Died To Match Part 8

He grinned wolfishly "I trust no one but Boris and Irina. But you, a little, yes. I have a question for you. Private question."

"Shoot." I was impatient to work the conversation around to Corinne. I didn't have long to wait.

"Someone from Solveto's tells me," he said, "that Corinne Campbell is almost drowning. She fell from pier at your party?"

"Almost drowned," I corrected automatically. Boris liked help with his English. "Well, she ended up in the water, yes. I'm not sure how."

"She is all right now?"

"Yes, she's all right. She was in the hospital overnight-"

"This I know! I hear of it in the morning and I think, I should go to her bedside! She needs me! But I don't go."

"Why not? You two were pretty close for a while."

He gave a rumbling growl. "Not close enough, for Corinne."

"Yes, you mentioned that she wanted to get married. That's not so unreasonable, is it?"

"Unreasonable all of a sudden!" he protested. "We are having fun, we are making frequent love, then like that"-he snapped his fingers-"she is different voman. Tears, sighing, no making love, merry me, merry me."

"And why didn't you want to marry her?"

He shrugged. "If I wanted or not wanted, no difference. I am merried already."

"Boris!" I exclaimed, forgetting Corinne momentarily. "You and I... we... you're married?! Why didn't you tell me?"

He waved his arms and the biedermeier nearly went flying. "Do not shout at me, Kharnegie! Did you vant to merry me? Did you?"

"That's not the point."

"No, you did not vant. So what does it matter to you if I have wife in St. Petersburg? Besides, I have asked her for divorce."

"Did you tell Corinne that?"

"Of course not! Would only encourage her."

I gave up. "OK, just tell me this. Do you think Corinne was so upset about breaking up with you that she would try to commit suicide?"

"She fell on purpose?"

"I really don't know. I'd like to help her out, if I can."

Boris pursed his lips, giving the question judicious thought. "Why drown? Why not shoot?"

"You mean shoot herself? For starters, she'd need a gun-"

"She has gun."

"She does?"

He nodded. "For protection, for woman living alone. Liddle gun, but she had lessons for it. Bring more tea."

When I returned with his gla.s.s, he was frowning intently as he tucked florets of hydrangea in a final lacy ring around the sweetheart roses. "Of course, Corinne is upset when we break up. I am magnificent lover, she said so. Why did you not ever say how magnificent I am, Kharnegie?"

"It must have slipped my mind. Seriously, Boris, would Corinne drown herself over losing you?"

The blue-flame eyes narrowed. "Seriously... no. To drown for love, you must have a big soul, a Russian soul. Corinne, she is perfect for fun, but her soul is small. It must be that she fell. You are sure she is not harmed? You are the one who I can ask."

"I promise, I saw her with my own eyes. Her priest was taking her home. Maybe you should call her?" If someone really tried to kill Corinne, she could use some big, strong company. And who knows, maybe there were divorce papers on the way from St. Petersburg. "I'm sure she'd like to see you."

"No, no, no. I wish her to be well, I do not wish her to be with me. Not now." He lifted the biedermeier and twirled it in one hand, an exquisite little carousel. Then he strode across the room to a rack of ribbon spools and pulled off two lengths, one of narrow pink brocade and the other of white velvet cord. He twisted the two loosely together and tied them in an intricate bow around the stems, leaving four long fluttering strands. Then he presented the finished bouquet to me.

"As I said, it's charming."

"It is yours."

"Mine? Boris, that's for a bride!"

"I make her another." He pressed it into my hands. "This one is yours."

I lifted the flowers to my face, pink and cream and misty blue with a heavenly scent. "But why?"

He reached over and touched my cheek. "Because Kharnegie, your soul is not so small. You are in love these days?"

"No! Well, maybe. Maybe I am."

"I thought so. Be happy, Kharnegie."

Irina's twinkling eyes followed me as I left with the bouquet, and I caught some admiring glances on my way back to the van. I set the flowers carefully on the seat beside me, and was so entranced with them as I pulled out of the lot that at first I thought the hideous clanking noise was coming from somewhere else. But no, it was Vanna White, issuing a violent racket that didn't stop even when I hit the brakes and pulled to the curb. The clamor was unbearable, which I found out later is not unusual when an engine throws a piston rod that impales the oil pan like an arrow through an apple.

People up and down the block stopped to stare as Vanna gave a final bang! and expired in agony. A gray-haired woman rushed out of a T-shirt shop, her eyes huge with alarm.

"What was that noise? Was it a gunshot?"

"No, ma'am," I said sadly. "That was the sound of h.e.l.l freezing over."

Chapter Twelve.

