Killer Wedding (2 page)

T
ires screeched. Car horns bleated and blared. Amid the chaos, the deadly Mercedes sped down Rodeo. I was stunned, bombarded by a kaleidoscope of color and movement: the massacred centerpiece spread out on the sidewalk, the pavement now a puddle, the roses possibly salvageable, the lemons still rolling into the gutter. Sunlight winked off the shards of glass, crunching below my boots as I took a step back.

“Careful,” said a woman, hurrying on. Her hands, I noticed, were clutched up at her mouth.

Looking down, I saw a flash of light glint off my jeans, then another. Tiny bits of broken glass had embedded in the denim. Great. I moved again and heard the tinkle and crunch as my boot ground more glass into the sidewalk. Luckily, I wasn't cut. I bent down and carefully picked up my keys. Shit! What a mess!

Still shocked, I thought I noticed a voice in the background, someone calling. The faint sound came from the direction of the driveway and the back alley parking lot beyond.

“Please…”

I stood still, listening hard.

“Help me…”

Heedless, now, of the mess, sidestepping one bruised lemon in my path, I quickly rounded the corner, afraid
of what I'd find. Shit! Had that lunatic run someone down?

I jogged down the row of parked cars. About one-third of the way down the row, I slowed to a stop. I could hear nothing over the sound of my heart pounding hard. I took a deep breath to slow myself down. No one was there. And then I heard a faint sound. Someone talking.

“Yes, that's right, darling…” came the disembodied woman's voice, now speaking quite calmly.

Startled, I walked on behind the parked cars ahead. As I cleared a white Lexus, I now heard more distinctly the sound of low conversation. I looked down.

There, on the asphalt, in a rare empty parking space, a woman in a pink Chanel suit sat splay-legged. Holding a cell phone to one ear, she was talking with an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Just call and reschedule my five o'clock, Whisper, and don't mother-hen me,” she was saying, and then she looked up.

“Thank God,” she exhaled, looking me up and down, and then told the cell phone, “Someone's here now. Do what I said, dear,” and punched a button to disconnect. To me she said, “Got a goddamn match?”

“Sure,” I said, opening my purse, as I took in the unexpected sight of a woman, age fifty-plus, with that hair-matches-the-bag-matches-the-nails look, sitting on the pavement a foot or so away from a rare Beverly Hills oil spot.

“Hell of a day to quit smoking,” she said, voice gravelly.

I bent down to hand her a book of matches. “Are you all right? Just a minute ago there was this big Mercedes…were you hit?”

The woman took the matches and expertly lit her cigarette, giving me a wink from a surprisingly wrinkle-free eye. “I know you, don't I?” she asked.

“I'm Madeline Bean. I cater parties. Perhaps we've met at one of…”

“Of course. Mad Bean Events. Well,” she said, “what a coincidence. If you believe in them. I don't. I've met your partner, Wesley.” She sat there, puffing on the cigarette. “You don't know who I am at all, do you?”

I looked at her carefully. She was small and a little too tan. On her ears were very expensive jewels. As she withdrew the cigarette from her lips, I noticed it was now stained with that shade of bright magenta pink that had been briefly in fashion in the seventies.

“Vivian Duncan?” I asked, annoyed that I hadn't put it all together at once. I'd seen Vivian in black and white several times. Her photo was often in the
Times
. But now I was rattled. The car. The accident. I was a half-beat off.

Vivian Duncan, I thought, trying hard to get back up to speed. Had Darius known she would be here this afternoon? Is that why he kept me in his shop a little longer? Was I being ambushed?

Vivian stretched a bony hand covered in gemstones at me. “Help me up, dear.”

I reached for her hand and pulled gently. She tried to rise, but then I heard her groan and sink back down to the pavement.

“You're injured,” I said, still not really understanding what was going on.

“No fussing now, understand? I'm not hurt. Well, not badly. Bruised, most likely. I just need to rest a minute.”

“Should I call someone? An ambulance?”

