It wasn’t just his great laugh, or that he so completely got my sense of humor, or his unflappability among late-night escapades and odd restaurants. It wasn’t simply the rush of his obvious interest in me either. He just seemed so free and unencumbered. Not only did Dex not have a wife, he hardly seemed to have had a serious girlfriend in his past. And yet, beneath his charm, I suspected he was serious about me. My stomach fluttered at the thought. And let’s face facts, he did have a perfectly sexy smile with perfectly straight, very white teeth. And he had this disarming quality that was both sophisticated and antiestablishment funky. And his hair…
Snap! I told myself. Snap out of it!
I crossed a street, continuing west, nervous I was beginning to daydream about this new guy in my life like some thirteen-year-old staring at her Chris Martin poster. I swear, I didn’t recognize myself. But as soon as I told myself, No more fantasies, I felt awash with a sudden sadness, a loneliness. Arlo had been the wrong guy for me, I was sure of that. And then Honnett…Honnett had seemed right, but he was still entangled with…I simply refused to think about his wife one more time.
I shook my head, crossing another small side street, and then looked back again. I was not only obsessed with a cute guy, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. But I stopped and checked again, thoroughly, and there was no one paying me the least attention at 8 A.M. on that busy street as rush-hour traffic honked by.
In just a few blocks, the older quality of the neighborhood had begun to brighten, freshen, become more fabulous. Everywhere I looked, I saw new buildings where old ones used to be. On my left were amazing, glamorous new apartments. On my right was the Grove, a brand-new shopping mall along with its huge new parking structure. I sighed.
All these new buildings make me sad. I love L.A.’s history, short and tacky and tasteless though it often is. I love to learn about the movie studios and neighborhoods. I collect stories of old-time residents. L.A. was never very “real” to start with. And each twentieth-century building that is leveled to make way for some brand-new “twentieth-century-style” building just messes with my head. How can they destroy all that authentic fakeness for this newer and more glam fakeness?
Anyway, I walked more quickly, happier pondering architectural philosophy than where I stood with my boyfriends, and headed for an actual relic of the old Los Angeles I admire.
To get a feel for L.A.’s history, one doesn’t need to go back very far in time. In 1870, a guy named A. F. Gilmore drew straws with a partner and ended up owning a 256-acre dairy farm. It was just his luck that by the turn of the century, while drilling for water for his herd of dairy cows, Gilmore hit oil. By 1905, the dairy was gone and the Gilmore Oil Company was on its way to becoming the largest independent oil company in the West. Isn’t L.A. grand?
By 1934, farmers were doing what they could to fight the Depression. They pulled their trucks onto empty land at the corner of Third and Fairfax, and displayed their produce on the tailgates of their vehicles. It was suggested that Gilmore could make some money by charging the farmers fifty cents a day to sell their produce out of wooden stalls. The original farmers’ market was born. I read all about it in a book Holly gave me for my birthday.
Today, this ancient relic of a tourist site was almost overshadowed by its glamorous neighbor, the Grove, an upscale, open-air mall modeled after some grand old fantasy downtown with architectural facades inspired by L.A.’s Art Deco era. But why, I ask, would anyone prefer to wander through yet another Gap when she could, instead, explore old-time Farmers Market establishments with names like the Gift Nook? And the Gift and Gadget Nook! And the Gadget Nook Gourmet? This is incredibly authentic tourist-trap chic, people. To get into early-twentieth-century L.A., one can’t be allergic to kitsch.
I turned into the old wooden complex, feeling perkier than I had in a week, as I observed the stands of fresh produce, where avocados were the size of grapefruits, and grapefruits the size of small planets. I would pick up a couple of gargantuan cantaloupes to bring back to Wesley—a little gift for his breakfast. And maybe I’d find a few special things and cook a dinner for Dex.
L.A.’s old Farmers Market is made up of a series of fifteen large, white wooden buildings with green roofs and brown shutters. They encircle an open-air quad, which is filled with at least thirty smaller, freestanding stalls, creating a maze of narrow, sunny walkways. I had entered at Gate 12—no grand entrance covered in limestone in sight—happily walking in through this modest side door between two sections of Mr. Marcel Gourmet Grocery. A small sign by their register announced they do local deliveries. How cool. I’d have to tell Wes.
