“I think you could help me, and not just by calling a few brides. I think you could probably save my poor dad a whole lot of grief,” she said, standing and handing me the key to Whisper’s office, “if you would kindly help figure out who killed my mother.”
Chapter 12
The 400 block of South Melwood Drive offered a jumble of retail establishments located in gracious two-story buildings that dated from the forties. Gourmet delis and upscale pooch groomers sat side-by-side with specialty dry cleaners and French bakeries. Here, several blocks of shops and cafés vied for neighborhood customers across wide Wilshire Boulevard from the city’s chicest boutiques. For Beverly Hills, south of Wilshire passed for low-rent.
Above these shops, up on the second floors, various anonymous offices went almost unnoticed by the foot traffic on the street below. These were the types of businesses for whom appointments were discreet, and services could be contracted with a minimum of publicity.
Between the storefront belonging to Hilda, European Tailoring and Alterations at 409 South Melwood, and Melwood Fine Wines at 411, a stairway led up one flight and ended at a landing where two doors faced each other. On one dark, heavy, paneled door was a small brass plaque announcing VIVIAN DUNCAN WEDDINGS, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. Across the landing, stood a matching door. On it, was simply the word PRIVATE marked in small brass letters. Apparently, for the past twenty-four years, Vivian had turned right at the top of the stairs, while her devoted assistant, Ted “Whisper” Pettibone, had turned left.
I climbed the granite stairs, leaving the bustle of noonday traffic down below as the street level door closed slowly behind me. So I wasn’t really sure if I heard a strange noise coming from the floor up above.
I stopped, midway up the staircase, hyperalert, listening hard. No further noise was audible.
And anyway, why shouldn’t there be noise? Just because I was approaching the offices of a woman who had died, that didn’t mean there couldn’t be someone about. Where, after all, was Whisper? Party planners have a very finely tuned sense of duty. No matter the emergency, the party must go on. And that went double for weddings.
Wait. I did hear something this time.
I pulled out my cell phone and hit the speed dial button. A few moments later I heard Wesley answer the phone.
“Yes?”
“Wesley? It’s me. I’m over on South Melwood.”
“I got your note. So you’re going to take over Vivian’s wedding clients now?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Well, not unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I waited a beat, then added, “So do you want to kill me?” I leaned against the cool wall, still halfway up the narrow staircase between 409 and 411 South.
“You know, for a tough chick, you sure seem to let people push you around.”
“I know. I’m working on it. But here’s the thing. I told Beryl Duncan that I’d find her mother’s wedding files. I’m just about at Whisper’s office, and…”
“Yes?”
“I thought I heard a noise,” I mumbled, feeling terribly idiotic.
“You wimpin’ out?”
“It’s spooky inside this staircase. Very otherworldish. But now that I have you talking in my ear, I am ready to rock.”
“We are quite a team.”
“Aren’t we? So now I’m going to go up the stairs. Hey, where are you anyway?”
“Driving over Mulholland. I’m going to help Paul move some of his books. You know, I kind of promised him awhile back.”
In addition to his lawyerly skills, Paul Epstein was a man of many outstanding and often odd qualities. Like a mad genius. His résumé, if he would ever commit anything about himself to paper, would be amazing. He played seven instruments beautifully. He’d been a Marine in Nam. He couldn’t part with a single book he’d ever read, and I believe he read just about every book published. And, due to his passionate belief that conspiracy theorists were the only clear-headed thinkers in the country, he had designed a stealth lifestyle, always underground, always on the move, never at one address for longer than nine months.
I reached the landing, faced the door marked PRIVATE, and knocked. After a few seconds, I pulled out the key ring Beryl had given me.
“So, what gives?” Wes asked. “Are you…vmmph…mphet?”
“Wesley?” The phone just spat out static. Great. Wes must have been driving through one of the many annoying dead zones in L.A.’s cellular grid. In the hills, that wasn’t so unusual.
“So what’s happening?” Wes asked, perfectly clearly.
