Part 23 (1/2)

”Paul's publisher is a man named Roger Talbot-”

”Oh, I met him!” she said. ”When Paul showed me around at the Sentinel. He's very attractive.”

”Isn't he? And very prominent here in Seattle. The next mayor, everyone says. Well, he recently lost his wife, and I know he's going to feel all at sea at the wedding. Could I possibly prevail on you to have dinner with him, keep him company a little?”

Monica glowed at the prospect, as I hoped she would. ”I'd be glad to. Poor man...”

Now I just had to ask Roger to do me a favor and tend to Monica, and we'd be all set. I drove home feeling highly self-satisfied, and pleasantly hungry for a real dinner, a meal beyond pea pods. But when I entered the office and picked up the ringing telephone, my appet.i.te vanished.

”Carnegie, it's Corinne,” she said in a quavering voice. ”I'm in terrible trouble!”

Chapter Thirty.

AS I STOOD THERE, ALONE ON MY DARKENED HOUSEBOAT ALONE ON MY DARKENED HOUSEBOAT, fear rippled over my skin like wind on water. Foy got away, he tracked her down...

”Corinne, where are you? Is Lester Foy there?”

”Oh my G.o.d!” she gasped. ”He escaped! Oh my G.o.d-”

”Calm down and tell me where you are so I can call the police.” I fumbled for my wallet, where I'd tucked Lieutenant Graham's card. Calling his direct line might bring help faster than 911.

Corinne said, ”I'm at home-”

”Are you alone? Are the doors locked?”

”Yes, everything's locked, but-”

”Where did you see him?”

”See him?” she parroted.

”Lester Foy! Where was he when you saw him?”

”But I didn't see him.”

I sat in my desk chair and took a deep breath. ”Then how do you know he escaped?”

”You just said so! You said he was coming here-”

”No,” I said wearily. ”No, no, no. Do over. As far as I know, Foy's still in jail.”

”Thank goodness! I thought you meant-”

”Yes, I understand what you thought. Now, what's your terrible trouble?”

”It's my dress,” she said defensively, as if this critical topic had been outshone by the mere threat of murder. ”It's too tight. I tried to let out the side seams but one of them tore and now it looks awful. What am I going to do?”

I could think of several things for Corinne to do, none of them polite, so I moved on to practicalities. ”I'll call Stephanie Stevens at home, and arrange for a quick repair. But I don't think there's much fabric in those seams to let out. Can you get the zipper closed even partway?”

”Oh, the zipper closes all right, but my tummy pooches out and the dress hangs funny.”

Quelle surprise. You've only been eating like a horse for weeks.

”Well, Stephanie can st.i.tch up the tear,” I said, as if speaking to a child. A dim child. ”Beyond that, you'll just have to suck in your stomach and hope for the best.”

”But, Carnegie!” Corinne wailed. ”I have to look my very, very best on Sat.u.r.day. It's important!”

Of course, I realized ruefully, she wants to dazzle Boris. A matchmaker should be more sympathetic.

”You'll look fine,” I soothed. ”Honestly, that shade of pink is just gorgeous with your hair and complexion.”

”You really think so?”

”Absolutely. And the neckline is perfect for your... for you. You'll be irresistible. Try not to worry about it, OK? Just drop off the gown at Stephanie's tomorrow morning, and I'll see you tomorrow night at the rehearsal. Everything will be fine.”

As it turned out, the rehearsal could not have been farther from fine.

I a.s.sembled my motley crew at EMP's main entrance and led them down to the private theater, with its state-of-the-art seating and display screens. A rather severe background for a wedding, but Elizabeth had vetoed having the ceremony out in the Sky Church, on the grounds that it would be a nuisance to clear the chairs afterwards for dancing. I suspected her real reason, though: in a huge s.p.a.ce like the Sky Church, with its 85-foot ceiling, a mere bride would be barely noticeable. In the small, plain theater, her appearance would be electrifying.

The rehearsal could have used some electricity, or at least a smile or two. I had rarely seen a more disgruntled wedding party. For starters, the bride and groom weren't speaking to each other. Elizabeth wore that smoke-and-flame expression I had seen at the Alexis, and Paul was maintaining a dogged silence quite unlike his usual affability. Evidently the path of true love had developed a pothole that afternoon, but no one was saying why.

I considered playing therapist, then let it go in favor of my role as stage manager. Which was tough enough, given my cast of characters.

”It's not very pretty, is it?” mused Monica, gazing critically around. ”Not like a church.”

”When's the last time you were in a church?” Burt inquired sardonically. ”You some kind of Swedish Lutheran now?”

”He's Norwegian,” she p.r.o.nounced, as if Burt were hard of hearing. ”And I'm just saying that it's not a very decorative place. I'm the kind of person who-”

”I think we know what kind of person you are,” snapped Burt, and everyone in the room stiffened, like dogs hearing distant thunder.

”We'll have some fabulous flower arrangements, Monica,”

I said, cheerfully deaf. ”And softer lighting, and the music. Now, if you could all just take a seat, we'll get started in a moment....”

Monica subsided-at a pointed distance from her husband-and her daughter Patty, red-eyed and pale, sat next to her. Not that Monica seemed to care. Patty must be working night s.h.i.+fts, I thought. Nurses lead a dog's life sometimes. And so do least-favorite daughters. The maid of honor wore white slacks and clunky white walking shoes, along with a shapeless rain parka that she kept clutched around her, as if to emphasize the fact that she'd rather be elsewhere.

That was the bride's family; the groom's kin was hardly in better shape. Paul's brother Scott, the third groomsman, was a slight, balding fellow who seemed to be surgically attached to his cell phone. He had barely arrived from Baltimore, jet-lagged and cranky, and his mind was still back in his office three thousand miles away. Howard and Chloe, the groom's parents, had returned early from Hawaii with the most spectacular sunburns I'd ever seen. Their faces were puffed and scarlet, the skin stretched tight and s.h.i.+ny over the affronted flesh. It hurt just to look at them.

Chloe merely sat and winced, but Howard had bought himself a digital camera for the trip, and was conquering his pain by annoying his wife and everyone else in a relentless pursuit of close-up candids.

”Big smile,” he kept saying, as he zoomed in on one victim after another. ”Come on now, big smile!”

I wondered if the lobsteresque in-laws were the source of Elizabeth's pique. In the heady rush of getting everything they desire for their special day, some brides lose touch altogether with the real world, and expect their wedding photos to look like movie stills. But you can't get friends and relations from Central Casting. At Elizabeth's orders, the two mothers had bought dresses in harmonious shades of coral-which would now clash with Chloe's peeling countenance.