Perfect Sax (4 page)

Onstage, Mr. Braniff began assembling the coveted tenor saxophone. All eyes in the room were on Braniff as the auctioneer continued his refined pimping of the legendary instrument. By the time the sax was ready to play and the auctioneer had finished his spiel, we were all so impressed that I couldn’t guarantee Holly wouldn’t bid on the thing.

I looked up to see Wesley just making his way toward where we were standing.

“Need some help with the cleanup?” I asked, guilty I’d been standing around for so long.

“Don’t worry. All taken care of. Our guys are loading the trucks. We should be ready to depart in an hour or so. The
servers are making last rounds with coffee. Things look good. Relax.”

“An hour?” I was tired.

“You don’t have to wait around,” Wes added quickly. “Just leave it to me and Holly.”

“I’m wide-awake,” Holly agreed.

“Well…” I figured if they were okay supervising the teardown, I might get home by midnight. I could take that carton of papers and just sort through it all so I had a rough inventory of what I’d found and what I would be turning over to the police. There was something about those photos that had me thinking. It’s not that I wanted to invade Mr. Grasso’s privacy…exactly. It was just that with all his accusations and threats, I was beginning to think I had better be prepared to defend myself.

Sebastian Braniff, the celebrated music teacher, was standing onstage with the shining silver saxophone now hanging from a strap around his neck. He slowly put the mouthpiece up to his lips. He stood in the spotlight, taking his time as the crowd waited.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer whispered into his microphone, “I give you the Selmer Mark VI, serial number 91-023. Until tonight, never before played…”

First one long, low edgy note. The tone of the instrument was bright and hot. Nothing soft or mellow there. Then another dirty note ripped the air. “Harlem Nocturne” soared over the top of the hall. Not a word was spoken during the piece. We all listened, as perhaps many of us never had before, to the pure gutsy sounds cutting out from the silver horn.

When Mr. Braniff finished playing the piece, the crowd remained silent. Perhaps we were all in awe of the sheer guts and daring of the auction organizers. What if this fabled instrument had flopped? What if the pads had been dried out?
Or worse. But despite the terrible risk the committee had taken, the instrument seemed to live up to its reputation. The crowd was 100 percent sold. Applause began on one side of the room, and soon all were on their feet, giving a deserved ovation to what might be the best saxophone ever made.

“Mr. Braniff would like our guests to know that he was using a mouthpiece-and-reed setup that would be appropriate for a theater pit band or a big band. These brighter mouthpieces will also usually produce the altissimo notes more easily than very dark-sounding mouthpieces.”

I had no idea what he or Braniff was talking about, but still I felt let in on a sly musician’s secret. Ah, I thought. A brighter mouthpiece.

The auctioneer, knowing he had us all in the palm of his hand, moved in for the kill. “This amazing Mark VI has been presented to the Woodburn School auction by an anonymous donor. Let’s start the bidding at five thousand.”

Several hands shot up and in less than ten amazing seconds we were at $25,000.

Holly turned to Wes and me and whispered, “Well, I guess that lets me out.”

I laughed.

Wes said, seriously, “I am not sure this instrument is truly worth this kind of money. On eBay, Mark VIs sell in the five thousand–ten thousand range. I realize this one is a better year and in mint condition, but—”

“They sell the sizzle, not the steak,” Holly said.

“Hell,” I said, “if these people are willing to pay over twenty-six grand for our little lunch with flowers, I figure they aren’t exactly hunting for a bargain.”

“And they can write off any amount over the fair market value of the saxophone as a charitable contribution,” Wes said.

The auctioneer was asking for $30,000 and getting it from
a man near the front. Then, all of a sudden, something going on at one of the tables attracted the attention of the crowd. Two men, from that table where Holly had served food earlier, appeared to be sparring. We heard dishes crash to the floor, perhaps upended during a scuffle. At a table nearer to us, a woman turned and announced, “Two fathers. Both have boys in our jazz band.”

“Do you know them?” I asked, addressing her directly. I could see nothing from where I was standing.

“I work in the Woodburn office,” she said. “I know them. Ryan Hutson’s dad and Kirby Knight’s dad. Really.”

“Please, gentlemen,” the auctioneer said into the mike, trying to get things back on track. “Can I hear a bid, please?”

“Fifty thousand,” said one of the fathers.

“Oh my God,” Holly said. “Did he say
fifty
?”

“One hundred,” said the other father.

