Killer Wedding (4 page)

“I know, but with all the ruckus, and then that poor woman looking pretty bruised, well, I never got it settled that we weren't interested. Don't worry. I will.”

“First someone steals her car, then she gets lost. That woman is having a terrible, no good, very bad day,” Holly said. Then she put the final touches on her salad, tossing the greens with marinated artichoke hearts and vinegar, adding fresh goat cheese, and topping it all with the
migas
. I had to admit, it looked spectacular.

“Let's eat,” I said, pulling my
paella
out of the oven and peeling back the foil. A heady steam of saffron scented shrimp arose from the pan.

I looked up to Wes for some approval, but he seemed
lost in some other thought. A little tic played around his eyes. In the past, Wesley could always sense trouble. He had that exact look about him.

But, it was almost nine. I was hungry. And, let's be real. Who wanted to stop to think out what kind of trouble might be coming tomorrow when such a lovely meal awaited us tonight?

T
hree weeks squirmed by. I was not amused by the idleness of being out of work, and the only diversion from the monotony seemed to be the occasional phone calls from attorney Paul giving updates on the lawsuit that was crawling along. It appeared that Five Star Studios wanted to go to court. While they had no interest in the food business, their lawyers showed a litigious zest for keeping me from competing with my former, and now defunct, company. At least that's what I think Paul said.

When Wesley and I had taken Five Star's money for my old, and at the time, very much out-of-favor catering company, we'd agreed not to start a new company that would compete in the same field. It had seemed reasonable at the time. They'd given us nearly three million dollars for a business that was sinking.

But Wes and I had never intended to retire. We'd always dreamed of going beyond cooking alone, so we focused our energy on a new firm that allowed us to create entire events. We began Mad Bean Events a few months ago. Our kickoff extravaganza was a sit-down breakfast for thousands in honor of the pope's visit to Los Angeles. Of course, we did that one for free.

In our, well, enthusiasm, shall we say, we dismissed any thought of Five Star. In our minds, at least, we were no longer “caterers.” After all, we weren't actually cook
ing. Instead, we subcontracted a caterer for the event. And besides all that, Five Star had never had any intention of operating a catering business. It's a long, strange story, but they had been “negotiated” into buying us out.

In the year since, they never so much as opened an office or hired a staff. Madeline Bean Catering was now only a name on their books to them. And a fond memory to us.

And, hell. We figured they'd never notice.

It seems, however, that Five Star Studios had not built up a three-floor legal department simply to intimidate their producers and their distributors. On the odd day when business was slow, they felt perfectly happy to use their lawyers to harass Wes and me, too. Hence, the nasty slump in Mad Bean Events after the heady triumph of entertaining the pope.

After that very high profile success, our phones were ringing. We were approached by several of L.A.'s leading celebrity fundraisers. In one week, we'd been moved from nowhere to the “A” list. Million dollar events that only last year we hadn't been able to bid on as caterers, we were now being invited to run. And at the height of this explosive launch of our new, improved, events-planning firm, entered the angry giant. Five Star Studios appeared waving lawsuits and announced we had already breached our contract when we put on the lavish party for the pontiff.

“Who was that?” Wes asked, looking up as I cradled the phone. We were in our office, an airy room with French doors out to the courtyard that used to be my home's dining room. We sat facing each other at a huge double-sized old partner's desk. Such antique charm costs an arm and a leg—the very same arm and leg that was currently being fought over by lawyers.

“Money,” I muttered.

“Yes?”

“You know,” I said, rubbing one finger along the edge of the desk, appreciating the warm, expensive patina. This large noble desk had been our one splurge, and it
had only been ours for a few weeks. “Root of all evil.”

“The lawsuit. No progress?” Wes asked, taking an easy guess at the state of things in lawyer-land.

“Seems Five Star is feeling generous. They're leaning towards forgiving our historic reception for the pope.”

“Forgive us? Could they have possibly been influenced by the fact that they don't have a frigging leg to stand on? We didn't cook. We didn't charge a fee. We…”

“Yes. They have been told. And for the moment they are not threatening to press for damages on that
one party
.”

Wes looked at me across the desk with a pained expression. “So they are beginning to be reasonable?”

