Killer Wedding (7 page)

So I gave in and said, “Let's just stay for dinner.” Just like that. Leaving would be such a hassle, I reasoned. Staying had so many attractions. I was hungry and food was here. A primitive reaction, I know, surrounded by so many pairs of small mammal eyes.

T
he waiters were clearing the dessert plates which held scant traces of the masterpieces—miniature zebras made of white chocolate mousse drizzled with bittersweet chocolate icing. I turned to Wesley. “These servers…”

“I know. The best.”

Among top caterers, the actual food and the way it was prepared and presented were always exceptional. That was a given. But having on tap really well-trained serving staff was the critical difference, the mark of the elite and expensive best.

I pushed out from the table, preparing to make a run to the ladies, and turned to see if Holly cared to join me. Her mouth was open, her arms thrown wide, as she appeared to be singing a line from the song “Truly Scrumptious” to Mr. Van Dyke. In the bustle and swell of so many diners, she couldn't really be heard for more than a few tables and I had to admit, Mr. Van Dyke didn't seem to be particularly annoyed. I guess he'd had to put up with worse fan encounters than a giddy blonde in a tube top reliving her recent youth. Don't think celebrities have it easy. Even at private parties, everyone knows all the words to their songs.

I edged my way between a couple of tables, when a man's hand on my shoulder stopped me. Honnett. I hadn't realized he was heading for the door before the cake was cut as well.

“Madeline,” he said, smiling down at me. His tough-jawed face looked particularly good set off by his tuxedo. I knew if I mentioned it, it would embarrass the hell out of him.

“Don't you look good all dressed up,” I said.

“Yeah, well. Shit.” He smiled again. “You know I'd feel more comfortable out of this thing.” He shrugged large shoulders in his black jacket. “I figured it was cheaper to rent this rig than to buy a whole new suit.”

“How…practical.” I love to see a man off-balance. And in my past dealings with Lt. Chuck Honnett, I'd rarely had that opportunity. “So she's a rental? Neat. I like that whole wide lapel thing you're trying to bring back.”

“Shut up, Bean.”

“So how does a police detective wind up at such a trendy wedding? Who do you know here anyway?” I turned to ask my question since he was walking a bit behind me, following my snaking path between tables on the way out of the hall.

“I went to school with Brent Bell's dad. Some of the guys from that group were invited. I didn't expect to run into you. Is this one of your parties?”

“No. Actually, I was invited too. By the…”

We had just come out of the Hall of Small Mammals, leaving behind the roar of the crowded dining area, into the dark quiet of the large, marble-floored foyer. Something felt strange. The round room was deserted, naturally. The African music ensemble were long gone, as were the servers, since all the action was now back at the formal sit-down dinner in the hall we had just left.

“Restrooms are back down that hallway,” Honnett said. Then he stopped walking too. “What?” He looked at me.

On the dark marble floor, right in front of the base of the dinosaur exhibit, was a blue silk pump. A single left shoe.

I looked up.

Draped over the giant fossilized head of the
Tricera
tops
skeleton looming above was the body of a woman. Her face was concealed. From where we stood, I could easily make out the light blue dress that Vivian Duncan had been wearing that night. From the sag of her body, she didn't appear to be conscious.

“Jesus!” Honnett said. “I don't fucking believe this!”

“Is she dead?” I whispered, backing up.

“She's not sightseeing. How the hell did her body end up…?”

“I don't know. I can't imagine.” I felt like I was going into shock. My thoughts seemed disconnected. “There's scaffolding,” I pointed out, “over in the corner.”

Despite my growing numbness, I could distinctly hear my voice, sounding calm and rational, as if it were coming from someone else, while my thoughts were shooting off a mile a minute, obsessing over the least important details. Nothing can fix things now, I thought. This wedding is ruined.

I moved to the side to get a better viewpoint, while Honnett jumped over the railing and put his hands on the base of the exhibit, pulling himself up to stand on the black marble pedestal. The lowest part of the body, the shoeless foot encased in pale hose, was hanging about ten feet above Honnett's head.

Vivian had plunged right on top of the skeleton of the
Triceratops
. The news guys were going to be brutal.
DINOSAUR KILLS BEVERLY HILLS BUSINESSWOMAN AT WEDDING
. Film at eleven. Just like that, this party had become a nightmare. And Jeez, what about the bride? Poor Sara.