Applause ripped through the crowded room. We had it all here, folks. A stellar musical performance. An object beyond price. A fistfight. Insanely competitive fathers with no budget constraints in a battle of testosterone and will. It just doesn’t get better than this.

And that’s when Ryan’s father, or maybe it was Kirby’s father, began strangling his rival.

U
sually, I’m one of the last people to leave a party—I’m supervising, I’m carrying things, I’m working—but not this evening. Holly and Wes had it all well in hand, and I had this nagging urge to get back to my house in Whitley Heights and that carton of documents that Albert Grasso had been so excited about. As soon as the live auction ended, I went to the kitchen to grab my bag and headed out through the main entrance of the Tager Auditorium onto a tranquil, postmidnight, traffic-free Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles. At the curb, a trio of uniformed valets (black pants, cool newsprint T-shirts—okay, we were obsessed with our theme) were running to get cars for departing guests. As they brought up the vehicles, the lineup at the curb displayed the latest in luxury SUVs. Silver was the color du jour, I noted. The lacquered finishes on car after car shone bright as a string of silver beads in the light of the streetlamp. Tired men in tuxes went through the ritual of finding their parking stubs, tipping the valets, and taking their princesses home from the ball. I noticed many couples had been successful in the silent auction, as quite a few were loading giant cellophane-wrapped baskets or other large items into the backs of their SUVs. I handed my ticket to a young man with long sideburns and pulled my silk shawl more firmly around my shoulders.

“Madeline? Are you leaving?”

I looked up to see Connie Hutson, the Woodburn Ball’s auction chairwoman. Tall, with a halo of auburn hair and the sort of prominent cheekbones that didn’t need quite as much coral-colored blusher as Connie always wore, she was dramatic in white sequined pants. Her matching blazer dipped low, baring lots of tanned chest and a rather amazing diamond pendant.

“Hello, Connie. What a spectacular job you did with the auction!” In speaking to clients after a party, I often gush. Whether it’s good PR or just exhaustion on my part, I have yet to determine.

“Ah, it was hell, my dear. Pure hell. But we did raise a staggering amount of money for the Woodburn.” She gave me a look, half grimace, half smile.

“Do you have a total?”

“Liz Reed is doing a final tally, but I am simply dead on my feet. I’ve been here since nine this morning setting up the silent auction tables. Enough is enough.”

Of course, I’d been at work even earlier, but it is a rare client who finds that fact compelling. Instead, I expressed my concern for Connie. “You must be so tired. I hope you plan to sleep for a week.”

“I wish I could, Madeline. I’ve simply got too much to do. Ryan comes home from surf camp tomorrow and then he has his sax recital on Thursday, or we would have gone to our Cap Ferrat house and just unwound. Oh, look. Dave is waving at me.” She waved back at a handsome man standing farther down the curb who was balancing a neon-yellow splashed, custom-made surfboard, which I remembered seeing on one of the silent auction tables, and turned back to me once more. “Our car isn’t here yet, and Dave is not very patient. Well, I just wanted to tell you what a marvelous job you and your firm did for us tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“And listen, if you see that awful Patsy Stephenson, just whisper to the parking attendants to take their time retrieving her car.”

“What? Tell me the scoop,” I said, sensing a story.

“Ugh. Patsy. What can I say? She always volunteers to be on my committee and then does absolutely nothing. The rest of us are busting our tails tracking down leads and getting auction items, and she is always too busy or some other excuse. I swear, if her husband didn’t give us a check for twenty grand to underwrite the bar, I’d just kick her butt right off the committee.”

“Which one is Patsy?” I asked, turning to look at the welldressed men and women who were continuing to make their way out of the party.

Connie’s eyes followed mine and then she turned back. “I don’t see her yet. Her daughter plays violin. Actually, the girl is not bad, but the
mother
!” Just then, one of the departing guests caught Connie’s attention. “Good night, Mr. Braniff.”

“Good night, Mrs. Hutson. Wonderful auction. And say hello to Ryan. Is he practicing?”

“More or less,” the mother said, smiling, and then turned back to me. “Sebastian Braniff studied under Marcel Mule. He used to play with Skitch Henderson when he was only a kid in high school. He’s my son’s private lessons teacher. Wasn’t he incredible tonight?”

“Listening to Mr. Braniff play the Selmer was the highlight of this evening.”

“Anyway, Patsy,” Connie said, easily slipping back to a favorite rant. “Avoid her like the plague.”

