Died To Match Part 25

Aaron backed off, startled, and perhaps a bit embarra.s.sed about exposing his feelings like that. "Sorry, Stretch. Shouldn't you go to a hospital or something?"

"The medics said I don't have to. Didn't Eddie tell you?"

"Yeah, he did. h.e.l.lo, Eddie."

"h.e.l.lo, yourself." My partner stood up, with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "I'm going to get myself some lunch. You two want anything?"

We declined, and he left us alone. I wouldn't have said no to a hug then, a gentle one, but Aaron perched on one corner of my desk and resumed his normal impertinent air. "So. You really hammered Hammering Man."

"How did you know-?"

"You're on the local news, Slim. The Made in Heaven logo showed up nice and clear."

"Oh, no."

"They say all publicity is good publicity, but don't you think you went too far this time?"

"Never mind that," I told him sternly. "Are you going to let the stylist fix up that eye for tonight?"

"I already said I would. You never listen to me, that's something I've noticed about you. But we'll work on it. Meanwhile, aren't you going to thank me for exposing the real killer?"

I frowned. "I still can't quite believe that Zack is the real killer."

"You mean Tyrone. Maybe you just can't believe you were so blinded by flattery."

"Flattery!"

"Come on," he said, folding his arms and c.o.c.king his head smugly. "Tell me it wasn't flattering to have a younger man following you around like a pet puppy. The whole thing was getting ludicrous."

"What's ludicrous is your being jealous of Zack!"

"Jealous? Is that what you think? This isn't some soap opera, Stretch. The guy murdered two people."

"We don't know that for sure. What about Lester Foy? I still think he was Dracula. Corinne saw him in the Market the morning of Angela's death, and then he came to the houseboat to get me-"

"Foy came here because you asked him to, remember? And Corinne only thinks she saw him in the Market. And even if she did, so what? He's just a petty thief. But Zack-I mean, Tyrone-he could easily have found out where Angela lived-"

"Actually, he knew," I admitted. "He was there with me."

"What did I tell you?" Aaron stood up and began pacing along the picture windows, thinking hard, talking as much to himself as to me. Beyond him, I could see another rain squall moving across the lake, drawing a gray veil over the opposite sh.o.r.e. "Zack knew you were trying to figure out Mercedes' murder, so he hung around here acting innocent and helpful. But it was just to keep an eye on you, in case you were starting to suspect him. And you fell for the whole thing."

"There was nothing to fall for!" I rose, stung into anger by his condescending tone. "If he was trying to act so innocent, why would he tell me about shoving Mercedes?"

He whipped around to stare at me. "Shoving her? What are you talking about?"

Too late I realized what I'd said. Well, it was going to come out anyway in my statement to Graham. I looked down, twisting my hands together. Might as well face the music.

"That night at the Salish Lodge, Zack told me he had pushed Mercedes into the water at the sh.o.r.ebird exhibit. He got angry, because she was flirting with him, leading him on, and then she laughed in his face." I looked up defiantly. "Why would he tell me that if he actually murdered her? He was afraid she had drowned after he left her there, and he was so relieved when I told him-"

"Are you crazy?" Aaron grabbed me by the arms, his eyes wide and furious. "Zack confessed and you didn't go to the police? Do you know what you've done?"

"He didn't confess! You don't understand-"

"No, I don't!" he shouted. "You play around with a homicide case like it's one of your little weddings-"

"Stop it!" I was shouting now as well. My head was throbbing, and I was sickeningly aware that Aaron might be right. But that didn't justify his sneering at my livelihood. "Just leave me alone, would you? Stop pestering me when I'm trying to work."

"Pestering you? You think I'm just here to-"

The phone rang and I grabbed it.

"Hey, it's Juice. So how's this? We do a mess of half-depth sheet cakes, cut 'em in circles, and use a poured chocolate glaze to cover them so it won't take a lot of hand work. Then we pipe song t.i.tles around the centers."

"Song t.i.tles?" I repeated stupidly.

Aaron watched me for a moment, his face perfectly impa.s.sive, and then left, closing the outside door behind him with exaggerated care. I closed my eyes.

