“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. “Excuse 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.
“Vivian, before we go back to the party, I thought I’d better get something…”
“Mother!”
I looked up to see a tall, thirty-something woman approach us, and sighed. What was I thinking? I should have known how difficult it would be to talk to a party planner just before an event. I’d have to wait until the wedding was over to get Vivian alone. I noticed that Vivian’s daughter did not look a whole lot like her mom. Dark-haired, built on a heavier frame, she wore a deep gray pantsuit with no makeup or jewelry.
“Beryl, darling, I’d like you to meet the woman who is buying out your mother’s business. Madeline Bean, please meet my daughter, Beryl.”
“Nice to meet you,” Beryl said, hardly looking over at me before plunging ahead. “Mother, I told you…”
“Before you ‘tell me’ anything, you know I’ve asked you to call me Vivian. It may not matter in front of dear Madeline, but in front of my clients I insist.” She stood there looking at the tall young woman with disapproval. “Now, Beryl, if you don’t intend to wear those lovely earrings I had made for you, then send them back to me.”
“Vivian!” The young woman sounded strained. “Vivian, you must stop forcing my father to run your little errands. I just got a call from Dad…”
“Whining, I’m sure,” Vivian said, with a throaty chuckle. She pulled a cigarette out of her evening bag and played with it. “I give him so much business and how does he repay me? By doing the most incompetent job he can possibly do.”
“Mother!” Beryl’s irritation was getting the best of her. “Vivian, he’s your husband. Can you for once talk about something other than his ability to do business? You know he doesn’t really care about any of that.”
“Madeline,” Vivian said, keeping her eyes on her upset daughter. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all live a comfortable life and never have to think about business? Is that what your father tells you?” she said, with heat, forgetting to address her caustic comments my way. “Your father is not able to deliver the wedding couple’s honeymoon plane tickets before the goddamn honeymoon! I have to send Whisper to the house because I doubt very seriously whether your father can find them and find his way down here. Pretty sad, Beryl. But what exactly was your point, dear? I’m in the middle of a marvelous wedding and,” she consulted her exquisite jeweled wristwatch, “the ceremony is about to begin.”
“Just forget it!” Beryl’s voice had lost its thin veneer of patience, although no one back at the party was likely to overhear the row going on down this corridor.
I had already turned to escape when I saw Wes, coming to look for me.
“Did you tell her?”
“Impossible. My timing sucks.”
We walked back to the main foyer, leaving the heated pair to their own family drama.
“Was that Beryl Duncan back in that hallway?” Wes asked as we gathered with the two hundred others to file into the Hall of Large Mammals where the wedding ceremony was to take place.
“She’s Vivian’s daughter. Do you know her?”
“I know Beryl Duncan slightly. Friends have used her. She’s the meanest divorce attorney in Los Angeles.”
“Between mother and daughter, they do seem to have all the bases covered.”
Before Wes could comment, we entered the hall.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Two long walls of the large museum hall were lined with glass-windowed exhibits. Each diorama showed a diffe
rent natural habitat in which were displayed various large mammals, from snow leopards to grizzlies, a tribute to the lately underappreciated art of taxidermy. Eerily frozen enactments of nature glowed from the lit cases along the walls, while the rest of the hall was quite dark.
“Amazing,” Wes said.
“Funky,” I whispered.
Large potted ficus trees, atwinkle with tiny lights, formed a backdrop at the end of the long aisle which was flanked by two sections of chairs. Tall standing candelabra, in pairs, proceeded down the aisle at each row of seats. The white wax pillars flickered down the narrow aisle, giving the museum gallery the look of some surreal monastery. A full orchestra was set up at the side, playing a classical piece as the elegantly dressed wedding guests found seats.
Holly was already seated and she turned and gave us a small wave. We slid into a row about midway down the aisle and joined her.
“I went to the bathroom and you wouldn’t believe the flowers they have in there.”
“Darius,” I murmured to Wes under my breath as Holly went on.
