Died To Match Part 24

WHAT'S A WEDDING MORNING WITHOUT ONE LAST DISASTER?

Friday night, after a grueling round-robin of tactful phone calls, I persuaded Paul to apologize to Elizabeth on Aaron's behalf-Aaron himself being incommunicado-and then got Elizabeth to accept the apology and simmer down. By Sat.u.r.day morning I was checking off details and hitting on all cylinders-food, flowers, liquor, limos, table linens, gla.s.sware, music, parking, coat check, gift table, everything, even Corinne's dress-when I got a call from Todd, the cake baker, at his studio on Queen Anne Hill. The ordinarily terse Scotsman was overflowing with apologies, anxiety, and bad news.

"I never screw up, Carnegie, you know that. I keep my truck tuned like a b.l.o.o.d.y piano. I've got Triple A here, but they can't start it either, and once they tow it to a garage there's no telling when I'll get it back. I've been calling round to borrow a vehicle but-"

"No need," I told him. "I'll come over there myself. Vanna should be just big enough."

"Who's Vanna?"

"Sorry, I mean my van. If you can help me secure the cake in the back?"

"Aye, I've got all sorts of padding and tie-downs, we'll make it work. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y angel, Carnegie." As he said it, I could picture the relieved smile on Todd's long, freckly face. "This is the grandest piece I've ever done, and I want those on-site photos."

"You'll get them," I promised. "Will you ride down to the EMP with me?"

"I'd rather follow you in my car so I can go tend to my truck afterwards."

"Fine. I'll be there in half an hour." I put down the phone and turned to Eddie, who was knee-deep in printouts and happily gnawing an unlit cigar. "Looks like I'm on cake patrol. I might as well stay at the EMP once I'm there, and just run back home later to suit up."

"I meant to mention," said my partner, his voice oddly casual. "I'd, ah, kinda like to see you in that gown."

"Why, you sentimental son of a gun! Sure, I'll model for you. We'll get a picture of the two of us and send it to Mom." Eddie was still one of my mother's oldest and dearest friends. "Lily's coming by at five to help me dress, you can come down then."

Eddie turned suddenly brusque and bashful. " 'Course I might not be in the office that late. Probably will, though. Say, you better keep that cake dry, sister. It's raining again."

It was indeed, a slanting ice-water rain that popped off the wooden surface of the outside steps as I descended them. I wished, for the millionth time, that my houseboat had interior stairs between my home and office, although I knew full well that a stairwell would eat up half the floor s.p.a.ce of both. I darted into my kitchen, grabbed my old goose-down parka with the more-or-less waterproof sh.e.l.l, and then rushed out again. Straight into Zack Hartmann.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" I said. "Oops, sorry-"

Zack bore a cellophane-wrapped bundle that slipped to the ground in our collision. He retrieved it while I unfurled my umbrella, and handed it to me: a sorry-looking supermarket bouquet of desiccated carnations and skeletal mums. The poor things would have done better out in the rain.

"It's to, like, apologize for last night," said a blushing Robin Hood. "I think I made you mad."

"Oh, Zack, I wasn't mad! I was just frustrated by all that fussing around at the rehearsal. These are very nice, thank you. I'll put them in water, and then I've got to run."

"I thought we could talk... ?" he began.

"We will talk, but not right now. I've got to get up to Queen Anne and fetch Elizabeth's cake."

He brightened. "I'll come and help you."

"No, that's not-Actually, yes, I could use an extra pair of hands, to sit in back and keep the cake steady. Better yet, you can drive while I ride shotgun. I've still got phone calls to make."

"Cool! Good thing I came over, huh?"

You'd have thought it was me doing Zack the favor. I felt a brief pang at taking advantage of his infatuation, but on a wedding day I'll dragoon anybody to do anything, just to get the job done.

I stayed busy on my cell phone the whole way up to Todd's, raising my voice above the thrumming of the rain on Vanna's roof. Zack drove in silent concentration, apparently determined to be the world's best a.s.sistant cake picker-upper. But both of us broke into awed exclamations when Todd wheeled out the low cart bearing his tour de force.

