Part 24 (1/2)
WHAT'S A WEDDING MORNING WITHOUT ONE LAST DISASTER?
Friday night, after a grueling round-robin of tactful phone calls, I persuaded Paul to apologize to Elizabeth on Aaron's behalf-Aaron himself being incommunicado-and then got Elizabeth to accept the apology and simmer down. By Sat.u.r.day morning I was checking off details and hitting on all cylinders-food, flowers, liquor, limos, table linens, gla.s.sware, music, parking, coat check, gift table, everything, even Corinne's dress-when I got a call from Todd, the cake baker, at his studio on Queen Anne Hill. The ordinarily terse Scotsman was overflowing with apologies, anxiety, and bad news.
”I never screw up, Carnegie, you know that. I keep my truck tuned like a b.l.o.o.d.y piano. I've got Triple A here, but they can't start it either, and once they tow it to a garage there's no telling when I'll get it back. I've been calling round to borrow a vehicle but-”
”No need,” I told him. ”I'll come over there myself. Vanna should be just big enough.”
”Who's Vanna?”
”Sorry, I mean my van. If you can help me secure the cake in the back?”
”Aye, I've got all sorts of padding and tie-downs, we'll make it work. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y angel, Carnegie.” As he said it, I could picture the relieved smile on Todd's long, freckly face. ”This is the grandest piece I've ever done, and I want those on-site photos.”
”You'll get them,” I promised. ”Will you ride down to the EMP with me?”
”I'd rather follow you in my car so I can go tend to my truck afterwards.”
”Fine. I'll be there in half an hour.” I put down the phone and turned to Eddie, who was knee-deep in printouts and happily gnawing an unlit cigar. ”Looks like I'm on cake patrol. I might as well stay at the EMP once I'm there, and just run back home later to suit up.”
”I meant to mention,” said my partner, his voice oddly casual. ”I'd, ah, kinda like to see you in that gown.”
”Why, you sentimental son of a gun! Sure, I'll model for you. We'll get a picture of the two of us and send it to Mom.” Eddie was still one of my mother's oldest and dearest friends. ”Lily's coming by at five to help me dress, you can come down then.”
Eddie turned suddenly brusque and bashful. ” 'Course I might not be in the office that late. Probably will, though. Say, you better keep that cake dry, sister. It's raining again.”
It was indeed, a slanting ice-water rain that popped off the wooden surface of the outside steps as I descended them. I wished, for the millionth time, that my houseboat had interior stairs between my home and office, although I knew full well that a stairwell would eat up half the floor s.p.a.ce of both. I darted into my kitchen, grabbed my old goose-down parka with the more-or-less waterproof sh.e.l.l, and then rushed out again. Straight into Zack Hartmann.
”Hey, what are you doing here?” I said. ”Oops, sorry-”
Zack bore a cellophane-wrapped bundle that slipped to the ground in our collision. He retrieved it while I unfurled my umbrella, and handed it to me: a sorry-looking supermarket bouquet of desiccated carnations and skeletal mums. The poor things would have done better out in the rain.
”It's to, like, apologize for last night,” said a blus.h.i.+ng Robin Hood. ”I think I made you mad.”
”Oh, Zack, I wasn't mad! I was just frustrated by all that fussing around at the rehearsal. These are very nice, thank you. I'll put them in water, and then I've got to run.”
”I thought we could talk... ?” he began.
”We will talk, but not right now. I've got to get up to Queen Anne and fetch Elizabeth's cake.”
He brightened. ”I'll come and help you.”
”No, that's not-Actually, yes, I could use an extra pair of hands, to sit in back and keep the cake steady. Better yet, you can drive while I ride shotgun. I've still got phone calls to make.”
”Cool! Good thing I came over, huh?”
You'd have thought it was me doing Zack the favor. I felt a brief pang at taking advantage of his infatuation, but on a wedding day I'll dragoon anybody to do anything, just to get the job done.
I stayed busy on my cell phone the whole way up to Todd's, raising my voice above the thrumming of the rain on Vanna's roof. Zack drove in silent concentration, apparently determined to be the world's best a.s.sistant cake picker-upper. But both of us broke into awed exclamations when Todd wheeled out the low cart bearing his tour de force.
