After a long moment, she shrugged. “We were at the bar till closing. You didn’t hear us singing?”
“Oh yeah, I guess I did.” I let out my breath. Nice and clear, and easy to verify. “Were Todd and Danny there, too?”
“I think Danny was,” she said vaguely. “Yeah, Danny was. And maybe Toddy. Or not. Don’t remember.”
That didn’t help much, but whether or not the Tyke was a suspect, I could still use her as a source of further information. She might have lost track of some facts while under the influence, but maybe she’d be more forthcoming about relationships.
“Tell me,” I said, “how did Brian get along with the rest of the crew? I only knew him as family, but how was he to work with? Did you hear anything about arguments, or that he rubbed anybody the wrong way?”
“No!” she said quickly. Defensively? She went on to explain, “Brian wasn’t here long enough to get on anybody’s nerves, really. And when you’re jumping, you don’t let shit like that get in the way. You’ve got work to do, you do it. He was a good jumper, that’s all that mattered.”
“Of course.” She was covering something, I was sure of it, but I didn’t want to press her. I’d just have to ask Jack instead. There was another question, though, that I didn’t want to ask him. Not that I really cared about the answer, but... “So,what did Jack say about me?”
The Tyke gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “He said you were the one who got away. The one who—”
“Ladies, ladies!” Mrs. White Coat had tracked us down. “You’re going to miss the sugar scrub!”
The scrub was interesting, if scratchy, and I tried to slough off the thought of Jack along with my skin cells. That was ancient history, after all. Then the hot stone massage gave me time to mull over the alibi question. Alibi and motive.
If the Tyke really was at the Pio last night, that would clear her of the security guard’s death, and therefore Brian’s, as well. That left Todd or Danny. But if neither of them knew Brian on a personal level, what could possibly be the motive for his death? And whatever the motive, why risk killing him on a fire, when suspicion would fall on so few people?
Beyond that, why kill the security guard at all? Unless Larabee was right, and that death was part of a bungled robbery. In which case, maybe Dr. Nothstine was wrong, and Brian’s death was accidental...it was all too complicated to think about.
The final spa treatment made it hard to think at all. I knew that Tracy wanted her bridesmaids to present a uniform glow, so when Ilsa mentioned tanning I assumed she meant frying under bright lights. I planned to skip the redhead fricassee, but when I brought up the whole skin-cancer issue, Mrs. White Coat simply laughed.
“We don’t do that sort of thing
here,
” she said complacently, as if tanning booths were on par with scuzzy tattoo parlors. “We offer an airbrushed self-tanning micro-fine mist, administered by a licensed aesthetician, which guarantees against streaking or missed spots.”
“Sort of like spray-painting cars?”
She smiled vaguely. “Something like that. You’ll be a soft golden shade within four to six hours. Won’t that be nice? Just step in here.”
“Here” was a spartan little space like a massage cubicle, but with nowhere to lie down. Soon a matter-of-fact woman with a spray apparatus was doing her number on me, oblivious to my nakedness and vigilant about every little pulse of her micro-mist. Too, too weird.
The Tyke was gone by the time I emerged, so B.J. and I compared notes in the parking lot. I told her about the alibi, and she told me she’d gone with Sedona Sundown. She also showed me that her frown lines had disappeared.
“But I
liked
your frown lines.”
“Killjoy. Are we having dinner?”
“Maybe a late one, but I’m not sure,” I said, climbing into my rental car. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Suit yourself. But let me know if Dr. J. lynches anybody in the meantime.”
Once at the lodge I stopped at the espresso bar to get myself a double cappuccino. You can take the girl out of Seattle, but you have to keep the caffeine in the girl. The lobby was crowded, not a chair to be had, so I pressed on upstairs to the Paliere suite.
Between wondering about Dr. Nothstine and worrying about the wedding, I was thoroughly preoccupied, and if there were footsteps behind me in the carpeted hallway I didn’t hear them. Not even as they came closer. I just stood with my back turned, engrossed in digging out my room key.
What I did hear, at last, was the rush of movement as someone clamped my arms to my sides and lifted me half off my feet, his breath hot on my neck. My scream was muted by a gasp of fear, but I managed to squirm sideways and stamp on his instep. Then I flung the contents of my paper cup in his face, partly by design, partly because I was flailing in panic.
