Killer Wedding (11 page)

 

“
Vivian, I know I'll see you shortly, but I want to make sure you bring the ruff. I'm counting on you, my dear. The sultan is not a very forgiving man
.”

 

I sat up, alert. Was that a threat? And what was he talking about? The
ruff
? The
rough
? The rough…
what
? I played the message back a few more times, but it became no clearer. I wrote down the hotel that he was staying at and his room number.

There was only one message left, and I played it out. This last one was from Vivian's husband, I gathered. I listened to it closely.

 

“
Vi, I got your message. Well. I got several of your messages. Don't worry about a thing. I will get the tickets issued for that damn couple. Their final destination is Harare, right? I thought I had written it down. Well, anyway, if you get this message dear, please call me at home. Oh. I see by the clock that the wedding is probably already starting by now, isn't it? Oh, dear. Well, I'll try your mobile phone
.”

 

I wondered if that was the phone call that I'd walked in on, when I approached Vivian before the wedding ceremony. The one where she came unglued at her “dear” husband's irresponsibility. Had he been yelled at and humiliated one time too many?

I replayed his message and listened for the sound of seething, pent-up rage. It just didn't seem to be there. But how much could I tell from one short phone message?

I looked back at my pad and circled the hotel and room number I'd scribbled down. I picked up the phone and called The Four Seasons, asking for room 512.

“And may I ask the name of the party to whom you wish to speak?” The operator was brisk and friendly.

These luxury hotels were used to screening calls. Hell.

“I had a message from a gentleman, a British gentleman, and he only left his room number.”

“Oh. I am sorry, but…”

Policy. Right.

I cut in. “I'm helping out a friend who owns…well, she was a wedding planner, actually. This gets a bit awkward as I can't actually ask her for more instructions.”

“Omigod! Not the one who died on the dinosaur!”

“Well…” Of all the horrible things that can happen, you don't ever want to “die cute.” Not in L.A. Trust me. “Well, yes, actually.”

“Just a minute. I'll call the room and ask the guest if he can take your call. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Madeline Bean. Tell him I was working with Vivian Duncan.”

“Of course. And I am so sorry,” the voice said, thrilled, “for your loss, Miss Bean.”

What can I say? We live in a city where celebrity is the ultimate clout and where murder made celebrities quicker than casting directors.

“Hello?” The familiar voice came through the line.

And then I had it! The one from the wedding, with the beautiful eyes and the black mustache and the long, sexy hair.

“Is this Miss Bean?”

“Madeline, yes. We've met, actually. Briefly. Before the wedding last night. You pointed me in Ms. Duncan's direction. I was wearing black.” Now that was helpful. “But I'm sure you don't remember. I've got reddish-blond hair…”

“Why, of course. You are harder to forget than you give yourself credit. You wore a tiny cross, am I right?
Pavé
. Very chic.”

“Thank you.” Hot damn. I thought I'd caught him gazing at my chest. These designer dresses are simple but deadly.

“I must apologize,” I said, “but I never got your name.”

“I am Zeller Gentz. Terribly rude. I do beg your pardon. Please call me Zelli. All my friends do.”

“I know you must be wondering why I'm calling. The family asked me to help with some of Vivian's business responsibilities at this difficult time. Just until others are able to take over, really. And I picked up a message you left at her office…”

Just then, my doorbell rang.

“I'm sorry, Zelli. Someone is at my door and I have to get it. I wonder if you would mind if I called you back? Perhaps tomorrow?”

“I have a better idea. Tomorrow is my last day in town. I'm going back to Zurich the day after. Why don't you join me for dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Tomorrow at eight. Why not? Will you meet me here at the hotel? They have a very nice dining room. I would be very interested to talk to a friend of Vivian's.”

“Really?” Well, well, well. “So would I.”

“Yes? Good. Although, in point of fact, I haven't seen her in many years.”

We rang off. In point of fact, I hardly knew Vivian. But this was too intriguing! A fabulous man. A killer English accent. An old crony of Vivian's with stories to tell about her past.

I ran to the door. There, at long last, was my date for the evening, Chuck Honnett.

“Hi.”

He stood there, looking down at me, bemused and cool as a cuke. He was so tall I had to crane my neck to make contact with his royal blues.

“You ate dinner already, right?” he asked.

“Don't worry about me. Would you like to sit outside? I can make a fire.”

“Sure.” He followed me into the house.