I count on such insider tips about the private lives of the rich and famous, since I prefer to avoid doing parties and
working for the truly beastly. “I’m trying to place her. What does Patsy look like?”

“Let’s see. She’s blond.” Well, that could be almost every woman on the Woodburn Guild. “She’s attractive.” Ditto. “Her entire manner is off-putting, really. She never made it to even one of our meetings, so I doubt you have seen her. Oh, wait a sec.” Connie pulled out the program book for the evening and flipped to one of the opening pages. “How silly of me. Naturally, she did make it to the photo shoot of the committee. There.” She pointed to a thin woman in the program picture. “Wearing Gucci. She’s so predictable it’s galling.”

“Oh, Connie. Speaking of off-putting, I had the strangest conversation with one of the Guild ladies. Is a woman named Caroline a good friend of yours? She dates Albert Grasso.”

“Caroline Rochette with the terrible plastic surgeon?”

“That could be her. What is she like?”

“She’s ghastly, Madeline. Why, what did she do?” Connie Hutson liked to dish the dirt. She enjoyed spit-roasting her friends over the judgmental flames, but she was even more interested in lighting new fires.

“Well, she’s threatening to sue me, actually. It’s a long story, but I found some papers that may have belonged to Mr. Grasso. He and Caroline went crazy when I told them I want to return the stuff. I can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, Caroline doesn’t need a reason to go crazy, she’s already there, my pet.” Connie Hutson chuckled.

“What’s that story?”

“Albert’s not in a hurry to get married for a fourth time, I suspect. He has a wandering eye. Hell, he has even put moves on me, and my dear, I’m too busy raising Ryan and raising money for good causes to raise any hell.”

Connie turned to see Dave tipping the valet and she ran down the last two wide-paved steps and slid into their silver Escalade.

I took a minute to scan the incoming valets and the cars they were driving up to the loading zone, but there was no sign yet of my old black Wagoneer with the woody panels.

“Hello,” I called to some new arrivals. Hilary and Mike Entemann were just coming down the wide steps. Mike moved on to take care of the valet while Hilary lingered with me.

“Wasn’t the live auction spectacular?” Hilary asked. She was smiling. “Could you believe Brianna Welk yelling at everyone to shut up? We have certainly seen the real Brianna tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Her judgment may have been…impaired,” I suggested, smiling back.

“Exactly,” Hilary agreed. She was another exceedingly well-groomed woman in her early forties or so. Her pale hair was swept up and held with a diamond clip. Her black gown clung to her athletic body, showing off her muscle tone to the best advantage. “But she kept the bidding rising on your item. Twenty-six five. That must have felt good.”

“It’s wild.” I liked Hilary. The Entemanns’ eleven-year-old twins were fine singers and members of the prestigious Woodburn Honor Chorus, a group that regularly won competitions in Europe and New York. “I’m so excited. Did you see who won my garden party? I’m afraid I was distracted at the time.”

“It was Dilly Swinden!”

We both laughed. “Really? Dilly bought it?”

“She was absolutely determined. She’s going to invite everyone on the committee to the luncheon.”

“How generous,” I said. It made a lot of sense, really. It would have been equally generous had Dilly and her husband
written as large a check when they made their contribution to the Woodburn’s annual fund, but in purchasing this party at the auction, she got more. In addition to making an impressive donation, she could provide a wonderful treat to the women who worked hard to support her in planning this event.

“I think Dil was feeling a little guilty,” Hilary said in a low voice. “By June, she and Zenya were simply leaving their committee and the board out of everything. They were calling all the shots. I admit, they did a very nice job, but feathers do ruffle. You know how we are. This luncheon will go a long way to smoothing them down again.”

“It sounds wonderful to me,” I said.

“They’d like to schedule the party just as soon as possible. Next week, if that is okay with you and your partner. I think most of us are going to escape L.A. in August. So let’s coordinate by e-mail and set the date.”

The Entemanns’ silver Mercedes SUV arrived at the curb and Hilary called out good-bye as she departed. I checked my watch. Where was my Jeep?

“Oh, Mad,” Holly called, meeting me out on the steps. “I’m glad I caught you. Sara is in a bind. Sara Jackson, remember? The redhead? She’s got to meet her boyfriend. It’s urgent. And her car battery is dead. I don’t have a car or I’d lend it to her. Wesley drove me here, and he’s out now, driving one of the trucks back to the rental-company lot. What should we do?”

