Killer Wedding (12 page)

“Interesting, isn't it?” Wes asked us.

“Uh…” Holly didn't get it.

“There's an emerald on Albert Nbutu's shoulder, and there's a fake emerald on Miss Esmeralda's collar,” I said, thinking.

“And, of course, Esmeralda is the Spanish word for emerald,” Wes finished up.

Holly giggled. “You guys know too much.”

“Wait a minute. Holy shit.” I pulled my PC back into my lap. The screensaver, the floating words
EAT DRINK SEX
that Wes had long ago programmed into my computer, disappeared and the Champion Bull Terriers website blinked back on. I hit the back button and came, once again, upon the list of 71 matches for the word Sandawana. Scrolling down almost to the bottom of the page, I came back to a listing I'd just barely glanced at earlier. Sandawana showed a match on a website for something called the Mining News.

A few seconds later I was at the opening page that described various mining operations in several developing nations. I used the
FIND
function to get to the word I was looking for. It brought me directly down to the word Sandawana, as in the Sandawana Mine, as in a location in the interior of the country of Zimbabwe.

“This is a little freaky,” I said, clicking on a few more buttons. Wes and Holly watched the screen flash through its silent progression of images. “Wasn't Zimbabwe formerly called Rhodesia?”

“Yes it was,” Wes said. “Rhodesia became two countries—Zimbabwe and Zambia—back in the seventies.”

All three of us pondered the fact that Vivian owned a dog whose country of origin contained a mine whose name, Sandawana, was tattooed on the shoulder of an African who was present at the occasion of her demise. Of course, it made absolutely no sense.

Wes looked at me and asked, “What exactly gets mined at Sandawana?”

“Wait! Don't tell me. Don't tell me,” Holly said, excited.

I pushed a button and in a few seconds we would have our answer…

Holly jumped up, like a
Jeopardy!
contestant on uppers, and excitedly blurted out, “What are emeralds?”…just before the image appeared on the screen.

T
he robber barons who run the parking structure at Cedars-Sinai Hospital engage in legalized extortion. Seriously. They charge an arm and a leg for every twenty minutes, and you're crazy to pay it. Better to park at the Beverly Center and walk. That way, either coming or going, you get to cruise the mall if you want. I usually want. But this morning, I was in a hurry.

I checked in at the visitors' desk and was directed to the proper bank of elevators. Up to the South Tower, fifth floor. Walking along the linoleum, smelling hospital smells, I began to feel some compassion for Whisper Pettibone. While maybe I had not formed the best impression of him, and maybe his manner was decidedly waspish, he certainly didn't deserve to end up in a hospital bed. I resolved to tread gently in our interview, to be my most nurturing self. Nurse Cherry Bean—kind, caring, sweet-tempered. A goddamn angel of mercy.

At the door to room 599 I stopped. What to do? For some reason—and really, I blame the HMOs—the hospital fails to provide doormen to announce you. And yet, what an intimate space is a sickroom—a bedroom, really—in which to have a casual stranger, such as myself, barge. I faltered, standing in the hallway. I would hardly have looked forward to visiting the acidic Mr. Pettibone when he was full of his usual vinegar, dressed to the teeth. To approach him while he was in bed, loosely
wrapped in some hospital-issue gown complete with breezeway bottom, was a thrill I could have happily lived without.

Just then, a middle-aged nurse opened the door, startling me. She gave an exasperated “tsk-tsk-tsk” and walked off. Apparently, Whisper Pettibone was a charming patient this morning. Wonderful.

I stepped forward and looked into the room. Whisper was sitting with his bed half-inclined, staring at the wall opposite.

I knocked softly on the open door, hoping to get his attention.

“Excuse me. Mr. Pettibone? It's Madeline Bean. Do you feel up to a visitor?”

“I feel like bloody HELL,” he said, turning to look me over. “I think I may die, but whether from the brilliance of my hospital treatment or of boredom I would hate to wager a bet.” Whisper took a few labored breaths and said, “But why are you still standing out in the hall? Enter. Come in. I can't very well carry on a conversation with you if you insist on standing a mile away.”

I entered the room. Whisper was hooked up to an IV line that led to a stand on wheels parked next to his bed. His head was bandaged and one arm was set in a cast. Several fabulous flower arrangements were in evidence, set side by side on the window seat. His skin, always a suspiciously deep tan, looked sunken on his prominent cheekbones, dark against the white linens. He kept his eyes closed when I approached, but now opened them and stared at me.

“Madeline Bean. Would you believe you are my first visitor? And I don't even know you, do I?” He took a moment to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses and smooth a hand back over his thinning hair.

“I wish I had had time to bake,” I said, feeling awkward, “but I stopped at Urban Epicurean.” I held up a large tote filled with the assortment of gourmet treats I'd picked up on my way over.