Food. It was the central idea of Farmers Market, its core, perhaps the greatest reason I love this indoor/outdoor bazaar so much. Everywhere you turn, your eye is offered dazzling displays. In addition to dozens of shops and grocery vendors, there were all sorts of delicious things on display. There were three produce stands, two meat markets, a homemade-candy shop, two nut shops, two poultry marts, two bakeries, a flower shop, and two ice-cream parlors. I loved to smell fresh peanut butter being churned at Magee’s Kitchen. Or to taste fresh horseradish ground from giant, gnarled roots. Everything edible is here. You can watch apples being dunked in caramel at Little John’s, and over at Du-Par’s restaurant a plate-glass window lets you observe their bakers rolling dough for their pies.
And there were dozens of cafés and open-air food stands. Cajun gumbo, Japanese sushi, Belgian waffles, Italian pasta, and on and on. Sometimes, Wes and I select a different item at three different stands, often finishing up by sharing a magnificent crepe. But today I was looking for a place to think.
I turned left and walked halfway down the lane until I reached Kokomo Café, a truly great breakfast place tucked among the Farmers Market’s fruits and nuts. Think modern California cuisine in a diner setting. Salads, soups, sandwiches, shakes, and the best thick-sliced bacon in town. In a serve-yourself kind of environment, I found the funky sitdown atmosphere and the quirky waiters at Kokomo’s a bit of self-indulgence I could afford.
My waiter, a dreamboat actually, came for my drink order.
“A large iced tea, please.”
“Coolio.” He made eye contact.
“Say, I can’t help it, but you look so damn much like James Dean.”
He smiled. “I get that all the time.” And then he told me a story I hadn’t heard before, about how James Dean ate his last breakfast here at Farmers Market just before embarking on his final, fatal auto trip. “Not at Kokomo,” he quickly added.
“Wow.”
“But if you’re in the mood for a current celebrity sighting,” he said, leaning his head to the right. “Drew Barrymore. Be cool now.” And he went off to fetch my tea.
I took a brief, California-cool peek. It’s not polite to disturb the stars. But a peek? No problem.
I checked the menu briefly. I know it pretty well. I considered their famous red flannel turkey hash, and then their special huevos rancheros—eggs prepared with smoked-tomato salsa—but life had been freaking me out. I needed the carbs of comfort offered by Kokomo’s fluffy pancakes.
“What can I get you?” asked the James Dean guy.
“Pancakes.” I sighed, giving in.
“With a side of bacon?”
“Naturally.”
The star spotting and breakfast ordering accomplished, I knew I needed to get my head together. I pulled a notepad out of my bag and uncapped a pen. I enjoyed the sounds of big-band music piped over their stereo system. Benny Goodman. By the time my pancakes arrived, steamy and hot, I had covered three pages in notes. Most were regarding the upcoming Woodburn-ladies luncheon, but the last page veered off, of its own accord, in the direction of the missing saxophone. I guess it was all the big-band music in the background, but I began to wonder if anyone at the Woodburn had ever found out what happened.
By nine-thirty that morning, I had made it back to Wesley’s place. I showered and changed i
nto my meet-the-clients clothes. In the ranking of my casual wardrobe, this higher level of formality required a snappier top and a pair of designer khakis. I chose a black rayon blouse worn open over a white tank tee, and high-heeled sandals to complete the ensemble. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail, as the day was getting hot.
I had been ignoring the pile of messages Wes had left for me, the topmost announcing I could pick up my Jeep from the police lot, and walked out to my waiting SUV. I liked the new-car smell and the extra cup holders in the Trailblazer. My old Grand Wagoneer could wait another day. At eleven o’clock, I climbed the steps to Zenya Knight’s house in Beverly Hills, down the street from her neighbor and benefit cochair, Dilly.