“And the buzz is that Spielberg will be here for the dinner.” She took a moment to look over the crowd, now mostly in their seats.
Wes cleared his throat.
“What?” Holly looked down at us. “Oh.” She settled back in her seat. “Was I standing? Jeesh.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, smiling. “So, who’d you see?”
“Maddie. There’s this amazing guy across the aisle and two rows back. He’s been staring at you.”
“Really?” Wes craned his neck as the twenty-four-piece string section began to play the theme from Out of Africa.
“Is he incredibly handsome?” I asked, dropping my voice.
Wes gave a quick look back and answered, “If you dig cops.”
What? I turned my head impatiently, expecting to catch a quick glimpse of my dark, mustached Euro-stranger, and instead came eye to eye with a more familiar face. I was caught checking out Lieutenant Chuck Honnett of the LAPD.
“He saw you,” Holly pointed out.
Bitch.
“Honnett?” I said, snapping my head back. “What’s he doing here?”
“Friend of someone, probably,” Holly suggested. “Are you going to dance with him later?”
Wes let a grin escape.
The two of them had decided that I was harboring a secret thing for this cop. Which was nuts. I don’t like authority, with the single exception of my own, and I especially don’t like cops. Tell me this, who in their right mind would ever want to be a policeman? Someone who has to bully people and catch them doing things they shouldn’t. A cop sees things in black and white and no matter how gray the world really is, a cop is happy to call it black and pull out his gun. In my opinion.
I’m not saying they don’t have a place. Even vicious, brainless guard dogs have a place. But still, I wouldn’t want to sleep with one.
“I doubt he’ll ask me to dance,” I answered. “I haven’t heard from him. It’s been a long time.”
“Oh, he’ll ask,” Holly said, snorting. “He’s hot for you. He can only see you from the back now, but just wait until he gets a load of your chest in that dress. His eyes will water.”
The string section played on, and two six-year-old flower girls took their first steps down the long aisle. Each wore jungle-print velvet dresses with ivory satin bows and solemn expressions. I’d bet good money that mothers had strongly suggested this would not be the time to act goofy. The tiny ladies threw rose petals from little baskets as they moved up the aisle.
Turning to get a better look at the procession, I was free to check out Honnett, whose head was now turned back to watch the flower girls. In a classic tux, he looked almost, well, dashing. His rough, tanned, rugged face seemed softer. Yeah, he looked damn good in that tux.
I wondered if he could feel my eyes on him, but he didn’t turn back my way. We’d met a little over a year ago under pretty bizarre circumstances. Police business. Not that I could imagine meeting an LAPD detective under any normal circumstance.
As I stared at Honnett, unnoticed in the sea of turned heads, I saw his mouth twitch into a wry smile as he watched the little darlings prance past on their floral task. I noticed, in the soft candlelight, his thick, brown hair was a touch more gray than I’d remembered.
Well, he was too old for me, anyway. Mid-forties, I’d guess. And even though we’d talked about getting together at one time, I’d since heard a rumor he was married. Or separated. Same thing to me. I quickly moved my eyes towards the back of the room, to catch the next bridal attendant, but not so quickly that I didn’t scan the seat next to Honnett. A woman in her thirties, dressed in black of course. Very thin. Very long neck. More later.
“Honnett will catch you staring,” Holly whispered, as we watched an adorable little boy come down the aisle carrying a ring on a cream satin pillow.
“Hush,” I warned her. “I’m looking for some other guy.”
“Who isn’t?” she whispered. “Omigod!” she yelped, and clutched at my hand.
“What? Who?” I asked.
“Brad Pitt, seven o’clock,” Wes offered calmly.
I swiveled my head to where I thought seven o’clock should have been and made eye contact. Not with Brad Pitt. With my British mystery man as he came walking down the aisle.
“I’m going to faint. It is Brad Pitt. I’m going to faint.” Holly began to make slight fan-waving gestures at her pale face with her left hand.
