Part 28 (2/2)
Catcalls and more lewd comments followed. Make that a herd of bulls. A sort of testosterone bellowing arose, and emergency or not, I decided to bail out. I didn't have to put up with this. Then a new voice, familiar this time, cut across the others.
”Shut up, you jerks! Carnegie, what are you doing here?”
The speaker was a young black man, even taller than me and nearly as lanky, but with rock-solid biceps gleaming darkly against his sleeveless white T-s.h.i.+rt. He had large, ardent eyes, and a humorous curl to his wide mouth that I knew very well-from all the time I spent hanging out with his sister.
Darwin James was the younger brother of my best friend, Lily, and a coworker of Frank Sanjek's at the headquarters of Meet for Coffee. The MFC chain of espresso shops had been giving Starbucks a run for their money. Frank was a brand manager, and Darwin, formerly an underground comics artist, was now a hip, much-in-demand graphic designer. He was also one of Frank's groomsmen.
”What's going on here?” I asked him. ”I had an urgent call to come talk to Jason. Is someone hurt?”
”Not that I know of.” Darwin shrugged and gestured around the room with the bottle of orange juice he held in one long, muscular hand. ”I think Jason's playing pool. You want me to get him?”
”Please.” The herd was dispersing, though Mr. Garlic stood his ground. I stepped away from him and added, ”Why's everyone staring?”
”Mistaken ident.i.ty,” said a light, mocking voice.
From the pool room beyond the bar, the best man sauntered towards us through the debris-laden tables. Jason Croy's face was long and lantern-jawed, with full, crisply carved lips and small gray eyes, just a touch too close together. His eyes held disdainful amus.e.m.e.nt, as they often did, and a spark of malice.
Or is that my imagination? I wondered. I didn't like Jason Croy ”So Carnegie,” he continued, ”we need some more booze around here. Some of these gentlemen brought their friends. Make it a mixed case, OK? And another rack of beer.”
”What?!” Curiosity about his first remark vanished in indignation about his second. ”You called me over here to make a liquor run?”
The full lips stretched into a slow, arrogant smile. He, too, was weaving a little on his feet. ”Well, you're in charge of the food and drink, aren't you? That's what Sally said.”
”If Sally had told me this on the phone-” But of course, that's why she hadn't told me what Jason needed so urgently. Because I wouldn't have come.
”Come on,” Jason wheedled, ”you've got your car out anyway, why not do us a favor? All my plastic is maxed out.”
”Listen up, Jason,” I said, and I could feel my face getting hot. ”If you want more liquor, you can get your a.s.s to a Seven-Eleven. I'm off duty.”
My exit would have been more dignified if I hadn't stumbled on a s.h.i.+sh kabob, but I kicked it aside and strode over to the gla.s.s door. It slid open as I got there, and in walked, no kidding, Santa Claus.
I was still puzzled-Salvation Army on overtime? A late guest with a sense of humor?-when a howl went up from the men.
”That's her!”
”She's here!”
”Merry freakin' Christmas!”
St. Nick glared at me and said, in a low but distinctly female tone, ”Hey, I work alone.”
I took a closer look, past the rippling white beard and padded red suit, and realized that this particular Santa Claus was wearing glossy scarlet lipstick, extravagant false eyelashes, and high-heeled black boots.
Enter stripper, exit Carnegie. I spotted three other, legitimate Santas on my drive back to Joe's office, and I snarled at every one of them.
I don't usually work in Fremont. Under normal circ.u.mstances, I live in a houseboat on the east sh.o.r.e of Lake Union, with the Made in Heaven offices located conveniently upstairs. At the moment, and hugely inconveniently, I was working at Joe's catering office and sleeping on Lily's fold-out couch.
The culprit was that ancient enemy of damp wood, Serpiaa lacrymans. Dry rot. My houseboat was infested with the fungal friend, and my horrified landlady had launched a barrage of chemical and mechanical a.s.saults to annihilate it.
Mrs. Castle barely gave me time to load up my PC and some file boxes, and stuff my suitcase, before she had the place cordoned off and swarming with guys in hazmat suits. At least I was saving some rent, which had gone to the down payment on Vanna Too.
So tonight, the award for My Least Favorite Ent.i.ty on Earth was a split decision between Serpiaa lacrymans and Jason Croy His outrageous demand for delivery service had interrupted a frantic search: I was trying to unearth a particularly nice photograph of one of my brides to show at a television appearance in the morning. I'd never been on TV before, so naturally I was nervous.