“Of course not. I said no fuss.”

“But that car. Did it hit you?”

“Not…exactly,” Vivian said, her raspy voice an octave lower than mine.

I was struck by a stunning set of impressions. Fine one moment, I now flashed back to a few minutes before. I had almost died. Had that car swerved a few inches closer, it would have certainly torn into me, ripped me open, crushed me.

“That car…” I said, trying to regain my composure.

“That car,” Vivian spoke up, “was mine.”

“It's yours?”

“I had just parked.” She looked at me to see if I was going to get hysterical.

I wasn't. “You had just parked?”

She nodded, patting the blacktop upon which she was still semisprawled. “Here.”

“You were…” I closed my eyes and wondered why my brain, usually a rather speedy processor, had gone blinkish. If I hadn't stopped back there on the sidewalk, just for a brief moment, stopped so I could find my car keys, I would certainly have been run down.

I opened my eyes and stared at Vivian Duncan. “…mugged?”

“Car-jacked, I think they call it, don't they? The bastard pushed me so hard I can still feel his filthy hand on me.” She felt the smooth pink fabric of her Chanel jacket over her chest and winced.

“We'd better call the police.” I reached again to open my purse, but Vivian Duncan cut me off.

“Don't bother, honey.” She waved her cell phone. “I've already taken care of it.”

“Can I help you stand?”

She exhaled a gust of smoke. “Why the hell not?”

I bent down, trying to support her light frame, holding her behind her shoulders. She didn't weigh much. Soon as I got her on her feet, she stepped away from my arms, righting herself elegantly.

“There, that's not too bad,” she said, feeling along her hip, but trying to cover the move with an attempt to lightly pat her skirt clean.

A couple was just approaching their parked car a few yards away and noticed our little scene. My jeans were still rather damp and Vivian was probably the only woman they'd ever seen wearing a soiled designer suit.

“Look. My car is parked just down there. You can have some privacy.”

Vivian thought it over and then nodded her delicate, lineless chin. But when she began to move I saw her wince. I slowed down and tried to hold her arm, but she
just swore like a sailor, sped up her rocky gait, and threw away her burnt-down cigarette stub.

I unlocked my Grand Wagoneer. But when I walked around the back to help her, Vivian quickly hopped up into the passenger seat before I could reach her.

“Would you like me to stay with you until the police come? Or can I…?”

She lit a new cigarette and pushed the button to roll down her window. On the first exhale, she said, “I have a tabletop demonstration at Darius Floral Design…” She checked her gold Van Cleef watch, “Shit!…Ten minutes ago. You must know Darius.”

“Yes. I was just there. In fact…”

“Are you going to listen or are you going to talk?” she asked. “There's a young couple—Sara Silver is the bride. Lovely, lovely girl. I've known her family for years. They're getting married in three weeks and this is the only time they have to make their final choices.”

She felt along the edge of her skirt, fingers stopping at a tiny snag. “Ruined. I'm not presentable. I'd like you to go in there and make some excuse.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Some excuse that makes me look good, dear. Not some lame ‘she was car-jacked' nonsense. You know brides. She's nervous. She's self-obsessed, God love her. And she has every right to be. She's one of
my
brides, and Viv Duncan's brides do not worry about me. I worry about them.”

Well, I thought, how nice for them.

“Just do me this favor, Madeline. Just take down Sara's choices. Her groom is Brent Bell. A nobody from nowhere, but a good-looking boy and he makes Sara happy.”

I checked my watch. “So you'd like me to take over your tabletop demo. Okay. I can do that.”

“Yes, dear, yes.” Vivian sighed, her lineless face looking almost pleased with me. “You'll do. Now, run along quickly or they'll never forgive me. I've kept them waiting far too long already. And you know what happens
when you leave the bride and groom waiting too long, don't you dear?”

“They start making out?”

“No, dear. They fight. And then, of course, they think having a wedding is not such a marvelous idea after all.”