And it was awesome. The confectionary s.p.a.ce Needle was a good two feet tall, and the cake itself covered an area almost three by four. I'd know the Needle if it was carved in Spam, but I was amazed at how instantly recognizable the EMP was, with undulations of rolled fondant re-creating the glistening swerves and curves of the building in silver, gold, red, and bright blue. The final flourish, a marzipan monorail on chocolate tracks, was so cute you could eat it up. So to speak.

"Todd, this is extraordinary," I told him. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Well," he said, taking a stab at modesty, "it's a fairly interesting building to start with. Now, young man, if you'll get that side of the board..."

The cake rested on a thick sheet of plywood covered with silver plastifoil, and boxed around the sides with heavy cardboard. No top on the box, though, not with the s.p.a.ce Needle rising high. But Todd's little loading bay was covered from the rain, and we all stayed dry, including our irreplaceable cargo, while he fussed over the loading like a hen with one chick.

It took all three of us to lift the thing-I wondered how many thousands of calories we were hefting-and quite a while to secure it in the back of the van. Then I belted myself into the backward-facing seat, where I could hold the plywood steady if we hit any b.u.mps.

"It'll do," said Todd. "I'll meet you down there, Carnegie. Young man, you drive slower than you've ever driven in your life."

Zack pulled smoothly away from the studio, while I braced myself in my seat and watched the cake. The s.p.a.ce Needle vibrated ever so slightly, but otherwise all went well, until I realized that Zack was heading down the fearsome slope of Queen Anne Avenue. It's a twenty-degree grade that was once called The Counterbalance, because trolley cars had to be counter-weighted by a subterranean railcar full of concrete just to descend it safely, or to climb it in the first place.

As we angled downward, the plywood platform began to shift forward towards me. And were the upper curves of the EMP bulging out as well?

"Zack, I should have told you to take a different route." I craned around to look at him, hunched over the dashboard with his knuckles white on the wheel. "You can still turn off, just take any side street. And for heaven's sakes, buckle your seat belt. You could get a ticket."

"I don't think I better turn when it's this steep," he said. "Not too much farther..."

At least he was heeding Todd's warning and creeping along slowly, much to the displeasure of the drivers behind us. So far, so good. My cell phone chirped, and I fumbled it out of my bag without taking my eyes from the precious pay-load.

"Hey, Stretch, it's me. Eddie gave me your number."

"Nice of you to call," I said acidly. "I was trying to reach you all evening. Are you going to let the stylist paint over that eye, or not? We've got one groomsman too many right now, and I promised Elizabeth-"

"OK, OK!" he said. "I'll get painted. You're going to need me in the line-up."

"What do you mean?"

"You're about to lose your not-very-secret admirer, Babyface Hartmann," he said gleefully. "Guess how old he is?"

"Aaron, this isn't a good-"

"He's twenty-nine! And he's got a prison record in Ma.s.sachusetts, for date rape no less. I knew I'd seen his picture somewhere. Paul brought his folks through the newsroom this morning, and old Howard let me download his digital snapshots from the rehearsal. I e-mailed the close-up of Zack to the Boston police, and I just heard back. His name's not Zack, by the way. It's Tyrone."

I felt dazed. "Tyrone?"

The instant I said the name aloud, I knew I'd made a horrible mistake. Zack straightened convulsively and whipped his head around to stare at me. I stared back, seeing a strange light in his shadowy blue eyes that brought back the roar of Snoqualmie Falls and the look in those same eyes when he said, "I killed Mercedes."

In the distance, a siren sounded. I began to hyperventilate.

"Yeah," Aaron's voice chattered on, distantly. "And Tyrone Peters broke his parole when he came out here. The SPD's going to pick him up today, so you'll have to do without him at your shindig tonight-"

"Aaron," I shouted, as Zack turned his back to me and hit the gas. "Aaron, Zack is with me!"

That was all I got out, because Vanna went barreling down the grade and pancaked at a levelled intersection. The force of the impact flung the phone from my hand and set Todd's beautiful s.p.a.ce Needle rocking on its foundation. Instinctively, I lunged forward to try and steady it, but the lunge turned into a lurch and my outstretched fingers administered the coup de grace. The Needle toppled backward, still in one exquisite piece. Then it made contact with the edge of the box and smashed itself into a sweet, sad wreckage.