Instantly his arms fell away, and a bellowing roar revealed the identity of my assailant.
“Kharr-negie, are you
insane
?”
Chapter Seventeen
GETTING WARM MILK OUT OF BORIS NEVSKY’S BEARD WAS NO easy task. He ended up taking a shower in the suite’s bathroom, while I sponged away at his spattered clothes and hunted in vain for an iron.
I felt like a fool. Boris couldn’t have known why I was so jumpy, but I didn’t intend to tell him. The fewer people who knew about this whole business, the better.
“Your slacks are OK,” I called when I heard the water stop. “But your shirt will need pressing. Honestly, I am
so
sorry.”
“No more apology!” Boris declared, emerging in a cloud of steam with a lodge towel knotted around his waist. Knowing him, I figured he wanted to show off his burly brown torso and the curly pelt of black hair on his chest. “You are woman, you are frightened. I forgive you.”
“And I appreciate that,” I said, suppressing any hint of sarcasm. He was the one bailing me out in a crisis, after all. “There’s an ironing board here but no iron, so I called Housekeeping. That must be them now.”
A brief rap had sounded at the door. Boris, who was closer, and who was perfectly willing to share his manly beauty with the maid, strode over and flung it open. But it wasn’t a maid he found standing there. It was a scandalously handsome Frenchman.
“Excusez-moi!”
said Beau Paliere. “It appears I have the wrong room...”
His voice trailed away as he took it all in. The half-naked stranger. The still-rumpled bed. And the tall skinny redhead, last seen in Seattle at Christmas, now seen clutching a man’s shirt and staring at him in mute astonishment. The redhead who knew about his secret toupee.
Beau did a classic double take, first at the room number on the door and then back at me, before flinging up his arms and letting loose a tumbling flood of French and English. I couldn’t follow it all, but the import was plain, and the few words I caught didn’t bode well for Paliere employee relations. “Outrageous,” for example, and “impudence.”
I was just inquiring, rather weakly, whether Beau had heard from Shara Mortimer lately, when he used a French phrase that made Boris gasp, and set fire to the notoriously short Nevsky fuse.
“How dare you say such thing to Kharnegie!” bellowed the Mad Russian. “Who are you, to come and insult my friend? Get out!”
“Get
out
?” echoed Beau, as if he didn’t recognize the phrase. “I am to ‘get out’ of my own suite?
Incroyable!
”
Boris replied in his own flood of French, and the two of them proceeded to insult each other at a rising volume and in escalating detail. At least that’s what I assumed they were doing, because at that moment a pretty young woman in uniform arrived with an iron, Boris’s towel began to give way, and I opted for the better part of valor by snatching up my tote bag and getting the hell out of Dodge.
Down in the lobby, I wove my way through the lounging guests and the milling tourists to secure myself another cappuccino, which I carried to a brocaded armchair in a quiet corner. There I sat, trying to put my thoughts in order before returning upstairs to explain the situation to this second set of bull elk. I was getting tired of testosterone.
So, would Beau banish me from the wedding? Not if I could help it. We had a contract, after all, and I was doing a damn good job to earn my remarkably high fee. Most of all, though, my official role gave me behind-the-scenes access to the smoke-jumper base, even if I’d just be tagging along behind Beau. I was determined to find out what had really happened to Brian, and maybe help B.J. with her necklace after all, and definitely prove to myself that I could watch Jack Packard get married without a pang....
First things first,
I told myself sternly.
Old flames are not the
top priority here.
The Tyke appeared to have an alibi for last night, one that I could easily check out with Jack. If he could confirm that Danny was at the Pioneer with them, as the Tyke had said, that would shorten the suspect list, at least for the guard’s death, to a single name: Todd Gibson.
It looked like my indecision about Odd Todd might be decided after all. But if so, if Todd didn’t have an alibi for the guard’s death, then what? Then Dr. Nothstine and I would have to persuade the authorities to take over. Hopefully before the wedding, which was now less than three days away.
It’s funny how your own name will reach you, right through a babble of voices that you think you’re ignoring. At this point in my ponderings someone spoke my first name, and I looked around to see who.
