Killer Wedding

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  “Wesley! Bring that poor gal up here.”

  Wes brightened and left.

  “So it’s you and me,” I said to Holly, waiting for her to question the whereabouts of my date. Instead she was focused inward.

  “I’m supposed to meet Donald after midnight. Man, he’s been so busy lately, I’ve hardly seen the guy. We only have time for a quick jump and he’s gotta go back to his place and work on his screenplay.”

  “Well, that’s probably natural for writers, Hol.”

  “I mean, I told him to keep the lights on while we do it, or I won’t even remember what he looks like anymore, you know?”

  “Hol? Too much information.”

  “You wimp.” She laughed. “So what happened to Honnett? You look like you never even went out.”

  “He was here. He showed up. Don’t worry. He had to go back to work.”

  “Oh. So what is it with us? Why are we involved with these work geeks, anyway? What we need are some unemployed actors! Now, they have got time to boogie.” She looked at me with dancing eyes. “Let’s get us a whole stable of unemployed actors and it would be sex, sex, sex—morning, noon, and night! We would not be two chicks sitting alone getting way too excited over some lousy take-out sushi on a Monday night, mama!”

  I cracked up. So pathetic and so nailed.

  I heard the jingling of a dog collar accompanied by Wes’s soothing voice coming up the stairs. And into the room walked one very odd-looking dog.

  “Hi there, girl,” I said, patting her proud but almost hairless nose. She was tall and quite thin, and she had an extremely short-haired golden brown coat, with a strange cowlick thingie along the top of her spine. I also noticed her dog collar had a hanging pendant with a very large square-shaped green stone, like a simulated emerald.

  “She’s Vivian’s dog, all right. Check out those accessories.” Holly reached over to scratch the calm dog’s head. “I mean, who’d I have to hump for a choker like that?”

  Wesley grimaced. “Ah, ah, ah…she heard that. I’d watch your leg, honey.”

  See, Holly and I have rather similar observations on life, only expressed a shade differently.

  “Boy, she certainly is one calm, cool dog,” I said. “So what is she? She looks very…uh…”

  “Wacky,” Holly suggested.

  “Well, I can tell you for sure she’s not a Staffordshire Bull Terrier,” I said, with the superior attitude of a woman who has just looked at eight dozen photos of same.

  “She’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback, I believe,” said the man who knew everything. “See this fur?” Wesley drew his hand across the dog’s back, feeling the stubby fur cowlick that ran down the center. Imagine a shaved dog with a mini-Mohawk. “This is her ridge.”

  “Ah.”

  “Cool.”

  We all took turns feeling her ridge. It actually felt quite good. And the dog didn’t mind a bit.

  “Esmeralda, down.” Wesley gave her a friendly command and the sweet-tempered dog behaved brilliantly, resting down on her haunches next to the sofa.

  Wes sat down next to me and noticed the photos I’d been studying all night.

  “Wow. You scored. How’d you get this picture of Albert Nbutu?”

  “Long story. I decided to visit Verdugo Woodlands. Funny how this picture of Nbutu was on Reynoso’s desk, eh? I had to make up a whole song and dance, but the chef was actually a lamb. Now, I wonder what was going on? Why did he pretend he didn’t know this guy when you called, Wes?”

  “Beats me. Maybe you showed him more leg than I did.”

  “To be fair, he didn’t see your leg, Wes. I’m sure he would have appreciated it, given half a chance.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. So how’d you get him to talk?”

  “I didn’t want to spook Reynoso so I didn’t mention Nbutu at all. He got the impression I was from some ice sculpture magazine.”

  “Good one.” Wes was amused.

  “Boy, people can get interested in some pretty weird stuff,” opined the queen of weird herself, with a straight face.

  “He let me borrow some photos and the great part was, he didn’t look very closely at the ones I took. It was masterful, if I do say so myself. Only I’ve hit a major snag. I thought I would find some brilliant clue in this photo that would help me track Albert down in thirty minutes.”

  “And?”

  “That was five hours ago.”