“I’m trying the keys. The first one doesn’t work.” As I slipped the second key into the lock, I hitched up my shoulder to hold the tiny cell phone up to my ear. Using both hands, the second key turned easily in the lock and, twisting the doorknob, I felt the door opening.
Then, bam! All hell broke loose. Somehow, the tiny upper landing was instantly filled with men. Big men. Shouting men. Men with guns drawn and pointed at me. Large hands shoved my back, flattening me against the door jamb as the doorknob to Whisper Pettibone’s office flew out of my hands, and the door slammed wide open.
“Wes!” I shrieked, trying to grab my cell phone before it fell.
Static on the other end. Dead zone. Shit.
“Wes!”
“SHADDAP! NOW!”
A man’s hand grabbed my wrist and jerked it behind me. With my faced pressed into the wall, I couldn’t see anything. But I felt my cell phone slip and go crashing down the stairs as I felt the rush of several massive men push past me, entering the office I’d just unlocked.
“Who the hell are you?” I yelled, feeling an adrenal rush of clarity replace the fear. I tried to make sense of it. Where had they come from?
Hell! They’d been in Vivian’s office all along. So, they were either the guys who had killed Vivian. Looking for something. Or…
“Are you cops?” I yelled, as I heard the sound of men scuffling
“LAPD! Let’s see some I.D. Now!”
Holy shit! I’d walked right into the middle of some police ambush. Dehumanized in under five seconds.
“Madeline Bean,” I said, trying to dig through my bag for my driver’s license. I took it out and handed it to the man. “Vivian Duncan’s daughter sent me here.”
“Cuff her,” one of the cops said.
“What? You can’t do that!”
I felt cold, hard metal as my wrists were cuffed. Strong hands grabbed my shoulder, a little less brutally, and turned me around to face a tall, black cop. Beyond him, in the open doorway to Whisper’s office, the floor was covered with dumped files and ripped photos.
I turned to look into Vivian’s office. The door now stood wide open. The same landslide of papers could be seen. A chair was knocked over. A silver candy dish stood empty on a desk littered with ripped notebooks.
“Oh my God.”
A young, good-looking officer, wearing an LAPD windbreaker, came back to the hallway. “It’s just like the other one, sergeant. The whole office is destroyed.”
“You mean they were ransacked?” I asked, feeling a little sick at the sight of the aftermath of all that fury.
Another officer came to the entry landing and made his report. “The computer is history. Just like the other one.”
“Smashed up?” the sergeant asked.
“Something like that.”
And then he looked back at me. “So you claim you had nothing to do with any of this? Is that what we’re supposed to believe?” He looked down at my license. “What did you say your name was? Bean?”
“Madeline Bean. I’m a caterer.”
The first officer disappeared back into the offices of Whisper Pettibone. I heard him say to his buddy, from deep inside where I’m sure he didn’t think he would be overheard, “Glad we got her in cuffs. Wouldn’t want an unauthorized caterer running loose in Beverly Hills.”
“We had this place staked out,” the sergeant said. “Where’d you get th
at key?”
“Sergeant…?” I tried to read his name from the pin on his shirt. So I could have Paul sue the city and cite the name of the correct asshole.
“Leeland.”
The door from the street opened and several more police officers climbed the stairs. I could see some of their uniforms. Beverly Hills cops. And behind them, it looked like some guys in street clothes. One was carrying a camera case. It was getting to be a regular law enforcement convention.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, Miss Bean. Better tell me about the key,” Leeland said.
“I’m in a lot of trouble? Get my lawyer, you dip!”
“You don’t get a lawyer. You haven’t been arrested. Just shut up with your big threats and answer the question. We know there were three keys. One was Mrs. Duncan’s, which we have. The other belonged to the assistant, Pettibone. A third one is supposed to be for Mrs. Duncan’s husband and you’re not him. So explain how you got a duplicate key.”
I tried to calm down. “I told you. Vivian Duncan’s daughter gave it to me. Maybe it came from her father, I don’t know. She couldn’t find Whisper Pettibone and she asked if I could do her a favor and help with some of the wedding work.”
