Killer Wedding

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  At that point, it seems just about everyone else jumped into action, all talking at once. Big Jack Gantree pulled Beryl back just as Honnett stepped up to Sara and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

  And all the while, Whisper Pettibone sat back in his chair and clapped.

  Chapter 26

  I had prepared a spectacularly light, three-layer high, lemon curd cake for the evening. Unfortunately, no one seemed especially interested in dessert.

  Honnett, of course, was on the job. He had to take Sara, along with her shocked grandfather, to the police station to charge her with the murder of Vivian Duncan. A back-up patrol car, which had been stationed in my cul-de-sac, had rounded up Brent Bell as he had tried to make an early departure. The patrol officers now watched Sara as well, as Honnett returned to my house for one more thing.

  He said we still had personal business he needed to finish up. He didn’t require any prompting. He flat out told me that he had been wrong about Ralph Duncan. I asked him to speak loud enough for Beryl Duncan and Ralph to hear. And it did my heart good to see Honnett take responsibility, in front of everyone, for the sin of, well, of underestimating me.

  He turned to go and pulled me aside.

  “You have your own way of doing things,” he said.

  “That I do.”

  “Sorry if I came down on you too hard, before.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said, happy to be the one who gets to be big enough to forgive.

  “And I won’t forget,” Honnett said, winking. “I’m your slave. You pick the day.”

  “What?” Arlo said, coming into the entry just as Honnett left to go. “What was he saying?”

  “He bet on the wrong horse and now he’s going to have to pay up.”

  “Hey,” Arlo said, taking my hand, “I sure hope that dweeb isn’t calling my girlfriend a horse.”

  “Arlo.”

  “Wild night, Mad. You sure can throw a party.”

  “Aren’t you sticking around for cake?”

  “I better take off,” he said, looking sheepish. “I should go home and work.”

  “Arlo, your show is on hiatus. What work?”

  “Oh, I’ve got scripts to read. You know.”

  He left, and I was pretty sure I knew where he was headed. To McDonald’s for a couple of Big Macs and a super-sized fries. Such are his epicurean standards, humble though they may be.

  As I turned to go back to the dining room, Zelli Gentz came out, putting on a black leather jacket.

  “Oh no, Zelli,” I said, suddenly sad. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m afraid I must,” he said. “I had a very exciting evening, Madeline. You are an excellent chef. Thank you especially for preparing such a fabulous North American dish. You knew I would enjoy it.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And I must thank you for reuniting me with all those stones from so long ago. I had never expected to see them again, all together.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said, “but you are quite worldly, Mr. Gentz, and I am certain you expected to come across those stones some day, didn’t you?”

  “You are wise. With such a rare commodity, it is true, we learn that every stone will eventually turn up one day. But what a treat that you would find them for me tonight. I shall never forget the sight when you sat at your dinner table and poured them out on the table, like a magician. You are truly an amazing woman.”

  “Thank you. And you are pretty amazing yourself.”

  Zelli put a hand through his hair and smiled a roguish smile.

  “Would you like to visit Zurich, Madeline?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “We shall see. Alas, I have work to do that keeps me away. I now go to Colombia where I have my cutters.”

  “To cut the seven emeralds for the sultan’s rings?”

  “Yes. The best emerald cutters in the world are in Colombia. They pass this skill down from father to son, working in the most primitive conditions imaginable. But they are artists. And an artist is what is called for.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Those emeralds. The ones you purchased from Sara Silver today. They will make you give them back. You don’t expect you can just leave the country with them.”

  “Ah, Madeline. You do not remember all that we discussed last night. Do you think those rough stones are still in the United States?”

  “No?”

  “They are gone, of course. Would I be so foolish to carry them on me? I expect I will be searched quite thoroughly this time when I leave your LAX tonight. But, of course, there is nothing to find.”

  Of course. There wouldn’t be. He was something.

  “What will you do with the money? Will you pay it to Sara Silver?”