“You know better than that,” I said, daring him to smile. “Actually, my friend Brother Xavier called a friend of his at the Vatican, and he arranged…”

“What? To have all the nasty Five Star executives excommunicated!”

“
…he arranged
,” I said with emphasis, ignoring the interruption, “for Mrs. President of Five Star Studios to take a VIP tour of the Vatican Museum.”

“I can't believe this. We were saved by art.”

“Something like that. However,” I continued, rubbing my scalp, “Wesley, they aren't going to drop their main lawsuit. They're hung up on the fact that we blatantly started a competing business. And even though they are wrong, they have so much money and so many lawyers on their payroll, they don't have to drop it. Paul says they can drag this on for years, even if they end up being proved dead wrong.”

“Yeah, but why jump all over little guys like us? There's got to be a reason they won't let go. What do they want?” Wes asked, resigned.

“Their three million dollars back, probably.”

Wes swallowed. “Oh, boy.” He looked around, taking in the photo of the two of us standing with the pope, each of us holding a crystal glass containing strawberry smoothies. That was some breakfast bash.

“But we don't have all that money anymore.”

I nodded. We had spent a lot on the pope's party, all donated to the cause. In addition, I had paid off my home's mortgage, part of which was a business expense. We'd bought a few pieces of furniture, as a treat.

“And,” Wes continued, “we can't go out and earn back the money unless they give us permission to work.”

We had been over this road more than a few times. It was always more or less gruesome.

“Our only option is to buy an existing company with the money we have left and build it up,” Wes said, not for the first time.

I may have groaned. For months, I had been getting calls from every barely break-even food service company in L.A., and I was not interested. With the rumors floating around town of our new fortune, we were being pecked to death by a flock of hungry business owners wanting out. Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that Vivian Duncan, a woman who had never spoken to me in the past, was courting me big time.

“Please, Wes, don't say we have to become wedding planners. I don't think I could face many more jittery brides.”

“No, dear.” He smiled at me. Wesley has a very handsome chin, and the rest of his face wasn't bad either. His thick dark hair was currently cut like a brush, which I find slightly GI, but on him it worked. As always, he was immaculately dressed. Today, he wore a simple light denim shirt and khakis, but on his tall thin frame it looked elegant.

“We are not about to pay over two million dollars for a business that would give you hives.”

“Well, thank God for that, at least.”

“You ever hear where Vivian disappeared to that night Whisper called?”

“Not my business. Actually, I've been avoiding giving her the big N-O.”

“You ever gonna tell her?”

I took a deep breath. “I hate to disappoint people. I
end up getting so worked up that when I finally talk to them, I blow it.”

“Mad,” Wes said, looking at me kindly. “Just say no.”

“I've got to tell her tonight.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Tonight? You're going to confront Vivian Duncan with the news that we will not buy her business at the humungoid wedding of the century? You really think that's going to be the best moment to give her a pass?”

In Hollywood, we avoid mentioning words that sound too much like rejection. Series are not cancelled, anymore. They are “rotated out of the schedule.” A T.V. project is not “turned down” it's “passed” on. Almost sounds like a compliment.

“I've been trying to get my nerve up to tell her for weeks,” I said, “but we keep missing each other on the phone. I'll just have to tell her tonight. If I can get her alone.”

A slow smile spread across Wesley's face. “You got the guts?”

“Please,” I said.

Wes regarded me but let it slide. Instead he said, “Holly will be happy. She's never seen a Vivian Duncan wedding spectacular in person.”

“We can't disappoint our Holly,” I said, standing.

“Is this my cue to leave?” Wes looked at his watch.

I looked at mine. Three-thirty. “I better get ready. We have to be at the Museum of Nature at six.”

“I know. Holly is taking this thing pretty seriously. She's actually gone to the Brandon Hoskins Salon for a Day of Beauty.”

That stopped me. Our hip-hop assistant was spending a day being manicured and pedicured and, in all likelihood, getting various parts of her body seaweed-wrapped. I almost pitied the poor salon.

Laughing for maybe the first time all afternoon, I felt some of the heavy pressure lift. “This wedding could be fun.”

