Killer Wedding (15 page)

What power did one young and handsome man have in the face of the bulldozer that was Vivian?

“Man, I don't know how it could have spun so far out of control so fast. First it was the wedding at the museum. Then it was this condo—a little wedding gift I never wanted us to accept. Then there was the surprise honeymoon, all planned by Grandpa Jack. We were sup
posed to go on safari or something. More of Jack's money. And what am I supposed to do? Just live off the fat? Just beg Grandpa Jack for another favor?”

The thing is, I really did know how he felt. I'd seen more party budgets spin wildly out of control than most. Families who spend more on one party than on their children's education. Money, even when there's a lot of it around, can cause some serious grief.

“So why didn't you tell Sara how you felt?”

“Are you kidding? You should have seen her face. She was like a princess. Every time I suggested we should turn something down, I could see the way she looked at me. She thought I was being silly. It was ‘only a wedding' or it was ‘only a gift.' Anyway, I told her it all ended after we were married—the gifts from Jack, the money.”

“I realize there are problems, and they're none of my business, but you
love
each other. It doesn't seem…”

“Look, it's gotten too crazy. I think maybe I know who killed Vivian and it's somebody who is very close to Sara. Okay? Are you satisfied now?”

I looked at him, amazed. “You think Jack Gantree killed Vivian?”

“Don't you tell her that! He's the only one she's got. Don't you tell her I said…”

“But why?” I interrupted. “Why would Gantree…?”

“He could turn on people. He could be buddy-buddy one minute and then slam a guy the next. I heard him talking to Vivian, right before dinner, and he was really way over the top. He kept saying how he'd found out something. Well, I overheard that and I got worried. What had Gantree found out, you know?”

I could imagine how that might have made Brent nervous at his own wedding.

“He called Vivian a ‘lying whore.' Nice, huh? But when I heard enough to figure out it had nothing to do with me, I stopped paying close attention. Then later, after they found her, I remembered one thing Jack had said. He said she'd wind up dead.”

I felt a chill. Brent Bell may have had some sad connection to Vivian Duncan that he preferred his new bride never find out about, but what had really been upsetting him were his suspicions. He believed his grandfather-in-law committed murder. Now
that
could spook anyone into hiding out and thinking things over.

“Do you remember anything about their argument?” I was sure this would be the information I needed to make sense of Vivian's murder.

“He was upset about something that happened twenty-three years ago. And Vivian kept saying, ‘Calm down, Jack. He's not going to say anything.'”

“I wonder what that was about.”

“Jack is a tough guy. He likes to threaten people. But this time I think he lost his mind or something. An hour later, they found Vivian's body.”

“So you took off,” I said. “But why didn't you tell Sara?”

“What? Was I supposed to tell her that I was pretty sure her grandfather had just killed somebody? No way would she have believed me. I figured I was doing her a big favor just to disappear.”

Big Jack Gantree, murderer. Could it be? Just the firepower to bring down the rhino he displayed over his fireplace was enough to make me believe the man was not only capable of killing, but he was good at it.

“So,” Brent said, sounding a lot better for having talked it out. “Have you seen Sara? How is she holding up?”

“Well, she's been better.”

Brent looked pained. He said in a soft voice, “Man, I really miss her.”

“Okay,” I said, gathering our empty plates and glasses, “how about this? You're not solving anyone's problems by disappearing. Right? No matter how this thing is going to turn out, you have to think about getting your life back together and moving forward. Hadn't you better talk this whole thing over with Sara? She's your wife now, Brent. And she loves you. You have to
realize you have a partner. Let her help you. Together, you'll decide what you do.”

Brent picked up the remaining dishes and empty chocolate bar wrappers. “Yeah. Maybe you're right.”

T
he rest of the day was packed. I owed calls to everyone. Upon hearing that the wayward Brent had been found, Sara sounded relieved. I guess somewhere, in some dark corner of my heart, I'm still pulling for romance to triumph. I'm not actually putting money on it, but still.

