Last Fairytale, The (9 page)

The knock came five minutes early, startling Bree enough to make her hand jerk and apply the shimmering gloss in an arc outside her upper lip. She used a tissue to wipe away the excess and went to open the door.

Taylor Vonnegon stood in the corridor, wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a leather jacket. He was holding a delicate bouquet of overblown white rosebuds. He looked just a tad unsure of himself, like a prom date in a baby blue tux. Unusual, considering he’d been the poster boy for confidence until tonight.

Surprised, she opened her mouth and reached for a humorous comment but couldn’t think of anything funny to say. They stood like awkward teenagers until Bree regained her voice.

“Come in,” she said. “You’re early.”

“I apologize.” He followed her into the living room and offered the flowers. “These are for you.”

“Thanks.” She took the roses and held them close, breathing deeply. Their scent was rich to the point of overpowering. She nodded at the blooms. “How did you know they’re my favorite, did I write about it on my blog?”

He laughed. “No. You seem the type who would like white roses. Simple tastes. Old fashioned, in a good way.”

Bree watched him as he took in the room. Two eggshell slip-covered sofas with low arms and wide seat cushions sported deep ruffled flounces that brushed the floor. Thick off white carpet flowed through the room. Hand-distressed furniture showed off the high ceilings. A few unpainted primitive décor pieces were displayed in clever vignettes, forming a subtle contrast.

“And I see I was right,” he said. “How wonderful. Peaceful, comfortable. White.”

“This is my friend Oliver’s handiwork. I love this place almost as much as I love the decorator.”

He cut his eyes to her with a flash of his former self-assured grin. “I’ll assume Oliver is a gay man.”

“You’d be right.”

“Good. Then I’m still in the running.”

Bree turned toward the kitchen, flustered, and Vonnegon followed.

She pushed through the door and into a luscious sensory overload. Salvaged wood plank flooring dark with age anchored the ivory cabinetry and concrete counters. Rows of chrome restaurant shelving were piled in organized chaos with white dishes and old crockery.

A collection of antique pudding tins graced the top shelf. Battered, hand-lettered, food-related signage covered the racks and walls, calling out cheery suggestions like
Breakfast served all day, come on in!
and
Fresh farm eggs,
and
We cook it the way you like it
.

She chose a thick white crock just wide enough to hold the buds together, filled it halfway with cold water, then snipped an inch from the foot of each stem and arranged them, sleek and tight, in the vessel.

“Would you like a glass of water or something?” She looked over her shoulder while she worked. He was standing in the open doorway, smiling at the pastiche of carefully arranged clutter.

“No, thank you. Another time. We should head out. Our ride is waiting, and there will be plenty to drink at the end of it. Do you have something really warm to wear?”

She led him back into the living room. “Will a down jacket do?”

“Yes.”

“Not just dinner down the street then.” She pulled on a coat over her slacks and blazer. She was curious what he’d planned for the evening. “Are we going to the Ice Capades?”

Vonnegon smiled and shook his head.

On the street, he held open the passenger door of a Mercedes sedan and closed it once she’d arranged herself in the seat. He angled in behind the wheel, snapped his seat belt closed, then eased into traffic. Ten minutes later he parked at the Commodore Heliport and helped her aboard a waiting chopper.

Not the Ice Capades.

“Hey Dave,” he called to the pilot.

Bree tried to look blasé as he handed her in, strapped on her seatbelt, gave her a headset, and did the same for himself. Finally he signaled Dave the okay to take off.

The sunset view of the bay from the air made for a breathtaking flight, and less than thirty minutes later they were miles away, being seated by the
maître d’
at a candlelit table in the vineyard at Tra Vigne in Napa.

The air was crisp. Outdoor heaters pumped out enough warmth to make eating outside idyllic. Taylor took Bree’s coat and pulled out her chair, then settled in and offered the wine list.

“No, you choose.” Bree said. “I’m not qualified.”

“Shall we start with a nice red?”

She nodded and opened a menu, but quickly closed it and put it aside. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Not often. Tonight I’ll make an exception.”

“Why tonight? I mean, what is this? Why are we here?”

“I hope you’re here to have dinner with a friend.”

“Okay.”

“What did you think this evening was about?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think we hit it off the first few times we met, so I didn’t expect it to be quite so, well, quite so much like a date.”

“Are you sorry it is?”

“I’m expecting Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the grapevines and tell me I’ve been punked, so it’s hard to relax.”

“That explains why your eyes keep darting around.”

“Well, that plus the fact that before the date part starts, I’d like to talk about the night we met.” Bree took a deep breath. “What do you think happened to Ducane?”

“If we’re going to talk about that, we need alcohol.” He motioned to the waiter, pointed to an entry on the wine list, then dropped his chin into his palm. “You deserve answers. I wish I had more, but I can only tell you what I suspect.”

“Who or what killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have a theory.”

“He’d started to run with an edgy crowd. I think his friends may have introduced him to people who were a little left of the law. He was seeing a young woman who seemed unstable.”

“How did you know that, if he kept his private life to himself?”

“We have government contracts. Some of our staff maintain classified status to work on the projects. I employ people to keep an eye on them.”

“So they also keep an eye on your employees’ friends.”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you think Ducane’s girlfriend is a suspect?”

“Love is one of the basic reasons people commit murder.”