  “Ah, yes. The seven hundred thousand. I suppose I have to think about this. Sara stole those stones, so it is not right that she should profit.”

  “It certainly isn’t,” I agreed.

  Zelli put his arm around me, standing there at the front door, and thought.

  “But when you stop to think, Vivian stole those emeralds, too. According to our agreement, ten percent belonged to Vivian, ten percent belonged to Gantree, and eighty percent belonged to me. So you see, I might as well claim that these seven stones were part of my eighty percent and pay no one.”

  “Ah, but let’s think a little bit further,” I said. “It seems to me that under the conditions you originally acquired those stones, it could be argued that you obtained them illegally yourself. Perhaps they really belong to the country of Zimbabwe.”

  “Yes, I can see your point. So do you suggest I send the payment directly to their government?”

  “Let me think about it, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Yes. I will do that. And now, since your Police Detective took the other forty-five stones away, I have no further business in the States. Goodbye, dear Madeline. Thank you so much for inviting me to your charming home for dinner.”

  What manners. I would miss Zelli Gentz.

  When I got back to the dining room, Wesley caught me up on what had been going on. Apparently, Beryl Duncan was brokering a settlement between Whisper Pettibone and her father, Ralph. If Whisper could convince the police to drop their assault case against Ralph Duncan, they were offering Whisper the chance to own Vivian Duncan Weddings outright. Whisper was a man who expected justice to be served, but on the other hand, what could be more just than for him to finally own the whole show?

  Holly and Wes were clearing the dishes and told me that the three of them had gone out to my courtyard to discuss the details. That’s where Esmeralda was napping, and Ralph had suddenly realized how much he missed her. The dog-Dad reconciliation was currently in progress.

  I looked at the tower of lemon cake and turned to my friends.

  “Holly?” I asked her, “A little slice?”

  “I’ve been eating way too much.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

  “Wesley?” I looked at my friend.

  “I couldn’t eat a thing. My stomach is still doing the Macarena from the scene we just witnessed.”

  “Maddie, why don’t I cut you a piece of cake,” Holly suggested, picking up the silver cake server.

  “No, wait,” I said, stopping her. “Our guests are gone and I just don’t feel in the party mood any more.”

  “That will happen,” Wes said, philosophically, “when you invite a murderer to dine.”

  The doorbell rang and I ran out to see if someone had come back. Instead, I found my dear lawyer Paul at the door, surprised to see all the cars parked in the street.

  “Am I intruding on a party?” he asked, hesitant.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Come right in.”

  I showed him to the dining room where Wes and Holly had just finished clearing up the dishes.

  “Paul,” I said, trying once more to be the hostess. “Would you care for a piece of cake?”


  “Maybe later, Madeline. I’m too worked up right now. I just got back from downtown. Those poor bastards never knew what hit them.”

  “What poor bastards?” Holly asked.

  “The law. The cops.”

  “What hit them?” I asked.

  “Me,” Paul said, proud of himself. “I’m hitting them on every single charge they are holding Albert Nbutu on. The INS, I hope to stop cold. Mr. Nbutu is a political refugee seeking asylum in the United States.”

  “Are they buying that?” asked Wesley, pouring cups of coffee.

  “Actually, I don’t think he will have a leg to stand on. The government of his country is much more stable than ever before. But this is a war of inches. They have to check it out, and while the paperwork gets filed, they cannot deport Albert.”

  “But they’ll keep him locked up,” Wes said, worried. “I don’t know how he will be able to stand that.”

  “What about the possession of stolen property charge?” I asked, sitting down at the table.

  “Says he found those items,” Paul explained. “And since there is no one claiming those items were stolen, I’m telling them they have to let him go. Of course they aren’t ready to listen to me yet, but when we get before a judge I’m going to dazzle them.”

  “But poor Albert stays locked up. Do you think that could be true?” Holly wondered. “Did he just find that stuff? I mean, if Sara Silver killed Vivian, how did this Albert guy get Vivian’s jeweled lighter and lipstick?”