I walked him through my office and out the double French doors that led to the courtyard. While Honnett settled down on the patio furniture, I started up the outdoor fireplace for warmth. I brought out a tray for sus
tenance: a plate of lemon/raspberry bars I'd baked earlier. A bottle of brandy, a pot of coffee, and the frosted bowl filled with scoops of homemade ice cream, fresh from the freezer, each crusted with a different luscious topping. I placed a couple of crystal dessert bowls on the table, along with spoons, and told Honnett to help himself. He smiled, quizzing me on what ice cream topping was what, and ended up serving himself three scoops.

“Look, Madeline. I got a call on the way over here. It looks like I'm needed back at the department.”

“Right away?”

“You know how it is. I can't always predict when I'll be available. I'm sorry.”

I began taking little stabs with my spoon at a scoop of the Deep, Dark Brown Sugar ice cream, studded with homemade mocha coffee chips.

“It's the Vivian Duncan case,” Honnett said. “I know you were friends with her. So I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course,” I lied. Now why was it, again, that I had sent Arlo away?

“Man, this is fantastic.” Honnett ate the ice cream with gusto. He poured a second cup of coffee. He ignored the brandy.

“So you're sure it was murder, then?”

“No question. Her neck was broken. Hit over the head, most likely. We're pretty sure she was killed somewhere else and then dragged up the stairs to that lighting rig and pushed off onto the dino exhibit.”

“That's just so horrifying and, I don't know, kind of stupid. Why would someone go to all that trouble? Wouldn't they be seen?”

“Everyone had already gone to the dinner and the killer was goddamn lucky. Anyway, the coroner found smoke in her lungs. Cigarette smoke. His theory is that she was maybe taking a break, grabbing a smoke, and was jumped from behind. We checked around outside and found a few butts with her lipstick. Out back by the kitchen setup. But we are still looking around. By the
position of the blow to her neck, it must have killed her instantly. M.E. thinks she…that's the Medical Examiner.”

I nodded and took a taste of ice cream.

“He thinks with the smoke still in her lungs, she probably died before she could exhale.”

I coughed, involuntarily. Naturally, I stopped eating.

Honnett looked into my eyes. “This isn't too graphic for you, is it?”

“Heck, no. Me? Strong like bull.”

“This is all part of our ongoing investigation, so none of this information leaves this patio.”

“Sure.”

“It's nice here.” Honnett looked around my small courtyard, at the wall fountain and the garden to the side. In the subdued lighting and the glow of the fire, he finally seemed to notice me.

“That reminds me,” I said, “I was looking for that man who did the animal ice sculptures for the wedding. Do you cops know how to reach him?”

“The ice sculptor?” Honnett shot me a look, puzzled. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“I'm not sure. But I was thinking about Vivian's and Whisper's offices. They looked more than trashed. They looked…like…shredded. And ice sculptors use chainsaws. Do you think a chainsaw could have been what caused all that damage?”

Honnett thought it over, sipping his coffee. “Pretty unlikely. But I suppose it's possible. I'll mention it to the forensics team.” He smiled at me and suggested, kindly, “Even if you are right, I'm sure you know that there are millions of chainsaws in this county, and not one of them is registered.”

“There ought to be a law!” I smiled back, but didn't let go of my argument. “But why can't I locate this ice guy then? The country club he gave me as a reference denies they ever heard of him. And when I went to check it out for myself…”

“You…what?” Honnett interrupted me, looking more concerned.

“When I went out to the club I kinda looked around in the chef's office and I found a picture that showed the guy I'm looking for. So I just sort of took it.”

“You say you went out to the suburbs, talked your way into some country club, did an unauthorized search, and stole personal property?”

“I think this is one of those glass is half empty, glass is half full things. What I did was visit a fellow chef. I was invited into his office. And, well, I was allowed to borrow the photo.”

Honnett's serious face cracked, at the edges, where a smile broke loose. “What you're telling me is that you didn't break any laws, right?”

“Right.”

Honnett relaxed.

“Not any I
know
of.”

“Maybe I don't need to hear this story in its…” He stood up, preparing to leave. “…entirety.”

So much for new romance.

“I can respect that. You are a rules guy. But don't you want to see the photo?” I stood up, too.

“You hang onto it. We may get to it later on in the investigation.”

“You're shining me on, aren't you? You're not even going to check it out…”

“Look, Madeline. I'm sure you appreciate that I can't tell you everything that's going on. Right now, we're following up other leads. I can't say more than that.”

So he'd been holding out on the hottest details in their case all along. It figured. He's a cop. What did I expect?

“What?” Honnett asked, standing with me at my door. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh, by the way…” I looked him squarely in the eye. “Who was that woman you were with at the wedding last night?”

“The what?”

“Skinny. Big hair. I don't believe I had the pleasure of meeting her.”