Instead of watching the line of beautiful bridesmaids as they entered the procession, each on the arm of a groomsman, I turned to Wesley and whispered, “Coming down the aisle. See the guy with the longish black hair?”
We remained silent as they passed right by our row.
“What a body,” Holly sighed. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“He’s the best man,” Wes said, softly. “Maybe the groom’s brother.”
“Too old. Too Euro,” I answered.
But before we could go on, the violins and cellos began playing “Here Comes The Bride,” and we all stood and turned our heads to watch Sara Silver make her grand entrance.
I had to admit, Vivian had done a stunning job with this wedding ceremony. In the semidark, amid hundreds of flickering candles, among the animals frozen in history, the bride made a striking entrance. Dressed in a slender sheath of white burn-out silk that I was positive must be a Vera Wang gown, Sara Silver was escorted down the aisle by a man too old to be her father. Deep Pockets Grandpa, I was guessing. And then I recognized Grandpa’s face. I’ll be damned. It was a face I recognized from old T.V. reruns.
I watched Sara pass, moving slowly to the lush music, like a virgin princess in a mystical jungle. At the head of the aisle she was met by Brent Bell, her husband to be. Together, they walked up to the clergyman who was officiating at the service.
At that moment, the darkened display case behind the bridal party suddenly lit up. The diorama that extended across the entire back wall of the Hall of Large Mammals could now be seen. In it, two African elephants were engaged in a primitive, animal act. A large bull with immense tusks was up on his two hind legs. The female looked resigned.
Love, I was reminded, could be ferocious.
Chapter 7
I crossed the deserted foyer and peeked through a pair of double-high doors. While the bride and groom were busy taking their vows, I had slipped out of the ceremony to take a look around. Weddings make me jumpy.
A few last-minute workmen were adjusting tall ficus trees around the impressive Hall of Small Mammals, a twin in size and shape to the one where the nuptials were now in progress across the way. Twenty-five tables, swathed in the finest beaded Indian organza, sparkled, their skirts refracting tiny gleams picked up from the diffuse lighting. The most amazing ice sculptures, perfect frozen replicas of a haunting list of endangered species, graced the center of each table.
Here, too, the dozen exhibit cases set
into the walls provided the main source of illumination. In one, a family of beavers was at work on a dam. In the next, a porcupine stood alert beside a pond. Across the way, wolves stood on a winterscape knoll, snouts raised, mouths forming O’s, suggesting eternally silent howls. Nature under glass—a mixture of creepy and curious, tacky and touching.
Tacky and touching. Well, that could also describe the state of my late relationship with my former boyfriend, Arlo Zar. The trouble with weddings was they made you introspective about the state of your own love life. How romantic they could be when you were sitting on the aisle holding hands with someone you cared about. How alienating when you were just getting over a man you thought would be around for a while longer.
I couldn’t go back and face the wedding vows, and I was determined to find Vivian Duncan. Down one hallway, I discovered double fire doors held open with pegs. Beyond them, a large tented structure bustled with activity. Ah, the food. Stepping from the tomb-quiet museum into the noise and swirl of the cooking area brought with it the delicious aromas of simmering sauces and expensive spices.
“Madeline Bean!”
“Freddie Fox!”
The big man stood near a giant trough, its eighty gallons of water coming to the boil, his round face shiny from steam. Freddie, the chef/owner of Santa Monica’s favorite restaurant, Fox on Main, was in charge of this dinner. His restaurant catered many of the hottest parties on the west side of town. Freddie was doing what I usually did in the middle of major catering jobs—tasting and laughing and joking around. I felt a pang of something like envy.
“So you brought out your boiler for the crawfish?”
“But of course,” he said, smiling. “We are doing my famous étoufée, darlin’.”
Freddie kissed my cheek, and then stood back, holding me out at arm’s length. “You are not dressed for cooking tonight, baby. You are dressed to kill.”
“Tonight I’m a civilian. But tell me…” I peered into one of the large tubs behind the boiling station. Live crawfish for days! “How many pounds total? A thousand?”
Killer Wedding Page 5