stretch. I'll call you." No good-night kiss, not tonight.

The moment Aaron left, I wished he had offered to stay. I was tired and discouraged myself, and we'd left so much unsaid. Well, I'd be home in bed soon enough. I went through the exhibits on automatic pilot, making mental notes for the cleaners. The Aquarium contract requires only that the floors be vacuumed, but I like to leave my venues spotless-you never know when you'll need a last-minute reservation somewhere, or just a good word on the grapevine. And after a fiasco like Corinne's fall, the word would not be good, for the Aquarium or for me.

I was determined to call it a fall.

Busily fretting for my reputation and checking for damage, I inspected the length of A Watershed Journey, starting with the artificial marsh, whose hollow plastic log had earlier sheltered Florence Nightingale, giggling madly, and a remarkably vocal mime. It was empty now, I was happy to see, with no bits of nursing apparel left behind. Along the artificial stream, wire mesh had prevented a blob of carpaccio and a couple of caviar blini from joining the ecosystem. So far so good.

I checked the river otters' playground near the artificial waterfall, then stood by the cascading water, staring into its endless foaming descent, while my troubled mind went blank and still. I even closed my eyes for a moment, pleasantly deafened by the roar, nearly asleep on my feet. Then I started awake when someone laid a hand on my arm.

It was Marvin, a look of concern on his comfortable, old-shoe face. "Everything all right?"

"Fine!" We could hardly hear each other over the roaring water, so we stepped outside. "Did you check the sh.o.r.ebird area for trash when you closed it off?"

"Not really, just looked around that n.o.body was in there. I was kinda busy-"

"No problem. Let the cleaners in when they get here, OK?"

"Will do." He went back inside. I made my way down the corridor, through another entrance, and past the post-and-rope barrier he had erected across the Northwest Sh.o.r.es grotto. Not much litter on the floor here, that was good, but I wanted to be sure no one had flung anything into the tide pool or onto the little beach. You can't have the marbled G.o.d-wit eating caramel brie for breakfast.

The tide pool was unsullied, but when I rounded a broad concrete pillar to check the beach, I stumbled over something that shifted, soft and heavy, under my feet. Kneeling down, my eyes adjusting to the dimness after the brighter light outside, I made out grizzled hair and a Kelly-green jacket very much the worse for wear. A mushroom cloud of Guinness fumes clinched the ID.

"Tommy? Hey, Tommy, wake up!"

His head lolled silently, and for a moment I thought we were due for another ambulance. Then the bleary Irish eyes flickered open and a palsied hand lifted high.

"Stop it!" said Tommy hoa.r.s.ely. "Stop it, you're killing her!"

"Stop what? What are you talking about?"

But the hand dropped down, the eyes rolled up, and Tommy was no longer with us. I laid him gently back against the pillar and straightened up to use my radio.

"Marvin, we have a stowaway. There's a gentleman pa.s.sed out near the door to... to..."

"Carnegie? h.e.l.lo? I'm losing you. Should I come over there?"

"Yes," I whispered, staring down into the sh.o.r.ebird exhibit, and going slowly cold all over. The radio slid from my hand and I spoke into the air. "Yes, come."

A garish heap of patchwork and ruffles lay on the little beach exhibit, half in and half out of the water. Slim brown legs extended from it among the coa.r.s.e tufts of salt gra.s.s, and one slender outflung arm, still adorned with showy bracelets, stirred gently in the shallows. Long hair, midnight-black, curled and twisted like weeds beneath the surface, obscuring the downturned face of Mercedes Montoya.

I vaulted the handrail and hit the sand with a jolt that clapped my teeth together. As I hauled at Mercedes' shoulders to roll her clear of the water, elusive sc.r.a.ps of CPR training scattered from my mind like minnows from a shark.

There was an ABC, wasn't there? A, what was A? Airway! Tilt the head back to open the airway. Then B, check for breathing, or is B for bleeding? Oh, please, what do I do?