He relaxed into a genuine smile. “I was with my cousin. Joan.”

“Not your wife, then.” I mean
really
. Who was he trying to kid? Who had a cousin Joan?

“My
wife?
” Honnett let out a low chuckle. “You are hunting in the wrong woods, partner.” He took a step closer and put his hands on my shoulders, really looking at me for perhaps the first time all evening. “I loved it that you made all that dessert stuff for me. It was the best ice cream I've ever eaten. No lie.”

“Um hmm.”

“I'm not married, Madeline, if that's what you think. I have been. I've tried it. Twice. It's not that I didn't find the right women. It's just that maybe I'm not the right man.”

“Not the right man. Uh huh. You can do better than that. How about parting with a few personal details?”

“About me?”

“About your availability. Or do you belong to the police department?”

“Well, I guess you might say I'm kind of stuck. I know I need someone, but who would have me? I've tried it alone. You know what that's like. That gets to be…Anyway, I'm way too old and grizzled for a beautiful young girl like you.”

Hot dog! Date talk. “Young woman like me,” I corrected, smiling at him.

“I can't even use the right words. I'm too old for a beautiful young woman like you.”

“Well, let's see, old man, just how ancient are you?”

He laughed. “Old enough to know better.” He pulled me a little closer. “Are you?”

“Hell, no.”

We stood there looking at one another. And then he kissed me.

I
readjusted my laptop computer and snuggled into a more comfortable position on my sofa. What had happened to Vivian Duncan anyway? There was very little that made any sense. I began to make a list, which is how the organizer in me takes over.

On that first day I'd met her, in the alley parking lot behind Darius's flower shop, Vivian had just been attacked, and now I was getting a sick feeling it was somehow connected to her death. In fact, looking at the rash of incidents that had sprung up in the past several weeks, I wondered if a pattern might emerge. I quickly typed in all the bizarre crimes I could recall.

First, of course, I listed the car-jacking. Violent and shocking as I had found it, Vivian's reaction had been much more calm and in control than mine. I had just met her, of course, so I had no idea what sort of person she was. I had put her reaction down as that of a consummate professional who deals with crises every day. But now I wondered. Perhaps she had had some secret reason of her own to play it cool.

Hey, what did I know? I had assumed the car-jacking was random. I had assumed, like any urbanite, that driving a fancy car came with risks, such as having your fancy car stolen and chopped up for parts. I had assumed the indomitable Vivian Duncan was just not going to stand for playing the part of the victim. But now I won
dered if she were, in fact, trying to cover something up.

Vivian had sent me a magnificent flower arrangement the next day, in thanks for my help. Her note mentioned she had gotten her Mercedes back and it was fine. Was that just a typically gracious Duncan gesture? Or had she an ulterior motive? I was caught. I had managed to construct a scenario in which the poor dead wedding planner was cast in the role of co-conspirator in some mysterious crime. I was really scum. And yet…

If these suspicions were true, there was more behind that assault on Vivian and her sedan than just a couple of punks looking for black market car parts for some Valley chop shop.

Tomorrow, I would visit Whisper Pettibone to turn over the business messages. I made a note to ask him about Vivian's car while I was there.

I moved on to make quick notes about other crimes and mysteries that might be somehow related. After all, Vivian's office had been broken into and destroyed, as had Whisper's. And Whisper had been assaulted as well. It certainly appeared that their business might be targeted for some reason, but why? What kind of records could a wedding consultant possess that would provoke someone to commit a murder?

As an afterthought, I typed in a note to ask Paul's opinion. He knew about business.

Paul, of course, believed the government was out to get everyone—one of his pet conspiracy theories. He had already found secret new digs and moved, always one step ahead of whatever ghosts pursue him. But he might know if Vivian's business seemed suspicious.

I added a few notes to my list regarding some of the other odd characters in the drama. Beryl Duncan, the daughter too hurt to grieve, and her father, who was reportedly so distraught he couldn't even be trusted to take care of Vivian's pet. And could any of this really be connected to the missing bridegroom, Brent Bell? Or, had he taken the weird opportunity fate had thrown him to take the escape clause from married life?

And that made me think again of the bride and her family. Sara Silver seemed emotional, and why not under the circumstances? But what about her scary old grandfather? T.V. icon or no T.V. icon. Come to think about it, Big Jack Gantree said that he and Vivian went way back. Cast now in the light of Vivian's murder, I was extremely curious how far back they went.

And how did the handsome Zelli Gentz fit into the picture? That, at least, I could try to find out at dinner tomorrow.

