Veiled Threats (12 page)

T
HERE CERTAINLY WAS WORK TO DO, ON EACH OF OUR UPCOMING
weddings, as well as marketing for new ones. I supervised the second fitting of Nickie's gown; Eddie met with Joe to wrangle over a contract for the reception dinner; and the two of us made what seemed like hundreds of phone calls, concerning everything from mosquito repellent to basque waistlines to exactly what kind of sippin’ whiskey would suit Fay's kinfolk at her rootin’ tootin’ reception. Eddie and I worked well together, conversing in a brisk shorthand and making jokes about the latest dumb movie we'd seen. In between calls, I thought some more about Boris. About Boris and that unfortunate lamb.

One incoming call was from Lily, who reported no luck in trying to track down Crazy Mary through her list of homeless shelters. And on Friday morning, Holt called to say his calendar was clear for the party at Mount Rainier, and would it be all right if he booked a room for the night at the Glacier View?

“I won't actually come to the wedding in the morning,” he said hastily. “I don't want to get in the way. But as long as I'm down there I'd like to hike around a little, and then I could ride home with you.”

“That would be fine,” I told him, swiveling my chair away
from Eddie to hide my ridiculous smile. “I'm out of town the night before, but I'll be back in plenty of time. Actually, I'm sure you'd be welcome at the ceremony, too. I'll mention it to Anita.”

“Great. Where are you Friday night?”

“Ellensburg, setting up a wedding. I'll be back by noon at the latest on Saturday. So we could leave from here about one o'clock?”

“I'll be at your place at one. Well, I'd better let you get back to work.”

“Yes. You, too.” I could picture him, sitting in the high-power offices of Voigt, Baxter, McHugh with his thoughts straying off to alpine meadows. “Bye.”

I hung up the phone, humming, then stopped when I saw Eddie's sardonic eye on me. But all he said was, “So when do you see the Parry girl next?”

“Eight A.M. tomorrow. She leaves at noon for a trip to Portland with friends. We're doing an RSVP count and a final run-through on the flowers. She keeps coming up with more relatives to pin corsages on, so we'd better order a few extra.”

“That's your department, you and Boris. Just remember to ask her if she wants special champagne for the bridesmaids’ deal.”

“Luncheon, Eddie. Bridesmaids don't have deals. Oh, and Fay Riddiford changed her mind again about the barbecued ribs….”

Finally it was closing time. I pushed aside my paperwork and took a minute to leaf through an antique etiquette manual, a recent gift from Lily. “Eddie, listen to this. Not only are white wedding gowns a recent invention, but they used to dress baby boys in pink and girls in blue! Pink was considered a stronger color, and blue was delicate and dainty.”

“Just like you,” Eddie snorted.

I stretched and yawned, not at all daintily. “Anything else for today?”

“Nope. Have a good weekend.” He paused at the doorway to the front room, unlit cigar in hand. “Carnegie, about the other night. You never found anything missing, did you?”

I blushed and shook my head.

“Everything was OK up here, too,” he said. “So we're agreed that it was just …”

“Just my imagination? Yes.”

He nodded, then went on almost gently. “So you're not worried about it anymore, not feeling nervous?”

“No. Thanks for asking, Eddie.”

“No problem.”

What a sweetheart he was. Driving to the Parry estate the next morning, I marveled at my good fortune in having Eddie for a partner. Too bad most of my clients never met him, although he didn't always show well on short acquaintance. Nickie would like him, though, if he didn't growl at her. She was certainly happy to see me. She met me at the front door in a short terry cloth robe, her dark hair still wet from the shower, practically dancing with excitement.

“Carnegie, I've got this great idea! We could have the bridesmaids’ luncheon in the rose garden instead of a restaurant! Wouldn't that be elegant?”

She looked so young, and so inelegant, that I laughed aloud. “It would, but is there room for a table? I still haven't seen the rose garden, you know.”

“Oh, that's right.” Her face went solemn as she remembered my injury, and she led me inside. “Is your head OK?”

“It's fine, don't worry about it. Let's get started on the guest list.”

“Couldn't we look at the rose garden first? I'll get dressed, I'll be right down. There's rolls and stuff in the living room.”

In the Parry household, “stuff” consisted of Mariana's scones, still warm, and homemade blackberry jam. I was about to help myself when Douglas Parry came in, dressed informally but well, the lord of the manor on his day off. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and a frown on his ruddy face.

“Ah, Carnegie, I had something to ask you about.” He seemed uneasy, running a hand over his thinning hair. “Is Nickie here?”

“She's upstairs. Is there a problem?”

“I hope not.” He cleared his throat. “Are you associated in some way with Aaron Gold?”

“No! I mean, I've spoken with him, but associated, no. Why do you ask?”

