Part 4 (1/2)
Buck, Betty, and Bonnie had done tasting after tasting- these folks just loved to eat cake-but none of my usual bakeries had really wowed them. So far, they'd rejected a traditional tiered cake with holly trim, a forty-pound brandied fruitcake, and a fantasy forest of fir-tree-shaped croques en bouche in a blizzard of spun sugar. Time was getting short. I had one more baker, deep in my Rolodex, who might just do the trick....
The doors swooshed open on the intensive care unit. Surprise, surprise: the police knew their job better than I did. At the end of the corridor I could see a brawny officer planted on a folding chair beside a door. Tommy's room. I made a beeline for it, past a waiting area full of family members with strained expressions, despondently doing jigsaw puzzles or rereading magazines. I tried not to see them, not to imagine who or what they were waiting for. A tiny, sharp-nosed black supervisor with bloodshot eyes intercepted me, demanding my full name and relations.h.i.+p to the patient.
”You're not Mr. Barry's daughter, then,” she said. It sounded like an accusation. ”Immediate family only at this time.”
”Tommy has a daughter? Can I get her phone number? I'd like to help.”
”We can't release that information.”
”Can you at least tell me how he's doing? Or could I talk to his doctor?”
”The doctor would tell you that Mr. Barry's condition is critical,” she said, glaring up at me, ”and there are no visitors allowed except immediate family.”
In another minute she'd call the cop over to evict me; he was already watching us suspiciously. Well, at least I knew Tommy was safe. I stopped in the hospital gift shop on my way out and tried to order a bouquet for his room, but they told me flowers weren't allowed in the ICU. As I bypa.s.sed the elevator and clattered down the fire stairs to the van, I vowed to myself that I'd bring an armful of blossoms when Tommy woke up. Surely he'd wake up soon. At the moment, I didn't even care if he could identify the murderer. I just wanted Tommy Barry back in the land of the living.
Preoccupied as I was, I must have pulled out of my parking s.p.a.ce too fast. A bang like a gunshot coincided with a shock that flung me forward against my shoulder belt. I sat still for a moment, unsure at first of what had happened. Then I realized and groaned aloud, not in pain but in sorrow. If my insurance goes up I'm screwed. I scrambled out. My fender was a mess, but the occupants of the other car, a Catholic priest and a drab young woman, seemed to be intact.
”I'm so sorry,” I babbled as they climbed out of the s.h.i.+ny blue sedan. The priest, a burly man in his sixties, had been driving. ”Honest, I thought I looked, but the pillar was blocking me. I'll pay for any-Corinne?”
Drab and washed-out, matted hair pulled back with a rubber band, lush figure bundled in an oversized parka, the pa.s.senger was indeed Corinne Campbell. I'd never seen her without her face painted and her hair styled, but those round, slightly bulging aquamarine eyes were unmistakable. Of course, the ambulance must have brought her here, and then they kept her overnight. She stood hugging herself as if she were cold, looking dazed and miserable, staring at nothing.
”Do you know each other?” the priest asked, in the rich, confident voice of a born public speaker. He held out his hand. ”What a very small world. I'm Father Richard Barn-stable. And you're-?”
”Carnegie Kincaid.” We shook hands and I nodded at Vanna's copper-colored Made in Heaven logo. Wedding professionals often do pink, so I try to stand out. ”I'm an event planner. I was at the party last night where Corinne... that is, the party at the Aquarium. One of the guests had a car accident.”
Corinne snapped to attention. ”Who?”
”It was Tommy Barry. He's in critical condition, I couldn't get in to see him. Listen, Corinne, how are you? I mean, are you OK now, and are you all right from last night?”
And did you jump or fall? That's what I really wanted to ask, though I'd feel guilty about it either way. Either I failed her as a friend or I failed to spot a safety hazard at the party venue. Maybe I should call myself a disaster planner.
”I'm fine,” she said absently, gnawing at a thumbnail. ”Father Richard is taking me home. Father, you're not hurt, are you?”
”Not at all, not at all. And the car seems to be undamaged, though Ms. Kincaid's van looks the worse for the encounter.”
”It's just a little body work,” I said, bending down to inspect the fender. It wasn't quite sc.r.a.ping against the wheel, but it looked awful, with bare metal showing through the white paint. Poor old Vanna. Nothing like a dilapidated vehicle to make a really cla.s.sy impression. ”It's drivable.”
Corinne wasn't interested in the state of my van. ”What happened to Tommy?”
”He was drunk and he tried to drive himself home. He's still unconscious. Corinne, has anyone told you about Mercedes?”
She stared at me. Corinne never seemed to blink. ”It was on the news this morning. What happened? They didn't really say.”