Looking over my list, I began to feel I had a plan. But all of those questions would have to wait until tomorrow, and I was still itching to find out what the hell it all meant. And then I remembered one more name to add to my list of odd characters.

Set up on the tiny pine coffee table were the photos I'd borrowed from Chef Reynoso.

Who are you, Albert Nbutu? I studied his image, trying to guess his age. Forty, maybe? Or fifty? He was in excellent shape, his arms sinewy, his stomach flat and hard. Perhaps he was thirty. But, no. Something around his eyes showed a sadness, or a weariness, or maybe it was more like a wariness. Older, I figured, and a hard life.

I thought back. The few words we'd exchanged the night before had been tinged with an accent. Not exactly Caribbean. But…something. Didn't Freddie Fox say Albert was from Ethiopia? Then I spent a few more minutes trying to decipher the word tattooed across his shoulder.

I logged onto the Internet and began searching on the word SANDMAN. Oh, brother. 73,000 matches. Dandy.

It was almost ten o'clock before I'd exhausted myself tracking down the top 200 websites that had popped up as a match. Trust me. What I couldn't now tell you about the Sandman project to study sleep biorhythms, or the dark hero of Neil Gaiman's cult classic comic books, or, for that matter, some professor of psychiatry named Carl Sandman at the University of California at Irvine, you
truly do not want to know. I had even found a site that offered the original lyrics to the golden oldie “Mr. Sandman.” I was getting nowhere. Slowly.

I raised a fresh strawberry to my lips and typed into the search field the word SANDAMAMA. The search engine chugged on the odd word. This time I would not be spending two hours following strange, fruitless leads. This time there were no matches. I brightened up and stretched.

It was getting late. And no, I wasn't thinking about Honnett. Or how disappointing it was that he had to leave. Or what a turn-on it is when a man is dedicated to his work, even creepy cop work. Or that he was trying to make like he wasn't controlled by his feelings. Like Honnett as Spock. But, come on! I'll bet…

SANDAWAMA drew a blank, too, so I typed in a few more words.

Where was I? Oh, yeah…I'll bet I can get him to care about someone…

Whoa! I stopped myself cold. Now that is a truly healthy reason to be attracted to a man. Why was it I always had my finger over the self-destruct button, ready for action?

Back to Nbutu, I studied the tattoo in the photo once more. I'd been coming up blank with several unheard of words, but kept at it. Next I tried the equally unlikely SANDAWANA.

To my surprise, 71 matches appeared. Who'd have thunk?

Using the fingerpad, I quickly pressed the first entry. This website displayed the recent winners of the Sandawana Cup, a prize for championship Staffordshire Bull Terriers.
CH. Magliam True Grit of Fonna, CH. Tenacious Juno Bedford Blossom of Millenium, KUSA National Dog 1989, CH. The Brown Bomber of Westmax
. I found my eyes blurring at the list of pedigree names.

And what could all these cute little bulldogs have to do with Nbutu?

“Madeline!”

I jumped and then realized it was Wesley's voice I heard calling from downstairs.

“Anybody here?”

He'd let himself in, as he often did, probably to pick up work he needed from his office.

“Hey, Wes! Come up,” I called back down. “Save me.”

“We thought you would be out on your big date with Chuck Honnett.”

Ah, Wes was not alone. Holly's voice grew louder as she mounted the stairs and came into my little upstairs living room. Her purple top was cropped high above the hip-hugging black Capri pants, showing off a tiny tattoo of a holly berry just below her navel.

“We came bearing food,” Wes said, entering right behind Holly.

His olive cargo pants were perfectly pressed. Naturally. But I was more impressed by the ample bag he held up. That looked promising. Doggie bag alert.

“Where'd you two have dinner?”

“Miyagi,” Holly said. “That place is so hot! Everybody was there tonight. And we sat on the third level, which was rockin'.”

Miyagi was a relatively new sushi club on Sunset built in three stories. Each level of loud, sushi bar madness was hipper than the next.

“Wow. You scored.” I looked hopefully at the bag and gave a brilliant impression of a doggie whimper.

“Down, Spot. I'll just clear off this table for you.” Wes moved a few magazines.

I smiled as I put down my notebook computer and gathered up the notes from my all-night project.

Inside the white bag was a container filled with an assortment of my favorites: spicy tuna roll, yellowtail, and Miyagi's specialty—caterpillar roll. It was kind of like a macho California roll with freshwater eel wrapped in rice and covered with avocado. I was in heaven.

Holly flopped down on her favorite chair, rubbing her long fingers in the soft sage-colored chenille fabric, but Wes seemed uneasy.