“I, ah, have been able to obtain some of his articles before publication. This one is innocuous in itself, but since you're mentioned in it …”

I looked down at the printout he handed me. The headline read, “Seattle's Day Care Kids: The Economics of Motherhood.” I sighed in relief. There were no direct quotes from me, only a reference to the valuable work of volunteers like Carnegie Kincaid, the storyteller.

“Just a coincidence,” I said firmly. Not quite the truth, but close enough. “I met him briefly, that's all.”

“You know that he's been causing me trouble? All my employees are under orders not to talk to the press, especially Gold, after he came snooping around at the fund-raiser.

You're not on my staff, of course, but I'd like to know that I can rely on your discretion.”

“You can,” I said, returning the printout. “My clients’ privacy is important to me.”
To o bad freedom of the press isn't important to you
, I added silently.

“Thank you.” Having conducted his unpleasant business, Parry became a genial host, even overdoing it a bit. “Would you like some scones? Coffee? I'll have Mariana make a fresh pot.”

“Maybe later. Nickie wants to show me the rose garden. Would you mind if we had the bridesmaids’ luncheon out there?”

“Not at all, not at all.” Parry beamed at his daughter as she skipped down the marble staircase. “I'll go out there with you two. We're five to eight degrees cooler here than in the city, Carnegie, so the growth cycle runs a little behind, but I've got quite a show by now.”

He continued to talk roses as we descended from the back terrace and took the path under the clematis arbor. It was a cool, fresh morning, with the sun growing brighter behind an uneven, silvery mist. The mist, and my unfamiliarity with the place, confused me for a moment when we left the path and passed through another ornamental gate. I saw uprooted bushes, jagged holes in raw earth … was this a new section being added to the famous rose garden?

Then an eddying breeze cleared the air, so I could see the details of the destruction around us, and the naked shock on the faces of Nickie and her father. Every rosebush had been dragged out of the ground and trampled, or hacked off to a stump. What must have been a serene, geometric pattern of glossy green foliage and neat pebbled walks was now a chaos of dirt and twisted roots and splintered branches. The roses,
in their silky hundreds, had become handfuls of tattered rags, the gay crimsons and seashell pinks and buttery yellows all fading now to withered brown.

At the heart of the ruined garden, a stone reflecting pool was fouled with mud and wilted foliage. Lying in its center, on a cruel bed of thorns and drowned flowers, was a sodden lump of something that had once been alive.

“G
US
?” N
ICKIE
’
S WHISPER ROSE TO AN INCREDULOUS WAIL
. “Daddy, it's Gussie!”

Her father tried to hold her but she darted forward to the stone lip of the pool, then crumpled to her knees. The dog's head had been smashed, his noble profile savaged into a mess of blood and bone. There was a moment's silence, then Douglas Parry began to swear in a cold, furious monotone. Nickie turned aside and retched. My own hands went clammy and my throat closed up as I held her shoulders and fumbled for a handkerchief, my thoughts plunging in a sickening spiral: such a sweet dog, this insane violence, they must have done it in the night … In the night, like the night when I came through these woods, the dark figure lifting his arms.
They could have done this to me.

Slowly, horrified, I turned back to look. Douglas Parry had pulled off his jacket and was leaning out from the stone ledge to lay it over Gus, soaking the cuffs of his monogrammed shirt as he did. It was an absurd, generous gesture, and I loved him for it. I lifted Nickie to her feet and guided her back to the house, leaving Douglas standing in the sunshine among his dead roses.

An hour later I was still at the house, feeling much calmer and embarrassingly hungry. The tray of scones still sat on the
lacquer table in the living room, but I could hardly dig in under the circumstances. Over and over, I'd watched the same series of emotions play across a different face: first Mariana, then Theo, then Alice the cook, then the maid and the gardener, and lastly Grace Parry herself, back from an early tennis date. Each one of them heard what had happened to the roses and to Gus, and each one reacted with incomprehension, shock, disgust. And finally, fear. Except for Theo, who went absolutely blank with outrage, we all showed fear.

Grace took it hard. Douglas met her at the front door, and I watched them from where I sat in the living room with my arm still around Nickie. They murmured together, outlined by the June sunlight that sparked and flared across the black marble floor of the hall.

“What?” Grace was incredulous, angry at the bearer of bad news. Or perhaps angry at him for permitting the squalid outside world to come so near. “What are you talking about?”

Douglas clearly wanted to spare her the sight of the destruction, but she pulled away from him and strode past me to the terrace, her tennis dress crisply white against slim, tanned legs. Her husband began to follow, then the doorbell rang and he let her go.

A dead dog in an ordinary neighborhood might have merited a single cop, but Douglas Parry's dead dog brought us Lieutenant Borden, the officer who had interviewed us about the Mustang crash. He was a barrel-chested, slow-moving man with an immense bald head and no expression whatsoever. He dispatched two uniformed officers to the garden and then settled himself ponderously into the largest chair in the room and began to ask questions. Nickie and I were dismissed quickly enough, and as I took her upstairs I heard
him begin on the staff. Any strangers in the neighborhood lately? Any noises in the night? Did the dog usually sleep outside?

