Killer Wedding (19 page)

“
I
t's almost seven,” Wes said, playing his usual role of timekeeper in the kitchen. Oh how I had missed this. Cooking for guests is so therapeutic. That is, it is for me. For others, I'm often told, cooking drives them up a tree. Which is why there will always be a place on this earth for chefs, I thought happily, as I checked the oven to see how the salmon was doing.

“You're loving this,” Wes said, annoyed. He'd been nervous all night. In fact, he never went to sleep. I, on the other hand, was too busy to sleep. I'd been to the Santa Monica farmer's market just after dawn and, of course, I had all those telephone invitations to take care of. Luckily, none of my guests had a previous engagement for a Wednesday night. They were, in fact, due to arrive in thirty minutes.

“You like this?” Holly had been arranging flowers for our table.

We were expecting a party of twelve, counting ourselves, and for the evening's décor, I'd suggested Holly pick up several pots of African violets and do groupings down the center of our long table. Now, she held up her work, simple terra cotta pots, upon which she had painted bold golden stars.

I nodded my approval and she swooped them all away.

The food for this party would be special. In truth, I
had been yearning to do a dinner party while it was still wild salmon season and luckily we had just made it. These special fish are line-caught by boats from San Francisco north to Alaska and they are only available for about a month, from mid-May until mid-June. After that, fish markets offer the milder farmed salmon for eleven months more.

Tonight, I chose to use a cooking technique called oven-steaming. This method is extremely simple and the cooked fish comes out a most startlingly bright orange color. It's also incredibly moist and rich. Best of all, because you cook it in a slow oven on a cookie sheet over a roasting pan filled with boiling water, you can easily make enough for a large crowd. My favorite fishmonger is a dear, and he skinned a whole side of wild salmon for me. Then, to give Wesley something constructive to do, I asked him to remove all the pin bones with a pair of needlenose pliers.

While Wes worked over the salmon, I prepared the cucumber salad featuring rice vinegar and sesame oil, with snipped chives and chopped cilantro and a sprinkling of toasted sesame seeds to give it snap. But by now, the salad was ready and the salmon was in the oven so we were doing just fine on time.

“Uh, Mad, sweetie?” Arlo poked his head in, sniffing the air for something,
anything
, that he might find edible. “I'm here.”

“Don't worry,” I told him. “You can eat this salmon. It's plain.”

“Well…” He didn't seem too happy.

“The new you, remember?” Wes suggested, helpfully. He and Arlo had had a long talk last night, man to man. Kind of.

“Right,” Arlo said. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nope,” I said, checking again and finding the salmon done to just flaking perfection. I pulled the tray out of the oven and put it on the counter. “But go ask Holly to fix you a drink. We've set up a new tequila bar.”

“Tequila?” Arlo sounded enthusiastic.

“Yes. I intend this evening to be positively psychotropic.”

“Did you get
Patron
?” He mentioned one of the premium bottles available from Mexico.

“We got
Patron
and
Herradura
and
Casta
and
Porfidio…
”

Somewhere along the list I lost Arlo as he departed in search of one of these high-prestige spirits.

Then he poked his head back into the kitchen and asked, “Hey, Mad. You want me to get you a drink?”

Wes looked at me and I looked back. Is it always so good when you make up? And, conversely, why does it have to get so bad, first?

“Later,” I answered Arlo, and then, after carefully moving the deep orange/pink wild salmon onto a large, turquoise-colored, oval platter, I began to decorate the fish. The traditional design suited me, and I lightly painted the fish with tarragon mayonnaise and began covering it with thinly sliced cucumber fish scales.

“Everyone is coming,” Wes said, for the fourteen millionth time.

“What can go wrong?” I asked, humming happily in my busy kitchen. “Honnett will be here. Relax.”

“You don't have a nerve in your body,” Wes mumbled. “That's what's the problem. You aren't concerned a little that Honnett is going to sit down to dinner with Arlo?”

“Well…” I thought it over. “Nah.”

“Guests are arriving,” Holly said as she sailed into the kitchen. “How are we doing?”