"Yeah, so they're like forty-fives, get it?" said Juice's voice in my ear. "Records, EMP, rock and roll? You can put 'em on all the tables. And we'll do an oversized one for the cutting, with the bride's and groom's names on it, like some kind of love song duet."

"That's... that's a good idea." I wondered, irrelevantly, how a cutting-edge type like Juice even knew about artifacts like vinyl records. "But can you get the oven s.p.a.ce?"

"The BBA honchos said I can take over the kitchen this afternoon and call in some friends to help, on account of this being so important to my career."

"Important?"

"Well, if I pull this off, you're gonna want to feature me on your web site and urge all your clients to hire me and s.h.i.t like that, right?"

"Right." I even smiled. "OK, get started."

"Already did. There's a batch of batter in the mixer now. Lemon cake OK?"

"Anything, as long as they arrive on time."

"I'm all over it."

I sighed and slumped down in my chair. "Just so it doesn't end up all over me."

Chapter Thirty-Three.

THERE'S A SAYING AMONG THEATER PEOPLE, AFTER A DISASTROUS dress rehearsal: "It'll be all right on the night." After all the tragedy and farce, Paul and Elizabeth's wedding ceremony was all right on the night. More than all right, in fact. And it brought out the best in everyone. dress rehearsal: "It'll be all right on the night." After all the tragedy and farce, Paul and Elizabeth's wedding ceremony was all right on the night. More than all right, in fact. And it brought out the best in everyone.

Everyone including the bride, surprisingly enough. When I called Elizabeth to relate the fate of her cake, bracing myself for the explosion, she astonished me by asking first if I had had been hurt, and only second whether her special-event policy would cover the cost.

"It should," I told her, "and if it doesn't, I bet my car insurance will. We'll work it out. Meanwhile, listen to this great back-up plan..."

"That sounds fine," she said, when I explained Juice's idea. "Cake is cake, at this point. The important thing is that they've got the killer. Zack Hartmann, of all people! It's unbelievable. Thank G.o.d the police are keeping a lid on it until after the wedding. Paul and I will be in Venice by the time this all hits the headlines."

"It's unbelievable, all right. In fact, I'm not sure I do believe it. I'm still wondering about Lester Foy"

"But he's in jail, too, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. So either way, Tommy's safe to be best man."

"Tommy's going to make it tonight?" My spirits lifted at the thought.

"Yeah, his daughter told us that he's still pretty shaky, so she'll have to take him home soon after the ceremony. But he's determined to be there for Paul."

"Has his memory come back yet?"

"It's starting to. Once it does, we'll know for sure who murdered Mercedes."

She went on, but I lost the thread of the conversation momentarily. Have I got a best man's boutonniere? Better call Boris and make sure.

"That's wonderful, Elizabeth. I've got to get back to my phone calls. You and Paul get going on that list of your favorite songs. Juice is waiting to take dictation."

So the bride and groom had a hilarious afternoon, calling each other with musical ideas while they made ready for their big night. And Boris a.s.sured me that he had Tommy covered.

"Of course! Boutonniere for best man is more special than for groomsmen, and for groom, more special than that. Everything perfect. You will dance with me tonight, Kharnegie? I have good news, and all bridesmaids must dance."

"Not this bridesmaid, not this time. You can dance with Corinne."

I could almost hear him shrug, and see the full lower lip jutting from his thornbush of a beard. "Perhaps."

Eddie and I plowed through the rest of the Lamott/ Wheeler checklists, and then he went off to mail the announcements while I hobbled downstairs to meet Lily. I was running too late to use Elizabeth's stylist, who would be leaving the EMP while I was still checking in with my vendors, so Lily and I poured some wine and got to work. We spent half an hour giggling in my tiny bathroom, employing the entire contents of my cosmetics case to prepare me for my supporting role.

Lily was as good as any stylist-you can learn a lot playing Cleopatra. My hair is curly to start with, but she fluffed it out even more and gelled it into a dramatic coppery mane. Then she used three different eyeshadows and a lot of liner to make my so-so hazel eyes look huge and luminous, and finished off with shimmery lipstick and a spritz of perfume.

I blinked at the face in the mirror. "Wow."

"Wow is right," said Lily. "Come on, let's get you into that bra."