Nickie began to cry again, thinking about Gus's empty bed in the kitchen. I stayed with her until Mariana joined us, and then told her I'd call her Monday. Her trip to Portland had been postponed, and Ray was on his way over. We didn't mention the bridesmaids’ luncheon. And I didn't mention Boris Nevsky, to the police or anyone else. Not yet. Not till Lily and I found Crazy Mary.

Grace Parry returned, her knees and sneakers dirty, like a tomboy who's been roughhousing in her party dress. But the look in her eyes was far from girlish. She must have knelt down, as her stepdaughter had, to look at Gus, and her face was still pale under her tan. On my way toward the front door, I heard Douglas Parry say the name that was on everyone's mind.

“Keith Guthridge,” he said. “No question about it. He's responsible.”

Lieutenant Borden said carefully, “Well, Mr. Parry, you may feel certain about that yourself, but this kind of vandalism—”

“Vandalism!” Grace Parry's voice, barely in control, cut across her husband's reply. “Is that what you call it? This isn't a broken window, for God's sake! We've had death threats!”

“Grace, stop it!”

At the sound of Douglas's voice I paused on the staircase, the chrome balustrade slick and cold under my hand, arrested by the tableau in the living room. Borden was immobile and impassive in his chair, with a young black policeman standing soldier-straight behind him, taking notes. Douglas
Parry sat across from them on the sofa, leaning forward, reaching out to calm his wife. Grace was on her feet, one hand pointing dramatically toward the lawn outside.

“Of course it was Guthridge!” She was nearly shouting. “He sent his, his
goons
onto our property, our private property, to scare us with this sickening—”

“Grace, stop it.” Douglas stood and took her arm. “Lieutenant, my wife is upset; anyone would be. Could you excuse us for a few minutes?”

I hastened across the hallway and let myself out. The sunshine was bright now, almost hot, the sky a flat, faded blue. A car pulled up behind my van: the blood-and-silver Alfa Romeo I'd seen at the house two weeks before. The top was down, and Holt Walker was at the wheel.

“What a nice surprise!” he called to me. “I've been taking Grace's car for a test drive. She's trying to sell it to me. What do you think?”

I looked blankly at him, then at the car. “Yes. Yes, it's a nice car. Holt, something has happened …”

I described the havoc in the rose garden, and Nickie's discovery of her butchered pet.

“Oh, Christ, the poor kid.” He looked at Lieutenant Borden's discreetly official gray sedan, and then up at the house. “How's Grace?”

“Pretty shaken up. She thinks Keith Guthridge did it, I mean had it done, to scare Douglas.”

“She could be right,” he said grimly. “He's up to his neck in King County Savings, and Douglas's testimony is going to sink him. That
bastard.
And the police won't find a clue, I'd bet money on it. Look, Carnegie, I don't want to butt in on them now, I was just dropping off the Alfa till I make up my mind. Could you take me back to town?”

We were silent for most of the drive, Holt in contemplation of the news, me in my own private quandary. Was my injury in the woods that night an accident or not? If not, then Theo was lying, and was actually working for Keith Guthridge. Could Theo be that good an actor? Could he be the one, with his weight lifter's arms and his lifeless eyes, who beat Gus's skull in?

“Carnegie, you're white as a sheet. What's wrong?”

“I, I …” I clutched the wheel and tried to concentrate, but it was no good. As soon as we were off the floating bridge I pulled over to a side street and brought the van to a clumsy halt in front of a run-down convenience store. I couldn't stop shaking.

Suddenly Holt was outside, opening my door and urging me over to the passenger seat. “I should have driven in the first place. You've had an ugly shock, and I bet you've been taking care of Nickie all morning.”

I just nodded, my eyes closed. When I opened them we were entering the parking garage of one of the new waterfront condominium towers near the Pike Place Market.

“Come on up,” Holt said. “You need a drink.”

“I'm all right,” I told him, but as I got out my knees began to buckle and I had to steady myself against a concrete column that said “Reserved” in yellow paint. “Actually, I need some breakfast.”

“Lunch,” Holt said, steering me to the elevators. “At this time of the day we call it lunch.”

Feast would have been a better term, a small but exquisite feast. Holt's condo was twelve floors up, with a view that swept from the Market directly below to the islands in the Sound to the icy wall of the Olympics on the horizon. The terrace was just big enough for a table for two. He left me there in the sunshine
with a glass of sherry while he brought out French bread, a crock of paté, a dish of plums, artichokes in olive oil. I gazed at it all, bemused, while he went back to the kitchen for coffee and a quick phone call to the Parrys.