Beryl called and seemed more stressed than ever. Her mother's death was weighing her down. In her entire career, she told me, she'd never had the opportunity to handle such an important divorce. Kip England owned a football team and half of southern Orange County. He was waving a ridiculous prenuptial agreement in their faces. And just when the about-to-be-ex-Mrs. England needed her attorney to be at her sharpest, Beryl admitted to being distracted and worried. She complained that she was about to blow it, she should be working on it right now, but she wanted desperately to know if I'd found out anything to help her father. I told her about Gantree.

“What did the police say? Will they arrest him?”

“Slow down, Beryl. This is hardly…”

“Madeline, we're hanging on by a thread here and I don't have time for you to get offended. I thought you wanted to see Vivian's murderer brought to justice.” She actually had the nerve to sound exasperated.

“Of course I do. And things will work themselves out. But you've got to stop pushing so hard. People,” I in
formed her with great subtlety, “don't like it.”

“You're right. You're right. Sorry.”

“Perhaps you should think about taking a break from work.”

“I can't. Not now. Thanks so much, Madeline. I mean that. I'll tell my dad you'll talk to the police.”

She was right about one thing. Honnett needed to hear the story about Jack Gantree.

But as things worked out, I don't know why I bothered. My hearsay of an overheard conversation that may or may not have taken place was just another note in his murder book. Honnett was, not to put too fine a point on it, skeptical.

“So whatever became of that African, Nbutu? You were pretty sure
he
was the murderer last time we talked.”

“I didn't say that. I just said it was very suspicious that he dropped out of sight!”

“Madeline, did you ever stop and think maybe these people aren't all disappearing. Maybe they just missed the memo ordering them to check in with you before they leave the house?” Honnett thought he was pretty funny. I heard the smile in his voice come over the wire.

“This conversation is over.”

“Wait. Wait a minute. Don't get sore. I'm sorry. Look, I know you're trying to help. Okay? But this story you heard about Gantree threatening Mrs. Duncan is just not relevant. We don't really think Jack Gantree is a possible suspect.”

“Why not?”

“If you'll settle down, I'll let you in on what we discovered on the videotape.”

“What videotape?”

“From the wedding. The videographer turned over all his videocassettes. He had several cameras going during the reception. In fact, one camera was set up on a tripod aimed at the head table and it rolled all through dinner. The cameras were programmed to record timecode. You know what that is? It's those running numbers on the
bottom of the screen that editors use when…”

“I know what timecode is,” I said, my heart sinking.

“And we took the tapes right out of the videocams ourselves, so I figure this is pretty reliable. Checking all the tapes, your murder suspect Jack Gantree never left the dining hall. He's at the head table eating his dinner or standing not far off in every frame. There is simply no way for Gantree to have left and killed Vivian Duncan and still appeared on those time-stamped tapes.”

Oh. I hate it when that happens.

“Don't give up, slugger. There are still a large number of wackos and oddballs in this case. I'm sure you'll pick up on another one of them soon and off you'll go. Have you tried tracking down the clergyman? For all we know, maybe he's disappeared, too.”

“It's nice to know you haven't lost your polite respect when dealing with members of the public, Detective Honnett.”

“Come on. You know I like talking to you.”

“My luck.”

“Okay, okay. If we can step out of weirdland for a minute, let's just talk about what might have happened. Hypothetically. Let's say Vivian Duncan's husband was broke. Let's say he and Vivian didn't have a pleasant marriage and maybe even his wife had a history of seeing extremely young men. Then, add to that, the guy was present at the scene of the murder. We found Ralph Duncan in the men's room, actually. And then, hypothetically speaking, we find he was under investigation for forging frequent flier upgrade certificates and had lost his travel agent license a few weeks ago.”

“Oh.”

“I admire your imagination, though. I do.”