I held and she taped, and once the underpinnings were in place, I gingerly inserted my stiff and aching self into the slithery pink satin. Thank heaven the gowns weren't scratchy brocade. Still, I tucked some extra-strength pain pills into my purse.

"I can't believe you're going through with this," said Lily, as she camouflaged the minor bruises on my back and shoulders with face powder. "What if you've got a concussion or whiplash or something? Jeez, if the back of this dress was any lower you'd get arrested."

"I keep telling you, the medics said I'm OK. Are you sure the bra is going to stay on?"

"Girl, that adhesive's so strong, the problem is going to be getting it off. You may have cleavage for the rest of your life. There, now, that's my best shot. Let's show you to Eddie, and I'll drive you over there. Maybe you'll even have fun."

"Fat chance." I sashayed, sort of, over to my long mirror. The result of Lily's labors, except for my worried expression, was pretty d.a.m.n glamorous. "I'd settle for no more catastrophes."

Eddie bestowed his highest praise-"What a tomato!"- and then Lily and I set off through the early-evening darkness for the EMP. In the kitchen of the Turntable Restaurant, I found Joe Solveto ch.o.r.eographing his cooks and waiters with theatrical fervor, and wearing his designer tuxedo as though he'd been born in it.

"Joe, you and the food both look scrumptious."

"As do you! Pink may not be your color, my dear, but that bias cut does wonders for your... mmm... lines." He kissed me on the cheek, mindful of my lipstick, and directed my attention to the glossy chocolate 45s, which his people were just now unboxing. The piped-on t.i.tles ranged from old ballads to the latest hits, all of them celebrating love. Or at least l.u.s.t. "Did that clownish Juice person really create all these this afternoon? I'm impressed."

"You should be. Are the flowers here? I'm running a little late."

"That's understandable, given what I saw on the news. Yes, the Mad Russian has been and gone. He says he'll be back for the party. Oh, and he said he heard from St. Petersburg, and he's a free man. Was he having green card trouble?"

"Something like that." So Boris was going to be single again! Maybe Corinne's heart could be mended after all. "Thanks for letting me know. If you need me, I'll be in the bride's dressing room."

"Break a leg." Joe's attention was already straying back to the buffet platters. "No, no, no! The aioli goes on the crab cakes, you cretin, and not until the last minute!"

Elizabeth, Patty, and Corinne were gathered in the women's rest room outside the theater door. I gave the theater a quick inspection-the judge's lectern was in place, the flowers were glorious-and then joined them. I stayed out of sight while the guests arrived, and stayed in touch with Rhonda, the EMP coordinator, on the cutting-edge little walkie-talkie she had loaned me for the night. It featured a handy clip on the back, but of course I had nowhere to clip it on my barely-covered person, so I'd brought along a little beaded purse on a narrow strap. Somehow my canvas tote bag just wouldn't cut it with the pink chiffon stole.

Rhonda reported that all was well out there, so as the guests chatted and the jazz trio noodled away on some tune or other, I concentrated on the bride and her attendants. Elizabeth, sensational in her hot-hued ensemble, held her postmodern bouquet to one side and gave me a quick hug and an air kiss.

"Carnegie, I'm so nervous! Is that normal?"

"Absolutely," I told her, secretly pleased that even hardbitten software types could get b.u.t.terflies. "That's where the bridal glow comes from. Enjoy it. So, Corinne, you and Boris got the flowers distributed?..."

I was fishing for a hint about their possibly renewed romance, but Corinne was too busy to notice. She was striking poses, frowning intently into the full-length mirror as she tried out different ways to drape her chiffon stole across her bulging midsection. Stephanie's alterations had added maybe an inch of breathing room, but she could have used more. Corinne's gown had gotten tighter across the bust, too. If only I could gain weight in the chest, I thought, comparing my own reflection to hers, I'd eat hot fudge sundaes for breakfast. As it was, I had to be content with the modest curves created by my invisible bra-which was beginning to itch.

But I soon forgot the itch-and Corinne and Boris, too- in the flurry of final niceties before the ceremony. I will never, never double up as consultant and bridesmaid again. Between fielding queries from Rhonda, temporarily losing one of my pink pearl earrings, and retwisting Patty's French twist, my nerves were in shreds before I set one high-heeled foot out in public.

