Died to Match (35 page)

How do TV people do it? I thought as I drove through Fremont. They must sleep in their makeup.

Back at Joe’s building, I took the lobby elevator up four floors to his storeroom. Most of Made in Heaven’s stuff was downstairs in my tiny borrowed office, but I knew that my partner Eddie Breen had dropped off a file box of his own before leaving town for a few days. Joe’s staff had put it in the storeroom, out of the way, until Eddie could come sort it out on Monday. It was a long shot, but maybe that box held the photo I needed.

The fourth floor was dark and empty, except for the one light I’d left on, and my footsteps sounded loud in the corridor. I turned on the staff’s radio in the corner—it was set to a talk station—and jingled my keys loudly, reminding myself to lock everything up before I went home for the night. Joe was pretty casual about security, but I wanted to be a good temporary tenant.

The storeroom was piled with treasure.

Like most caterers, Joe relied heavily on indestructible or inexpensive dishes and glassware; tonight’s bachelors had gotten plastic only. But when Solveto’s put on a festive meal for more responsible folk, the buffet table and the serving stations always included a few eye-catching pieces of hand-painted Italian ceramic, vintage English silver, or rare Depression glass.

Rumor had it that Joe began the practice so he could write off his exotic vacations as buying trips, but in any case the clients loved it. Sort of a signature Solveto’s flourish.

The storeroom was lined on three sides with shelves bearing a splendid assortment of platters, pitchers, trays and tureens. When I flipped on the lights, reflections winked from massive gilt candelabras and sparked across to a cobalt-blue cut glass cake stand.

Along the fourth wall, under the windows, a long work table was stacked neatly with cartons and bubble wrap for transporting these treasures. A huge silver punch bowl sat ready, with a pad of inventory forms beside it for recording which items were in use, and where. Joe was brilliantly creative, but strictly organized.

Underneath the table I found Eddie’s box. I hauled it onto the table top and began to lift out the top layer of contents: a squat steel pen and pencil jar, a favorite oversized coffee mug, none too clean, and a framed photograph of the freighter Eddie had sailed on, back when he and my late father were cadets together in the merchant marine.

Eddie’s seagoing past explained the next item in the box: a pair of small, powerful binoculars that he used to observe the pleasure boats and sea planes on Lake Union. I set each item carefully aside, pulled out the stack of file folders at the bottom of the box, and sat down at the table to search.

No luck. There were checklists for the Tyler/Sanjek events, a detailed timetable for Bonnie Buckmeister’s Christmas-themed wedding next week, and notes on all our current marketing efforts, including my TV appearance tomorrow and the Made in Heaven booth at the bridal expo. But no photos.

I propped my chin on one fist and stared absently out the windows. I’d just have to do without. There were other pictures I could use, a wedding cake, one of our bridal couples dancing, and of course the Made in Heaven logo in curly copper lettering, which I would try my hardest to get on camera. But first I had to get some sleep.

As I stood up to re-pack Eddie’s box, something across the Canal caught my eye: a brilliantly lit window, with a tiny figure in scarlet clothing moving back and forth across it, like an erratic actor on a garish stage. Santa Claus. The Hot Spot was directly across the Canal from Joe’s office building, and from my upper-story vantage point I could see right into the café. Not that I wanted to, of course. I swept up all the files I’d opened, tucked them back into the box, and set the mug and the pencil jar on top of them.

Then I picked up the binoculars.

I was innocently nestling them into Eddie’s box when it occurred to me that maybe I had knocked them out of focus, or out of alignment, or whatever. And how else could I check except by aiming them at something? That brightly lit window, for example, would be a perfect way to test them out…

Whoa. Nothing wrong with the focus. With the lenses at my eyes, the Hot Spot’s rear window leapt into brilliant clarity,
as did the Saint Nick chick. She had shed the padded red trousers and the beard, and while I watched, fascinated, she strutted back and forth, moving to music I couldn’t hear, in just her fur-trimmed jacket, tasseled red hat, and high black boots.

If I were a young man—or an old one, or one in between—I would have said she had thighs to die for.

Santa’s audience, mostly cut off from my downward view by the edge of the café’s roof, seemed not to realize that they were sharing the show with any passing sailboat—or hidden observer. But in fact, you’d have to be up in a crow’s nest, or up where I was, to get just the right angle.

If the bachelors had thought of that, they sure didn’t care. As I watched, Frank Sanjek sat heavily on the floor at his comrade’s feet, and someone invisible to me poured a beer on his head. He didn’t appear to notice.

I could see why. Dipping and swaying, always in motion, Santa dropped the jacket off one smooth bare shoulder, then the other, each time letting the white fur border of the garment slip lower and lower down the curves of her breasts.

Then, perhaps responding to some climax in the music, she suddenly turned her back to the boys and her front to me, bent forward, and flipped the jacket up behind. If she was wearing much of anything under the jacket, it was too small for the binoculars to pick up. Frank fell over sideways.

I was hastily putting the binoculars down—honest, I was— when my phone rang again. Something told me it wasn’t Jason this time.

It was my erstwhile hostess, wondering when I’d be home for the night.

“Oh jeez, Lily, have you been waiting up for me?”

“No, but I’m going to bed now, and I wanted to be sure you have your key.”

“Yep, I’ve got it. I’ll probably be there soon.”

“Did you find your photo?”

“No, I should have given up hours ago. Then I wouldn’t have gotten dragged over to the Hot Spot.” I told her about Jason’s summons, and the arrival of Santa.

“So did you stay to watch?” she inquired archly.