I
don't care what your mother taught you. If you are ever invited to a California wedding, wear black. Everyone does. Black is now equally appropriate for attending weddings or funerals and, frankly, for all occasions to which you must look five pounds thinner in between. Black is so cool, so classic, so slenderizing, that more and more brides are selecting gowns in basic black for their bridesmaids. Go ahead, pack a rose-colored dress if you must, but wear the black. You'll thank me for it.

The L.A. Museum of Nature is located near USC, set back on a public square. It's in a part of south central Los Angeles to which most of Sara Silver's wedding guests rarely venture after dark. It was past the museum's closing time. The vast adjacent parking lots were empty. But all things considered, no thoughtful bride would expect her friends and relatives to walk the lonely half-block from the parking lot to the museum entrance. Not wearing their finest jewelry. Not at night. Not in that neighborhood.

Wesley pulled smoothly up to the curb where a platoon of parking attendants, wearing crisp white shirts, stood ready for our arrival.

“I'm starving,” Holly said.

“Down, Holly,” Wes said. “They're valets, not hors d'ouvres.”

As we stepped out of Wes's car, Holly and I took a
quick moment to straighten out our attire. Holly wore a long, black, strapless tube dress that glittered in the streetlights. Its metallic threads of elastic quilting molded the dress to her tall, slender form. The hors d'oevr…the valet parkers noticed.

Wes came around to check us out.

“Subdued,” he commented to Holly, noting her bright red lipstick. She is the one among us who likes to take the occasional fashion leap. Then he turned to me, checking out the severe black silk dress, scooped low in front, that had cost me a fortune.

“I think,” Wes pronounced in a whisper, “you may single-handedly bring back cleavage as an art form.”

Holly, tottering on extremely high-heeled sandals, turned away from our discussion of my chest with hunting-dog-on-a-scent alert.

“Maddie! Was that Brad Pitt?” She strained to see the dimly lit form of a young man walking far ahead of us, as he disappeared into the giant entryway of the Museum of Nature.

“I'm
dying!
Brad Pitt! Is he a guest?” Holly pulled at her short, blond, spiky bangs.

We followed Holly, who had picked up her pace to a trot, veering around the spotlit and dramatic bronze replica of the museum's most famous artifact that had recently been installed out in front of the entrance. The statue showed dinosaurs, under attack. At night, the aggressive forms looked beautiful, the bronze gleaming in the indirect lighting.

I scanned past the building ahead of us, but not for celebrities. Wes stopped next to me and said, “The tent must be out back.”

“Yes. Behind the far wing,” I agreed. As caterers, we were both intrigued by the logistics of setting up a temporary kitchen large enough to serve dinner to 200 demanding guests. The museum is a star location, but its kitchen facilities are not available for private functions.

Up ahead, Holly stopped just past the sculpture and turned to us, impatient. “
Guys!
”

“I guess we'll check out the catering setup later,” Wes suggested.

“Possible Pitt sighting,” I agreed.

Holly had already walked up to the sixteen-foot-tall pavilion door and entered the three-story domed marble foyer. Two private security guards stood at the door, checking invitations against the guest list. I thought again of the expense of leasing this magnificent space for a private party.

Once in the grand foyer, I was stunned by the success of the decoration.

“Awesome,” Holly whispered.

Several huge potted trees had been brought in for the party, each ablaze with hundreds of tiny twinkling white lights, glimmering in the semidark hall.

Instead of using the museum's fluorescent overheads, a lighting designer had been brought in to create a custom look for the event. Baby spotlights picked out the gold leaf detail in the forty-foot-tall rotunda ceiling. A hammered-silver bar had been set up at the far side of the foyer, lit with covered lamps, making each bottle of gin look like a glowing jewel, each row of glassware a sparkling necklace. In a further corner, an African drum band was playing an exotic rhythm, lit up on their low riser by perfect stage lighting.

Several dozen guests had already arrived, and, as Holly scanned the crush of tuxedoed men for a tousled blond head, even more new arrivals flowed past us. Each wedding guest appeared mesmerized by the brilliant effect; the light and dark shadows played against the breathtaking architecture. Surely most had visited during daylight hours. Struggling with maps and nephews and crowds, had any of us really noticed the beauty of the place, the spectacular columns, the inlaid marble mosaics on the floor?