“I'm done,” I said, adding the last cucumber slice to my masterpiece. I pulled off my long white apron, and tossed it on a peg. “It's showtime.”

I left Wesley muttering and walked with Holly over to the large living room at the other end of the main floor, where our guests were gathering. So far, Arlo was standing near the bar setup, and Beryl and her father, Ralph Duncan, had just arrived and were trying to make
small talk with Arlo. As I entered the room, Beryl spun around and smiled.

“Hello, Beryl,” I said, approaching. “I'm so glad you could make it at such short notice.”

“Madeline Bean, this is my father, Ralph Duncan. Daddy, this is the woman who has been helping us.”

Vivian's good-looking husband held out his hand. His were the type of looks that made excellent news anchors. I shook his hand a moment, and then said, “I'm glad you've come. I think Esmeralda has been a little homesick.”

“Daddy's ready to take her home, aren't you Daddy?” Beryl flashed a smile at her father, who nodded.

In the past two minutes I'd seen Beryl Duncan smile more often than in all the encounters we'd ever had.

“You seem happy,” I said, feeling her out.

“I am. I heard from the police that they have arrested the man who killed Vivian. Thanks to you, I hear.” She almost beamed at me.

“Is that right?” They were holding Albert Nbutu on charges stemming from his illegal entry to the United States and his possession of stolen property. To my knowledge, they had not yet charged him with murder. But Paul said it was only a matter of hours.

The doorbell rang and the next to arrive was Det. Chuck Honnett. At the same time, Big Jack Gantree and the newlyweds appeared. Sara was stunning in an Armani dress without a back. Her deeply tanned skin was set off by the gown's pale pink color. Her new husband, a man with whom I'd shared canteloupe on the kitchen floor, stood by looking uncomfortable, although I noticed he'd managed to get out of that wedding tux and into an expensive suit.

Next, Whisper Pettibone joined our group, looking almost jaunty in a pearl-gray ensemble and leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. There was that pleasant cacophony of small talk and joking that makes such sweet social music, the sound I instinctively listen for at all my parties. People having a good time. Excellent.

Holly took over at the bar, offering tastings of several of the potent tequilas we had purchased for the evening. And I joined her there, pouring myself a deadly and delicious watermelon margarita made with fresh-squeezed limes and melons.

“Listen here, Madeline,” Big Jack Gantree said in a manner that I imagined passed for gruff charm to those who appreciate it. “We got off on the wrong foot. Big guy like me and a modern young lady like yourself, we just got off to a rough start.”

“Then here's to a new one,” I toasted. I took a sip of my margarita while Jack downed a shot of straight
Paradiso Anejo
, which, at $95 a bottle, was one of the most expensive in my collection.

“My granddaughter told me how hard you worked to help her and Brent-boy. We appreciate that. We don't forget a favor, either.”

Or an insult? I wondered, sipping from my broad-rimmed glass.

“A toast to the happy couple!” Big Jack boomed. The white-haired T.V. mini-legend lifted his glass.

All the others, with the exception of Arlo, had been present at the wedding and were happy to help a bride and groom get a steadier start to their marriage. This tequila bar was going great guns.

“To their life together,” Big Jack said. “May they be healthy, wealthy, and…come to think of it, that's enough!”

The last of our group arrived just a few minutes past seven-thirty. The doorbell rang once more and in walked Zelli Gentz. Luckily, a business opportunity had kept him in town a few more days. I had a pleasant little buzz going, just enough to smooth out the rough edges of my brain, where the anxiety over having the three men I'd recently kissed all about to dine together would have been itching to freak out.

“Would you all please join me for dinner?” I sang out, leading the way to the dining room where a long French pine table was set for twelve. The African violets
looked lovely, set amid a dozen glowing votive candles. As the guests took their places, mindful of the place-cards, I began to relax. I watched Arlo sit just far enough away from Honnett, who was seated just far enough away from Zelli.

Wesley whispered in my ear, “I warn you, if you had made out with even
one
more man here—say Whisper or Big Jack?—this seating plan could have never handled it.”

I tried to take a swipe at him, but missed. It was time for me to set down my watermelon margarita.