“Oh, goodie. Real food.” He said it in a most sarcastic
tone, but I think he was pleased. “Set it down over there.” He gestured to the bedside table that was moved a few feet away. “I'll get one of the slaves, or would that be nurses? Yes, I'll get one of the nurses to put it away in a refrigerator. Probably the last time I'll see it, too. Thieves, the lot of them. Oh well, no matter.”

I smiled. And he very grudgingly let his eye twinkle. But only for a fraction of a second.

“I've come, of course, to talk about the business. If you think you are up to it. There are some things that need to be dealt with, the sooner the better, but I don't want to bother you if you are too tired.”

“The business? By that you mean
my
business, don't you?” Whisper Pettibone looked me over. “We hardly know each other, Miss Bean. And truth to tell, I really didn't think I liked you at all. Not at all.”

“I got that impression, yes.”

“But here you are, coming to visit me like I'm your sick uncle. Wearing that ghastly little dress. Bringing store-bought food.” He clucked his tongue, annoyed at himself. “But quite respectable store-bought food, I must admit. And you don't gush, do you? You didn't go all wimpy asking about the nasty details of my injuries. Admirable. I may have to change my opinion of you…”

When it's a toss-up between being amused or being insulted, I take amused every time. Life is short. And where's the fun without the occasional kook, crackpot, or scalawag getting in the jambs? I sat there appreciating one of life's sincerely oddest old kooks, and smiled.

“…which, of course, I never, ever do. Because I'm always right, naturally, so it's never necessary. You see what a pain in the ass you have become to me, Miss Bean? So vexing. I begin to wish you had never shown up at all. However, seeing as how you are the only one likely to make this sacred pilgrimage to my sickbed, I must rise to the occasion. Do sit down.”

I did.

“Have the police figured out who did this to you?” I asked, concerned.

“Don't make me laugh. Not a bloody clue. I mean, they are without a single brain cell between them. They're savages and good for little else than beating poor defenseless things about with their billy clubs. You only have to imagine how they dealt with a man of refinement and culture. I was bloody and unconscious, being rolled into the x-ray, and they were after me like hounds, trying to get information. I couldn't speak. How could I? It wasn't my own injuries, Miss Bean. I am not talking about mere pain of the body.

“It was from a much sharper pain that I was struck silent. You see, those bastards told me about Vivian. The first moment I recovered consciousness, they told me. I fought my way back from the depths of oblivion, only to be told I had lost my soulmate, my dearest companion, my very best friend in a wretched and desolate world. My lovely Vivian has been killed, they told me. I really cannot be expected to take this all in. I am an artist, with an artist's soul, and an artist's sensitivities.” He closed his eyes.

It was quite a speech and had clearly exhausted him. His labored breathing began to sound more and more like snoring. Just as I was sure the man had fallen asleep, he spoke up.

“I hope you will not leave just yet, Miss Bean.”

Startled, I sat back down.

He opened his sunken eyes and looked at me. “I'm worried,” he said.

“About the business?”

“It's all I have, Miss Bean. Are you still determined to take it from me?”

“No. Absolutely not. Don't you give it another thought.”

“What's that? Are you toying with me? What, dear lady, are you saying?”

“I never wanted Vivian's company. I am not sure why she fixated on the idea, but she approached me and kept
after me. I thought she might have needed the money.”

“Nonsense. We are doing well, naturally. And Vivian is worth a fortune. Everyone knows that.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes people give the impression…”

“Hush!” he interrupted me, “I see her books. I do her personal finances. I know where her offshore accounts are kept. I pay the bloody insurance premiums on her jewels and furs. I have a key to a joint security deposit box, which is filled with cash, if you must know. We are not in any way low on funds. And Vivian came into the business with so much capital she barely knew what to do with it all. Have you seen her home on Courtney Road? She bought it with cash. Shortest escrow in the history of Beverly Hills.”

“I see.”

“I should hope so. Be sensible. In all the time I've known Viv she has never made a decision based on money. My word, we were above all that.”

“Then I can't understand why she was so insistent that I buy her out. I told Vivian no at the wedding, but she didn't want to listen to me.”

“I'm not sure I believe you, you know,” Whisper said, upset. “Oh, I don't know what to believe. It was most unusual from the start.” He looked at me, as if to decide how much he wanted to confide. “Should I tell you?”

“That has to be your call,” I said.

“You don't beg, do you? You don't pry and you don't insinuate. Most amazing in a girl like you.”

“Actually, I prefer being referred to as a woman.”