“What's up?” I looked at Wes with concern.

“It's Vivian's dog,” he said, glancing out my window toward the back of the house. “I left her down in the courtyard with a bowl of water, but…She's really a dear.”

“Wesley! Bring that poor gal up here.”

Wes brightened and left.

“So it's you and me,” I said to Holly, waiting for her to question the whereabouts of my date. Instead she was focused inward.

“I'm supposed to meet Donald after midnight. Man, he's been so busy lately, I've hardly seen the guy. We only have time for a quick jump and he's gotta go back to his place and work on his screenplay.”

“Well, that's probably natural for writers, Hol.”

“I mean, I told him to keep the lights on while we do it, or I won't even remember what he looks like anymore, you know?”

“Hol? Too much information.”

“You wimp.” She laughed. “So what happened to Honnett? You look like you never even went out.”

“He was here. He showed up. Don't worry. He had to go back to work.”

“Oh. So what is it with us? Why are we involved with these work geeks, anyway? What we need are some unemployed actors! Now, they have got time to boogie.” She looked at me with dancing eyes. “Let's get us a whole stable of unemployed actors and it would be sex, sex, sex—morning, noon, and night! We would not be two chicks sitting alone getting way too excited over some lousy take-out sushi on a Monday night, mama!”

I cracked up. So pathetic and so nailed.

I heard the jingling of a dog collar accompanied by Wes's soothing voice coming up the stairs. And into the room walked one very odd-looking dog.

“Hi there, girl,” I said, patting her proud but almost hairless nose. She was tall and quite thin, and she had an extremely short-haired golden brown coat, with a strange cowlick thingie along the top of her spine. I also
noticed her dog collar had a hanging pendant with a very large square-shaped green stone, like a simulated emerald.

“She's Vivian's dog, all right. Check out those accessories.” Holly reached over to scratch the calm dog's head. “I mean, who'd I have to hump for a choker like that?”

Wesley grimaced. “Ah, ah, ah…she heard that. I'd watch your leg, honey.”

See, Holly and I have rather similar observations on life, only expressed a shade differently.

“Boy, she certainly is one calm, cool dog,” I said. “So what is she? She looks very…uh…”

“Wacky,” Holly suggested.

“Well, I can tell you for sure she's not a Staffordshire Bull Terrier,” I said, with the superior attitude of a woman who has just looked at eight dozen photos of same.

“She's a Rhodesian Ridgeback, I believe,” said the man who knew everything. “See this fur?” Wesley drew his hand across the dog's back, feeling the stubby fur cowlick that ran down the center. Imagine a shaved dog with a mini-Mohawk. “This is her ridge.”

“Ah.”

“Cool.”

We all took turns feeling her ridge. It actually felt quite good. And the dog didn't mind a bit.

“Esmeralda, down.” Wesley gave her a friendly command and the sweet-tempered dog behaved brilliantly, resting down on her haunches next to the sofa.

Wes sat down next to me and noticed the photos I'd been studying all night.

“Wow. You scored. How'd you get this picture of Albert Nbutu?”

“Long story. I decided to visit Verdugo Woodlands. Funny how this picture of Nbutu was on Reynoso's desk, eh? I had to make up a whole song and dance, but the chef was actually a lamb. Now, I wonder what was going on? Why did he pretend he didn't know this guy when you called, Wes?”

“Beats me. Maybe you showed him more leg than I did.”

“To be fair, he didn't see your leg, Wes. I'm sure he would have appreciated it, given half a chance.”

“Thanks, sweetie. So how'd you get him to talk?”

“I didn't want to spook Reynoso so I didn't mention Nbutu at all. He got the impression I was from some ice sculpture magazine.”

“Good one.” Wes was amused.

“Boy, people can get interested in some pretty weird stuff,” opined the queen of weird herself, with a straight face.

“He let me borrow some photos and the great part was, he didn't look very closely at the ones I took. It was masterful, if I do say so myself. Only I've hit a major snag. I thought I would find some brilliant clue in this photo that would help me track Albert down in thirty minutes.”

“And?”

“That was five hours ago.”

Curious, Holly moved over to squeeze in on the sofa. “That's your ice sculptor guy? What a body.” She traced his image over the glass with one long purple fingernail. “Cool tattoo.”

“Can you read what it says?” I asked.

Holly took the frame and squinted close to the picture. “I think it says Sandman, maybe.”

Wesley took the picture from her and studied it.

“Isn't that a jewel?”

“Yes. Like an outline of a diamond, I think.”

“No,” Wes said, still studying the photo. “It's square. Like an emerald.”

Of course it was.