“The police have left,” he announced, setting down a glass
café filtre
pot and two mugs that said “Harvard Law.” “Douglas has gone for a walk to blow off steam, and they've got a team of gardeners coming in to salvage the roses. And someone from a security firm. Douglas is hiring bodyguards.”

I pictured muscle men in sunglasses flanking the father of the bride at the wedding. Should I order two more boutonnieres? I giggled.

“Carnegie,” said Holt gently, “eat something.”

I ate everything, remembering to compliment the cook only at the end, as I polished off a slice of pear tart.

“No cooking involved.” Holt laughed. “I can barely boil water. I just wander around the Market stalls and buy whatever looks good, one day at a time.”

“Well, you did some fine wandering today.” I set aside my untouched wine and took a sip of coffee. It was tepid. He really couldn't boil water. I put the mug down. “Holt, can I talk to you about something? In confidence? It involves the Parrys, but I don't know if I want to tell them about it. In fact, I don't know if there's anything to tell.”

“Of course,” he said. “Shall we go inside?”

His living room was spare but comfortable, with Scandinavian furniture in teak and pale green cushions. All the drama and color was on the walls: framed, oversized photographs of zebras through savanna grass, mountain peaks cloaked in storm, a purple dawn over endless sand dunes. And one collage of snapshots showing Holt and various other
smiling, suntanned travelers, with those same exotic locales in the backgrounds. I sat down, almost sleepy from the food and sun, and told my strange little story. It took a while, but Holt was patient and encouraging.

“So you see,” I concluded, “Theo couldn't have been at the houseboat Wednesday night. He was home in bed. But if someone was there, and the same someone attacked me in the woods, then Theo must have been lying. He claims I caught a glimpse of him in the dark, panicked, and hit my head when I fell. And if Theo's lying, maybe he's involved in … in what happened to Gus.”

“And working for Guthridge behind Douglas's back? Not possible.” Holt shook his head. He was wearing a spotless white sweatshirt with his jeans, and he pushed the sleeves up over tanned forearms as he spoke. “Theo is completely loyal to Douglas, I know that for a fact. And he hates Guthridge, for Douglas's sake. He told me so himself, and I can't believe he was putting on a show for my benefit. So if we leave Theo out of it, then where do we stand?”

I liked the way he said “we.” This was much better than Eddie's fatherly disbelief. We tackled the puzzle from every angle, with occasional digressions about Nickie's wedding, Holt's close relationship with the Parrys, and Theo's choice of wardrobe. We talked about Crazy Mary, and what she might or might not have seen. But after a while we were talking in circles.

“So maybe there's no mystery at all.” I sighed. “If Theo really is telling the truth, then I really did fall in the woods. In that case, I must have just imagined the mysterious scent. And in
that
case, there was no one in the houseboat Wednesday night.” I looked at Holt accusingly. “Which means it's all your fault. You poured me one too many brandies up in Victoria.”

He leaned forward across the coffee table between us, and I did the same. “How can I possibly make it up to you?”

It's not easy, kissing across a coffee table, but it's not that hard, either. And if you push the table out of the way and find a delightfully thick, soft carpet underneath it, well, there you go. We took a long time to kiss before we shed our clothes. First his sweatshirt and then my blouse, his jeans, my skirt, and then he tossed one of my shoes over his shoulder. It landed out on the terrace with a slap that brought me to my senses for just a moment.

“Holt, I have to ask you something.”

He looked down at me solemnly. “You want to know if we'll be seeing each other again.”

“That, too,” I said. “But right now I want to know if you have a condom around.”

“Coming right up.”

“Well, I can
see
that.”

We were still laughing when he returned from the bathroom. Then we held each other close, and the laughter stopped. I traced my fingertips along his temple, his jawline, watching my own reflection in his green, green eyes. He kissed me, hard, and a wave of passion drove us against each other with a force that was close to violence. He was crushing me, I was clawing at him, pulling him to me, demanding to be crushed. It was over very quickly, like a wave breaking, a rising, racing curve that smashes into spray and thunder and disappears. I lay cradled in Holt's arms, listening to his heartbeat become heavy and slow against my heart.

The telephone woke us. Holt grabbed his jeans and went to answer it, leaving me chilled and befuddled on the carpet. It was obviously a client. Holt's voice was all business. I groped for my clothes and found my way to the bathroom. It was late
in the day, clouding over, and I was suddenly anxious to be back in my own home before dark. As I washed and dressed, the sight of Gus's blood-soaked fur kept appearing in my mind, and the memory of Nickie's tears this morning clashed in an ugly way with the laughter and the passion of this afternoon. Sex with strangers and crimes in the night, I thought, struggling for humor to combat a mounting sense of depression. Enough of this. I want a cup of tea and a nice cozy chat with Lily.