“Of course not!” I glanced over at the binoculars. The back of my neck was damp. “Why would I do that?”

“Just kidding. Seriously, though, you didn’t happen to see Darwin, did you? I shouldn’t worry but I can’t help it, I still feel like he’s my baby brother. And he was so out of control before he got this job—”

“Actually, I talked to him,” I told her. “He seemed OK. Come to think of it, he seemed sober. Doesn’t he drink?”

“Not any more. He’s been in A A for a year now.”

Lily had never disclosed this about Darwin before, and I wasn’t sure how to reply. “Oh…well, I wasn’t at the party for long, but honestly, he was fine.”

“Forget I asked, OK?” She hastened to change the subject. “Did you see Aaron?”

“Aaron Gold?” I almost dropped the phone.

“Are you in love with some other Aaron?” I could hear the wicked smile in her voice. “Dar said he was invited tonight.”

“You know perfectly well I’m not in love with Aaron. I’m not sure I ever was.”

Just to prove it, I should have changed the subject myself. But I couldn’t. “I thought he was still in Boston, anyway. How does he know Frank?”

“I don’t think he does, really,” said Lily. “Darwin told me Aaron’s working on some book about the CEO of Meet for Coffee. He’s gotten friendly with the guys in Creative Services, so they asked him to the party. I guess he didn’t go, though.”

“I guess not.” Unless he was in that side room shooting pool with Jason. I wonder…

“Um, Lily, I’d better get back to work here. I want to make one more pass through the files, and then get some paperwork done. This TV thing tomorrow has really thrown me off.”

“Good luck. I’ve set the VCR for you.”

“Thanks, Lily. Good night.”

I did spend some time downstairs in my borrowed office— but not much. Aaron was on my mind, and so were those binoculars. Rolling my eyes at my own foolishness, I took the elevator back up and focused on the window again. Not that I cared whether Aaron was there. Not that I cared about Aaron.

Not that I could see him, either. Santa had left the area near
the lighted window, and the revelers seemed to be milling aimlessly inside, as if the party was winding down. I spotted Mr. Garlic, but no one else familiar—until a sudden tangle of movement drew my attention to the grassy slope below the deck.

There in the frost and the shadows, two tall, lanky figures were struggling together, dodging and flailing in clumsy counterpoint. I had no trouble recognizing them: Jason Croy, and Lily’s baby brother. The best man was obviously drunk; maybe Darwin was taking his car keys away?

It was hard to tell if this was a ritual male scuffle—elk clashing their antlers—or a serious fight. Either way, I can’t say it bothered me to see the supercilious Jason getting knocked around a little.

The third figure was less ambiguous: Frank Sanjek, the bridegroom, was kneeling on the grass and being hideously sick. Another male ritual. I sighed and shook my head. Time for me to go.

But once I went downstairs and finished some genuine work, a nagging question kept me from actually walking out the door. I had assured Lily that her brother was fine, and now he was apparently in the middle of a fistfight. Shouldn’t I check on the outcome?

For that matter, shouldn’t I make sure that the amiable, sensible bridegroom wasn’t unconscious and abandoned by his drunken friends, out in the freezing night? Eddie tells me I fuss too much about our clients, and maybe it’s true, but I couldn’t wait to see Sally Tyler walk down the aisle and out of my life. And to that end, I needed Frank Sanjek safe and sound.

So I rode the elevator up to the storeroom one last time, and pulled out my illicit spyglasses. I had forgotten to turn the radio off, so as I scanned the scene across the canal the talk station provided an incongruous sound track: several snooty-sounding people debating the situation in Northern Ireland.

There was even less to see this time. The café’s windows had gone dark, which made it hard to get a clear view into the shrubbery. But Frank was definitely gone. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone at all except for Santa Claus. She was striding briskly down the street away from the café in her padded red suit, head up and shoulders back after a job well done.

All’s well that ends well, I thought idly. I’m just glad we didn’t have a damage deposit—

“Bird watching?”

I gasped and whirled around. Eddie’s binoculars slipped from my nerveless fingers and landed in the silver punch bowl with a enormous and resounding gonnng.

I was shocked, and not just because a man was now lounging in the storeroom doorway. I was shocked by who it was.

Aaron Gold. The man I’d been dating, the man I’d been falling for. The man who had a wife back in Boston.

I hadn’t spoken to him since I found out.

The air in the storeroom was clean and neutral; now that I was paying attention, I could smell a blend of cigars and retsina from where I stood.

So he was shooting pool in the other room. And then watching Santa…

Unlike the younger party guys, Aaron wore a tie, but it hung loose from his collar, and his crow-black hair was mussed. The deep-set brown eyes gleamed even more than usual, and when he smiled, his swift white grin came out lopsided.

“S’ Christmas,” he said, nodding his head sagely. A lock of hair flopped down into his eyes. “You’re gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”

I stood with my back to the reverberating punch bowl, and took a deep breath. I didn’t know how long he had watched me watching, or whether he could guess that I’d been spying on the striptease. I also didn’t know how I felt about him, after the last few weeks of angry silence and unwilling tears.

And what neither of us knew, and wouldn’t learn until the next day, was this: of the three young men I had observed on the grass behind the Hot Spot Café, only two were still alive.

Also by Deborah Donnelly
Veiled Threats

Published by

Dell Publishing

a division of

Random House, Inc.

1540 Broadway

New York, New York 10036

Copyright © 2002 by Deborah Wessell Cover art copyright © 2002 by Deborah Campbell

All rights reserved.

Dell(r)is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-48381-2

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