"G.o.ddammit, Zack!" For just that moment, I was more worried about the cake than my own well-being. "Look what you-"

But Zack gunned Vanna's engine and we raced downhill once more. Now I had time to get good and scared. All around me, horns blared and brakes squealed, and the shops and restaurants of lower Queen Anne went whipping past the side windows behind dense silver curtains of rain. That first siren hadn't been pursuing us, of course, but soon a second one began to wail, and then a third, as Zack tore through one red light after another in his panicky flight.

"You're going to kill us!"

Bouncing and jolting, my head snapping back and forth like a doll's, I pulled my shoulder belt even tighter and watched in horrified fascination as the inevitable catastrophe unfolded. Todd's magnificent cake trembled, shifted, and heaved itself out of its box like some clumsy, primitive beast.

As the leading wall of the cake smacked against the rear door of the van, deep creva.s.ses opened into its layered innards, panels of fondant shattered into whirling fragments of red and silver, and the little monorail flipped into the air like the victim of some Candyland earthquake.

Suddenly a whirling blue light strobed across the devastation, and I twisted around to look through the windshield. There was a police car dead ahead, lying in wait for us with its siren snarling. Zack hauled at the steering wheel to throw us into a skidding turn, left and then right.

The EMP cake-unrecognizable now-disintegrated further as it smashed from one side to the other, bombarding the interior of the van, and me, with flying gobs of mousse and b.u.t.tercream and tumbling chunks of bitter chocolate cake.

I sc.r.a.ped sweet goo from my eyes and looked again. We were racing down First Avenue. The sirens had cleared the traffic lanes, so Zack had a clear shot, and he was pushing Vanna to her limits and beyond.

"Zack, please, this is crazy-"

"Shut UP!" he yelled, his voice breaking. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Then his voice was lost in the scream of our tires. A glaring barrier of headlights and police lights lay straight across our path, setting the rain on fire. The lights tilted and swung away as Zack stood on the brakes and hauled at the wheel, sending us spinning and lurching across the road with our side door flapping open like a bird's broken wing.

Vanna went careening across the plaza of the Seattle Art Museum-for that's where we were-spilling her luscious contents as she went, and smacked abruptly against tall, unyielding steel. I screamed, but only in alarm; strapped in tight, I was badly shaken but intact. Zack, however, was thrown from the driver's seat and ended up on the ground several yards away, unconscious and bleeding. And Hammering Man ended up with pulverized fondant and rain-streaked French b.u.t.tercream all over his shoes.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

LUCKILY FOR MY DEBUT AS A BRIDESMAID, I WASN WASN'T TOO badly bruised, having been cushioned by goose down and b.u.t.tercream, and securely belted down badly bruised, having been cushioned by goose down and b.u.t.tercream, and securely belted down In one of the three ambulances that came wailing up to SAM SAM, I was poked, prodded, and p.r.o.nounced to be remarkably undamaged, though a visit to my doctor was strongly advised. The police on the scene were inclined to detain me, until Lieutenant Graham appeared to a.s.sess the situation.

"You sure you're all right?" he asked, smiling ever so slightly at the frosting in my hair. The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, and we were sitting in his car while a maelstrom of emergency vehicles and news cameras swirled around us.

"I'm fine. What's going to happen to him?" Zack-I couldn't think of him as Tyrone-was departing the scene in serious but not critical condition, with a police escort for his ambulance.

Graham shrugged. "As soon as he's fit to travel, we'll ship him back to the Commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts."

"What about the murders here?"

"Oh, he'll be charged, once we put a case together. But Boston wants him first. Got to follow procedure." He hesitated. "If we'd known about his background, we might have kept him away from Angela Sims. And from you."

"But that's not your fault." It's mine. If only I'd gone straight to you after he confessed at Snoqualmie Falls...

"I know it's not," said Graham, and sighed wearily. "With so many people at the Aquarium, and then Montoya's drug connection, we had too many backgrounds to check and not enough time. Peters is a pathological liar, and a d.a.m.n good one. Excuse my French. He could be Ted Bundy all over again."

"Oh, surely not!"

"That's what everyone said about Bundy."

I shuddered, and once I started I couldn't stop.