Of course, the one sight I did remember quite clearly from prior daytime sightseeing was the centerpiece of the foyer. With the sound of tribal African music rendered by fine musicians on drums and reed flutes in the
background, I turned to gaze at the museum's most famous display. Mimicking the new bronze sculpture in the courtyard were the fossilized bones of an enormous
Triceratops
rearing back, arranged in a fearful pose. Roaring over this beast was a skeletal
T-rex
positioned in vicious attack, its six-foot jaws open, its huge fangs like daggers.

The entire installation rose over twenty feet high on a black marble base. In the semidarkness of the room, spotlights threw fierce shadows onto the floor.

“Maddie,” Wes said, catching my attention. I moved from the dinosaur display and joined him at a white-skirted table not far away. “Unusual location for a romantic ceremony. Very original. Who's the bride, again? A
Jurassic Park
fan?”

“Her family are big benefactors of the museum,” I said.

“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Money talks.”

Wes was standing at a table skirted in mosquito netting which held an awesome display of genuine Beanie Babies. A few hundred miniature beanbag leopards sat at the ready, each with a card tied around his neck with black satin ribbon.

“Are these the escort cards?” I asked, reaching out to the Beanie Baby Wesley was holding up to me.

“They're a special limited edition,” Wes said, checking another one out.

“Amazing.” A calligrapher had written the names of each guest and their table assignment on the cards tied to the necks of these collectible treasures.

Holly appeared, looking disappointed. “It wasn't Brad Pitt.” She made a face. “I think it was Kato Kaelin.”

“It's going to be a long night,” I advised my star-struck assistant. “Hang in there.”

Wes handed her a seven-inch leopard from the table. “Cheer up. Look at this.”

“Holy shit! I can't believe it. This is a Beanie I've never seen before.” She checked out its tiny label. “And it's for real!”

“Charming touch, aren't they?”

We all looked up to see Vivian Duncan, smiling broadly at us. She looked better than the last time I'd seen her. More upright.

Vivian explained, “Those were made for us and only us by the Ty company. Sara wanted to have something extra-special for all her guests to enjoy. Nice, eh? I tell you Madeline, you're going to love working with my clientele. They have so much to offer you.”

“Vivian,” I said. “I know you're busy right now, but I've been…”

“Darling girl,” Vivian said, grabbing my arm warmly in her tight grip, “introduce me to your friends. Wesley I know.” She smiled a dazzling faux smile in the direction of Wes and then focused on Holly.

“Holly Nichols,” I said.

Holly, trying to do the right thing, held out her hand.

At that moment, Vivian disengaged herself from clutching my arm and swiftly turned toward a waiter who had just passed.

“Marco?” she said in an unpleasantly tense voice, her gravelly whisper almost coming out a hiss.

She caught herself and turned back to our group once more.

Holly said, “Miss Duncan, I'm…”

“Must run,” Vivian said brightly to me, flashing me a tight smile. “See you later, Madeline. We must have our attorneys get together. Soon, okay?” And she turned quickly towards Marco's retreating back, leaving without so much as looking again at Holly or Wes.

I turned to Wes, almost smiling. “
Must run
?”

“
Must
drink.” Wes pointed us towards the bar in the corner.

“
Must
barf,” commented Holly, hiking up her strapless tube dress.

“
Must
drop the bomb,” I added, trying to catch up with the pair making a beeline for the booze.

Ahead, at the bar, I noticed an unhappy-looking man, his thinning hair combed straight back from his tall, tan
forehead. Wire-rimmed glasses winked in the subdued lighting, and as we approached he seemed to clear his throat. I looked at him and got the feeling he expected me to recognize him.

“Miss Bean, isn't it?” he asked in a low, smooth voice. I recognized the voice.

“Mr. Pettibone.” So this was Vivian's aide-de-camp.

“At last we meet,” he said, with a smile. It was meant, I think, to be charming, but came off as sinister.

“This is my friend and partner, Wesley Westcott,” I introduced, as Holly began to order our drinks from the bartender. “And that's Holly Nichols. What a wonderful party.”