Over near the main entrance, silhouetted by the bright afternoon, Sam Kane stood talking with his son. Talking at him, rather. Their body language was revealing. Sam was leaning forward with his Stetson tipped back, gesturing sharply, authoritative and angry. Danny’s shoulders were hunched in stubborn defiance, hands jammed in his pockets as he stared at the floor and muttered some reply.
Apparently the Tyke was right about Danny being at the bar last night, because he looked just as hung over as yesterday. Sam turned his head away as if in disgust, then spotted me and waved me over. I complied, more than willing to postpone Beau for a few minutes.
“Hey there, Red,” said Sam. “Talk some sense into this pigheaded boy of mine, would you? He says he doesn’t want to be an usher after all, says we should get someone else!”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I tried to keep a neutral tone. No sense antagonizing the “boy” any further. “Tracy must be disappointed.”
“She hasn’t heard yet.” Sam snatched off his hat and rubbed the back of his neck with a gusty sigh. “But she won’t be happy, and her mother’ll be mad as dammit.”
“You don’t have to make a big deal out of it,” said Danny sullenly. He certainly was acting adolescent. “I just don’t want to put on a monkey suit and get stared at, that’s all. Why is that such a big deal?”
“It isn’t, not really,” I said, feeling my way along. “Though I’m sure you look fine in your tux.”
I had no business doing this, now that Beau was on the scene, but I didn’t care. Wedding diplomacy is a specialty of mine. I’ve learned that last-minute jitters, not uncommon in the wedding party, can often be soothed away. Although if they can’t, it’s best not to push.
“Of course he looks fine!” said Sam. “We all do. We got fitted up and tailored last week. Damn nonsense.”
Danny clamped his mouth shut. I know a collision course when I see one, so I made a quick judgment call and slipped a hand under Sam’s elbow to draw him aside. Technically, I was still running this wedding.
“You know, Sam, since you’ll be busy walking Tracy down the aisle, Danny could just escort Cissy and then sit with her. We could ask one of the other jumpers to usher.”
“You sure that’s according to Hoyle, Red? The womenfolk are worked up enough already, and if this sets them off—”
“It won’t,” I promised. “They have plenty of other things to think about.”
“Well, I guess you know best. But you better be the one to break it to them.”
“Sure. Unless Danny wants to... Danny?”
But the grand doors of the lodge were swinging shut, and Danny was gone. It looked like I would have to break the news to them—and find another opportunity to ask him about the songfest at the Pio last night.
“Damn the boy,” Sam fumed. “I know he’s not all that keen on Tracy, but wouldn’t you think he’d take her wedding seriously, just out of respect for me? Been drinking like a fish on a hot day, too.”
“All the jumpers are having a hard time right now,” I said, remembering the Tyke and her joint. “They’ve lost one of their own, Sam. It’s only natural that... Good lord! I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
Sam turned to follow my astonished stare. Beau Paliere and Boris Nevsky were descending the main staircase, not quite arm-in-arm, but deep in cordial conversation. They were still speaking French, but it hardly smacked of horse-whips and pistols at dawn. If anything, they sounded like a couple of men-about-Paris reminiscing over last night’s spree.
“My dear Carnegie, there you are!” Beau approached us with outstretched arms. “We must discuss our plans. And my most esteemed
Monsieur
Kane! You see, I have left Venice behind to be here once again in your most glorious Idaho.”
He swooped in for an embrace and a Gallic double-cheek kiss, but the lucky recipient was Sam, not me. And if I expected Monsieur Kane to give the Frenchman a Shara Mortimer-style heave-ho, I was sadly mistaken, because Sam lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Bo, you dog! Look at that, Red, we got Bo back. Now we’ll get this show on the road!”
And here I’d thought the show was well on the road already. But the father of the bride, it seemed, was wholly in thrall to the Paliere magic, and I was suddenly demoted to sorcerer’s apprentice. Especially when Beau brought Boris forward and gave me a quick master-level class in oneupmanship.
“Monsieur Kane,” said Beau gravely, one hand on the Russian’s shoulder, “I have fabulous news for you. Fabulous. This man is Boris Nevsky. This man is the
premier
floral designer of the West. He has agreed to design Tracy’s flowers as a favor, a personal favor, to me.”
Oh, gag me with a gladiola,
I thought. But Sam bought it.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, pumping Boris’s hand. “I thought we had that woman, Valerie something, but if Bo says you’re the best, why, that’s good enough for me and my girl.”