“Honnett, after giving me all this crap about my theories on Nbutu and Gantree, if it turns out that Ralph Duncan did
not
murder his wife, you are going to owe me more than an apology.”

“If Ralph Duncan is innocent? Name it.”

“You will apologize to me. In front of witnesses.”

“All right. But not if he's just acquitted. That doesn't mean anything.”

“Right. But that's not all. You will be my slave, Honnett. For one entire day.”

“I'll do anything you ask.”

“You will?”

“Hell, yes.” I heard the smile again and just hung up.

 

Violin music wafted out of the entrance to The Gardens restaurant of The Four Seasons Hotel. Zelli Gentz was waiting nearby. Before he saw me I had a chance to check him out. Tan suit. Black shirt. Slim build. Dark mustache. Ah, yes. Strings played softly in the background as I watched him push back that black hair which had a sexy habit of falling into his eyes. He looked phenomenal, very Euro-man.

“Madeline?” He saw me and came over at once. “You look lovely. I like your hair like that, all down.”

The maître d' left us at a secluded table. This was an important little test. I am tremendously fascinated to learn how people order their food. What Zelli ordered would be supremely revealing. Was he the type who would order the plainest beef dish off an elaborate menu? Or, would he fuss and specify ingredients? Would he take more trouble with the wine list than with the food? I was like the world's cagiest foodie analyst and he, with menu in hand, was on my metaphorical couch. I was excited with anticipation. How lovely to be with a new man.

At The Gardens, each day's menu consisted of whatever the chef felt like creating from the freshest market ingredients. I took a look at the printed listing.

“Ah, how splendid! I must have the speciality. Would you object if I ordered the lobster?” my companion inquired.

First, I love that he asked my opinion. Big points. And lobster? How decadent. How money is no object. I checked my menu sheet.
Maine Lobster
, I read. Good.
Steamed
. Excellent. It was served with
Pea and Wine Polenta
.

“So American,” Zelli said, with a blush. “I suppose you think me quite the tourist, now, don't you?”

“No, no. It sounds wonderful.”

I admired a man who went straight for the most expensive item on the menu. This was not what Honnett would have selected, I thought with a satisfied sigh. Honnett was more the porkchop type. This was certainly not what Arlo would pick, I knew. Arlo would ask them to grill him a burger, medium-well, and bring a wedge of iceberg with thousand island. But lobster! Lobster was so no-holds-barred. Succulent white meat dripping in butter. It was primal, sensual, manly. I was getting turned on by his goddamn dinner order!

The waiter came to the table and Zelli ordered a bottle of wine. A California Chardonnay. He was doing the U.S. thing.

When we had been poured our wine and made our final dinner selections, Zelli leaned forward and said, “I'm so sorry about your friend, Vivian Duncan. I am sorry for your pain in this very sad event.”

“Thank you. But, actually, Vivian and I were not close.”

“Really?”

“We had only recently met. It was about business. I'm afraid the last thing I ever said to Vivian was that I would not buy her company. She wasn't happy about it. Now I wish that hadn't been the way it ended.”

“I see.” Zelli Gentz pushed his hand over his forehead, finger-combing his hair back. “So that is sad, still.”

“What about you? How did you know Vivian?”

“Well. It was a long time ago. I was young then,” he said, flashing very white, even teeth. “I did a lot of traveling for my work, you see, and I knew Vivian quite well in Rhodesia—that was before the country changed its name.”

“How fascinating. I had no idea Vivian ever lived in
Africa, although I thought she must have some connection to Rhodesia. Her dog, you know…”

“Ah, yes? Well, back then, back in the seventies it was, I spent a good deal of time traveling to Africa. This was just before the wars there, you understand.”

“I'm afraid I don't know much about that. Would you tell me? I'd love to hear.”

I didn't actually bat any eyelashes, but I did have the absurd feeling I was flirting my way, if not into bed, then into getting a lecture on recent civil war activity in emerging African republics. A first.