Behind the trio of BHPD uniforms and the police photographer, a plain-clothes detective arrived on the scene. He reached us at the top of the stairs and looked us over. Me in my khaki shorts and black tank top, handcuffed, amidst several bulky, sweating cops.
“Found her entering private premises with an illegally obtained key, sir. Under questioning, she admitted the key did not belong to her. Says she’s a caterer.”
“You need her in cuffs?” he asked.
“I’m pretty dangerous,” I suggested.
Keeping his expression stoic, Sergeant Leeland set me loose under the watchful eye of the new top man at the scene, Detective Chuck Honnett.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Leeland muttered. “You were in the wrong place at the…”
“Thanks, Lloyd. I’ve got it from here.”
I rubbed my wrists. Not because they hurt. Just to emphasize the point that I’d been handcuffed. Me. A law-abiding citizen. A favor-doer. An unarmed caterer, for God’s sake. What could be less threatening?
“You okay?” Detective Honnett took my hand gently and turned it over, checking out my wrist.
The guilt thing worked like a charm on Honnett. It was one of his more endearing qualities. “Have a seat,” he offered, indicating the top step. I sank down and he joined me. Behind us, the commotion of various and sundry investigators filled the small, enclosed space. As I sat there with Honnett, more criminalists joined the investigation.
“So who tore up Vivian’s and Whisper’s offices? The same people who killed Vivian?” I asked.
“We’ll see,” Honnett said. “We’re just getting started on this one.”
In the stairwell, the walls around us strobed from the reflected flashes coming from inside the open office door.
“So, where’d you get the key?”
“Beryl Duncan came to my house. Vivian’s daughter. She pretty much bulldozed me. She demanded that I help her get the wedding plans so she could notify brides about her mother’s death.”
“And that’s all you know about any of this?”
“Sort of.” I liked to bug him. Sitting next to Honnett on the stairs was rather nice.
“Don’t screw with me, Bean,” he said, weary.
“Excuse me, Detective Honnett,” the young handsome officer said. Honnett looked up. “There’s a closet in the back room that’s locked. It’s the room with the copier machine, so maybe it’s just a locked supply closet. Leeland wants to know if we should break it down.”
I suddenly thought of the key ring, still hanging in the door lock.
“Honnett. I’ve got another key. There.”
The young cop pulled the key out of the door and walked back into Whisper’s office.
Just then, downstairs, the door to the street opened once more.
“Maddie?”
“Wesley!”
Wes bounded up the stairs, two at a time, his lanky frame hiding the strength of a long distance runner.
“Damn it, Madeline, you had me frantic! I called 9-bloody-1-1 and they said there were already six officers out at this address. I thought you were dead!”
“Hey! Honnett!” We heard the shout coming from deep inside Whisper’s office. “Get in here quick!”
We followed on Honnett’s heels, charging back through the torn-up office, moving past the entry room and down a hallway. One room, larger than the rest, I pegged as Whisper’s own office; several others were used to store files. All were in a shambles. The back room held office equipment. Leeland and several men stood outside this room. Wes and I tried to follow Honnett as he made his way back, but we were stopped at the door.
“Look at this,” Leeland was saying.
“Son of a bitch,” I heard Honnett respond.
Then I turned sideways and slid past the beefy cop blocking my view.
At the back of the equipment room, next to the copier, the closet door was open. Inside, shelves held boxes and cartons, each ripped open, revealing the office’s extra supplies of coffee sweetener, Hershey’s Kisses, and tea bags. On the floor, half inside the closet and half out, stretched the body of Ted “Whisper” Pettibone.
Chapter 13
Sitting at a booth at Kate Mantellini’s, the table in front of me was covered with the office-in-a-purse effluvia that normally got toted around just in case. Spread among the loose business cards and Mayfair Market receipts was my personal datebook, several pens, and my pager. I slapped through the clutter on the tabletop, palmed the card I’d been looking for, and began dialing the number on my cell phone.
