Milo took it and scanned. “Who’s got the family?”
Reed said, “Me. Time to deliver the good news.”
CHAPTER
4
Binchy went to corral the staff, Alicia beelined for Leanza Cardell, and Reed headed for a table just left of the dance floor where the family waited.
The chosen few; standby travelers watching morosely as everyone around them boarded the flight to freedom.
I took a look at the printed list. Flimsy white paper, computer-generated italics.
Marilee and Stuart Mastro, sister and brother-in-law of the groom.
Amanda Burdette, sister of the groom.
The groom accompanied by his parents,
Sandra and Wilbur Burdette.
A bevy of bridesmaids. No ushers.
Then, in a darker, twice-as-large font:
The bride, accompanied by her parents,
Corinne and Dennis Rapfogel.
No kids meant no flower girl or ring bearer. Two sibs for the groom, none for the bride.
A woman everyone called Baby.
The only child.
* * *
—
Leanza Cardell was added to the family table, where no one greeted her. She brought a Martini glass with her, unpinned her red hair, shook it out, and turned her chair to face the stage.
Milo said, “We’ll be taking people two at a time, any voluntee—”
“We’re the bride’s parents, we’ll go first.” A thin brunette around fifty stood and tugged at her dress. Everyone at the table stared at her, including her husband. She said, “Let’s go, Denny.”
Gold-chunk cuff links glinted as the father of the bride got to his feet, suppressing a burp. He followed his wife several paces behind, sat down leaving a chair between them.
Corinne Rapfogel was her daughter grown to sinewy middle age. The dress was a body-conscious black tulip. Spray-tanned and Botoxed as smooth as a freshly laundered bedsheet, she sported a diamond-and-gold mesh choker, four-inch gold hoop earrings, and a flower tattoo on her right wrist. Eyes under architecturally sculpted eyebrows were dark and guarded.
Some women seek mates who remind them of their fathers. If looks meant anything, Baby hadn’t. “Denny” Rapfogel was bald, broad, and heavyset with a ruddy, meaty face that might’ve taken some college football punishment.
He said, “Helluva thing on a day like this. When Cor and I tied the knot, we had a nice ceremony, nothing crazy happened. But that’s how it was back in the Jurassic era.”
Corinne said, “You’re making it sound ancient. Thirty-one years ago.”
“Feels like ten minutes.”
His wife nudged his arm. “Aww.”
Denny Rapfogel winked at us. “Ten minutes with my hand held over a flame. Heh.”
Corinne Rapfogel drew back. Had her husband been looking at her, he would’ve absorbed a nuclear-powered glare. “Let’s get this show on the road, Dennis. I’m sure these nice policemen don’t have time for your humor.”
“Just trying to lighten things up,” he said. To us: “This is pretty freaky, no? Even for you guys.”
Milo and I said nothing.
Rapfogel tugged at his tie. “The girl who’s dead, Baby and Gar say they don’t know her and from what I’ve heard, no one else does. So it’s obvious this was something bizarre that has nothing to do with us.”
Milo said, “We’d still like to ask a few questions.”
Rapfogel threw up his hands. “Sure, evening’s blown to shit anyway, talk about money for nothing and chicks for free.”
“Chicks?” said his wife.
“It’s a song. Dear. The Stones.”
Dire Straits, but why quibble?
Milo showed both of them the picture of the woman in red.
Corinne Rapfogel said, “We already saw it and told you and that hasn’t changed, why would it?”
Denny Rapfogel said, “If you want to get a move on, cooperate, Cor.”
She frowned.
Twin rapid head shakes. “No, I don’t know her.”
“Ditto,” said Denny.
Milo said, “I’m sure this terrible thing has nothing to do with you but I have to ask: Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm you?”
Corinne Rapfogel said, “Why would you even ask that?”
“Disrupting a wedding seems like a personal thing, ma’am. So we need to—”
“Disrupting? That’s an understatement. Baby’s special day is ruined.” Sudden moisture in her eyes.
Denny said, “That’s why they’re here, they need to get to the bottom of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Obvious.”
Like mother…
Corinne looked over at her in-laws. “If it’s anything personal, it has to be from their side. He’s a veterinarian out in the sticks. You know what that’s like.”
Milo said, “I’m not sure I—”
“We’re talking Hicksville,” said Corinne. “Probably rubes like that movie…Deliverance. He doesn’t even do dogs and cats, he does farm animals. Who knows what kind of people he gets involved with?”
Denny said, “Honey, I don’t think a horse with the runs had anything to do with—”
“Oh, shut it, Denny.”
Rapfogel colored, most intensely in the nose, now a cartoon thermometer bulb.
I said, “Dr. Burdette is a vet.”
Corinne said, “A farm vet.”
“What about his wife?”
“Housewife.” As if that were a disease. “She says she works in his office part-time.”
“Ah,” I said. “So what do you guys do?”
“We run an agency,” she said, sitting up higher. “VCR Staffing Specialists. The V’s for Vanderbeek, that’s my maiden name. The R’s him.”
Denny said, “The C’s for cum. That’s Roman for ‘with,’ not—”
His wife’s throat clear stopped him.