“Poor Sara.” I must have said it aloud, as my worry and shock ping-ponged to the young woman whose wedding fantasy would forever be connected to this bizarre and violent accident. Vivian never wants her brides to worry about a thing. Shit.

Honnett came back over to me. “Doesn't look like she's breathing. I can't touch her anyway. Not until the medics get here.” He looked up. “And I don't think those old bones could hold me. I'd probably wind up owing
the city a couple million bucks for destroying their relics.”

“What? Were you thinking of climbing all the way up there? Up the spine of the
T-rex?
”

“Well, sure. If I thought I could help her,” Honnett said. “But she's not breathing.”

I shook my head, stunned at how quickly the evening had gone south. “How could this have happened to Vivian? Was she pushed?”

“Vivian? Vivian
who
?”

I looked up at Honnett, reassessing. Maybe I knew more about the people and events of this evening than the detective. “She's the wedding planner, Vivian Duncan.”

He gave me an odd look, but I was quickly overcome by a resolve to help. It's funny how we react to a crisis. Chuck Honnett's first impulse was to get physical—to climb all the way up a twenty-foot-high pile of bones, if he had to, to help someone in trouble. I was the analytical type. The kind who insisted on reading the instruction manual before I installed a new microwave.

My mind began racing. I had a desperate impulse to set down the events of the party. Maybe I should sit right down and make a list of all the people Vivian had been quarreling with during the evening. Lucky I had brought my purse with me. I always carry a pen. The little gold one that Arlo had given me for a…

“You hanging in there?” Honnett looked at me, hard.

It's funny. I really don't remember sitting down in my tight black dress, but there I was down on the floor, searching through my evening bag. Honnett was pulling out his cell phone, making a call, as I tried to remember the name of Vivian's husband. She'd talked to him on the phone earlier, I remembered. Yes, I was being very clear and methodical.

“D-U-N-C-A-N,” Honnett was saying into his phone. “Yeah, that's it. I'll be here.”

I began to feel very bad. What were the five stages of grief, anyway?

“You sure it's her?”

“Vivian Duncan was wearing a dress that color,” I explained. Honnett had his little pad out and was writing down notes, too. He looked at me, sitting on the floor with my own small notebook, and his expression softened.

Next thing I knew, Honnett was taking off his jacket and placing it over my shoulders. He was also talking in that quiet voice cowboys use when they talk to a spooked horse. He kneeled down next to me, looking more thoughtful than I usually see him.

“You going to be okay?”

I nodded, annoyed.

“So do you think you can tell me about this woman, Vivian Duncan? Any reason I should have heard of her?”

“No reason.” I blinked and my lashes suddenly felt wet. “Isn't that sad? She was the biggest wedding consultant on the West Side. Everyone used Vivian for their weddings. Everyone. She was…well…very powerful in party-planning circles.”

“Uh huh,” Honnett said.

“I know that must mean nothing to you. But she was important.”

I stopped trying to explain. Even though Vivian Duncan had been a sometimes-shrewish presence on the party circuit, she had built up an impressive reputation as a businesswoman. She'd had a family. Not that I knew a lot about her personal life, but still I cared. I cared that another human being, one who had been so full of plans and energy, was now quite dead.

I looked up at Honnett, still hunched over his notepad, biting his pencil. I began to realize how little any of this personal stuff meant to a policeman whose job brought him into contact with too many lives and too many deaths. How could he ever truly care about each poor soul? I felt a fresh emotion.

I pitied Honnett that he had what it took to be a cop. That toughness. That cool. The distance he needed to do
his job had robbed him of his ability to feel. Or had he perhaps always lacked sensitivity, and that led him to be so well-suited to this work?

He was motivated by the disturbance, by rules being broken, I thought, while I was motivated by the person whose human frailty had somehow propelled her to die among million-year-old bones.

Honnett handed me a tissue. While I was thinking how hard his soul was, he was probably thinking what a wuss I was. Perfect.

“She was in charge of this party, you know.”

“Awkward,” Honnett said.

“You think she could still be alive?”

“The paramedics are on the way. But I don't see how.”

“Could it have been an accident?”