  Curious, Holly moved over to squeeze in on the sofa. “That’s your ice sculptor guy? What a body.” She traced his image over the glass with one long purple fingernail. “Cool tattoo.”

  “Can you read what it says?” I asked.

  Holly took the frame and squinted close to the picture. “I think it says Sandman, maybe.”

  Wesley took the picture from her and studied it.

  “Isn’t that a jewel?”

  “Yes. Like an outline of a diamond, I think.”

  “No,” Wes said, still studying the photo. “It’s square. Like an emerald.”

  Of course it was.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Wes asked us.

  “Uh…” Holly didn’t get it.

  “There’s an emerald on Albert Nbutu’s shoulder, and there’s a fake emerald on Miss Esmeralda’s collar,” I said, thinking.

  “And, of course, Esmeralda is the Spanish word for emerald,” Wes finished up.

  Holly giggled. “You guys know too much.”

  “Wait a minute. Holy shit.” I pulled my PC back into my lap. The screensaver, the floating words EAT DRINK SEX that Wes had long ago programmed into my computer, disappeared and the Champion Bull Terriers website blinked back on. I hit the back button and came, once again, upon the list of 71 matches for the word Sandawana. Scrolling down almost to the bottom of the page, I came back to a listing I’d just barely glanced at earlier. Sandawana showed a match on a website for something called the Mining News.

  A few seconds later I was at the opening page that described various mining operations in several developing nations. I used the FIND function to get to the word I was looking for. It brought me directly down to the word Sandawana, as in the Sandawana Mine, as in a location in the interior of the country of Zimbabwe.

  “This is a little freaky,” I said, clicking on a few more buttons. Wes and Holly watched the screen flash through its silent progression of images. “Wasn’t Zimbabwe formerly called Rhodesia?”

  “Yes it was,” Wes said. “Rhodesia became two countries—Zimbabwe and Zambia—back in the seventies.”

  All three of us pondered the fact that Vivian owned a dog whose country of origin contained a mine whose name, Sandawana, was tattooed on the shoulder of an African who was present at the occasion of her demise. Of course, it made absolutely no sense.

  Wes looked at me and asked, “What exactly gets mined at Sandawana?”

  “Wait! Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me,” Holly said, excited.

  I pushed a button and in a few seconds we would have our answer…

  Holly jumped up, like a Jeopardy! contestant on uppers, and excitedly blurted out, “What are emeralds?”…just before the image appeared on the screen.

  Chapter 17

  The robber barons who run the parking structure at Cedars-Sinai Hospital engage in legalized extortion. Seriously. They charge an arm and a leg for every twenty minutes, and you’re crazy to pay it. Better to park at the Beverly Center and walk. That way, either coming or going, you get to cruise the mall if you want. I usually want. But this morning, I was in a hurry.

  I checked in at the visitors’ desk and was directed to the proper bank of elevators. Up to the South Tower, fifth floor. Walking along the linoleum, smelling hospital smells, I began to feel some compassion for Whisper Pettibone. While maybe I had not formed the best impression of him, and maybe his manner was decidedly waspish, he certainly didn’t deserve to end up in a hospital bed. I resolved to tread gently in our interview, to be my most nurturing self. Nurse Cherry Bean—kind, caring, sweet-tempered. A go
ddamn angel of mercy.

  At the door to room 599 I stopped. What to do? For some reason—and really, I blame the HMOs—the hospital fails to provide doormen to announce you. And yet, what an intimate space is a sickroom—a bedroom, really—in which to have a casual stranger, such as myself, barge. I faltered, standing in the hallway. I would hardly have looked forward to visiting the acidic Mr. Pettibone when he was full of his usual vinegar, dressed to the teeth. To approach him while he was in bed, loosely wrapped in some hospital-issue gown complete with breezeway bottom, was a thrill I could have happily lived without.

  Just then, a middle-aged nurse opened the door, startling me. She gave an exasperated “tsk-tsk-tsk” and walked off. Apparently, Whisper Pettibone was a charming patient this morning. Wonderful.

  I stepped forward and looked into the room. Whisper was sitting with his bed half-inclined, staring at the wall opposite.