I said, “Your agency manages…”
“Personal assistants for celebrities and people who matter,” said Corinne. “Brett Stone and Kyla Berry have been our clients. They were supposed to be here but they got caught up in Europe. We booked both their P.A.’s two years ago and they say no one’s ever been better.”
Denny said, “Two years is like infinity for actors. They’re—”
“Like everyone else, only prettier,” said Corinne. To us: “Baby did some commercials when she was little. She was a gorgeous baby.”
“Coupla diaper commercials,” said Denny. “Kid gets paid for being a baby, we get to set up a college fund. Cool deal.”
I said, “Where’d she go to college?”
Corinne said, “She considered art at Otis but decided on The Fashion Academy where she studied marketing. Sometimes she works with us. Consulting. It’s helpful having someone in touch with her generation.”
Denny said, “Millennials relating to millennials. We call that demographic synchrony—so do you guys have any clues, yet?”
Milo said, “It’s early in the investigation, sir. With all those personalities you deal with at work, can you think of anyone who’d want to do damage to—”
“Definitely not, capital N,” said Corinne Rapfogel. “This has nothing to do with any aspect of our lives, our wheelhouse runs smoothly.” She glanced at the dead woman’s face. “She’s cute, could be one of our clients but she’s not. Okay?”
“Got it, ma’am. Sorry for—”
“I get it, you’re doing your job. You catch the m.f. who did this, I’ll be in court when they sentence him to the gas chamber. After I collect on a massive lawsuit for pain, suffering, and emotional damages!”
Denny said, “They don’t do gas, anymore. Right, guys?”
“Whatever. I want him caught. What he did was hor
rid—beyond horrid. He ruined this absolutely glorious day!”
* * *
—
The Rapfogels left the way they’d approached: she leading, he following.
Milo said, “And now, all you people watching at home, the parents of the groom.”
* * *
—
Sandra and Wilbur Burdette walked together and sat next to each other. Both were tall, bulky, bespectacled, in their early sixties. Wilbur had yellow-white Carl Sandburg hair that flopped over a weather-beaten forehead. Sandra (“call me Sandy”) had made no effort to hide the gray in a short, curly do. Her dress was bottle green, beautifully sewn, and floor-length, his suit, navy with single-needle stitching around the lapels. High-priced threads for both of them but they looked unaccustomed to formality.
I glanced over at the family table. With the Rapfogels gone, conversation between a couple I took to be the groom’s sister and brother-in-law had animated a bit. Leanza Cardell drank, played with her hair, checked a clutch purse, drank some more. Next to her but having nothing to do with her, a pallid, ponytailed young woman in a shapeless beige dress—a girl, really—read a book.
Milo said, “Thanks, folks.”
Sandy Burdette smiled weakly. “Of course. This is so dreadful.”
Wilbur said, “I tell you, it’s the kids I feel sorry for. Anything we can do to help, Lieutenant, but I can’t see what that might be.”
“Appreciate the offer, Dr. Burdette.”
Wilbur smiled. “Will’s fine. I guess they told you what I do.” He chuckled. “She—Baby’s mother—probably made me out to be a clodhopper, right? Which is true, I guess. I’m an old Nebraska farm boy who never stopped liking critters.”
Sandy Burdette said, “It is a bit of a culture clash.”
I said, “Saints and Sinners.”
“Well, yes, that, too,” she said. “That kind of thing is foreign to us, I don’t get it at all. But I suppose it’s what’s called edgy nowadays. What I was going to say, sirs, is that sure, people are different but the main thing is the kids love each other.”
Not sounding convinced. She looked to her husband for confirmation. He missed the point and said, “Saints and Sinners, yeah, that is a hoot.”
Sandy said, “In the end, it’s all about compromise.”
Will said, “So, guys, how can we help?”
Milo showed them the photo. Second time around for them, too, but no protest as they studied.
Will Burdette said, “Sorry, same thing I told the other detective. Never seen her. I’d expect her to be one of Brears’s friends but Brears says no.”
Sandy said, “Brears’s friend was my first guess, too.”
“Why’s that, ma’am?” said Milo.
Deep-blue eyes rose and fell. “Well, you know. The age—the red dress, at least from what I can see it’s pretty L.A.-girl, no? But Brears is absolutely at a loss—she’s pretty much traumatized, the poor dear.” Saying the right things but, again, without conviction.
Milo said, “You’re from Calabasas.”
Will Burdette said, “Since we moved from Nebraska thirty-two years ago. We have what I guess you’d call a mini-ranch.”
“Working ranch?”
“Not hardly. My practice is farm critters, which means barn calls at all hours, no time to raise our own stock. We keep a few animals around because we love animals but mostly for the grandkids. Primarily rescues—dogs, a blind heifer, couple of goats, sheep, rabbits.”
Sandy Burdette smiled. “Don’t forget Glenn, dear.” To us: “That’s a desert tortoise we’ve had for God knows how long.”
Will Burdette said, “Coming on twenty-two years. Healthy bugger, probably outlive us.”
I said, “How many grandkids do you have?”
“Three boys,” said Sandy. “Six, four, and three.” Her lips tightened. “A decision was made that they were too young to attend.”