In Zenya’s living room, I found Dilly had already arrived and was sipping from a bottle of Arrowhead water. The three of us moved to the magnificently furnished dining room and put our heads together. In short order we nailed down all the details that needed to be nailed regarding the upcoming Monday luncheon, all of us very conscious of how rushed the event planning would need to be. It was fun to see Dilly and Zenya again, as we had spent a lot of time together over the past months working on the Woodburn affair. This time, we had no committee approval to get past or benefit to run. The flower party would be a relaxed and happy occasion.
“Are you traveling in August?” I asked them both, making polite conversation.
Dilly was a gorgeous dark-haired former model with long graceful legs and dancing eyes. Although probably around fifty, she dressed in an aggressive young fashion. Like a twenty-year-old with a $200,000 clothes budget. She gave Zenya a knowing look and asked, “Should I tell her?”
“Oh, Dilly!” Zenya giggled, flipping her long hair back, and opened a bottle of Chardonnay.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m telling everyone I’m going to Tahiti, but I’m not.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Desert Palms Clinic.” She waited breathlessly, but I had no idea what she meant. “To get a lift.”
“Really?”
“Just a partial. Not the eyes. I’m so excited. I shouldn’t tell anyone, but I can’t wait.”
“You’re getting a face-lift?” I thought Dilly Swinden was one of the most beautiful women I’d seen. She was tall and fine-boned and had barely any signs of age to notice, besides which I like people who look like they have had a life. “You look so young.”
“No, I don’t.” She put the tips of her index fingers on her two cheekbones and tugged ever so slightly up. Then she let it go slack for a moment and again pulled upward. She repeated the demonstration a third time. “See?”
“Really, Dilly. It barely makes a difference.”
“I can see it,” she said.
Zenya, only thirty-five or so, looked down at her hands.
It was rarely talked about openly in these circles, but successful older men, the ones who could afford such fantastic homes as these and attracted such beautiful wives, did occasionally trade them in for younger models, a fact of which both Dilly Swinden and Zenya Knight were intimately aware. After all, they were both second wives themselves. Dilly had married her husband, Gerard, when he was in his midforties and she was just twenty-five. She must realize that at the time of his hurried divorce years back, Gerard’s old discarded first wife had been younger than Dilly was today.
Gerard Swinden was the chairman of the board of a savings and loan and was also on the board of the Woodburn. He and Dilly had no children, but he had a family by his first marriage, and his oldest daughter had been an excellent cellist, I’d heard. At the time of his divorce, all those years ago, his first wife was literally shut out of her old life. She’d had to leave her friends at the Woodburn Guild since she couldn’t stand to watch Dilly, the new Mrs. Swinden, take her seat on the board. Dilly found those early committee meetings chilly. It was hard to be accepted into this crowd of do-gooding women, each one eyeing the next young wife who made her entrance with the sick expectation that her own place could be taken…in time.
So here was Dilly today, agitated enough about her looks that she was obsessing in the mirror over almost nonexistent wrinkles.
These men. They come to believe they should always have the best. Always have something perfect. What pressure their wives were under. It wasn’t for me. If I ever found the right guy, he wouldn’t be the kind who was looking for the best he could buy, always on alert for the latest upgrade. While I thought my thoughts, Dilly and Zenya caught up on the latest gossip, discussing who in their crowd was having what “done.” Plastic surgery. It was more of a lifestyle than I had realized. Then they turned back to me.
“Wasn’t the Black and White Ball fabulous?” Dilly asked, unable to resist reliving the past glory. “We couldn’t have done any better.”
“It was gorgeous,” Zenya agreed. It was an interesting dynamic between these two women. Dilly seemed to be the natural leader and Zenya always deferred to her opinion.
“Darius really came through for us,” I said, referring to the most outrageous florist on the west side.
“Incredible. Those big arrangements with the masses of white roses! And I had never before seen black hollyhocks.” Zenya smoothed her long blond hair off her shoulder with a swish.
“Alcea rosea nigra,” I murmured, pleased.
“Oh, and then the dozens and dozens of Queen of the Night black tulips,” Zenya continued. “Gorgeous. Didn’t you think so, Dilly?”
Dilly nodded and picked up her wineglass. “There is nothing as sophisticated and simple as black and white. Like that etching, Zenya. Who’s that by?” She referred to the artwork on the wall of the Knight dining room, a naked Madonna held aloft by putti. As we finished a lunch of cold artichoke salad, the two fund-raising cochairs nursed large glasses of Chardonnay and I sipped my Diet Coke.