Boris, the modest mastermind, inclined his shaggy head. “Very generous, my friend Beau. We make magnificent wedding for your daughter.”
“I bet you will,” said Sam. “I’ll just bet you will. Wait’ll Cissy hears this. Say, you and Bo should come to dinner at our house tonight. I got the caterer staying there; he’ll do us up something special. You, too, Red.”
“Alas, Carnegie will be busy here, will you not,
ma belle
?” Beau turned his bedroom eyes to me with an unmistakable message in their dark blue depths:
If you want the job, you
play along. And not one word about my hair.
“Terribly busy,” I said, giving in. Then I decided on a lesson of my own. “What with the contracts and the timetables and that letter you asked me to draft for you. You remember, Beau, the letter of recommendation about all my fine work for Paliere Productions?”
“Good man,” said Sam. “Damn nice of you.”
I could have kissed him. Beau hesitated just a fraction and then said, “But of course, the letter. By all means.”
“Good night, then,” I said gaily. “Be sure and let me know when you’re coming back tonight, so I can clear out of the suite.”
“Hey, that’s right,” said Sam. “Red’s been bunking here at the lodge. Tell you what, why don’t both you fellas stay at our place for the duration? We got plenty of room, and then Red won’t have to move. How’s that?”
“Perfect,” said Beau. The invitation seemed to soothe his pride. “My luggage is at the bellman’s desk. I will see you tomorrow,
ma belle,
shall we say ten o’clock? Sweet dreams.”
He followed Sam to the desk, his very shoulder blades expressing suave superiority. Boris lingered behind.
“What the hell is this?” I hissed, controlling my voice, if not my temper. “I thought he couldn’t make it?”
“In Venice, it rains,” said Boris, as if this explained everything. “The women, they are in raincoats, they are cold and disagreeable. Paliere, he wishes sunshine. And actresses, I think.”
“Your old friend Paliere, you mean. The one you’re doing personal favors for. You’ve never even met the man!”
The Mad Russian shuffled his feet. “Do not be angry. It is for Bill Gates and cruise.”
“What?”
“Paliere and me, we stop shouting, we talk. I tell him why you are here, I tell him Valerie Cox cannot come. But I say now I, too, am leaving, because he insults my Kharnegie. Then he says he is director of summer cruise for Bill Gates, and if I help him now, I will come and do flowers for ship.” Boris gave a large and eloquent shurg. “Is big contract, my Kharnegie. And I like to cruise.”
I gaped in indignation. “Did you at least explain what you were doing in my shower?”
“Not exactly...” More shuffling, like a grizzly bear coming all over bashful. So
that’s
what the men-about-Paris were smirking over.
“Oh, never mind.” Beau’s misapprehensions about my love life were the least of my worries. “Go eat your damn dinner.”
The suite felt almost homey by now. I changed from the red dress into shorts, spread out my paperwork on the conference table, and labored away at my temporary office for the next few hours. At first I checked the clock every few minutes, impatient for Dr. Nothstine’s call. But it was so long in coming, and I was so deep in wedding details, that when the phone finally rang it startled me.
“Did the BLM people listen?” I asked her. “Are they going to investigate?”
“They did not, and they will not.” Julie Nothstine sounded tired and old. “The official finding still stands. Brian Thiel died as the result of an accident during his letdown.”
“But what about the security guard?” I protested.
“Unrelated. They suggested that I take the matter to the police.”
“And did you?”
“I did indeed.” The familiar acerbic bite returned to her voice. “A dreadful person named Larabee. Quite obtuse. I had to raise my voice to him, which I dislike doing, and he still failed to understand. In the end he called me a hysterical woman and had me escorted from the building. I shall file a complaint, of course.”
I grimaced, thinking,
I should have gone with her after all.
But I didn’t say it aloud. Too patronizing, and maybe not even true. Would Larabee have taken me any more seriously? I could just hear him asking that if I really thought my cousin was murdered by a smoke jumper, why on God’s green earth had I gone wandering around the base after dark? And I wouldn’t have had much of an answer.
“I’m so sorry,” I said lamely. “What should we do now?”
“I intend to return to the smoke-jumper base tomorrow and try again,” said Dr. Nothstine. Her voice was dwindling. “For the moment, however, I plan to lie down and rest. I find the heat rather fatiguing.”