Just then, the outer doors to the museum were pushed open by a pair of running emergency workers. The uniformed men stopped, heads thrown back at the sight of the dinosaurs. Silhouetted in the dim light, the medics stood with mouths agape as they took in the awful sight of a well-dressed woman's body hanging down from above in a deathlike, broken droop.

At the very same time, a woman dressed in white came out from the dinner. It was, of course, the bride. She was smiling widely, holding a bottle of champagne, most likely looking for the john, but spying the paramedics and us first.

It was only a matter of time before she looked up.

That was the last quiet moment I remember. I jumped up to find a towel to clean up all the broken glass and spilled Taittinger.

I
n hindsight, Monday morning was not the best choice for an all-company meeting. And to make matters worse, my favorite attorney, Paul Epstein, was late.

I was still upstairs getting ready while the whole crew was gathering down in the kitchen. Where else?

I stared into the full-length bathroom mirror for the third time and finally focused on what was there. Too much hair. Too little makeup.

Pulling a brush through my hair took a strong grip and a stronger scalp. I managed to urge most of it into a low ponytail and, with a flip of the wrist, I'd bound it all up in a hairband. Done. Then, a few swipes of blusher, wherever the hell that was.

Downstairs, I heard a low rumble of voices and the scuffle of shoes as seven people traversed the entry hall on their way to our living room.

There was no use putting it off. I had to head downstairs and face them. These were my friends, my coworkers, who had been waiting for word on the fate of Mad Bean Events. Were we still in business? Or should they be scrambling for new jobs? Enquiring minds…

Down the stairs, I took a quick detour into the kitchen myself. A Diet Coke was in order. Ten
A.M.
and I was already on the caffeine. I'd have to watch it.

I checked the window again. No Paul. Oh, well. I could guess what his advice was going to be.

Slowly, sipping from the can, I walked back to the living room. I could hear their voices from down the hall.

“…must have gone ballistic. Man!”

“She was cool.” I heard Wesley's calm voice as I approached.

“Another dead body. She must have wigged!”

“Well, she is kind of getting used to it, isn't she?” That last voice belonged to a young woman who did the most fabulous desserts in L.A., Lisa Lee.

I had been the center of conversation. And why not? I had discovered a body. Again.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” I said, walking straight into the middle of the room. They turned to me. Lisa, Alan, Holly and Wes, my trusty Alba, and a few other fine teammates. Amid the general hubbub, Ray Jackson, boyish in baggy jeans, with a shirt that could have fit over a camel billowing over his wiry frame, flashed me a grin.

“Yo, Mad. How do you do it?”

“Get mixed up in crap?” I smiled at Ray. “It's a talent.”

I threw my portfolio onto the coffee table, and with a few more adjustments, our informal business gathering came to order.

Sitting or standing or leaning on the furniture was the cadre of our steadiest employees.

“So where is Mr. Paul?” Alba asked. “He no coming today?”

Alba had been working for me ever since I moved to Los Angeles. Ageless and built on a sturdy frame, she'd begun as my one-day-a-week housekeeper and moved from there to a full-time lifesaver.

“We'll see. But I'm glad,” I said, plunging on, “we could get together today. Before I get into the purpose of this meeting…” I looked around at the small group of hopeful faces. My friends and fellow workers.

“Which is to see if we all still work here, right?”

“Yes, Ray. I just wanted to say a few words about last night. As you have all heard, there was a death. It
was Vivian Duncan. At the moment they are treating it as a
possible
homicide. Okay? We'll just have to wait until we hear more.”

“You mean they're still holding out some slim possibility that the old lady offed herself by taking a nosedive into prehistory?” Alan, one of my head waiters, was nothing if not direct.

“Okay.
Probable
homicide.” I cleared my throat. “Now, as regards our other pain-in-the-butt matter, we seem to be having more trouble with Five Star.”

Holly looked beat. I wondered if she'd ever gotten to sleep.

Around the room there were murmurs of disappointment.

“I knew it.” Ray turned to Lisa Lee, the young pastry chef next to him on the sofa. “Those big studio bastards.” Ray was around twenty, the youngest of the group. He'd been filling in as our part-time runner for about two years as he worked on his business major at UCLA. He was about the only person I had working for me who didn't secretly hope to be an actor. How he'd managed to make the seven-mile trek from Watts to Westwood was enough of a miracle.