  “I believe my client,” Paul said, with a bit of bluster.

  “So do I,” I agreed. They all looked at me. “I think Sara followed Vivian outside, where Vivian was taking a break. She was smoking a cigarette and Sara started a conversation. That’s when, I’m afraid, Vivian mentioned she knew who Sara’s real father was. Sara had been thinking about how she might get her hands on the rough emeralds she knew Vivian had on her, but when Vivian began telling Sara the truth about her birth, she went totally nuts. Sara picked up something heavy, maybe one of the folding chairs that were stacked out there next to the building, and swung. I imagine Vivian went down easily. She was not very heavy. And then, perhaps because she didn’t want Vivian ever to tell the story of her parentage, Sara swung again, this time breaking Vivian’s neck and killing her.”

  “It’s awful. How do you know all this?” Holly asked.

  “Honnett told me they got to the rental company and found the chair they believe may have been used. They’re doing tests and whatever it is they do. But mostly because of what Sara said at dinner tonight. She admitted that Vivian taunted her about her real father.”

  “Have you got any idea who Sara’s real father was?” asked Wesley.

  “Yes. I believe he is Paul’s new client.”

  “What?” Paul stopped sipping his coffee with a jerk. “Albert? Albert Nbutu?”

  “Vivian knew that Sara’s mother, Gazelle Gantree, was spending time with some of the younger people who played polo at their club in Rhodesia. That fall Gazelle met a young man who worked in the stable.”

  “Oh my God,” Holly said. “How do you know?”

  “This afternoon, when I was setting up this evening’s event with Honnett, he let me speak again with Albert. I told Albert I knew he traveled all the way to Los Angeles to find the daughter he had never known. Gazelle Gantree’s daughter. He had spent a lifetime trying to get his life back and he desperately wanted to see this lost child.

  “That’s why Jack Gantree had Albert thrown in an African jail for years. After learning from Vivian that Albert Nbutu was the real father of his grandchild, Big Jack paid off some officer at the Ministry of Mines all those years ago to arrest Albert and make him disappear.”

  “Holy shit.” Holly was dazed.

  “So how did Albert finally meet his daughter?” Wesley asked.

  “Albert asked his friend, Chef Reynoso, to contact Vivian and suggest she hire Albert to work on Sara’s wedding. Albert said Vivian never recognized him from the old days. But at the wedding, he approached Vivian and told her the whole story. She claimed she never knew what became of him. That she and Gazelle had been told Nbutu was killed in the fighting.

  “But Albert never believed her. He remembered seeing Vivian once when he was with Gazelle in the Polo Club. He had always known that she was the one who betrayed him. After he confronted Vivian, Albert planned to tell Sara the truth.”

  “My goodness, Madeline,” Paul said, “Albert told you all that? Today?”

  “Yes. You know that old technique they call good cop-bad cop? Well, Albert had just spent last night with a pack of really bad cops, and then he got to speak with me. I think he was so traumatized by being in a cell again, locked up, that he was ready to talk to anyone.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” Paul said, seriously.

  “She always does,” Wes agreed, and then turned back to the fascinating tale. “So did he tell Sara he was her father, face to face?”

  “No. Vivian insisted she should be the one to tell Sara first. She was a woman, she told him, and Sara would listen because Vivian had been in Africa with her mother.”

  “But,” Wes picked up, figuring out the logic of what must have happened, “when Vivian told Sara the African ice sculptor was really her dad, she got hysterical.”

  “Exactly what I think,” I agreed. “Whatever her mixed-up reasoning, she’d been brought up by a racist pig who had possibly passed his prejudice down to his granddaughter. Perhaps she couldn’t absorb the news that her father was black.”

  “That’s sickening,” Holly said.

  “Poor Albert,” Paul said.

  “His whole life has been so tragic,” Wes said.