“Yes,” Pettibone said, not making eye contact with either of my friends. “So.” He smiled again, and then whispered, “Do you actually imagine you could handle such a magnificent wedding as this one on your own?”

Wes was helping Holly get the drinks, and I realized I was the only one who could hear Pettibone's remark.

I turned to face him. “Ex
cuse
me?” This bozo was taking me on.

“Doubtful,” he said softly, smile intact, and moved closer to my ear. “But, perhaps you are smart enough not even to try it.”

“How rare it is these days to find open hostility. And you do it quite well, I must add.”

“Why, thank you,” Ted “Whisper” Pettibone replied pleasantly.

“‘Thank you' for what?” Holly asked as she rejoined us. Then she announced, “Shampoo!” and handed me a crystal flute of bubbly.

“Miss Bean thinks a lot of herself. I wish her luck. Is she courageous? Or simply foolish?” Pettibone's eyes darted away and then he murmured, “Vivian needs me. I'm sure we'll talk again, later,” and quickly left.

“What was that?” Holly asked, sipping her “shampoo.”

“Territorial bullshit.” Wes appeared annoyed.

“He does not seem like a happy camper,” I agreed. “I wonder how much Vivian has told him?”

By now, most of the guests had arrived in the grand foyer—a swirl of tuxedoed men and thin women in black designer dresses. The insistent, sexy drumbeat of tribal Africa swelled in the background beneath the happy, chattering roar. Glasses tinkled, relatives laughed, waiters sweated, future in-laws air-kissed, bachelors drank, Beanie Babies were snatched up, and teenage girls giggled, while the movements of the occasional semicelebrity punctuated the scene, followed more or less discreetly by so many pairs of eyes.

One group of movers and shakers I recognized included a man who owned a Cadillac dealership, a man who owned a bank, and a man who owned a football team and a lot of real estate south of Los Angeles. But the business community held no interest for Holly. Just as I was worrying that she might trail George Hamilton into the men's room, I caught sight of Vivian sending Whisper Pettibone away on some errand. This might be the best time to get to the woman. The wedding ceremony would start in another fifteen minutes. If I caught her now I could finally tell her Wes and I were not buying any wedding consultant firm—including hers.

Pushing through the crowd, I tried to follow Vivian's movements halfway across the foyer. With knots of wedding guests moving between us, I momentarily lost sight of her slight figure dressed in pale blue. I reached the other end of the foyer, puzzled. I had somehow lost her again.

“Looking for Vivian?”

Deep voice. British accent. I turned. There stood one of the most striking men I'd ever seen. Staring at my cleavage.

“Yes, actually.”

His heavy, dark mustache drooped around a very sexy mouth. His large, brown eyes seemed focused about twelve inches below my chin. I suddenly felt flushed,
and wondered if my one sip of alcohol on an empty stomach was entirely responsible.

“Back there,” he said, pointing down a corridor, his gaze meeting mine.

“Thanks,” I said. Witty.

“Not at all.” He touched his hair, pushing it behind his ear.

Out of things to say, I turned down the corridor he had indicated to find Vivian.

Almost at once I heard her voice, and as I turned the corner, I saw her. Vivian Duncan was speaking on her cell phone. I slowed down, not wanting to intrude on her privacy. She smiled and waved me over as she continued to speak into the phone.

“…in a matter of minutes. That's exactly what I'm saying, you idiot. It's their honeymoon, for Christ's sake. Get those tickets and get your ass down here!” Her tone was sharp, but she still managed to give me a friendly wink. Honestly.

“No, no. I said no, dammit!” she continued into the phone. “I am not carrying you on this one, dollface! I expect you to keep your word. This lovely couple is about to get married and I should think even a moron would know they need to have their tickets tonight. Good. That's settled, then. Get here immediately!” At that, she hit the disconnect button on her tiny digital phone and gave me a big, glossy smile.

“Details!” she said, tossing the phone into her tiny beaded bag. “But that's why they pay us so much, isn't it? How do you like this setup, honey?” She began walking me back toward the main foyer. I could hear the sounds of the crowd getting louder and had to stop her. This was my chance.