I looked at Holly. She was so compassionate. One of our servers, a graduate student at USC, I think, had a boyfriend problem and Holly was ever ready to help.

“Can’t one of the other servers give her a lift?” I asked.

“That’s the trouble. Mostly everyone has already split. She can wait around until Wes gets back, but that could take hours. I thought about calling him. I’ve got his spare keys
and his car is still here. But I’m supposed to supervise the rest of the cleanup and I can’t exactly ask him to lend out his brand-new Jag.”

“No.”

“Right.” Holly fixed me with her bright blue eyes. “See, Sara said it was life or death, Maddie. She’s got to see her boyfriend right this minute.”

I watched as the valet finally pulled up in my old Grand Wagoneer.

I’m afraid I melt for any young woman with boyfriend problems so urgent. “Just ask her to please drive it back over to my house. Tonight.”

“Mad, you’re the best!” Holly yelled at me, turning to run and tell Sara.

“I mean it, Holly. And she needs to come in and put the keys on my kitchen table. Give her the combination to the kitchen door lock.”

“Thanks, Mad. So how will you get home?”

“I’ll catch a ride.”

In less than a minute, Holly was leading Sara Jackson down to the valet and I met them so I could tip the guy. Sure, it had taken him twenty minutes to find my car, but even parking attendants have to pay their shrink bills in this town.

Sara climbed into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window, giving me a sad smile. “Sorry to be such a burden,” she said. “You are being so great. I can’t thank you enough. Brett is just raging. His dissertation committee met and he’s been told he won’t get his degree.” As she talked, she pulled out the band that was holding her hair up. As she rubbed her head, pulling the ponytail out, her fine red hair fell straight down her back. “I can’t explain, but I don’t think it was a good idea for me to leave Brett alone. I told him I couldn’t bail on this gig tonight. We need the money. And I knew you
were counting on me. I mean, Brett knew I couldn’t blow off this job. I’d never be able to work your parties again.”

I blushed. It was true. I would have been annoyed if any of tonight’s crew hadn’t shown. Being short-staffed puts an extra burden on all the other waiters. Hell, I hate being a boss sometimes.

“And then my VW stalled out. I mean, what next?” Sara asked, stress making a deep vertical line between her green eyes. “I’m scared. I know it’s just a school thing, but you don’t know Brett. He’s sensitive. I just have to get home. Thank you so much, Madeline.”

“No problem,” I said. “So you think you can bring the Jeep back tonight?”

“I promise. You’ll have it back in less than an hour.”

I believe in helping out true love and all that. But I have heard more crisis stories from more temp workers than you can dream up. I’m all for kindness—but I needed my car, too.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Holly asked me, and I shooed her away, laughing. I watched her lean, long form trot back up the steps to the entrance, and when I turned back to the cars, I noticed Zenya Knight, one of the evening’s cochairs, standing next to a huge, pristinely white Hummer H1, a tanklike, military-style wagon that goes for like $116,000, and that’s without the options. The valet was holding the passenger door open, but Zenya was looking back toward the entrance of the Tager.

“Zenya, you leaving?” I asked, walking fast. Here might just be the wheels to get me home.

“Oh, hi, Maddie. How are you? Bill should be here any minute; he’s getting the items we bought at the auction. Wasn’t it the
best
? I thought you did a spectacular job on the party. We all owe you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Of course.”

“Did you see Bill had the highest bid on the Selmer?” Zenya was enjoying an after-party high. She was younger than most of the Woodburn women, and filled with enthusiasm, even after such a long, draining day.

“Wow. Congratulations.” So it was Zenya’s table that was so hot to win the Mark VI tenor saxophone.

“Kirby is going to be out of this world with excitement. He’s twelve and he’s just going to go nuts. Hell, I think my husband, Bill, may even take sax lessons—and he’s a guitar player!”

“Oh, Zenya. The bidding was ferocious, wasn’t it?”

She shrugged slender shoulders and smiled. “That Dave Hutson. Honestly, we’ve known them for years, but Dave is just not a very nice guy, now, is he? Imagine him getting so upset over who was going home with that sax. Really.”

“This was a wild auction,” I said. “What a finish!”

Zenya tossed her long, thick wavy blond hair and grinned. “No one messes with Bill. Bill told me it would be a shame to see that fine instrument go to that Hutson boy. The boy actually writes out all his solos in advance! That’s just not jazz.” She looked sorry for the boy. “The dad really shouldn’t push Ryan so much, you know? It’s sad.”