And it was awesome. The confectionary s.p.a.ce Needle was a good two feet tall, and the cake itself covered an area almost three by four. I'd know the Needle if it was carved in Spam, but I was amazed at how instantly recognizable the EMP was, with undulations of rolled fondant re-creating the glistening swerves and curves of the building in silver, gold, red, and bright blue. The final flourish, a marzipan monorail on chocolate tracks, was so cute you could eat it up. So to speak.
”Todd, this is extraordinary,” I told him. ”I've never seen anything like it.”
”Well,” he said, taking a stab at modesty, ”it's a fairly interesting building to start with. Now, young man, if you'll get that side of the board...”
The cake rested on a thick sheet of plywood covered with silver plastifoil, and boxed around the sides with heavy cardboard. No top on the box, though, not with the s.p.a.ce Needle rising high. But Todd's little loading bay was covered from the rain, and we all stayed dry, including our irreplaceable cargo, while he fussed over the loading like a hen with one chick.
It took all three of us to lift the thing-I wondered how many thousands of calories we were hefting-and quite a while to secure it in the back of the van. Then I belted myself into the backward-facing seat, where I could hold the plywood steady if we hit any b.u.mps.
”It'll do,” said Todd. ”I'll meet you down there, Carnegie. Young man, you drive slower than you've ever driven in your life.”
Zack pulled smoothly away from the studio, while I braced myself in my seat and watched the cake. The s.p.a.ce Needle vibrated ever so slightly, but otherwise all went well, until I realized that Zack was heading down the fearsome slope of Queen Anne Avenue. It's a twenty-degree grade that was once called The Counterbalance, because trolley cars had to be counter-weighted by a subterranean railcar full of concrete just to descend it safely, or to climb it in the first place.
As we angled downward, the plywood platform began to s.h.i.+ft forward towards me. And were the upper curves of the EMP bulging out as well?
”Zack, I should have told you to take a different route.” I craned around to look at him, hunched over the dashboard with his knuckles white on the wheel. ”You can still turn off, just take any side street. And for heaven's sakes, buckle your seat belt. You could get a ticket.”
”I don't think I better turn when it's this steep,” he said. ”Not too much farther...”
At least he was heeding Todd's warning and creeping along slowly, much to the displeasure of the drivers behind us. So far, so good. My cell phone chirped, and I fumbled it out of my bag without taking my eyes from the precious pay-load.
”Hey, Stretch, it's me. Eddie gave me your number.”
”Nice of you to call,” I said acidly. ”I was trying to reach you all evening. Are you going to let the stylist paint over that eye, or not? We've got one groomsman too many right now, and I promised Elizabeth-”
”OK, OK!” he said. ”I'll get painted. You're going to need me in the line-up.”
”What do you mean?”
”You're about to lose your not-very-secret admirer, Babyface Hartmann,” he said gleefully. ”Guess how old he is?”
”Aaron, this isn't a good-”
”He's twenty-nine! And he's got a prison record in Ma.s.sachusetts, for date rape no less. I knew I'd seen his picture somewhere. Paul brought his folks through the newsroom this morning, and old Howard let me download his digital snapshots from the rehearsal. I e-mailed the close-up of Zack to the Boston police, and I just heard back. His name's not Zack, by the way. It's Tyrone.”
I felt dazed. ”Tyrone?”
The instant I said the name aloud, I knew I'd made a horrible mistake. Zack straightened convulsively and whipped his head around to stare at me. I stared back, seeing a strange light in his shadowy blue eyes that brought back the roar of Snoqualmie Falls and the look in those same eyes when he said, ”I killed Mercedes.”
In the distance, a siren sounded. I began to hyperventilate.
”Yeah,” Aaron's voice chattered on, distantly. ”And Tyrone Peters broke his parole when he came out here. The SPD's going to pick him up today, so you'll have to do without him at your s.h.i.+ndig tonight-”
”Aaron,” I shouted, as Zack turned his back to me and hit the gas. ”Aaron, Zack is with me!”
That was all I got out, because Vanna went barreling down the grade and pancaked at a levelled intersection. The force of the impact flung the phone from my hand and set Todd's beautiful s.p.a.ce Needle rocking on its foundation. Instinctively, I lunged forward to try and steady it, but the lunge turned into a lurch and my outstretched fingers administered the coup de grace. The Needle toppled backward, still in one exquisite piece. Then it made contact with the edge of the box and smashed itself into a sweet, sad wreckage.