Mercedes wasn't breathing, so I crouched low and pressed my mouth to hers, forcing air into her, again and again. No response. When I sat back, dizzy with the effort, her head fell lifelessly to one side. Sand had crusted in the sc.r.a.pes and scratches on her cheeks. I positioned my hands on her chest to begin pumping, then stared at my fingers in disbelief. They were blotched with dark smears that spread over my hands and up my wrists. Dark, sticky red smears...

Then I saw the blood on the sand and the stones, and the way the perfumed mane of Mercedes' hair was matted against the nape of her neck. I lifted the curls aside tenderly, like a lover, afraid and yet certain of what I would see. And there it was. Behind her left ear was a ragged concave wound the size of my fist, dark with blood but showing pale glints of bone. Mercedes hadn't drowned in those few inches of water. Someone had bashed in her skull.

Chapter Five.

THROWING UP AT A MURDER SCENE IS APPARENTLY NOT UNCOMMON, though the police, when Marvin called them, made it clear that they wished I hadn't. Things were enough of a mess, what with my footprints all over the sand and my inconsiderate handling of the corpse.

Being SPD SPD himself, Marvin had done all the right things, and done them fast. He made sure I was unhurt, secured the body and the exits, and checked warily around for the presence of the murderer. himself, Marvin had done all the right things, and done them fast. He made sure I was unhurt, secured the body and the exits, and checked warily around for the presence of the murderer.

"Long gone," he a.s.sured me, wrapping his windbreaker around my shoulders. Marvin looks like your favorite uncle, portly and graying. I was grateful for his presence as the other officers arrived and went about their grisly business. Their voices seemed loud and callous, and when a Polaroid flash went off, I nearly jumped out of my skin. They had a video camera, too, but I kept my back resolutely turned on the scene they were recording.

Marvin brought over Lieutenant Michael Graham, a weedy, dark-haired fellow in parka and sneakers. He wore a look of intense disappointment, which I later learned was a permanent feature, not a reaction to queasy witnesses.

"Ms. Kincaid, I'll need a brief statement now, then a more detailed account tomorrow morning. OK OK?"

"Whatever," I said numbly. "Is Tommy all right?"

"Who?"

"Tommy Barry, he's over by the pillar. He's drunk. He said 'You're killing her,' and then he pa.s.sed out."

But Tommy, it seemed, was also long gone. He must have slipped out the exit to the dock, and gone around to the street on the outside walkway. I was asked urgently for his description, which I provided, and for a description of his car, which I'd never seen. Some officers left in a hurry, and only then did Lieutenant Graham ask me about finding Mercedes. I made a calm, step-by-step statement, and when it was done I erupted into sobs.

Graham watched me mournfully for a minute, then dispatched Marvin to take me home. I made a stop at the ladies' room to scrub off the blood. Marvin came in with me, and a good thing. As the pink-tinged water spiraled slowly down the drain, I nearly fainted clean away.

"Carnegie, you all right?"

"Sure. Fine. No problem." I clutched the counter, gulping air. Mercedes had stood here, only hours before, vain and scheming and alive. My newest almost-client. She would have made a glorious bride. We could have woven flowers into her hair.

"I just want to get out of here."

But first we had a gauntlet to run: a little crowd of reporters at the building entrance, barking at us like dogs. How had they found out so quickly? There were more camera flashes, blinding in the darkness, and a dozen shouted questions.

"Who got killed?"

"Officer, can you tell us what happened?"

"Miss, did you see anything? Miss, what's your name? Hey, Miss!"

"Hey, Stretch!"

One of the baying newshounds had a familiar face. Aaron. He reached out to me, but there was a pencil in his hand and a question on his lips. Not you, too. I turned away, disgusted. He'd always be a reporter first, and a friend-or a lover?-second. If I needed some direction about our relationship, I'd just gotten it. Marvin hustled me into Vanna and drove me home.

