Authors: Jerrilyn Farmer
Mumbo Gumbo (26 page)
Fate jumped up from the table and walked straight out of the room.
I got up to follow her, not that there was anything I could do to stop her. She was right. On my way to the door, I was approached by Dawn Weiss,
Food Freak
’s receptionist. “Hi, there,” she said, stepping in my path.
“I’m sorry, Dawn. There is someone I have to see.”
“That’s okay,” Dawn said. “I’m going that way, too. I’ll walk you.”
I was moving quickly across the stage and Dawn had no trouble matching my strides. “I owe you a big thanks,” Dawn said as we walked outside. “You got me the break I had been looking for.”
I couldn’t see Fate. She could have gone in any direction.
“So thanks,” Dawn said, her voice happy.
“Thanks for what?” I turned to Dawn.
“I was hired as a game-show writer,” Dawn said, her cheerleader smile at its zenith of cheeriness.
“You what?”
“And it’s really thanks to you. Remember this morning? You told me about that cat?”
There was no use in my trying to find Fate Finkelberg. What could I do now, anyway? I tried to refocus on Dawn. What was she going on about?
“The cat?” Oh, yes. The CAT. I had to smile at that. “So you found him?”
“Oh, yes. Darling lion, isn’t he? And then I found out that
Let’s Make a Deal
was back in production and looking for writers.”
“Really?”
“Really. And I submitted material this afternoon, and I was hired by five. You know, Artie was not doing anything for me. I tried to call him all afternoon, so he could make me a better offer. That bastard. He never even called me back. I’m sorry I wasted a few good evenings on the jerk.”
I daresay. “So when do you start your new job?”
“I’ve already started. We’re taping tonight on soundstage two. You should come by after the party and check it out. Only be careful. They are keeping our ‘cat’ on soundstage three. Just a word to the wise.”
“Thanks, Dawn. And good luck.”
“No luck needed,” she said. “I’ve got a plan. I’m only twenty-four and I’m already joining the Writers’ Guild.” With that, she gave me a killer smile and turned toward soundstage 2.
Plans are great, I thought, but you need luck in life,
too. Wait until Dawn was as old and wise as I had become. I smiled.
The door opened from our soundstage. Some of the show’s crew were already departing. It was after ten o’clock, the broadcast was now over, and these guys had put in a long day. One of the handheld camera operators was walking with his wife. He left her for a moment to go back in and get his DVD player.
She smiled at me. “Did you watch the show?” she asked. She was a pretty woman with red hair and a few extra pounds.
“I’m one of the writers,” I said, and then smiled to myself. First and last time I’d get to say those words.
“Congratulations. I thought it was a great show. I was here for the taping, too. The sisters,” she said, chattering on, “those great sisters. I thought it would go to the Holtzes because when Belinda cut her finger and kept on going, she really won my heart over. But it was the sisters who got the castle,” she said. “I think it was because of the guys on the celebrity jury. You know?”
“You think the guy from Sha Na Na appreciated their charms?” I asked, intrigued by the psychology that goes along with these reality-based shows.
“No doubt,” said the redhead. “You don’t really have to know how to cook if you look like they do.”
I shook my head. Is this what my short visit to planet Game Show had all boiled down to? As if the game wasn’t insubstantial enough, the
real
reason people were hooked on the show turns out to be even shallower than that?
And yet, to me, the attraction of a game goes much deeper. I am taken with the idea that in one short show
all the questions are answered. The ones who are right are rewarded; the ones who are wrong lose. It was simple. I wanted simple answers. Couldn’t life be like that?
What I hated was ambiguity. That’s why I had been so upset with the trouble at
Food Freak
from the start: a man was missing. There is nothing so frightening. I had learned that very young. If they never find a person, how can you tell it’s okay to grieve? If you stay detached, you don’t feel it that much when a man goes missing. Like with Honnett. And with Arlo, my past boyfriend. And with Xavier, my former fiancé. And with Simon. With each passing man in my life, I had managed to stay just that much more detached.
I felt the urge to cry but it never came to the surface. When men go missing, what can you do? You have to carry on, right?
I stood there, alone in the silent street, outside soundstage 9. I knew I should go back in. I wasn’t dressed for the cool of a fifty-five-degree March evening in Los Angeles. But I stayed there a bit longer, just thinking. I heard the stage door open again and I waited until the next departing crew members passed me on their way to the parking lot.