  “I know,” I agreed. “And later, when he walked back outside to the area where he had been working, he discovered Vivian’s body lying there. Dead.”

  “Shit!” Holly shook her head. “What a shock.”

  “He really didn’t want to talk about this part. Maybe he figured out what had happened. Maybe he saw Sara walking away from the area. He wouldn’t say yes or no to that. He’s still protecting her.”

  “So is he the one who moved the body?” Wes asked.

  “Yes. He was scared to death. He didn’t want the body to be found, especially so close to his work area, so he carried Vivian’s body out to the foyer while all the guests were busy dining in the closed Hall of Small Mammals.”

  “But why toss her onto the Triceratops?” Holly asked.

  “In Rhodesia, they have a custom of displaying the bodies of those who have been executed. In public. Hung on a stake. In the town square. As a warning to others.”

  “So you think Albert Nbutu was applying that quaint custom to Vivian?”

  “I do. And when he moved her body, he discovered a tube of lipstick and a jeweled lighter.”

  “The lighter was Vivian’s. That makes sense,” Paul said, figuring out how this might impact his client. “But he could have found it any time after the body was moved, Maddie. There’s no evidence to the contrary.”

  “Not that the police have, no,” I agreed. “But the lipstick is another matter. That shade of MAC lipstick was never worn by Vivian Duncan. She was a Chanel addict down to her makeup. That MAC lipstick belonged to the bride, Sara Silver.”

  “Holy cow,” Holly said, “I’m sure you’re right!”

  “And when I mentioned that to Honnett this afternoon, he checked it out. They won’t be able to connect that exact tube of lipstick to Sara, but that is the same shade she buys. They’re convinced it was hers. And if they can make a deal with Paul here, I believe they are prepared to allow Albert to walk out of that cell if he’ll testify he found the lipstick underneath the body. And they may even deal on the INS issue.”

  “This is too good!” Paul said, relishing the thought. “The police asking our permission to let our man go. Well, I gotta run, children. I’m on my way to make Albert Nbutu a free man.”

  Paul kissed Holly and me on the tops of
our heads and left.

  Holly and Wesley stood up, too.

  “Where are you guys going?” I asked. I was high on getting answers and didn’t want to be left alone.

  “I’m going to put this beautiful cake away,” Wes said, ever the fastidious one. “Whipped cream frosting, you know, needs to be kept cool.”

  “I’m going to make a phone call,” Holly said, moving towards her desk in the entryway.

  “Who are you calling at this hour?” I asked.

  “My dad. I suddenly miss him a whole lot.”

  Chapter 27

  A week had come and gone, allowing all the events fit to print, to be printed. The arrest for murder of the ward of one of T.V.’s favorite oldies was custom made for L.A. T.V. news, so we had little trouble keeping up on Sara Silver’s arrest and confession. Or on the revelation to the press that poor Sara had been addicted to prescription painkillers and was requesting permission to attend a detox clinic before her trial.

  Maneuvering, Paul had called it. If Sara had claimed she was addicted to hummingbird wings, Paul would have found it more believable. He could be so cynical, sometimes. And for very good reason. Sara was working on her case the way rich lawyers advise, spinning some tale to take the heat off her selfish, foolish self.

  We sat around the living room downstairs, Wes, Holly and I, recapping the events, since so much had been resolved in one short week. Paul Epstein would soon be joining us to announce the third final settlement agreement he’d hammered out with Five Star. So we were fairly apprehensive.

  “Oh Maddie, tell Wes what we found out about that car-jacking thing,” Holly prompted me.

  “Oh, yes. Remember when I first met Vivian?”

  “No,” Wes said, deadpan. “Of course I do. Who did the car-jacking, anyway?”

  “She was never car-jacked, really.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. When Ralph Duncan was talking to the police, he admitted that he and Vivian had been quarreling that day and she had insisted he get out of the car and find his own way home.”

  “So he stole her car?”