Home is a houseboat on Lake Union, with Made in Heaven's two-room office on the upper floor. The houseboat itself has seen better days, but my slip is priceless: right at the end of the dock with a view of downtown Seattle to the south and Gas Works Park to the north, and a constant parade of watercraft and waterfowl in between. Renting home and office in one waterborne package had been just barely affordable when I started Made in Heaven, and now with the dock fees escalating and Vanna in need of round-the-clock nursing, I was perpetually broke. But I loved my shabby little place, and I'd never been so glad to see it as tonight.

Marvin walked me to my door, along the worn wooden planks of the dock. I a.s.sured him one last time that I didn't need a friend to come stay with me, so he called in to the station for a pickup and went out to the parking lot to wait. Numb with exhaustion and shock, I stepped out of my gory witch's gown and left it on the bathroom floor. With my last bit of energy, I called up to the office and left a message for Eddie to hear in the morning. Then I crawled under the covers and fell fathoms deep into dreamless sleep.

The next morning it was raining, a dense mournful rain that drummed on the wooden stairway as I trudged up to the office, and sheeted down the picture windows of Made in Heaven's reception area. The "good room," with its fresh paint and wicker love seats, was where I met with clients to talk cakes and bouquets. To help them daydream. The workroom, through a connecting door, was all secondhand desks and file cabinets, but boasted the same stellar view of the lake. Eddie rarely met with the clients-he objected to marriage, and therefore to weddings, or so he claimed-but this morning he stood in the good room pouring coffee for Lieutenant Graham and a dimpled young Asian-American woman in police uniform, who sat stiffly with a notebook on her lap.

Eddie Breen and my father had been inseparable, back in their h.e.l.l-raising merchant marine days. He's little and leathery, with fine white hair, a limited but immaculate wardrobe, and a tetchy disposition. Eddie keeps my books and negotiates my vendor contracts and bosses me around, and I let him, I guess, because Dad's no longer alive to do it. He looked me over as I came in, his steel-gray eyes on high beam.

"Carnegie! Sit down before you fall down. Have some coffee. You look like ten miles of bad road."

Coming from Eddie, this was a wealth of tender solicitude. I accepted a cup and sat across from Graham, who wore a jacket and tie, with wingtips nicely polished and crinkly brown hair neatly combed. He looked like a well-groomed, disappointed man who'd been up all night. After introducing Officer Lee, he turned to Eddie.

"Thank you, Mr. Breen," he said, in polite but positive dismissal. "You've been very helpful."

Eddie rose. "I'll get back to answering the phone, then. Carnegie, I've been saying 'No comment' to everybody. That OK?"

"Perfect. If you need to, just put it on the answering machine and let it ring."

He nodded and turned back to Graham. "Don't go getting her all upset. She's got work to do."

Officer Lee smiled to herself, but Graham just nodded solemnly as my fire-breathing champion left us. I barely waited for the workroom door to close before I demanded, "Lieutenant, have you talked to Tommy? Did he recognize the murderer? Who was it?"

"Let's start at the beginning," said Graham, as if I hadn't spoken. "What time did you arrive at the Aquarium last night?"

"What does it matter what time I arrived! What did Tommy say?"

"Ms. Kincaid," he said quietly. "This is not a conversation. It's a witness interview in a homicide investigation. Please cooperate."

So I did. Graham asked me about my relationship with Mercedes, and if I knew of anyone who might have wanted to harm her. Then he had me reconstruct the events of the party, hour by hour. He unfolded a visitor's map of the Aquarium on the gla.s.s-topped table that usually holds bridal magazines and photographers' portfolios, and I traced my movements on it, with approximate times. Marvin reported closing off the sh.o.r.ebird corridor at about eleven P.M., P.M., which jibed with my recollection of when I'd radioed my request to him. which jibed with my recollection of when I'd radioed my request to him.