Died to match Page 0,87

“I’m sure we can figure this out—”

“There’s nothing to figure,” said Monica crisply. “Put him at one end of the table and me at the other.”

“That would look ridiculous!” Smoke, and possibly flame. “If you think you’re going to make a big dramatic statement at my wedding—”

“Isn’t this wedding dramatic enough?” flared Monica. “You could feed a third-world nation with what you’re spending.”

“At least I’m spending my own money,” said her daughter, “which is more than you’ve ever—”

“You know,” I said loudly, “I think it’s time for Plan B.”

The three of them looked at me blankly.

“What Plan B?” demanded Elizabeth.

“The table for two, of course.” I smiled my very best back-me-up-here smile at the groom. “You remember, Paul, we talked about this?”

“Y-yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”

“Of course you do. It’s a European tradition, Monica, that’s becoming quite popular at sophisticated weddings back East. The bride and groom have a flower-decked table for two, very romantic, and the guests stop by their table to wish them well. Much less stuffy than a reception line.”

“But then where would I sit?” asked Monica, intrigued but not won over.

“Well,” I said, “maybe you could do me a favor. Let’s talk about it over a drink in the lobby, shall we? Paul, it was lovely to meet Enid. I’ll call you two tomorrow, all right?”

Once Monica and I were alone with a couple of gin-and-tonics, I gave her my pitch.

“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 appetite 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, 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 God!” she gasped. “He escaped! Oh my God—”

“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 stitch 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 Saturday. 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