Died to Match by DEBORAH DONNELLY

keep it Christmassy, or maybe poinsettias?”
    Betty squealed at her husband in affectionate glee. “Why, Father, you know how big a purse you’d need for a poinset-tia? We’d have bridesmaids with tote bags!”
    “Well, little poinsettias then. Carnegie, can’t your Russian fella come up with some kinda mini-poinsettias?”
    “Amaryllis,” I said faintly. My head was swimming. Conversing with the Buckmeisters was odd at any time, but utterly surrealistic today. “We had planned on ruby-red amaryl-lis blossoms, with cedar fronds and red hypericum berries. If you don’t want them we really need to let Boris know.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” sighed Bonnie. “I do like those amaryl-lises. Well, we’ll decide later. Oh! And I saw this article about tiaras. They say a tiara can be a bride’s crowning glory. Carnegie, I could wear a tiara!”
    “Well, yes, you could. Although we have already ordered your headpiece and veil.” Twice, in fact. We’ve ordered everything for this bloody wedding at least twice.
    Bonnie knit her brows. “Maybe a tiara on top of the veil?”
    I smiled inwardly at the notion of all that sparkle and drama perched above Bonnie’s rosy, sweet-natured face. A tiara calls for a woman with a certain confident carriage, a certain aristocratic air… a woman like Mercedes Montoya. Suddenly Bonnie’s voice faded to a distant murmur, as the events of last night crowded around me, and I knew if I sat still much longer I was going to lose it.
    “Folks, could you excuse me for just another minute?”
    I went into the workroom and closed the connecting door behind me. “Eddie, if you love me, go out and talk to the Buckmeisters.”
    “Oh, no,” he said, his feet planted on his desk and an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. No smoking in the workroom, by order of the proprietor. “Ohhh, no, not the Killer B’s. If you’re too shook up to work, then get rid of ’em and take the day off.”
    “I’m not shaken up; I’m going to Harborview”
    “What the hell for?”
    “Tommy Barry’s had a drunk-driving accident, I want to try and see him. Please, Eddie, just take some notes and don’t promise them anything for sure until I check it out.”
    He grumbled, but he did it, and within minutes I was fleeing through the downpour to climb into Vanna. As I drove, Tommy’s voice sounded in my head: “You’re killing her!” Butwho? Who had he seen with Mercedes, and did that person know they’d been seen? Was there someone out there hoping that Tommy never woke up? Or planning to make sure that he didn’t? The police should be guarding him. The morning news had only hinted at foul play and said nothing of witnesses, but if the killer knew about Tommy, he could easily track him down.
    I maneuvered into a tight spot behind a pillar in the hospital’s underground garage, and fumbled in my purse to be sure I had Graham’s card handy. I could call him from the lobby after I’d seen Tommy. A grandmotherly volunteer told me what floor Mr. Barry was on, then began to say something about restricted visiting. I didn’t stay to listen.
    Hospitals try so hard to be efficient and cheery, like office buildings crossed with day-care centers. Soothing water-colors, potted plants, even espresso carts, for revving up the staff and calming down the visitors. But every time I enter one of those double-wide, slow-moving elevators with their indefinable hospital smell, I can taste Styrofoam and the thin, bitter vending-machine coffee that Mom and I drank by the quart at St. Luke’s, in Boise, as my father failed to recover from his third heart surgery.
    Dad gave me my red hair and also my name. He had educated himself in the public libraries endowed by Andrew Carnegie, and conveniently overlooked the fact that old Andy was a robber baron. But Dad gave me so much more, and I still missed him. Mom and I practically lived at the hospital, that last time. She knew all the nurses’ names, and I knew every