flowers really running that high? Those amaryllis must be made of platinum.”
“Carnegie!” Eddie glowered at me and chomped his cigar so hard it nearly imploded.
“What?”
“Are you interested in this software or not? I’ve been busting my butt at the computer all morning while you went around trying on clothes, and now all you can do is pick nits!”
“Of course I’m interested!” The only treatment for this kind of computer fever was to feign enthusiasm and pray for a quick recovery. “This is just what we need to get a handle on the business. Why don’t you e-mail me some of these, so I can see them on-screen? Save a little paper, anyway…. Hey, did Zack call?”
“Yeah, he’s coming by tomorrow afternoon. He apologized all up and down about how he acted the other day, but I told him it was only natural seeing how a friend of his just got killed. He’s a nice kid. Smart.”
“According to Paul, he’s a genius with web-site design. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with for Made in Heaven. Anything else going on?”
“Joe Solveto wants to talk to you, so I told him to come on over. And that Talbot fellow called, but he wouldn’t say why. Too bad about his wife. I remember reading about it.”
“Yes. Yes, that really was too bad. I’d better make some calls before Joe gets here.”
I started with Roger Talbot.
“Carnegie, about this rehearsal dinner on Friday,” he said. His voice sounded ghastly.
“Roger, if you’d rather not be there—”
“I promised Paul I’d meet his parents. And I don’t want people to think”—Mercedes’ name hung in the silence between us—“… to think anything. But I just can’t do it. I’m not sleeping, I can’t seem to pull my thoughts together.”
“Don’t worry about it, really,” I said, privately grateful that he wouldn’t be at the Salish. He was hardly the ideal dinner guest at this point. “You can spend some time with Chloe and Howard at the reception.”
“I knew you’d understand. You’re the only one who knows what I’m going through. Thank you, Carnegie.”
First an unwilling confidante to Mercedes, and now a reluctant co-conspirator with Roger. This wasn’t the role I signed up for. Mindful of Eddie’s presence—he claimed he didn’t eavesdrop but I knew he did, and he knew I knew—I made a brisk and businesslike farewell, and reached for my next phone message slip, from Pete the mechanic. But Eddie couldn’t resist a comment.
“Talbot bailed out, huh?” Before I could come up with an explanation, he provided his own. “Delayed reaction to his wife dying. It happens. Your mother went along fine for a couple of months, keeping up a good front, and then she kinda folded up for a while. Probably the same for Talbot.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Eddie. Excuse me.” I punched in Pete’s number. The news was not good.
“We’re looking at twenty-five, twenty-seven hundred here, Carnegie!” Pete had to shout over the din of engines, tools, and the Christian radio channel that blared eternally in his tiny office next to the garage. “Then there’s that rear right fender. You want that in the estimate, too?”
“How did I know this would be three thousand?” I mused aloud. I might as well just sign over Elizabeth’s check.
“Can’t hear you!” he said.
“Never mind. Estimate the whole thing, including the fender, and fax it over, OK?”
“Okeydoke!”
Then I got on e-mail and reviewed Eddie’s new hobby of chart creation for fun and profit. He was right, the new software would save us some time, and provide a nice professional format for keeping our clients updated on budgets, vendors, and guests. In my previous life—doing public relations work for a bank—I’d been project manager for some fairly major publications and events, but none of them held a candle to the logistical complexities of a large formal wedding like Bonnie’s or Elizabeth’s. For instance, very few executives throw hissy fits about who they’re seated next to at the annual stockholders meeting.
A jaunty rap on the outer office door announced Joe Solveto. He let himself in, along with a gust of saltwater air and the cries of gulls.
“Victory is mine, boys and girls! I hold in my hand the final menu for Lamott/Wheeler, and it is a triumph of the culinary arts.”
“If you do say so yourself?” I smiled. “Good to see you, Joe.”
Joe was always good to see. For one thing, he was a beautiful man, from his cunningly mussed sandy hair, down past his diligently sculpted dancer’s physique, to