“Hello,” I spoke into the phone, watching a perky waitress arrive with a large Diet Coke, and careful not to disturb my essentials, set it down. “You just saved a life,” I said to her, sotto voce, and then got back to business on the phone. “It’s Madeline Bean at two-thirty. I’m afraid your mom’s business files were trashed, along with about everything else in both offices on Melwood. Also, that police detective wants to talk to you. Just a warning.”
Wesley looked up at me from behind the huge Kate Mantellini’s menu in which he’d been engrossed.
“Machine,” I explained, and then turned back to the phone and spoke quickly. “So you’re going to have to track down Vivian’s upcoming brides yourself. Try her answering service. Nervous brides tend to call their wedding consultants and leave frantic messages. Oh, by the way, Whisper Pettibone turned up. It’s a long story, but, cut to the chase, they’ve taken him to Cedars. Ciao.”
“Nice message.” Wes watched me gulp down half a glass of soda.
In the catering and events-planning business, much of our work involves communication. From contacting the guy with the best rentable cotton-candy-making equipment to rescheduling the Cal Arts instructor who performs custom temporary tattoo art at bar mitzvahs, it was necessary for me to make a thousand calls. So leaving an effective message was a skill I’d had a zillion opportunities to perfect.
As I drained my glass, my other hand was busy punching in the number to the hospital, which I do with just one thumb, ladies and gentlemen! If my speed record was down a tad, it was just that I was having a little difficulty reading the correct numbers off the note I’d scribbled earlier on the back of someone’s business card.
“Checking on Pettibone?” Wes asked, handing me a menu. Subtle. The man was hungry.
Of course, when you dial into a large institution like Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in West Hollywood, you don’t actually get to talk to a human. Instead, there’s a gauntlet of challenges awaiting you, requiring precise listening and number-selecting skills, which may or may not get you to where you need to go. I tried to listen, but found myself tempted by the enormous list of California chic, designer diner food on the menu. I don’t know if it was my sudden interest in reading the details of Kate Mantellin
i’s disturbingly perfect meatloaf, but soon, I was lost in an audio no man’s land, where a surreal voice read off an unending list of extensions, none of which made a whit of sense to me. I touched the OFF button, annoyed.
“Ready?” The bright-eyed waitress had reappeared. I wondered if the wait staff at West Side restaurants have perfected the art of showing up at tables the moment they spy a cell phone being disconnected. Just one subtle finger movement and they swoop, before their window of opportunity evaporates.
“Shall I?” Wes asked, hopefully. I usually let Wesley order for me at restaurants. One reason is I can take an excruciatingly long time to determine whatever it is I think would be the perfect thing to eat at that exact moment in the foodie universe. For another, Wes does a masterful job of selecting the best combinations of food.
As Wes quizzed the waitress on ingredients, I again picked up my phone, but this time I looked up Det. Chuck Honnett’s cell phone in my tiny phone directory and dialed. By the time Wesley had satisfied his culinary pickiness with the perfect late lunch order, I was back off the phone.
“That was Honnett. Pettibone is okay. Hit hard on the head, they’re saying. Unconscious for several hours. But he’s awake now. Last night he was sent by Vivian to go pick up some documents at her home. I think that must have been the honeymoon plane tickets, actually,” I said, putting two and two together as I explained everything to Wes. “But when Whisper got to Vivian’s, no one was home. He figured her husband must have decided to come and deliver them after all.”
“So when did Whisper get back to the wedding?”
“Apparently, never. He told the cops he made a quick stop at his office on Melwood before returning. That’s when he was attacked. He thinks it was only one man, but he was jumped from behind and never saw much of anything.”
“He’s lucky to be alive. It sure seems to leave him out of the running for who killed Vivian.”
“Hmm.” I looked around for Bright-Eyes. I had forgotten to ask for another Diet Coke. “I’m not sure I trust Whisper Pettibone,” I said, slowly. “Who’s to say he’s telling the truth? So far, it’s only his word that he never made it back to the wedding. For that matter, who even says he was really mugged? Maybe he faked the break-in. Let me think. I was standing there in the landing this morning…”
Killer Wedding Page 9