Will said, “Just as well, I suppose. Seeing as how it turned out.”
I said, “Who made that decision?”
Sandy said, “Gar informed us but it was what she wanted. My poor son was really nervous, having to deliver the message. He would’ve wanted his nephews here but he goes with the flow.” She pulled out a curl, tamped it back into place. “The wedding’s basically been her thing. The rest of us are along for the ride.”
Will said, “Saints and Sinners, still don’t get that. I will tell you this: What I had to pay for a deejay and all those bartenders is a sin. We have a married daughter, her situation was a lot more normal. Church, pastor, the reception stayed at the church, sandwiches, soft drinks, and beer, now go off and be happy together.”
He looked around the room. “They say this used to be some kind of church but to my eye you’d never know it.”
Milo said, “Not hardly.”
Sandy said, “Don’t be coy, Will.” To us: “Don’t know if anyone told you guys this but before it became a rental venue, it was a burlesque joint.”
“So we’ve heard.”
“Ah.” Disappointed. “Could that be related, Lieutenant? The kind of people a place like that would attract?”
“We’re looking into everything, Mrs. Burdette.”
“Those metal poles,” she said, pointing. “I don’t even want to think. But as I said, this is her big day.”
“Was,” said Will Burdette. “Best-laid plans and all that.”
* * *
—
Older sister Marilee Mastro and her husband, Stuart, were M.D.’s around forty practicing family medicine. Enhanced by stilt heels, she topped his six feet by a couple of inches. Both Mastros were blond, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and rangy. Long, grave faces gave them the look of an outtake from a Scandinavian travel poster.
I said, “Where do you practice?”
Stuart Mastro said, “That’s in some way relevant?”
“Just collecting information, Doctor.”
“We’re both at Kaiser Murrieta.”
Marilee Mastro said, “We live in Murrieta. Stu’s full-time, I’m in the clinic twice a week so I can prioritize the kids.”
“Three boys,” I said. “Your mom told us.”
Marilee nodded. “They weren’t allowed to attend so we had to hire a hotel babysitter. In fact, I’d like to get back as soon as possible to see how they’re doing.”
“We’ll get through this as fast as possible,” said Milo. “Which hotel are you staying at?”
“Executive Suites on Santa Monica and Overland. We’re all there, Amanda—my little sister—booked it. Correction: All of us are there except Amanda. She lives in L.A., goes to the U.”
I said, “The girl with the book.”
Marilee smiled. “Always. She’s the big-brain in the family.”
Stuart frowned. “Didn’t see why the boys had to be excluded but now I’m glad. Not just what happened, the tacky ambience. This used to be a strip joint. Not exactly a wholesome environment.”
Marilee stuck out her tongue. “It is kind of gross, thinking of what those poles went through, no? Can you imagine the germ cultures on them, hon? On the other hand, the boys would’ve had fun spinning around on them.”
Stuart chuckled. “Kyle and Brendan would go nuts and Marston would be sitting in his stroller cheering them on. With our luck, they’d pull the darn things down.”
“Reign of destruction,” said Marilee.
“Boom,” said Stuart.
I said, “Three boys.”
“Oh, they’re a trio of hellions,” said Marilee, fully enjoying the thought. She crossed her fingers. Checked her phone. “So far, no calls from the babysitter.”
“The boys being banished was the blushing bride’s idea,” said Stuart Mastro. “Garrett called to tell us but his heart wasn’t in it. That’s Garrett.”
“Goes with the flow.”
“That’s one way to put it. He doesn’t have strong opinions on much except the Dodgers and the Lakers.”
Marilee said, “You’re making him sound insipid, hon.” To us: “Garrett’s smart and sweet but not a fighter.”
Stuart said, “Goes along to get along.”
I said, “That’s not the bride.”
A beat. Stuart shook his head.
Marilee said, “I’m sure she’s a fine person. We don’t really know her that well.”
“Not a lot of contact before the wedding.”
“The two of them visited my parents on Thanksgiving and Christmas and that was about it. Apparently her parents aren’t big on family holidays, they were off on some sort of vacation.”
I said, “So pretty limited contact.”
Stuart said, “Never met her parents before today, only met her twice. Our conclusion was they’re superficially a cute couple.”
“Superficially.”
“First impressions are by nature superficial,” he said. “Now that I see them together, I’m assessing that they’re totally different from each other. But maybe opposites can attract.”
I said, “Can you think of anyone who’d want to destroy their wedding?”
“By murdering someone?” he said. “That’s kind of flat-out insane, no?”
Milo said, “You heard there was a murder.”
Stuart blinked. “Well, no, I didn’t. What we were told was someone died and then detectives showed us the photo of that girl. With all the police presence plus detectives it’s pretty obvious this wasn’t a slip-and-fall or a suicide, right?”
Milo said, “Mind taking another look at the photo?” He handed it to Mastro.
“Yup, that’s the postmortem look. I know it because third year in med school I took an elective with the Riverside County coroner. Nope, same answer, never seen her.”
He passed the shot to his wife. She said, “We were just discussing it before you called my parents over, and no one on our side has any idea who she is.”
The Wedding Guest Page 3