“You look cold.”
I turned my head.
It was the tall blond guy, the musician. “Hi, I’m John Quinn,” he said.
“Madeline Bean.”
Just then Chef Howie came out of our soundstage, looking worried.
“Madeline,” he said, coming up to us. “Do you know where soundstage three is?”
“Soundstage three?”
“It’s around there,” John said, pointing.
“I just got a call on my cell phone. Fate wants to leave. She has been out here in the cold walking around, she said. Now she wants me to get the car and pick her up. She said it was too cold outside, so she was going to wait for me inside soundstage three. What is with that woman? Is she crazy? I don’t want her to be all alone at night in some deserted, empty soundstage.”
The quiet night became a little less quiet just then. A disturbing sound came from the direction of soundstage 3. The sort of sound that is only heard at night in Kenya. Or in one of those wild animal parks. Or in a zoo. It was the roar of a hungry lion.
“What was that?” Chef Howie asked, uneasy as a tribesman on the Serengeti.
Tonight, I recalled suddenly, soundstage 3 was not altogether empty. Justice takes many forms.
But John wasn’t listening to any roars or even to Howie. He was looking at me. “So what are you doing later?” he asked, his voice warm and low.
And then, most unexpectedly, I felt a weight lifting off me. I almost felt the sky was getting lighter, but I suppose that was just a lighting effect. I turned to John Quinn.
“Do you like Vegas?”
Special thanks to Chris Farmer, first and always. I could thank you every day and it would still never be enough. Thanks to Elissa Lenard, who graciously lent her lovely flock to me for this story. Thanks also to Douglas P. Lyle, M.D., for help with the medical bits; Bruce Kelton, former federal prosecutor; and to Evan Marshall, my agent, and Lyssa Keusch, my editor, for their wisdom and help.
I am indebted also to Barbara Voron, Linda Urban, James Lamb, Barrie Trinkle, Jill Hinckley and Carolyn Lane, Michael Morrison, Libby Jordan, Lisa Gallagher, Debbie Stier, Erin Richnow, Jessica Miller, Richard Aquan, Victoria Mathews, Bernadette Murphy, Cindy Lieberman, Linda Venis, Barbara Jaye Wilson, Geraldine Galentree, Gubbie, along with Margery Flax, Doris Ann Norris, and each and every teabud, for their incredible support and inspiration. Thanks, also, to Mark Baker and Elaine Marks, eagle-eyed readers who have helped make needed corrections in this edition.
And to all my friends in the world of game shows, I promise all the cool characters are inspired by you and all the rotten ones…I made up. We had a lot of fun, didn’t we? On second thought, don’t answer that.
Delicious praise for the previous MADELINE BEAN novels by JERRILYN FARMER
“A FINE NEW VOICE IN THE MYSTERY FIELD…I’M HUNGRY FOR MORE.”
Gerald Petievich, author of
To Live and Die in L.A.
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
“A delightful debut, with an appealing caterer/sleuth, a woman for whom polenta holds no terrors. I loved it.”
Joyce Christmas, author of the Lady Margaret Priam and Betty Trenka series
DIM SUM DEAD
“A fun-filled cook’s tour of L.A.…served with a provocative mystery, characters sweet and bitter, salty ripostes, tasty recipes.”
Los Angeles Times
“A scrumptious offering…heavenly.”
Jan Burke
KILLER WEDDING
“Delightful. Accept an invitation to Jerrilyn Farmer’s
Killer Wedding.
You’ll be glad you did.”
Harlan Coben
D
IM
S
UM
D
EAD
K
ILLER
W
EDDING
I
MMACULATE
R
ECEPTION
S
YMPATHY FOR THE
D
EVIL
Perfect Sax
You are cordially invited to Madeline Bean’s next gig, one of L.A.’s hottest events—the lavish Black & White Headliner’s Ball at the celebrated Woodburn School of Music. It’s sure to be an unforgettable evening, so mark the date…
PERFECT SAX
Available Winter 2004 in hardcover from William Morrow
Madeline Bean and cohorts, Holly and Wes, have been busy creating a revered music academy’s fund-raising gala, but a decidedly sour note is struck when a priceless saxophone is stolen and Maddie is taken on a wild, after-hours thrill ride through downtown L.A. And things get even more alarming. A body is found in a shocking location right after the ball. To get herself out from under this mess, Maddie must square off against dueling 12-year-old jazz prodigies, paw through a small heap of celebrity trash, and get the dirt on L.A.’s wealthiest society ladies, all while creating the world’s most awesome lobster salad. Life for a humble Hollywood planner is oh, so demanding, even without murder thrown in on the side.