She handed me her fuchsia leather Gucci briefcase, quite an amazing number, and said, “Here's everything you'll need.”

I was not quite ready to accuse Vivian Duncan of masterminding this entire hit-and-run production in order to lure me into some business scheme she had running, but then I couldn't exactly ignore the possibility either. I looked into her eyes, hoping to read the truth.

“Run along, Madeline, I'll be fine here. And save my bride.”

A
blonde holding a shih tzu was standing at the counter while Darius was on the phone saying, “My, my, my…” He gave me a strange look as I reentered the shop. “Yes, Vivian, that
is
most remarkable. She's here now, so don't you worry.”

Hanging up, he turned to me and asked, astonished, “What the…? Now you're taking over Vivian Duncan's tabletop?”

In the latest trend among those who plan the city's most expensive weddings, nothing is left to chance. Wedding cakes may be tasted at L.A.'s finest bakeries, caterers hold seasonal tasting dates where clients are served several sample menus, and a day is set aside at the florist for a tabletop demonstration to allow the bride and groom to actually see all their décor choices, from centerpieces to table linens to china and candles.

I held up a pink leather portfolio, the one Vivian had handed me, upon which
V.D.
was engraved in gold.

“Charming initials,” Darius said, with a wink, and gestured to the back of the shop. “The happy couple are waiting in the bridal room.”

The blonde, having shifted her weight more than once, ignored me completely as she resumed her conversation with Darius, “So you don't think it would be too pretentious to do orchids?” while I slowly walked to the small room at the back of the flower shop. The tiny
space had padded walls, upholstered in white moiré silk, and featured a small, round table set with three white iron dining chairs.

The couple I had seen earlier was occupying two of the chairs. The groom, who seemed to be in his early twenties, was very good looking—tall and fair, with thick curly hair. He wore a black polo shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. Next to him sat his fiancée, Sara Silver, a dark tiny bird of a young woman dressed in designer casual. Neither was smiling.

“Hi. Sorry you've been waiting so long. I'm Madeline Bean.”

“Where's Vivian?” asked Sara, not sounding happy.

“Not here, I'm afraid. And you are Sara Silver, the bride?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Vivian told me to treat you like royalty this afternoon. You know Vivian. She thinks of you as ‘her' bride, and she says her brides should never worry.”

“Vivian can be such a fuss,” Sara said, starting to thaw.

“She insisted that you have your tabletop demonstration right now, just as you wanted it. Everything must be just as you want, of course, for your big day.”

“Oh. Well. But what happened? Why…?”

“Vivian would never complain, of course,” I said, lowering my voice a bit, “but, regrettably, it is something that is rather…personal.”

I took a quick peek at the groom as I settled myself down at the table. When women lower their tone of voice and dart a glance at any males in the room, it's sisterly code for “female problems.” The proper response is to quickly drop the subject. I had Sara checkmated and she was kind enough to give me a knowing look and simply say, “Oh.”

“Shall we get started?” I opened Vivian's pink portfolio and saw the heading, “Silver-Bell Wedding.” Now,
really. To cover my amusement, I turned to the cute young guy. “And you are…”

“Brent. Brent Bell,” said Sara before Brent had a chance to say a word himself.

“Alright, it seems you have made some excellent choices. Your linens…” I murmured, looking quickly down the list of specifications for their wedding dinner.

For a moment, my eyes blurred and I felt as if I were looking at myself, at all of us, from a distance. If I hadn't slowed down on the sidewalk, if I'd taken only one more step, what then? I'd be in an ambulance right now, or in a hospital, or in a morgue. Instead, I was talking to a couple of strangers about the color of their napkins. I had been so lucky, I thought to myself. I had been so, so lucky.

“…don't you think?” Sara was asking when I snapped back to the here and now. Fortunately, she was asking her fiancé. He bit his lower lip.