But still I kept a cool and professional facade, barely registering Aaron's chilly glance at me-and his double take at my dress-as he entered the theater. I was more concerned with his carefully disguised black eye, and the effect of the tiny calla lily boutonniere on the lapel of his tux. Nice work, Boris. Scott went next, looking far more alert and involved than he had at the rehearsal, and when he joined the men up front, the two brothers winked at each other over Aaron's head.

Then the music changed, and everyone craned around from the raked rows of seats to watch Corinne come down the aisle. At the first glimpse of her gown and flowers, an appreciative murmur arose from the guests over the jazz trio's silky sounds. Wait till they get a load of the bride, I thought. This was going to be fascinating, taking in every detail of a Made in Heaven wedding as seen from onstage instead of the wings.

I counted a slow ten, stepped into the aisle, saw all those eyes staring at me... and lost consciousness of the entire ceremony in a blur of stage fright and fatigue. I heard later that everything went beautifully, but the only detail that stayed with me was Tommy Barry's face. He looked like a man who should still be in bed, yet his expression held such fondness, such pride and triumph as he watched his protege Paul say "I do," that the happy tears in my eyes were more for him than for my client.

The next thing I knew, Scott was escorting me back up the aisle, behind Aaron and Corinne. I glimpsed Chloe and Howard, all sunburn and smiles, and Monica Lamott, in a coral-colored number about a quarter-inch inside the line of decency for the mother of the bride.

But for haute couture chutzpah, you couldn't beat Great-Aunt Enid, who had deliberately worn the one thing that etiquette forbids to the wedding guest: a white lace dress. It was a hollow victory, though, since at her age the effect was less bridal than funereal. She could have been buried in that dress, and maybe she would be. But to judge by the tender looks she was sending Paul, she'd die happy.

Meanwhile, though, Enid was safely whisked away to her hotel by her nurse, and the rest of us were plunged into the biggest, loudest, most over-the-top party of the year.

"This is awesome!" I heard one guest saying half an hour later, and I had to agree. Hundreds of people, all dressed to the nines, had spread out across the pulsating dance floor of the Sky Church, up the stairs to the exhibits, and along the snowy-linened, colorfully laden buffet tables.

One group was cl.u.s.tered in wonder at the base of Roots and Branches, a fabulous, towering sculpture of 600 guitars, all wired together, with a few accordions and banjos thrown in for good measure. The tornado-shaped a.s.semblage rose from the main floor up through an atrium to the Sound Lab mezzanine, where a gleeful melee of guests were having a go at the drum kits and electric guitars. Rising up with it, the rock music from the Sky Church permeated the air and carried everyone along on a current of rhythmic energy. I've never seen so many people having such a good time all at once.

But I wasn't one of them. All I could think about, now that we'd gotten through the ceremony, was Zack. My young, earnest Robin Hood, so eager to help Eddie with his software, so guilt-stricken that he might have accidentally caused Mercedes' death-could he have been faking all that, every single expression and emotion? Surely not. Surely not. A criminal past was shocking enough, but the idea of Zack as a brutal murderer made me dizzy. Or was it just stubborn denial about my own foolishness, as Aaron claimed?

Of course, I was dizzy anyway. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I stashed my bouquet and purse at a table in a semi-quiet corner of the gift shop, and hit the buffet for a plate of Joe's crab cakes. A quick protein fix, and then I'd radio the limo drivers and guide the videographer and do everything else I needed to do, including to stop obsessing about the guilt or innocence of Zack Hartmann.

Exhilarated wedding guests flowed through the aisles of the shop, but no one paid attention to me. I had almost cleaned my plate when I saw Aaron making a beeline through the crowd. He was pocketing his cell phone, and by the look on his face he had news. "There you are, Wedding Lady! Hiding out from the adulation of the ma.s.ses?"

"Just regrouping." Neither of us was going to apologize, that was clear, but I was up for a truce. "Your eye doesn't look bad."

He touched his eyebrow gingerly with a fingertip as he sat down. "Yeah, your makeup artist used putty or something. You're not half-bad yourself in that dress. Very s.e.xy."

Some idiot impulse drove me to demur. "Oh, well, it's not really a good color for me. And, of course, I don't fill it out the way Corinne does. I mean, my figure, if you can call it that, isn't exactly-"