If you like your jazz cool, your sax “hot,” and your martini smoking, you won’t want to miss a date with Madeline Bean and PERFECT SAX.
“I
love big balls.”
Wesley Westcott took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance over at the tall, thin blonde sitting beside him and cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, stop!” Holly caught his look and laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said, flushing. “Big
fund-raising
balls. Banquets.
Parties.
”
“Uh-huh.” He turned back to the road, steering his new Jaguar off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard as he doused a smirk.
Holly pointed at where the smirk had made its momentary appearance and demanded, “Stop it, Wesley.”
“I
am
stopping it,” he protested. “Go on, already. Tell me all about your love of balls.”
She laughed. “Tonight, for instance. All that music blew me away. And the dresses. And the caviar. I thought it was all pretty freakin’ faboo, didn’t you?”
The Jazz Ball had been a stunning success. Six hundred Los Angelenos had gathered to celebrate the Woodburn School of Music and raise funds to support its prestigious Young Artists Program. The Woodburn, a private institute devoted to tutoring the West
Coast’s most gifted musical protégées, liked to suggest it was even more selective than its better-known rival on the other coast, Julliard.
Once a year, the fund-raising wing of the Woodburn put on a major social event to lure contributions from its well-heeled patrons. The Jazz Ball was famous for the star-power of its guest list and the lavishness of the festivities. And this year, the event-planning firm that had won the plum prize of creating The Jazz Ball had been none other than Mad Bean Events, Wes and Holly’s own firm.
“I think Madeline outdid herself tonight,” Holly said, referring to their friend and leader in their event-planning company. “The black-and-white newspaper theme was awesome. She has the coolest ideas.”
“That she does,” Wes agreed. “It was a beautiful night.” He turned the car south on Vine Street and said, “I wish she had come back to my house to celebrate.”
“I think she’s exhausted,” Holly said, finger combing her loose platinum wisps as she ran through the obligatory party post-mortem with Wesley. “She doesn’t usually leave a party so early.”
“I know,” Wes said. “But even Maddie needs a break.”
Madeline Bean, the head of one of Hollywood’s trendiest party companies, had managed to rise quickly in the world of spectacular party producers. At just under thirty years old, she was a seasoned veteran of the ever rising and falling Hollywood social whirl, and had managed to weather quite a few ups and downs of a dicey economy to stay afloat. One way she had found to succeed was simply to work harder than anyone else. A case in point had been the Jazz Ball. Madeline had been indefatigable for the
past two weeks. The number of details involved in pulling off a party this grand was enormous. All the intense attention Maddie had paid to a zillion small concerns—the black linen napkins that arrived were in actuality lavender! The white peppercorns she had ordered were at the last minute unavailable!—must by now have finally taken its toll.
Wes stopped at a traffic light and looked over at Holly. “When Maddie and I decided to start the company, I don’t think either of us realized how much real, honest-to-God work we’d be in for.”
“Ah. I finally understand why you so
quickly
hired an assistant,” Holly said, smiling over at him.
“We were stunned by your talent.” Wes was always a gentleman. And then he added, “You have no idea how hard it is to find a good schlepper.”
Holly had begun as their assistant six years ago and worked her way up by mastering just about every party job she encountered. Holly filled in wherever she was needed, as an extra bartender, or the person to make the emergency run for more white asparagus, or the one in full-face clown greasepaint twisting a balloon giraffe for six-year-old birthday twins. Six feet tall, scrappy, and much more likely to wear a retro, Day-Glo paisley polyester miniskirt than anyone else you might meet—ever—Holly Nichols was made for parties. And even though she was apt to gaze upon certain celebrity guests with more dogged affection than was entirely suitable for a staff member working a private party, she was in all ways a most valuable asset to the team.