  I knocked softly on the open door, hoping to get his attention.

  “Excuse me. Mr. Pettibone? It’s Madeline Bean. Do you feel up to a visitor?”

  “I feel like bloody HELL,” he said, turning to look me over. “I think I may die, but whether from the brilliance of my hospital treatment or of boredom I would hate to wager a bet.” Whisper took a few labored breaths and said, “But why are you still standing out in the hall? Enter. Come in. I can’t very well carry on a conversation with you if you insist on standing a mile away.”

  I entered the room. Whisper was hooked up to an IV line that led to a stand on wheels parked next to his bed. His head was bandaged and one arm was set in a cast. Several fabulous flower arrangements were in evidence, set side by side on the window seat. His skin, always a suspiciously deep tan, looked sunken on his prominent cheekbones, dark against the white linens. He kept his eyes closed when I approached, but now opened them and stared at me.

  “Madeline Bean. Would you believe you are my first visitor? And I don’t even know you, do I?” He took a moment to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses and smooth a hand back over his thinning hair.

  “I wish I had had time to bake,” I said, feeling awkward, “but I stopped at Urban Epicurean.” I held up a large tote filled with the assortment of gourmet treats I’d picked up on my way over.

  “Oh, goodie. Real food.” He said it in a most sarcastic tone, but I think he was pleased. “Set it down over there.” He gestured to the bedside table that was moved a few feet away. “I’ll get one of the slaves, or would that be nurses? Yes, I’ll get one of the nurses to put it away in a refrigerator. Probably the last time I’ll see it, too. Thieves, the lot of them. Oh well, no matter.”

  I smiled. And he very grudgingly let his eye twinkle. But only for a fraction of a second.

  “I’ve come, of course, to talk about the business. If you think you are up to it. There are some things that need to be dealt with, the sooner the better, but I don’t want to bother you if you are too tired.”

  “The business? By that you mean my business, don’t you?” Whisper Pettibone looked me over. “We hardly know each other, Miss Bean. And truth to tell, I really didn’t think I liked you at all. Not at all.”

  “I got that impression, yes.”

  “But here you are, coming to visit me like I’m your sick uncle. Wearing that ghastly little dress. Bringing store-bought food.” He clucked his tongue, annoyed at himself. “But quite respectable store-bought food, I must admit. And you don’t gush, do you? You didn’t go all wimpy asking about the nasty details of my injuries. Admirable. I may have to change my opinion of you…”

  When it’s a toss-up between being amused or being insulted, I take amused every time. Life is short. And where’s the fun without the occasional kook, crackpot, or scalawag getting in the jambs? I sat there appreciating one of life’s sincerely oddest old kooks, and smiled.

  “…which, of course, I never, ever do. Because I’m always right, naturally, so it’s never necessary. You see what a pain in the ass you have become to me, Miss Bean? So vexing. I begin to wish you had never shown up at all. However, seeing as how you are the only one likely to make this sacred pilgrimage to my sickbed, I must rise to the occasion. Do sit down.”

  I did.

  “Have the police figured out who did this to you?” I asked, concerned.

  “Don’t make me laugh. Not a bloody clue. I mean, they are without a single brain cell between them. They’re savages and good for little else than beating poor defenseless things about with their billy clubs. You only have to imagine how they dealt with a man of refinement and culture. I was bloody and unconscious, being rolled into the x-ray, and they were after me like hounds, trying to get information. I couldn’t speak. How could I? It wasn’t my own injuries, Miss Bean. I am not talking about mere pain of the body.

  “It was from a much sharper pain that I was struck silent. You see, those bastards told me about Vivian. The first moment I recovered consciousness, they told me. I fought my way back from the depths of oblivion, only to be told I had lost my soulmate, my dearest companion, my very best friend in a wretched and desolate world. My lovely Vivian has been killed, they told me. I really cannot be expected to take this all in. I am an artist, with an artist’s soul, and an artist’s sensitivities.” He closed his eyes.

  It was quite a speech and had clearly exhausted him. His labored breathing began to sound more and more like snoring. Just as I was sure the man had fallen asleep, he spoke up.

