May the Best Man Die by Deborah Donnelly

Author:Deborah Donnelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780440334644
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2003-09-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

THE DRESS WAS STUNNING BUT THE TRAFFIC WAS CRAWLING, AND I was late for Ivy's dinner.

At least gridlock gives you time to finish doing your makeup, and call ahead to say you'll be late. And to slurp some coffee, too; I always crank up on caffeine before a big client event, and with time so short, it had to ride with me in a thermos. So I sipped and painted and fumed and sipped some more—Habitat coffee was excellent—at about nineteen miles an hour. When the traffic thinned out, just past the commuter cutoff for the Mukilteo Ferry, I put aside the thermos and gunned it.

I thought I was home free at the exit for Snohomish, but I hadn't realized how far out in the country the Tylers' country house was. After miles of secondary roads and a couple of wrong turns, I came at last to a private gravel lane winding through the darkness. It delivered me to a three-story mansion secluded in its own private woods, the proud residence of some turn-of-the-century timber baron. I parked Vanna and hurried across the wide cobbled courtyard, groaning to see all the cars there already.

The front door was a massive oaken affair, flanked by coaching lanterns. I rang the bell and waited, grateful that the air was less icy than it had been lately. Looming high above me, the walls of age-softened gray shingle sprouted bay windows and corner turrets and a cedar-shake mansard roof, complete with widow's walk. The baron didn't fool around.

An imperturbable middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform let me in and took my coat, leaving me garbed in nothing but goose bumps and a flimsy scrap of purple satin. Not exactly indecent—I was working, after all—but having my hemline and my neckline in such close proximity was way beyond my comfort zone. No spilling tonight, I vowed, and this rag goes back to the Bon tomorrow. Boys and girls, can you spell “slut”?

Clicking along on my highest heels, I followed the maid through a lofty front hall and past a grand staircase, its banisters and newel posts carved in dark, gleaming wood. Beside the stairs stood a Christmas tree, twelve feet tall at least and decorated in high Victorian style. Marcus and Ethan would have loved it.

We came to a set of fine paneled doors, from behind which came voices and a burst of laughter. The doors opened to the living room, where the first faces I saw were Ivy Tyler's, looking furiously at her watch, and Lou Schulman's, looking at my dress like he'd been hit from behind with a two by four.

“Nice of you to drop by,” Ivy muttered through a gritted-teeth smile. She seized my elbow and turned her back to her guests. “I told you to come early!”

“I'm awfully sorry, Ivy. Traffic. I'll go check in with Andy.”

Andy was Andrew Mikami, private chef, master of sushi and showmanship, and a pleasure to work with. He was busy at the marble-topped prep island

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