“That's it, see? It's those fucking lawyers, man. They are the lowest. They are scum. You know the joke. What's the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead lawyer in the road?”

“There are skid marks in front of the dog” came the rapid-fire answer from behind us. “Sorry I'm late.”

We all looked up.

“Hi, Paul.” Wesley and I watched our favorite attorney make his way across the living room. He pulled up a straight-backed chair next to the white loveseat and settled down.

“Hello, children,” he said, deadpan as always. “Have I got news for you.”

Paul Epstein is one of the good guys. At least to me. He adopted me, so to speak, a few weeks after Wes and I had moved to L.A. from Berkeley. Our goal, of course,
was to start our own catering firm. But in order to make some money, I had introductions and references to a few SoCal chefs from my culinary school up north. Paul had been a regular at Café Bel Air, the bistro where I first landed.

With tousled, graying, sandy hair, a bit of a gut, and a wardrobe straight out of J.C. Penney, he was not the buttoned-down type. Paul Epstein wasn't easy to peg as a lawyer in a town filled with blow-dried sharks. And for eight years, he had steadfastly refused to accept a fee on the work he did for me. He kept saying, “Wait until you make a profit. Don't worry. I'll get paid.”

It was a matter of great celebration, a year ago, when I cooked a grand meal for Paul and handed him a sealed envelope. With the buyout cash from Five Star, I had finally been able to pay Paul back for his faith.

“So give it up, man. Good news or bad news?” Ray fidgeted on the sofa, bouncing a loose-jointed ankle across one knee.

“Well, Ray,” Paul said, face straight as always, “when has a lawyer ever had good news?”

The only way you'd guess Paul had a sense of humor was that after he said something he considered humorous, he'd give you a three-beat grin. I'd learned to look closely at his doughy, expressionless face. This time there was not even a half-second of smile. Shit.

“Here's the thing,” Paul said, his low voice a monotone rumble. “I got a call from Stevenson, Craig and Munsen. Very depressing guys.”

When Five Star served us with their injunction to cease business activities, Paul had consulted with some law school cronies, lawyers from a big downtown firm who owed him poker money.
L.A. Law
—style creeps.

“Sorry, folks. They strongly urge Mad Bean Events to shut down. So,” he looked around the disheartened group, “keep the faith. And Madeline will get in touch as soon as we get this bugger resolved.”

It was like we figured. Wesley gave my hand a squeeze.

“Just for the time being, folks,” Paul was saying as they began to stand up, moving toward the door.

“Miss Madeline?” Alba had walked over to pick up the empty can of Diet Coke I'd left on the table.

“Thanks, Alba.” I stood up. “Wait a second, guys. I have some checks.” I pulled open my portfolio and withdrew several envelopes. “It's for a month. Let's hope we've gotten this thing settled by then.”

The group surrounded me, thanking me for their money, wishing me well.

Ray stayed behind. “Since you paid me and all,” Ray said, quietly. “Why don't I come on over and help you with stuff?”

“Thanks, Ray. I don't think I'm allowed to be in the party business, so there won't be any work.”

“I can always find something to keep me busy,” he said, smiling.

When they were gone, Wes and Holly and I sat back down with Paul. Alba had bustled off into the kitchen.

“Well, that's that.” I kicked off one red clog and watched it skid across the hardwood floor.

“Wait until you hear this, Maddie.”

I looked at Paul. He was more animated than I had ever seen him. Wes noticed it as well.

“The reason I was late? There's a rumor going around that Five Star may be bought.”

“Someone's buying out the studio?”

“They say that food company, Sammy Foods, is looking them over pretty good. And it's no coincidence that I get a call this morning that maybe Five Star would consider an out-of-court settlement after all.”

“You're kidding?” I looked at Paul.

“Maybe they need to clear their books of ongoing cases, whatever. I need to get back to them. But don't you worry. This thing is far from over. Buck up there, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Paul. Hey, would you like something to drink?”

“Can't stay, pal. I'm supposed to be moving tonight,
but my office is a mess. I gotta get packing.” He smiled at me. “Anyway, you've gotten yourself mixed up with the police again, haven't you? Better watch yourself. Next thing you know you'll be in their computers.”