“I agree,” she replied. “Money and revenge are probably high on the list, too. Although vengeance probably falls under the category of love or money. And in the movies, the mob kills to send other players a warning. A victim could even be murdered by mistake. Maybe Ducane accidentally ate a poisoned burrito intended for somebody else.”

Taylor’s eyebrows quirked. “You’ve given this considerable attention. Do you eat a lot of Mexican food?”

“I found a man dead on the floor of his office. For a little while, the cops thought I might have killed him. It left an impression.”

“I see your point.” Vonnegon fidgeted with the bud vase on the table. “I’m sure the police asked you already, but did you notice anything in the boy’s office that you thought was unusual or out of place?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Did Garcia ask you that?”

“No. He asked me a million questions, but not that one. Did he ask if you saw anything?”

“Yes, he did. And no, I didn’t. But sometimes a different set of eyes will take note of something another person overlooks.”

“All I can think about is his shoes.” Bree glanced away and shook her head, as if the motion would fling the image of Andrew’s loafers forever from her mind.

“At lunch you said you believed I was the woman on the tape. If you thought so, you must have also figured she killed him. You must believe the break-in is tied to his murder. Do you think his death is related to your government contract?”

“Whoa, whoa. Hold on.” Vonnegon squeezed his lids shut and held up his hands to fend off the onslaught. “We don’t know it’s murder yet.”

“So again. What do you think happened?”

“Why do I get the distinct impression you know more than I do?”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Vonnegon, sir.” Bree slid back in her chair. “How could I know more?”

“She stuttered, eyes darting wildly, unable to meet his gaze.”

Bree moved her chair closer to the table, then placed both elbows on the edge, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin atop them. She stared into his eyes without blinking.

“Okay, look, yes, at first I was convinced you were the burglar. The theft was fresh. I was worried about the ramifications. It seemed obvious you, Andrew, and the burglary must be connected. But once I had time to consider, I realized I don’t know how or why Andrew died. I have no idea if it was his health or his personal life. I just don’t know.”

The waiter returned with a bottle, discreetly presented the vintage, received a nod, then pulled the cork with a practiced hand. Vonnegon tasted the pour and nodded. The waiter filled their glasses, then bowed and left.

“But how could his personal life be the source? You said he was a socially challenged lab rat.”

“What I didn’t know was that he was apparently trying to climb out of his interpersonal ineptness. Or is the word ineptitude? You’re the writer.”

“How do you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you know he was changing his social aspirations? Did your gut tell you?”

“My gut tells me that the lovely evening I’d planned with a really nice girl is getting sabotaged by disastrous events that have recently occurred at my place of business.”

Bree looked away and pretended to study the other diners. “You didn’t establish any conversational limits.” She cleared her throat and began again. “Was I just supposed to guess this was a date? That is so like a man.”

Taylor rolled the stem of his goblet between his fingers and watched the blood-red liquid swirl in the glass. “Yes, this is a date. Yes, I am attracted to you. Yes, I’d hoped to turn a series of unfortunate meetings with an interesting woman into a friendship. Perhaps even more, in time.”

“Thanks for laying it all out.” An unexpected surge of lust overshadowed Bree’s embarrassment. Her cheeks pinked. “One night you’re accusing me of murder, and the next you expect me to pick up the vibe you want to get friendly.”

“I thought I was giving off the right signals. Showing up at your apartment to apologize, inviting you to lunch, trying to be cordial and make amends.”

Bree ducked her head. “Okay.” She sipped her wine, taking advantage of the silence to wonder about her unanticipated spike of emotion. Why couldn’t she read men better? She’d take Oliver any day. What he was thinking was obvious. She only had to check his face.

“Let’s start over,” Vonnegon said. “I’d like to propose a toast. To communication between the sexes.” He raised his glass.

Bree lifted hers. “To communication.”

But as she swallowed, she noted that he hadn’t answered her questions.

* * *

The ride home through the night sky on a carpet of stars was as close as Bree had ever come to magic. When Taylor handed her out of the helicopter, she felt like a combination of Alice and Cinderella.

They walked to the sedan and drove toward the city, taking a route that delivered them into the garage of a Nob Hill home. He escorted her into a sleek entry and hung their coats, then waved her through another passageway. Ten paces beyond, they were in a living room facing a wall of glass and another striking city view.

The windows disappeared in the dark. The room was suspended over a mesmerizing field of downtown lights. Enthralled, she walked toward the panorama and stopped, momentarily unaware of her surroundings.

Behind her, Taylor flicked on a lamp. “Would you like a brandy?”

Something clattered to the floor in the depths of the house, and the spell was broken. Was someone else here? She turned toward his voice, feeling unreasonably frightened. “What?”

Vonnegon was standing in the dark, outside the reach of the lamp glow. “I asked if you would like a drink.” His features were indecipherable in the shadowy room.

“No. No, thank you,” she stammered. “I should get home.”

“Nonsense, it’s not that late. Enjoy the view. I’ll be right back.”

Bree sat on the couch and wondered why her knees were shaking.

Vonnegon returned and offered a snifter filled with half an inch of amber liquid, then reclined across from her in a deep-seated chair.

“Nothing for you?”

“The wine was enough.”

“Sounds like the celebration is over.”

He studied her. “The evening has been perfect. I like to think I know when to stop.”

“Restraint,” she replied, and placed the liquor on a side table beneath the lamp.

“I’m sorry?”

“At lunch last weekend you said restraint and discretion were adult behaviors. You seem to have mastered them.”