I looked down at the table between us, which had been swathed in one of the custom tablecloths Vivian had ordered. The fabric was a white hand-beaded tulle from India, it said in the notes. The tiny white beads formed dozens of majestic African elephants and gleamed and sparkled from the luxurious floor-length cloth. The beadwork was shown off as the large, white gauzy square sat over an underskirt of khaki linen.

“It's too bumpy,” the bride said, smoothing her hand over the cloth.

I looked at the napkins. What had Vivian been thinking? How were you to wipe your mouth on tissue-weight fabric sprinkled with beads?

“These are the most amazing tablecloths I've ever seen. But if you object to the feel of the napkins, let's see the effect we get with plain damask.” I busied myself, pulling a selection of linen options from the case provided by the rental supply company, and proceeded to conduct the meeting with only part of my brain. The other part kept wandering back to the miracle of being alive.

Looking down the list I noticed the couple had invitations out to 225, with 188 RSVP's in, and were to be married on June tenth, in three weeks time, with the ceremony and reception held at L.A.'s Museum of Nature. That alone caught my eye. Of all the venues available for rental for private parties, the museum was one of the most magnificent and most costly.

“So, are you satisfied with all of these choices?” I asked, finally, after we'd gone down the list of china and crystal and Darius had brought in several mock-ups of the floral centerpieces he could create.

Once again, Sara turned to her groom and asked, “Is this okay, Brent?” Darius, who was hanging around just outside the tiny room, and I also looked at Brent, who had remained passively silent throughout the display.

“Well?” asked Sara, sounding exasperated. “This is your wedding, too. Don't you have anything to say?”

“Whatever you like, Sara,” he finally said. “If this makes you happy, I'm happy. I'm happy, even if it did cost your grandfather four thousand bucks for those beaded napkins you just threw away. It's not a problem.”

Uh oh.

“If it's not a problem, then why did you bring it up?” she asked, her dark eyes getting quickly wet.

“Because you pushed me to say something, Sar.”

“I pushed you? I
pushed
you? Do you think I'm pushing you into this wedding? How dare you say such a horrible, nasty thing in front of all these people?”

I believe she meant us, and at that moment I sincerely wished I could excuse myself from the claustrophobic space.

Darius, the rat, piped up a soft, “Excuse me,” and vanished back to the front of his shop, leaving me with the happy couple.

“Maybe you're just not ready,” Sara said, tears threatening. “Two years we've been together, college is out next week. But maybe you're not sure yet.”

Brent Bell did not look at Sara and this seemed to work her up to a more anxious level of alarm.

“Oh my God!” she said, with a trace of a sob. “Do you want to call this wedding off?”

“Of course not,” Brent said, mildly.

“I think you do!” she yelled, standing. She was very beautiful, in an exotic dusky way. And as she worked herself up, her black hair bounced. “Here you are, and it's just days before our wedding, and you humiliate me in front of all these people. How am I supposed to feel?” She turned to me. “He stopped talking about the wedding weeks ago. He just turned off. We went to taste wedding cake and that was the last time he said boo about our plans.”

Can there be any doubt in anyone's mind why I am simply not cut out to counsel young brides?

Brent spoke up. “Sar, you don't want my advice. Okay? You just want to drag me along. That's fine. Here I am. Only don't suggest you are going to listen to me, okay?”

She didn't answer him but directed her comments to me, getting worked up with each word. “He wanted chocolate! For the wedding cake! Great idea, huh? Well, I'm
allergic
to chocolate and he knows it. So what does that say about how he feels about me?” Her nose began to drip as she cried.

“Then why do you ask me?” Brent started getting steamed. “It's my wedding too, right? And I happen to like chocolate. Aren't I supposed to have anything I like?”

She needed a tissue, and I didn't have one nearby, so I held out the white damask napkin. She took it and wiped her face.

“I'm going to give you folks a little privacy to iron out your plans,” I said, taking my only opening to get the hell out of there.

“No! Wait. I think this wedding is canceled,” Sara said, her eyes on Brent.