I'm used to counseling hysterical brides and soothing their irate mothers, but explaining this kind of news to this kind of person was above and beyond. To complicate matters, a behemoth SUV full of teenagers came down the ramp and honked at us; the priest's car was blocking the aisle. He hastened to move it, and Corinne stepped aside with me.
”I can't say much either,” I told her, remembering Graham's admonition. ”She died some time during the party, or right after. I found her. The police are questioning everyone, so you'll probably get a phone call. They, um, know about your fall.”
A hand shot out from the baggy sleeve of her parka and gripped my arm. ”Carnegie, I didn't fall.”
”Oh, Corinne, I'm so sorry. I knew you were upset about Boris, I should have come and found you so we could talk. Aaron feels really bad about it, too. Is Father Richard going to stay with you this afternoon? You can always call me, you know.”
”What are you talkin' about?” Her Southern accent had grown stronger.
”Well, I don't want to b.u.t.t in, but if you're still feeling like you might harm yourself, you shouldn't be alone.”
”Y'all think I jumped?” She shook my arm impatiently and her eyes got even rounder. ”Carnegie, somebody tried to drown me.”
Chapter Seven.
IT WAS MY TURN TO STARE, INTO THE AQUAMARINE SHALLOWS of Corinne's wide, wild eyes. The of Corinne's wide, wild eyes. The SUV SUV lumbered off, and we were left in echoing silence. lumbered off, and we were left in echoing silence.
”Are you sure? Maybe it was a joke. People were drinking a lot-”
”I don't know who did it, but it wasn't a joke. I was sitting on the edge of the pier, over where the guests weren't supposed to be, you know? I went around the barricade. I just wanted to be alone. Somebody in a black cape, or a cloak or something, came up behind me. He bunched it over my face and we wrestled around and then I hit my head. Next thing I knew, that guard was hauling me out of the water. I didn't jump, honestly. You believe me, don't you?”
Father Richard joined us at this point, and Corinne's demeanor changed abruptly. Her expression went blank, and she turned quickly away from us to get into his sedan and slam the door.
”I'll take her home,” the priest told me, as I gazed after her in consternation. ”We'll just forget the fender bender, shall we?”
”Father, has Corinne told the police she was attacked?”
He moved closer, his back to Corinne, and spoke softly.
”She plans to,” he said. ”Unfortunately.”
”What do you mean?”
”You have to understand,” he said, ”she's told stories like this before. I've known Corinne since she came here to the university, and she's always had, well, call it a vivid imagination. She gets a bit dramatic when things aren't going well. There was a young man once, she was angry at him, and she made an accusation that wasn't quite true.”
”An accusation?...” I couldn't quite say ”rape” to a priest.
He nodded significantly. ”We settled it quietly enough, but the police are unlikely to take her seriously a second time. Nor should they, I'm afraid. I think Corinne just needs a different way to explain what happened last night. Self-destruction is a sin against G.o.d's love, you know, and she's a very devout girl.”
”I understand,” I said, though I wasn't sure I did. ”Well, here's my card, in case there's a problem about your car. Thanks for being so reasonable about it.”
”You're welcome. G.o.d bless you.”
They left, and I drove away with my thoughts spinning like a whirlpool. It was certainly possible that one woman tried to kill herself on the same night that another woman was murdered. Corinne might well have repented her suicide attempt, then gotten the idea for her ”story” from the report of Mercedes' death on the news. She'd been all alone out there in the dark, beyond the barricade, with no witnesses. Simple enough, last night, to slip into the water in drunken despair. Simple enough, this morning, to pretend there was a killer stalking the party, and play the victim instead of the fool. Or the sinner.
But wasn't the boy who cried wolf devoured by one? Was Corinne's wolf in a black cloak imaginary, or all too real?
I needed time to think, and I wanted to give the Buckmeisters time to vacate the office, so I swung out of my way to do a drive-by of the Experience Music Project. Even if Paul and Elizabeth decided to postpone, I'd have to check off this ch.o.r.e eventually. For each of my weddings, I drive to the site pretending I'm a guest with no special knowledge of one-way streets or parking-lot entrances. It gives me a better sense of where to put signs or set up valet parking, and serves as a double check if we've put a map in with the invitation.
Eddie harrumphs that people should fend for themselves, but I believe that your experience as a wedding guest begins when you walk out your front door. Inconvenient dates, unreasonable distances, or incomprehensible driving directions are just as bad as wilted flowers or a lackl.u.s.ter cake. So I drove through the thinning drizzle, and parked Vanna just as the faint, moist suns.h.i.+ne began to gleam on the vast curves of the Experience Music Project, where it reared up from the Seattle Center grounds.
I had mixed feelings about the EMP, at least the outside of it. Inside, the rock-and-roll museum was fabulous: 140,000 square feet of interactive exhibits, memorabilia from doo-wop to Hendrix to riot grrrls, and various innovative performance s.p.a.ces. And, of course, it made a hip venue for a wedding.