  “I hope you will not leave just yet, Miss Bean.”

  Startled, I sat back down.

  He opened his sunken eyes and looked at me. “I’m worried,” he said.

  “About the business?”

  “It’s all I have, Miss Bean. Are you still determined to take it from me?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Don’t you give it another thought.”

  “What’s that? Are you toying with me? What, dear lady, are you saying?”

  “I never wanted Vivian’s company. I am not sure why she fixated on the idea, but she approached me and kept after me. I thought she might have needed the money.”

  “Nonsense. We are doing well, naturally. And Vivian is worth a fortune. Everyone knows that.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes people give the impression…”

  “Hush!” he interrupted me, “I see her books. I do her personal finances. I know where her offshore accounts are kept. I pay the bloody insurance premiums on her jewels and furs. I have a key to a joint security deposit box, which is filled with cash, if you must know. We are not in any way low on funds. And Vivian came into the business with so much capital she barely knew what to do with it all. Have you seen her home on Courtney Road? She bought it with cash. Shortest escrow in the history of Beverly Hills.”

  “I see.”

  “I should hope so. Be sensible. In all the time I’ve known Viv she has never made a decision based on money. My word, we were above all that.”

  “Then I can’t understand why she was so insistent that I buy her out. I told Vivian no at the wedding, but she didn’t want to listen to me.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you, you know,” Whisper said, upset. “Oh, I don’t know what to believe. It was most unusual from the start.” He looked at me, as if to decide how much he wanted to confide. “Should I tell you?”

  “That has to be your call,” I said.

  “You don’t beg, do you? You don’t pry and you don’t insinuate. Most amazing in a girl like you.”

  “Actually, I prefer being referred to as a woman.”

  “I’m sure you do. The problem I’m having is with Vivian’s behavior, don’t you see? It doesn’t seem at all Vivian-like. It troubled me then and it troubles me now. She was secretive. Well, that wasn’t so unusual. Viv liked to have her little secrets. Silly woman. Of course I found out every single one. Why wouldn’t I? I was in charge of the purse strings. I kept the accounts. Let me tell you it is very difficult to keep a secret from the man who balances the books.

  “When Viv was seeing that young waiter,
who did she imagine was paying the Visa bill that listed all those single-night stays at the Hotel Bel Air? And did she imagine I bought the story that all those clothes she charged at Saks were for Ralph? I think not.”

  “Are you saying Vivian was seeing someone?” I asked.

  “Of course she was. She was a very complicated woman. Ralph couldn’t begin to understand her. Why she kept him around is a question for the gods, but she wouldn’t hear a word against him.”

  Vivian’s husband. Vivian’s boyfriends. Any of these people could have motives to have murdered Vivian. Even Whisper himself. If he really believed Vivian was planning to sell him out, what would he have done?

  Whisper must have been figuring things out, too. He looked startled, and then reached up his thin hand and touched his mouth. “Oh, my word. Don’t tell me you are trying to solve Vivian’s murder, my dear? Can that possibly be what is going through your brain? Stop it this instant. I have been going over it all, again and again, and believe me, if anyone were able to get to the truth, it would be me. And it’s all nonsense. No matter what you think of any of us. No one would kill Viv, no matter what they may have hoped to accomplish.”

  “You said her husband…”

  “No balls! That man is not very good at anything but drinking scotch rocks, my dear. He would simply not have the appropriate gonads to pull off such a stunt. And if Ralph somehow surfaced from his Glenlivet haze long enough to have done the deed, how in the world do you imagine he discovered the courage to drag her poor body across half a museum, up a bloody staircase, and toss her across that heap of bones?” Whisper’s eyes blazed at me, challenging me to disagree.

  “That’s the million dollar question.”

  “So you are trying your hand at playing detective. This is too rich! And who, pray tell, is among your other suspects?”

  “Please don’t take this personally, Mr. Pettibone, but I find just about everyone suspicious.”

  “How wise. How young and how wise you are, Miss Bean. And by that I suppose you mean to say you suspect me?”