“What can I do?” I asked, smiling at him.

“It's the computers that get you. They start tracking you, baby, and that's all she wrote. Keep below their radar, Maddie. That's the way.”

Paul was a major conspiracy theorist. We all have our hobbies.

Holly looked at me. “Maddie, maybe I could go over and help Paul. If you're not going to be needing me this morning, I mean.”

“Great,” I said.

“Yeah?” Paul raised his head, relieved. “Excellent.”

“Okay,” Holly said, standing, grabbing her enormous mesh shoulder bag. “I'll go catch Ray. See you tonight.”

“I'm going out for dinner tonight, actually.”

All eyes were suddenly on me.

“It's Honnett.” I looked over at Paul. “He's this cop I know. From before.”

“Right,” he said, deadpan. “The one that's had the hots for you.”

“Hots?”

“That's legalese,” Wes explained.

“Listen. He asked me a lot of questions last night. Naturally. Poor Vivian Duncan is dead. I told him I'd get together as much information as I could and we decided to go over it at dinner.”

They stared at me.

“What?”

“So is it a…?” Holly looked at me, hesitant to use the word “date.”

“Holly, get off of her case,” Paul said gruffly. “Can't you see she's got a business meeting?”

“Right,” I agreed.

But then, dammit! Paul hit us all with his three-beat grin.

 

It was just before lunch. Wes had gone out and I was sitting alone in my office, brooding. I had been trying to pull together all the papers I could find that related to Vivian Duncan and her business. Since she had been trying to woo us, her attorney had sent over a lot of documents that made her look very good on paper. In addition, she had also messengered over half a dozen memory books, albums of photos filled with samples of invitations and menus from many of her firm's most lavish weddings.

Just then, Alba came to my office, filling up the doorway, looking full of purpose. She called out in her high-pitched voice, accented with Spanish, “Miss Madeline, there is a young lady at the door for you. She said is important.” Then she moved aside.

Behind her I could see a woman's shape.

“Sara?”

Yesterday's bride walked on into my office and stood there, silently. Alba took the cue to leave.

“You didn't go on your honeymoon.” As if their entire wedding, and all their future memories of it, hadn't been screwed up enough already!

She shook her head.

“Oh, Sara. Sit down. Is there anything…”

“He's gone.” She stood in front of the large desk I usually shared with Wesley and stared at it. “Brent is gone.”

“What do you mean?” I was suddenly alarmed.

“He just took off. I haven't seen him all night. We were…we were supposed to leave on our honeymoon this morning.” She looked at her watch. “A few hours ago, I guess it is.”

“That's terrible.”

“Grandfather was sending us on a photo safari, but now those plans are ruined. They said we couldn't leave.” She shook her head at the harsh memory. “Even
Brent's dad's friends couldn't pull any strings. Let me tell you, my grandfather was furious!”

I imagined that Big Jack Gantree was on the phone with a U.S. senator even as we spoke.

“But I thought you said Brent was missing.”

“It's the last straw! Last night, we were separated for a while. And then, later, I couldn't find him
anywhere
. He just disappeared.”

“From the wedding?”

She nodded, and then all at once her lovely young face crumpled. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her nose began to run.

“I left the dinner. Just for a minute, I told him. And then…”

“That's when you came out and saw…”

Her tears kept coming. “Then the police wouldn't let me go back into the dinner. No one would let me back into my own…my own wedding.”

I'm very fast on the Kleenex. I had a new box over to her in about two seconds.

“Thank you,” she sniffed, pulling tissues from the box, one at a time, until she had a fistful.

“So you didn't see Brent,” I said.

“No. When they finally, finally,
finally…
” She honked into the tissues and then wadded them up. “When they let me back into the hall, the tables were all moved around. My friends had already gone home. My grandfather was beside himself by then to let everyone go. They were old, some of my great-aunts, you know? But Brent…I just…He just was gone.” She threw the wad of Kleenex onto the desk, bursting into fresh tears.

“Great wedding, huh? Great memories. This wasn't the way it was supposed to turn out.” She attacked the box of tissues again. One by one, her fingers grabbed them into a ball.

“Sara, honey, you have no idea where Brent might be? Did you call his family?”