“Oh, that one is called Magdelena and Her Travel in Heaven by Raffaello Schiaminossi. Sixteen-twelve. Bill has a thing for old etchings. His collection was borrowed by LACMA, remember, Dilly?”
Dilly shot her friend a quick glance, clearly remembering something she didn’t want to mention while I was around. I wondered what that was.
The picture on the wall was large and impressive. Sixteen-twelve. Wow. The little boy angels looked like they were tasked by a heavy load, however. Seems this Schiaminossi fellow liked his female models in the Raphaelesque tradition—hefty.
“The L.A. County Museum of Art borrowed this piece?” I was impressed.
“This and a dozen others,” Zenya said. “We had a bit of bad luck with three of the best works, though. Dilly knows.”
Dilly looked like this was the very thing she had been avoiding mentioning. “Zenya was so distraught,” she said. “I didn’t want to bring up something that would upset her.”
“No, I’m fine,” Zenya said quietly. “I know we can never truly possess anything. I’m making my peace with the theft.”
Theft? I looked up from my artichoke, alarmed.
“What happened? If you don’t feel terrible talking about it.”
“I’m okay now,” Zenya said, refilling her tall wineglass with the last of the Chardonnay and opening another bottle. “We had just lent the best pieces Bill had in his collection. Most of them were Renaissance-period etchings. This one here is by a relatively unknown artist, although he is rare and therefore more valuable each year. Bill collects with a passion. The thieves knew exactly what they were doing. Only his prize pieces were taken.”
“They had a very nice 1502 etching of Adam and Eve by the German genius Albrecht Dürer,” Dilly said sadly. “There is one like it in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.”
“Oh no.” I was troubled. Was theft just a part of the rich person’s life? “How horrible. Were they stolen from the County Art Museum while they were on loan?”
“No,” Zenya said. “It was several months after they were returned. They were hanging in the living room again, but we were out of town. Bill and I had taken Kirby to our condo on
Maui for a few weeks. We got a call one night. There had been a break-in here at the house. Three of our best pieces were gone. That was three years ago, and to this day they have never been recovered.”
“Did your alarm go off?” Dilly asked her.
Zenya shook her head.
“Oh, that’s right,” Dilly said, remembering. “Your brother was staying here at the time, wasn’t he? House-sitting?”
I looked up, alarmed. Dexter? Wait, now. Had Dilly just said Dexter had been here, watching his sister’s house, while millions of dollars’ worth of artwork up and walked out the door?
“Money Jungle”
It was the season for last-minute parties. In addition to rushing to bring off the Woodburn flower luncheon on Monday, we had been asked if we could possibly do a teen’s birthday brunch on the Saturday two days earlier. Connie Hutson, the tireless organizer who had helmed the Woodburn auction committee, was determined to throw a battle-of-the-bands-style affair for her son Ryan’s thirteenth. Our business was enjoying a summer boom, and coming as it did after a particularly slow winter, we hated to say no to anything. Feast or famine—our business as well as our finances.
I pulled into the driveway of the Hutson house after briefly stopping by the office to give the invitation specs to Wesley and Holly. They were now busy producing the invites, glue-gunning dried, pressed flowers to vellum, while I took this last-minute client call. The Hutsons lived in Pasadena, a twenty-minute drive out of Hollywood.
“Come on in, Madeline,” Connie called from the sunroom of her genuine Arts-and-Crafts-period home. She was seated on a dark settee, a Mission oak beauty that I would swear was an authentic Stickley. Connie’s bright summer dress, a turquoise silk jungle print, perfectly set off her thick auburn curls, which she wore, as always, neat and short. Her makeup appeared pronounced in the natural light of the bright sunroom. Her full lips were painted dark coral, her cheeks set ablaze with blusher. And a funny thing: I began surreptitiously checking for any signs of plastic surgery. See how suggestible I am? I remembered Dilly and Zenya mentioning Connie’s name and I couldn’t help but check her out, up and down. Her boobs may or may not have been real, but they were awesome.
Perfect Sax Page 17