“Everyone…” I looked over the assembled party with their polite, expectant expressions and smiled. “Please enjoy yourselves.”

“If you can…” whispered Holly near my ear as she began serving the guests.

For several minutes there were only the sounds of oohing and ahing. To any cook, this is the sweetest sound there is, so I took a moment to enjoy it.

Whisper adjusted his wire-rims and offered his stiff compliment, “Well, at least you really can cook.” Which I got a kick out of.

As I dragged my brain back to a more alert state, I overheard Brent tell Sara he wished she could cook like this. Well. The man had some taste, after all. The lovely Sara made a joke that someday they'd hire a cook who could do any damn dish he'd like.

Arlo was trying his best to fit in. The only one of all our guests he'd met before was Honnett, and Arlo was clearly annoyed to see him at the table. The triumphant seating chart, however, was my salvation, as it prevented Arlo from using his legendary wit to cut the detective to shreds. Beryl, meanwhile, was acting a trifle too gleeful for a woman whose mother had recently been killed. Yes, she had her issues with regards to her mother. But in public, I wished she'd stop laughing quite so loudly. I shot a look to Holly just in time for her to skip over Beryl's glass as she refreshed everyone's watermelon
margaritas from a large green glass pitcher. Beryl never even noticed.

Another loud peal of laughter came from Beryl's end of the table. Honnett was taking note of it. Well, I thought, reconsidering. Perhaps my seating plan had not been perfect, after all. I should never have placed the “grieving” daughter right next to Arlo. He makes such a point to be amusing.

I watched as Whisper spoke across the table to Big Jack Gantree. Jack was smiling, enjoying himself now. I overheard Jack say, “I worked it all out with Madeline. I won't be paying for that big wedding because you won't be billing me.”

Whisper looked at me and I nodded.

“I think Vivian owed Jack that much,” I said, and then I turned to look directly at Jack Gantree. “At the very least.”

He sat there, smiling for a moment. Then, his expression changed as he thought over just what I'd said. Then, he shot a look over to Zelli Gentz. Perfect.

The party was going so well, I was almost sorry I was going to spoil it. Imagine that. Me, spoiling my own party. It was an amazing stretch.

I turned to Zelli and asked him, in a voice loud enough to carry, “Do you remember telling me that you were interested in purchasing some emeralds?”

“Yes,” he said, with perhaps just a hint of hesitation. I imagined that Zelli Gentz was not used to talking about his business dealings, delicate as they were, at a noisy dinner party. As I had expected, the general hubbub dimmed a level or two, allowing more ears to hear our conversation.

“Did, by any chance, those seven rare stones ever turn up?”

Jack Gantree rested his fork on his plate. Beryl, named for the mineral itself, looked at her father. Brent and Sara stopped giggling together. Honnett studied my face. And even Whisper failed to keep up his end of the conversation with Wes.

“I wonder why you ask that?” Zelli said, quietly.

“I would be happy to tell you. Only first, may I assume that you have been contacted by an individual who offered to sell you those stones for seven hundred thousand dollars?”

Zelli stared at me, as did everyone else at the table. Things had gotten deadly quiet.

“It's the oddest thing, really,” I continued, “but last night I found these.”

I took the bag from my lap and emptied it onto the starched white tablecloth. Forty-five large dullish-green rocks tumbled out.

“Good God!” Big Jack Gantree's voice had suddenly gone hoarse.

“What are they?” Beryl asked, her voice shrill.

Brent Bell stood up and said, “Excuse me,” and quickly left the room. Sara turned around, uncertain, but stayed in her seat, fascinated with the pile of rough emeralds in front of her. I looked at Honnett and he gave a nod. I knew no one would be making any unexpected exits from the house.

“My word, Madeline!” Zelli said, licking his lips as if they had suddenly gone dry.

“Do they look familiar?” I asked.

Zelli's eyes searched mine.

“Beryl,” I said, turning to the daughter. “Did you know where your mother got her seed money to start Vivian Duncan Weddings?”

She shook her head and looked uncertain. She turned to her father, who was staring at the stones.