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, YOU THREW A ROD?" "It probably means a couple thousand dollars." "Good heavens, Carrie! Do you have enough money?" I do now. "Don't worry, Mom. I've got it covered." It was Tuesday, the day after my visit to Nevsky Brothers, and Mom had called to chat. Having just gotten off the phone with Pete, my mechanic, I unwisely mentioned to her that Vanna was due for major surgery. As I sat in my living room, admiring the biedermeier bouquet, I hastened to find a less alarming topic.

"Listen, Mom, you'll like this. I'm going to be a bridesmaid for one of my clients."

"Oh, fun!" My mother had a somewhat oversimplified view of what I did for a living, so she saw no problem in my pulling double-duty for Elizabeth. She also believed that I had a lovely figure. "Is it the Christmas wedding?"

"No, the November one, at the Experience Music Project."

"Well, how nice. You'll send me one of the wedding photographs?" "Absolutely."

"What's your gown like?" "It's... pink. Very pink. In fact, I have to go get fitted right this minute. Lily's working a late shift today, so she's going to drive me there. I haven't gotten a rental car yet. I'll call you later, OK?"

In the Volvo on the way up to the Capitol Hill neighborhood, I filled Lily in on my conversation with Boris, and she played devil's advocate. It's good to have a friend who's willing to challenge you, but Lily was more than willing.

"So," she summed up, "this Corinne person claims she was pushed in the harbor to drown. Most people, including her priest and the Seattle Police Department, think she's just covering up the fact that she got drunk and tried to kill herself. But you believe that whoever killed Mercedes Montoya also tried to kill Corinne."

"Yes."

"And what makes you a better judge of the situation than the cops and the church?"

I thought that over while she found parking around the corner from Stephanie's Styles, a stately little 1920s home tucked into a long block of brick-front businesses on Olive Way. It had finally quit raining, but the sky was still low and leaden.

"Lily, I keep thinking about the look in Corinne's eyes when she told me about it. She didn't seem self-pitying or deceitful. She was terrified." I reached into the backseat for my tote bag, which today contained a selection of lingerie and a pair of low-heeled, not-yet-dyed silk pumps. "Actually, you'll meet her in a minute, so you can form your own impression."

"You sure the bride doesn't mind my being here for this?"

"She's just relieved that I agreed to do it at all. Wait till you see these dresses."

Stephanie Stevens was quaint as a cameo, small and pink, just the person you'd want to order your wedding gown from. She bustled cheerily around her lavender-scented, flowered-chintz shop with a tape measure dangling from her neck and a wristband pincushion at the ready, and she liked nothing better than to serve up tea and currant scones on her favorite Limoges china. The fact that her split-level on Vashon Island boasted a giant satellite-TV dish so that Stephanie could catch every basketball game ever broadcast on Earth, was a fact that rarely came up over tea. She also raised Rottweilers. Go figure.

"Carnegie! How nice to see you, as always. And this time you're going to wear one of the dresses that you ordered! The other girls are already here."

Stephanie had kept the original living room of the house as a reception area, adding only a long wall mirror and a small platform for the customers to stand on while she adjusted their hems. The dining room beyond was filled with racks of dresses and beautifully gowned mannequins, and a study to one side served as a changing room. We could hear Elizabeth's voice and Angela's laughter through the paneled oak door. I was introducing Lily to Stephanie when the "other girls" filed out, falling self-consciously silent when they saw they had an audience.

Elizabeth came out first, followed by her sister and maid of honor, Patty Lamott. At close range and without accessories, the bride looked rather garish in her movie-star satin gown the color of orange sherbet, and her cherry-popsicle chiffon stole. But after all the fittings I'd seen, I could easily imagine Elizabeth in full makeup, bearing her avant-garde bouquet. Not every bride could carry off this kind of look, but she was going to be dynamite.

Her sister was more of a fizzling fuse. Patty was a single nurse who worked at the VA hospital, and she looked like the first draft for Elizabeth. You could tell they were siblings, but Patty's features were coa.r.s.er, her long unkempt hair a dull brown to Elizabeth's cropped and glossy chestnut, her figure stocky rather than strong.

I suspected that Patty wasn't thrilled about her kid sister's successes, financial or romantic. And she certainly wasn't thrilled about her own rose-colored gown and stole, which did nothing for her skin tone and less than nothing for her figure. She nodded sullenly to me and frowned a little at Lily, who had relaxed into a wing chair to enjoy the show.

"Come on through, girls," Stephanie burbled. "Let's line you all up."

Corinne came next. Elizabeth was right, she had put on a few pounds. Instead of draping fluidly the satin pulled in taut creases across her stomach and hips. But you hardly noticed, because the rosy shade was so exactly right for Corinne's porcelain skin. The pink set off her golden hair and pale blue eyes to fairy-princess perfection, while the plunging neckline would command the attention of every prince in the neighborhood.