“Is that what you really want?” he asked her, hurt but subdued.

“What
I
want? Of course not! I love you. I want to
marry you. But you don't want to marry me, do you?
Do you
?”

“You think I don't want to marry you?” he asked, finally getting a little heated up. “Then why do you think I'm going through all this?”

“You're impossible!” Sara yelled. “‘Going
through all this
?'
This
is our wedding! You're supposed to
love
going through all this!” She turned to me, “Isn't he?”

“Sara. Brent. I don't know the two of you. I don't know if you have been happy together or miserable. I don't know if you have family troubles or career troubles or money troubles or health troubles.”

They both looked at me, listening. I can't imagine why. Having a big eight years on them, I must have looked like an older and wiser soul. Or maybe they were both ready for someone, anyone, to talk them back down. With my recent brush with death, I was full of things to say.

“What I do know is that we have only got this instant in time. There are no guarantees that any of us will have months and years and decades ahead of us to make mistakes and fix them and learn from them. We might, any of us, be hit by a car walking out of this shop.” Okay, so you knew that one was coming. Hey, I was freaked.

“So what are you going to do? Are you going to drive yourselves crazy? Or are you going to take what life offers and make it sweet?

“I'm a party planner, but believe me when I tell you,
parties do not matter
. So don't wig out, okay? This whole wedding thing should really be about, well, love.”

Like I really know, I thought, as I stood back up. I was shaking a little, I can't imagine why. This cursed wedding-consulting business was so over-the-top emotional!

“I
do
love you, Sar,” Brent said, putting an arm around her.

“Oh, Brent, honey,” Sara said, clinging.

I quickly left them to sort it all out.

“Is it off?” Darius asked when I came up to the counter.

“Don't know. But I am not cut out for the wedding planner game. What do I know about it? I don't know if those two ought to be getting married!”

“So-o-o,” Darius said, smiling, “Now tell me what
really
happened with Vivian Duncan.”

“Why don't
you
tell me? Little coincidence, huh, Vivian showing up at your shop right when I'm here, and you talking to me so tenderly about me taking over her business?”

“Oh, Maddie. She did ask me to invite you over here this afternoon. She was planning to get here a little earlier and ask you to consider joining her team or whatever. But what went on there, outside, with that horrible car and whatever? I have no idea!”

“Maybe just a freak accident,” I said, wondering what to believe. “Or maybe…”

At that moment we were approached by what might or might not be the Silver-Bell wedding couple.

“Madeline, please excuse us,” Sara said, smiling. Brent hung back but seemed more relaxed. “We've decided you are right. We are going ahead with our plans. Hey, who says things should be perfect?”

“Well, actually, Maddie usually does,” piped in Darius.

“Now, now,” I said, trying to avoid any more doubts. “I've got an idea that is very exciting, very current, and it might help heal the wedding cake blues. The latest thing is to have the bakery make each layer of the wedding cake out of different kinds of cake, but still covered with the same frosting. Like a secret. Might that work for you, Sara?”

“How cute!” she said, turning to Brent. “You could have your chocolate cake.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at me with a smile.

“Fine, I'll let Vivian know and she'll contact the bakery.”

Ms. Silver and Mr. Bell walked out, arm in arm, and
Darius let out a low whistle. “Watch out, Vivian Duncan, a powerhouse of new age wisdom and the latest cake trends is among us! Is there anything, my dear, you cannot do?” With that he reached over the counter and presented me with a fabulous gift—a duplicate of the flower arrangement I'd earlier lost grip of, only this time done in the palest lavender roses above a bubble vase filled with limes.

“It's fantastic,” I said. “The colors are amazing. Better than the last one, even.”

“Cut flowers,” Darius said, looking at the lavender blooms. “In the sixteenth-century Flemish paintings, they represented the transitory nature of life. You know, cut down in its bloom. Beautiful one moment and dead and rotting the next.”

“Darius,” I said, shaking my head. “You…are…so…damn…
up
!”