"Let's get you home," said Graham. "I'll call you tomorrow about taking a full statement."

The first thing I did when he dropped me off was to totter into my bedroom, unstick myself from my high-calorie clothes, and remove the slinky pink gown from its garment bag. Yes, it would cover the nastiest bruises, and for the rest, I'd just unfold the pink chiffon stole to its full width and wrap myself in it, as mummylike as possible. I was d.a.m.ned if I'd let this wedding party lose one more member. Not so much for Elizabeth's sake-I had to admit, I'd be glad to be rid of her-but for Paul's, and for my own professional pride. The show, after all, must go on.

Which was why I was trying so hard not to think about Zack right now. I had to pull off this wedding first. But the questions kept surfacing. Was the black cloak I'd been hunting for merely a dark green one? Was my brave-hearted Robin Hood truly a cold-blooded killer? Date rape, Aaron had said. Could Mercedes' death have been a simple flirtation that turned deadly? Hard to imagine... horrible to imagine...

"Stop right there," I said aloud to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. "It's Scarlett O'Hara time. I'll think about that tomorrow."

Tomorrow was also the time to think about poor Vanna White, with her new fender all accordioned and her new engine traumatized. Graham had arranged to have her towed to Pete's, and beyond that, I'd have to worry about insurance and temporary transport and maybe even a car loan. But not now, not now.

For now, I washed that mocha mousse right out of my hair and pulled on some nice soft sweats. Then I pulled myself up to the office, clutching the stairway railing and groaning as I went. Scarlett was going to be slow off the mark for a while.

"What the h.e.l.l happened to you?" Eddie had the phone in his hand, but clapped it down at the sight of me. "I told Aaron you were getting the cake, and then he called back and asked me where Todd's place was, and that's the last I heard. Except from Todd, and he's practically hysterical, says you went speeding off in the van. I've been calling your cell phone every two minutes!"

Then he looked more closely as I levered myself into my desk chair. "Jesus H. Christ, Carnegie, you look like something the cat dragged in."

"You should have seen the other guy. Listen, Eddie, it's a long story, but the punch line is that we need a new wedding cake for the EMP tonight."

I filled him in, as economically as I could, and headed off his exclamations of anger at Zack and dismay over Vanna by asking him to call Aaron.

"Just tell him I'm OK, and I'll talk to him later. I have to get on this cake thing right away."

I began by breaking the bad news to Todd. That went better than expected: after a single gargling groan, the Scotsman had the grace to pretend that my personal survival was some consolation for his ruined masterpiece, and rang off to do his grieving in private.

Then I started calling bakers. We needed something that would look good and taste decent and be ready in one afternoon. How hard could it be?

Hard. I made call after call, but many of my usual cake purveyors were closed, and the others reminded me huffily that they booked months in advance and could hardly fit in another project at such short notice. It was understandable, but disheartening. Joe Solveto was out on another job, and he didn't do baked goods anyway, though he could probably come up with some truffles and chocolate-dipped fruit for the buffet.

But a wedding cake isn't just dessert, it's an icon of the celebration, with centuries of tradition behind it, and plenty of modern hype as well. It just had to be there. I was mulling the possibility of a frosted cardboard box when Juice Nugent called. I hadn't tried her because she didn't work Sat.u.r.days, and I figured she couldn't commandeer the ovens at By Bread Alone except by prior arrangement.

"Hey, Kincaid, I've got some questions about the Buckmeister deal."

"They'll have to wait, Juice. I've got an emergency here. Do you know any other bakers who could take a quick job, as in right this minute?"

"I'm not sure. What's up?"

Quickly, I explained the sad demise of Todd's master-work. "I need a subst.i.tute, just something big and pretty. It's too late to play out the rock-and-roll theme-"

"Maybe not," she said thoughtfully. "Thin layers would bake and cool pretty fast.... I'll call you back in ten."

The door swung open as I set down the phone. It was Aaron, his hair wet with rain and his black eye only slightly less ghastly for a night's rest. Before I could stop him, he rushed across the good room to the office and embraced me fervently.

"Oh, G.o.d, Carnegie, I was afraid-"

But I was not feeling embraceable.

"Don't do that!" I yelped. "It hurts."