“If you are interested,” he said, flashing another self-effacing smile. “Of course. I'm Swiss by birth, but my family sent me to school in London. Indeed, I have a house there, still. But my offices are in Zurich. For my work I would go down to what was then Rhodesia fairly often.”

“What is it that you do?”

“I'm a gem dealer.”

“Amazing.” Who
was
this guy?

Zelli Gentz smiled and sipped his Chardonnay.

“Please go on.”

“Well, Rhodesia was a source in those days for some extremely fine gem quality stones.”

“Emeralds?”

“Why, yes. Emeralds have been around for thousands of years, but they are still quite rare. Exceptional emeralds have been found in Colombia and Egypt, of course, but they were only discovered in Rhodesia in 1956.”

“You're kidding.”

“I would not lie to you, Madeline,” Zelli said, with a smile. “Back in '74 and '75, in the Sandawana Valley in the Mberengwa area that is now part of Zimbabwe, fine stones were being mined. I used to go down there to buy them and visit with friends of mine. Many of the farmers, you know, the landowners down there, had large plantations. We had a wonderful time in those days.”

“I've never met a gem dealer before,” I said, looking up at Zelli Gentz. “Tell me, how did you buy the emeralds?”

“Ah, well that took a bit of ingenuity, but nothing terribly difficult, really. The native people had the stones and they would get word to us that they were available. My friends would set it up. Then we'd go out into the jungle and make the deals.”

“You'd buy the gems in the jungle?”

“Oh, certainly. They didn't want to be caught, naturally. And, of course, neither did I.”

“It was illegal?”

“Absolutely.” He seemed pleased with the startled look in my eyes.

I
was
startled. By Zelli's frankness and his daring. I had become, I realized with a sudden, sharp dismay, accustomed to the company of conventional men. A man like Zelli rarely crossed my path in citified old L.A. He relished a life of danger and sought adventures more thrilling than crossing town at rush hour. He seemed amused to have an audience so apparently mild and civilized. His manner, while modest, was also rather pleased to show off his daring of long ago. And why shouldn't he talk about the past? There was no long arm of the Rhodesian law any longer who would know or care about what happened twenty-five years ago. He was charming. But was he also dangerous?

“May I take a moment to discuss the politics of mining? Or would this bore a lovely lady too much?”

“Please tell me.”

“You see, many of the world's great supplies of precious gems are found in rather primitive countries. In some cases, these mineral deposits are among the nation's richest resources. The governments of these countries are poor, naturally, and their people are not as sophisticated as you and I. They mistakenly believe it is in the best interest of their government to nationalize all mineral rights. You see?”

“Um…”

“It was basically illegal for
any
private party to mine or sell stones. That was the policy for years in Rhodesia. After the first emerald was discovered, the country claimed all mining rights and granted no licenses. And this, of course, was most inconvenient for the poor African people. You see, it turns out the crystal is very easy to find. You don't need a professional mining operation. Just scratch the earth at the right spot and a man who is working the land might find a very valuable rough stone.”

“You're kidding.”

“I am not. And what do you think this very poor man does with this stone? It could be worth, if sold privately, enough to support his entire family for ten years. Twenty. Does he turn it in to an agent at the Ministry of Mines as the law requires?”

“I guess not.”

“Look. It was bad economics, you see. Rhodesia owned all the mines. And yet, with several nationalized mining operations in production, the mine workers never reported finding any emeralds! The mining reports were laughable. Some years, not one stone was claimed to have been found.”

“Because of poor management?”

“Because, you see, no one could profit by it. On which side of the piece of toast, as the saying goes, was the bread buttered? I assume you, as a good American, believe in free enterprise? Well, the mismanagement of Africa's mineral resources was in setting up a policy which gave the worker no incentive to turn in his findings.”

As if it hadn't been radical enough to realize I was dining with an international Euro-guy gem dealer, I now discovered he was something of an armchair social economist. My, my, my!