“I'm sure you do. The problem I'm having is with Vivian's behavior, don't you see? It doesn't seem at all Vivian-like. It troubled me then and it troubles me now. She was secretive. Well, that wasn't so unusual. Viv liked to have her little secrets. Silly woman. Of course I found out every single one. Why wouldn't I? I was in charge of the purse strings. I kept the accounts. Let me tell you it is very difficult to keep a secret from the man who balances the books.

“When Viv was seeing that young waiter, who did she imagine was paying the Visa bill that listed all those single-night stays at the Hotel Bel Air? And did she imagine I bought the story that all those clothes she charged at Saks were for Ralph? I think not.”

“Are you saying Vivian was seeing someone?” I asked.

“Of course she was. She was a very complicated woman. Ralph couldn't begin to understand her. Why she kept him around is a question for the gods, but she wouldn't hear a word against him.”

Vivian's husband. Vivian's boyfriends. Any of these people could have motives to have murdered Vivian. Even Whisper himself. If he really believed Vivian was planning to sell him out, what would he have done?

Whisper must have been figuring things out, too. He looked startled, and then reached up his thin hand and touched his mouth. “Oh, my word. Don't tell me you are trying to solve Vivian's murder, my dear? Can that possibly be what is going through your brain? Stop it this instant.
I
have been going over it all, again and again, and believe me, if anyone were able to get to the truth, it would be me. And it's all nonsense. No matter what you think of any of us. No one would kill Viv, no matter what they may have hoped to accomplish.”

“You said her husband…”

“No balls! That man is not very good at anything but drinking scotch rocks, my dear. He would simply not have the appropriate gonads to pull off such a stunt. And if Ralph somehow surfaced from his Glenlivet haze long enough to have done the deed, how in the world do you imagine he discovered the courage to drag her poor body across half a museum, up a bloody staircase, and toss her across that heap of bones?” Whisper's eyes blazed at me, challenging me to disagree.

“That's the million dollar question.”

“So you are trying your hand at playing detective. This is too rich! And who, pray tell, is among your other suspects?”

“Please don't take this personally, Mr. Pettibone, but I find just about everyone suspicious.”

“How wise. How young and how wise you are, Miss Bean. And by that I suppose you mean to say you suspect me?”

“I hope that doesn't make you too uncomfortable,” I said, pleasantly.

“Pish-tush! Let's not quibble about niceties. Not when we are beginning anew, Miss Bean. Not when we have a whole delicious relationship to embark upon. Not when you assure me, as indeed you have assured me, haven't you? That you have no intention of taking our wedding business away from us. So let's put our heads together, shall we? Let's think deep thoughts. What if, as you suspect, I had been upset and angry with Vivian? Let's even say I had a very good reason. Can you guess what that might be?”

“Perhaps you hadn't been consulted about selling the business?”

“Excellent point. See how well we are doing? So there I am, distraught over the thought of losing a business I had worked for twenty years to build up. A business, I might add, that had been promised to me all these years. Well, if not promised, then implicitly pledged, as anyone would assume after I had traveled such a long and hard journey building the business up. Even if one imagined I had ample reason to work myself up to
hate
Vivian, which is pure nonsense—I simply worshipped and adored her—but
should
I have felt thrust out, as surely you must have suspected, as you wisely suspect everyone, would I have it in me to kill her? Well?”

“I don't know.”

“Good answer. You don't know me at all. But I know me. I could never do such a thing in a million years. But let's say you don't take my word on it. All right, then, let's look at the question logically. Since you have cleverly worked out a possible motive upon the notion that I covet Vivian Duncan Weddings, why then, dear lady, you can't believe I would harm the business. I
wouldn't. Had I any motive which involved keeping and preserving and running the business which is Vivian Duncan Weddings, the last place I'd commit a murder would be at one of our own weddings. Don't you see? It would be exactly like pissing in one's own Jacuzzi. Simply not done.”

“Excellent point, Mr. Pettibone.”

“Whisper to you, now that we're friends.”

“Why do people call you Whisper? Your voice is quite booming, really.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Whisper said, playing at being elusive. “A gent must keep an air of mystery. Now, I wonder if you would be good enough to pour me a glass of water. No, no, not that awful stuff they put in that pitcher. It's from the tap, for the love of God. No, I have a bottle of San Pelegrino here, somewhere. Ah, yes, that's it.”

I poured out a glass for Whisper and then, in the brief lull as he drank, grabbed the chance to get a word in and ask one of the questions I was really after.

“I'd like to know more about the day Vivian's car was stolen. Would you mind filling me in a little?”

“I'm sorry? When was that?”

“When her Mercedes was car-jacked.” I sat down and I looked at him. “Don't tell me that doesn't ring a bell. Three weeks ago. The day she was supposed to meet Sara Bell and her fiancé at Darius for their tabletop. You called me later that day, remember? You had been worried because you couldn't reach Vivian.”