Chapter 5
Three 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 cooking. 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.”
Chapter 6
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 gues
ts 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.”
Killer Wedding Page 4