Not that I expected an interrogation or anything; this was just a segment about weddings on a local morning show, with a perky interviewer and some softball questions about my job. But my fellow guest would be Beau Paliere, a very hot wedding designer from Paris by way of Hollywood, who'd arrived in Seattle to keynote a bridal expo.
Beautiful Beau-as the celebrity magazines called him-was very big time, and I didn't want to look like a yokel in contrast. Besides, this could be terrific publicity for Made in Heaven-if I carried it off well.
All that anxiety has to channel itself somewhere, so earlier this evening I had become suddenly and unreasonably convinced that my on-screen success hinged on having the camera pan across this one d.a.m.n photo. I'd riffled through each of my files at least twice, and now the minutes were counting down to zero hour. I had to be awake, dressed and mascara'd by five a.m.
How do TV people do it? I thought as I drove through Fremont. They must sleep in their makeup.
Back at Joe's building, I took the lobby elevator up four floors to his storeroom. Most of Made in Heaven's stuff was downstairs in my tiny borrowed office, but I knew that my partner Eddie Breen had dropped off a file box of his own before leaving town for a few days. Joe's staff had put it in the storeroom, out of the way, until Eddie could come sort it out on Monday. It was a long shot, but maybe that box held the photo I needed.
The fourth floor was dark and empty, except for the one light I'd left on, and my footsteps sounded loud in the corridor. I turned on the staff's radio in the corner-it was set to a talk station-and jingled my keys loudly, reminding myself to lock everything up before I went home for the night. Joe was pretty casual about security, but I wanted to be a good temporary tenant.
The storeroom was piled with treasure.
Like most caterers, Joe relied heavily on indestructible or inexpensive dishes and gla.s.sware; tonight's bachelors had gotten plastic only. But when Solveto's put on a festive meal for more responsible folk, the buffet table and the serving stations always included a few eye-catching pieces of hand-painted Italian ceramic, vintage English silver, or rare Depression gla.s.s.
Rumor had it that Joe began the practice so he could write off his exotic vacations as buying trips, but in any case the clients loved it. Sort of a signature Solveto's flourish.
The storeroom was lined on three sides with shelves bearing a splendid a.s.sortment of platters, pitchers, trays and tureens. When I flipped on the lights, reflections winked from ma.s.sive gilt candelabras and sparked across to a cobalt-blue cut gla.s.s cake stand.
Along the fourth wall, under the windows, a long work table was stacked neatly with cartons and bubble wrap for transporting these treasures. A huge silver punch bowl sat ready, with a pad of inventory forms beside it for recording which items were in use, and where. Joe was brilliantly creative, but strictly organized.
Underneath the table I found Eddie's box. I hauled it onto the table top and began to lift out the top layer of contents: a squat steel pen and pencil jar, a favorite oversized coffee mug, none too clean, and a framed photograph of the freighter Eddie had sailed on, back when he and my late father were cadets together in the merchant marine.
Eddie's seagoing past explained the next item in the box: a pair of small, powerful binoculars that he used to observe the pleasure boats and sea planes on Lake Union. I set each item carefully aside, pulled out the stack of file folders at the bottom of the box, and sat down at the table to search.
No luck. There were checklists for the Tyler/Sanjek events, a detailed timetable for Bonnie Buckmeister's Christmas-themed wedding next week, and notes on all our current marketing efforts, including my TV appearance tomorrow and the Made in Heaven booth at the bridal expo. But no photos.
I propped my chin on one fist and stared absently out the windows. I'd just have to do without. There were other pictures I could use, a wedding cake, one of our bridal couples dancing, and of course the Made in Heaven logo in curly copper lettering, which I would try my hardest to get on camera. But first I had to get some sleep.
As I stood up to re-pack Eddie's box, something across the Ca.n.a.l caught my eye: a brilliantly lit window, with a tiny figure in scarlet clothing moving back and forth across it, like an erratic actor on a garish stage. Santa Claus. The Hot Spot was directly across the Ca.n.a.l from Joe's office building, and from my upper-story vantage point I could see right into the cafe. Not that I wanted to, of course. I swept up all the files I'd opened, tucked them back into the box, and set the mug and the pencil jar on top of them.
Then I picked up the binoculars.
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