Died to match Page 0,47

gazing at me.

“This Roger Talbot, the publisher who couldn’t make it tonight,” Burt was saying. “He’s the one whose wife died?”

“Yes.”

“Poor bastard.” He stared into his brandy. “Still, there are worse things.”

I kept tactfully silent. Elizabeth’s mother, Monica, had also recently departed from her marriage. But instead of heading for heaven, she had gone straight into the arms of Burt’s private Norwegian tennis coach. The specter of Monica and Lars attending the wedding had raised some very sticky seating questions.

Now, however, it appeared that a killer backhand might come to the rescue. Lars was slashing his way through the semifinals of a tournament in Connecticut, and if he made it to the finals, Monica would fly in solo for the wedding. That would be uncomfortable enough, but nothing compared to putting Lars and Burt in the same building. This interactive rock-and-roll museum ain’t big enough for the both of us, you ornery sidewinder.

Joe Solveto, a major tennis buff, was keeping me posted on the tournament results. Elizabeth seemed to find the whole thing mildly amusing.

“And who’s the kid again?” asked Burt. “I didn’t catch all the names.”

“That’s Zack Hartmann. He’s been working at the Sentinel.”

“Something funny about that kid. Won’t look me in the eye.”

I was saved from replying by Aaron’s approach. Corinne had disappeared, presumably to the ladies’ room, but since she didn’t seem to be drinking tonight, I wasn’t worried about a repeat of last Saturday. Aaron held out his hand.

“Mr. Lamott, may I steal the lady from you? They’re playing her song.” The combo had begun “Lady in Red,” and I was wearing my best dress—a deep clear red with a full, fluid skirt.

“Be my guest,” the tycoon replied, knocking back his brandy. “I’ll just chat with Karen when she gets back. Seems like a nice young lady.”

“It’s Corinne,” I told him. “Yes, she’s very nice.”

As he escorted me out to the foyer, Aaron murmured, “Gorgeous as you are, Ms. Kincaid, I have decided not to make passionate love to you on top of the piano. But it was a near-run thing.”

That’s how he was handling my need for breathing space in our relationship: with patience and a laugh. Some men I knew would have dropped me at the nearest corner and never looked back.

“You’re being so nice about this,” I said.

“A man will do anything,” he replied in a confidential whisper, “if he thinks it’s foreplay”

We circled among the other couples, many of them from a family reunion being held in one of the larger dining rooms. As our own room came back into view, I saw Burt talking intently to Corinne, and Paul’s parents coming out to the foyer to dance. Howard had tucked an orchid behind Chloe’s ear, and she was smiling like a bride. How nice to know little, and care less, about Mercedes Montoya.

“So what’s the word from the costume shop?” asked Aaron.

“Nothing yet. Apparently Characters, Inc. always closes down for a week after Halloween, to give the owners and the staff a break. I keep leaving messages, but I don’t know when I’ll hear back, and the owner’s home number is unlisted. I bet we could put together the list of black cloaks from memory, though.”

Aaron nodded. “You know, I’m beginning to come around to your view of Corinne’s story. She’s trying to cover it up, but she’s really frightened.”

“So can we get together tomorrow and go over the guest list?”

“I’ll come by early and take you out to breakfast.”

“Sounds good. Oh, no—” As the song ended I saw Zack approaching, his jaw set in grim resolution. “Aaron, be a prince and fend off Zack, would you? I’m just not up to conversations about the Internet tonight.”

He turned. “Zack, my man! Come have some brandy with me on the terrace. I need a smoke.”

I cut through the dancers to the concierge desk, just to let them know how well our evening was going. An unnecessary errand, but it would save me a phone call tomorrow, and I really was pleased with the Salish Lodge. If the Buckmeisters started to dither again about their rehearsal dinner, maybe I’d bring them here.

“Message just came for you, Ms. Kincaid,” said the bright young man at the desk. “I haven’t even had time to write it down yet.”

“From Joe Solveto?” I’d accidentally left my cell phone at home, and felt naked without it.

“Yes. He said Lars Kvern won in straight sets, and you’d know what that meant.”

“Oh, thank God! You just made my night.” I