Corinne knew it, too. The disheveled waif I'd run into at the hospital was gone, replaced by this confident Southern belle. She gave me a complacent little wave, and struck a pose that would have gone over big at the entrance to the Academy Awards.

Last in line was Angela Sims, tall and fair. She paced into the room with her long boyish stride, her stole hung round her neck like a huge, gauzy pink m.u.f.fler. Angela moved like a jock, but she looked almost as good as Corinne.

"Well?" she asked with a good-natured grin. "What's the verdict?"

"Wonderful!" If I was going to be a bridesmaid for hire, I might as well be a good one, and concentrate on their feelings instead of my own. This was still a joyous occasion. "Elizabeth, I've signed off on your bouquet. It's spectacular. All the flowers are, and all of you look wonderful. Let me get into my dress and then we'll talk about shoes and hair."

Stephanie produced a long garment bag-Mercedes' gown, though all of us were determined not to think about that-and made as if to follow me down the hallway.

"Um, Corinne, could you give me a hand getting dressed?" I asked.

Stephanie looked puzzled, but stepped aside to let Corinne through. A positive mention in Corinne's newspaper column would do wonders for dress sales. I closed the changing-room door behind Corinne and hung my gown on a stand. Our eyes met in the three-way mirror.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine," she said absently, peering over her shoulder to get a rear view of herself. "Do I really look all right? I think they sent a size too small."

This took me aback. "I mean, how are you after what happened at the Aquarium? Good lord, if someone tried to kill you-"

Corinne dropped into a love seat piled with clothing, and covered her eyes with one hand. Ever the drama queen, even when the drama was deadly.

"Of course I'm worried!" she moaned. "I'm just trying not to think about it. I talked to the police, but I could tell they didn't believe me. Elizabeth doesn't either."

I sat beside her. "Well, I believe you. And we're going to figure out who attacked you, and then the police will listen."

She sighed heavily, then groped for my hand and squeezed it. Her false fingernails, rose-pink to match her dress, stabbed into my palm. The trivial section of my brain wondered if Elizabeth would expect pink nails on me, too. Of course she will. Get over it.

"Thank you, Carnegie!" Corinne whispered. The waif was still in there, hiding behind the glamour-girl facade.

"I haven't done anything yet."

"No, I mean for believing me. I know people think I'm just an airhead, or that I make things up, but it was so horrible!" She lifted moist, childlike blue eyes, and I gave her a hug. Poor kid.

"I'm sure it was. And I'm sure it's hard to talk about, but can you remember anything specific about him? His size or age, the smell of his aftershave, anything at all? For that matter, are you sure it was a man?"

"Pretty sure." She shook her head, her blonde curls dancing. "It happened so fast. He dropped some black cloth around my face, and I tried to fight back but he was too strong. That's all I could tell. He was really strong."

"How about the black cloth, then, was it smooth or rough? Did it have seams and pockets, do you think, like a coat?"

"N-no," she said. "No, it wasn't a coat. It was all one piece, like a cape."

How many black capes were at that party? I wondered to myself. Syd Soper wore one as Death, but who else? Aaron as Zorro, but that was absurd- "Are you two ever coming out?" It was Elizabeth, with an eye on the clock as always.

"In a minute!" I called. "Corinne, we'll figure this out, I promise. Meanwhile, get my gown out of the bag, would you?"

I shucked my jeans and sweater and slithered into the pink satin, averting my eyes from the mirror and concentrating on the dress itself. The fabric was delicious on my skin, lush and smooth, and the cut and construction were the high quality to be expected from this particular designer. I hitched up the spaghetti straps, stepped into my silk pumps, and checked the skirt length. The bottom of the dress was unfinished, ready to be hemmed up to suit Mercedes' height, which meant that it hung barely to my ankles. Good enough, if Stephanie gave it the narrowest possible hem. She could also take in the bodice, which had enough room for two of me. Or rather, one of me and four of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Your bra shows in back," said Corinne. "You need a strapless bra or a bustier."

She gave the word the proper French p.r.o.nunciation, but I didn't. "No, I need to be a whole lot busty-er."

We giggled, and I patted her shoulder. "That's the spirit, Corinne. Listen, I'm sure that whoever it was in the black cape, he didn't choose you personally to attack. But you should probably be extra-careful for a while, OK?"

"Don't worry," she said solemnly. "I'm not going anywhere alone, especially at night. Neither's Patty or Elizabeth. I don't think Angela believes me."

I had a brief vision of Roger Talbot-or someone else- stepping out of the shadows by my front door. Time to put up that floodlight.

"I think that's wise. Come on, let's join the rest of the babes."