“You think the guy from Sha Na Na appreciated their charms?” I asked, intrigued by the psychology that goes along with these reality-based shows.
“No doubt,” said the redhead. “You don’t really have to know how to cook if you look like they do.”
I shook my head. Is this what my short visit to planet Game Show had all boiled down to? As if the game wasn’t insubstantial enough, the real reason people were hooked on the show turns out to be even shallower than that?
And yet, to me, the attraction of a game goes much deeper. I am taken with the idea that in one short show all the questions are answered. The ones who are right are rewarded; the ones who are wrong lose. It was simple. I wanted simple answers. Couldn’t life be like that?
What I hated was ambiguity. That’s why I had been so upset with the trouble at Food Freak from the start: a man was missing. There is nothing so frightening. I had learned that very young. If they never find a person, how can you tell it’s okay to grieve? If you stay detached, you don’t feel it that much when a man goes missing. Like with Honnett. And with Arlo, my past boyfriend. And with Xavier, my former fiancé. And with Simon. With each passing man in my life, I had managed to stay just that much more detached.
I felt the urge to cry but it never came to the surface. When men go missing, what can you do? You have to carry on, right?
I stood there, alone in the silent street, outside soundstage 9. I knew I should go back in. I wasn’t dressed for the cool of a fifty-five-degree March evening in Los Angeles. But I stayed there a bit longer, just thinking. I heard the stage door open again and I waited until the next departing crew members passed me on their way to the parking lot.
“You look cold.”
I turned my head.
It was the tall blond guy, the musician. “Hi, I’m John Quinn,” he said.
“Madeline Bean.”
Just then Chef Howie came out of our soundstage, looking worried.
“Madeline,” he said, coming up to us. “Do you know where soundstage three is?”
“Soundstage three?”
“It’s around there,” John said, pointing.
“I just got a call on my cell phone. Fate wants to leave. She has been out here in the cold walking around, she said. Now she wants me to get the car and pick her up. She said it was too cold outside, so she was going to wait for me inside soundstage three. What is with that woman? Is she crazy? I don’t want her to be all alone at night in some deserted, empty soundstage.”
The quiet night became a little less quiet just then. A disturbing sound came from the direction of soundstage 3. The sort of sound that is only heard at night in Kenya. Or in one of those wild animal parks. Or in a zoo. It was the roar of a hungry lion.
“What was that?” Chef Howie asked, uneasy as a tribesman on the Serengeti.
Tonight, I recalled suddenly, soundstage 3 was not altogether empty. Justice takes many forms.
But John wasn’t listening to any roars or even to Howie. He was looking at me. “So what are you doing later?” he asked, his voice warm and low.
And then, most unexpectedly, I felt a weight lifting off me. I almost felt the sky was getting lighter, but I suppose that was just a lighting effect. I turned to John Quinn.
“Do you like Vegas?”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Chris Farmer, first and always. I could thank you every day and it would still never be enough. Thanks to Elissa Lenard, who graciously lent her lovely flock to me for this story. Thanks also to Douglas P. Lyle, M.D., for help with the medical bits; Bruce Kelton, former federal prosecutor; and to Evan Marshall, my agent, and Lyssa Keusch, my editor, for their wisdom and help.
I am indebted also to Barbara Voron, Linda Urban, James Lamb, Barrie Trinkle, Jill Hinckley and Carolyn Lane, Michael Morrison, Libby Jordan, Lisa Gallagher, Debbie Stier, Erin Richnow, Jessica Miller, Richard Aquan, Victoria Mathews, Bernadette Murphy, Cindy Lieberman, Linda Venis, Barbara Jaye Wilson, Geraldine Galentree, Gubbie, along with Margery Flax, Doris Ann Norris, and each and every teabud, for their incredible support and inspiration. Thanks, also, to Mark Baker and Elaine Marks, eagle-eyed readers who have helped make needed corrections in this edition.
And to all my friends in the world of game shows, I promise all the cool characters are inspired by you and all the rotten ones…I made up. We had a lot of fun, didn’t we? On second thought, don’t answer that.
Praise
Delicious praise for the previous MADELINE BEAN novels by JERRILYN FARMER
“A FINE NEW VOICE IN THE MYSTERY FIELD…I’M HUNGRY FOR MORE.”
Gerald Petievich, author of To Live and Die in L.A.
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
“A delightful debut, with an appealing caterer/sleuth, a woman for whom polenta holds no terrors. I loved it.”
Joyce Christmas, author of the Lady Margaret Priam and Betty Trenka series
DIM SUM DEAD
“A fun-filled cook’s tour of L.A.…served with a provocative mystery, characters sweet and bitter, salty ripostes, tasty recipes.”
Los Angeles Times
“A scrumptious offering…heavenly.”
Jan Burke
KILLER WEDDING
“Delightful. Accept an invitation to Jerrilyn Farmer’s Killer Wedding. You’ll be glad you did.”
Harlan Coben
Also by Jerrilyn Farmer
DIM SUM DEAD
KILLER WEDDING
IMMACULATE RECEPTION
SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
Excerpt from Perfect Sax
You are cordially invited to Madeline Bean’s next gig, one of L.A.’s hottest events—the lavish Black & White Headliner’s Ball at the celebrated Woodburn School of Music. It’s sure to be an unforgettable evening, so mark the date…
PERFECT SAX
Available Winter 2004 in hardcover from William Morrow
Madeline Bean and cohorts, Holly and Wes, have been busy creating a revered music academy’s fund-raising gala, but a decidedly sour note is struck when a priceless saxophone is stolen and Maddie is taken on a wild, after-hours thrill ride through downtown L.A. And things get even more alarming. A body is found in a shocking location right after the ball. To get herself out from under this mess, Maddie must square off against dueling 12-year-old jazz prodigies, paw through a small heap of celebrity trash, and get the dirt on L.A.’s wealthiest society ladies, all while creating the world’s most awesome lobster salad. Life for a humble Hollywood planner is oh, so demanding, even without murder thrown in on the side.
If you like your jazz cool, your sax “hot,” and your martini smoking, you won’t want to miss a date with Madeline Bean and PERFECT SAX.
“Mood Indigo”
“I love big balls.”
Wesley Westcott took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance over at the tall, thin blonde sitting beside him and cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, stop!” Holly caught his look and laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said, flushing. “Big fund-raising balls. Banquets. Parties.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned back to the road, steering his new Jaguar off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard as he doused a smirk.
Holly pointed at where the smirk had made its momentary appearance and demanded, “Stop it, Wesley.”
“I am stopping it,” he protested. “Go on, already. Tell me all about your love of balls.”
She laughed. “Tonight, for instance. All that music blew me away. And the dresses. And the caviar. I thought it was all pretty freakin’ faboo, didn’t you?”
The Jazz Ball had been a stunning success. Six hundred Los Angelenos had gathered to celebrate the Woodburn School of Music and raise funds to support its prestigious Young Artists Program. The Woodburn, a private institute devoted to tutoring the West Coast’s most gifted musical protégées, liked to suggest it was even more selective than its better-known rival on the other coast, Julliard.
Once a year, the fund-raising wing of the
Woodburn put on a major social event to lure contributions from its well-heeled patrons. The Jazz Ball was famous for the star-power of its guest list and the lavishness of the festivities. And this year, the event-planning firm that had won the plum prize of creating The Jazz Ball had been none other than Mad Bean Events, Wes and Holly’s own firm.
“I think Madeline outdid herself tonight,” Holly said, referring to their friend and leader in their event-planning company. “The black-and-white newspaper theme was awesome. She has the coolest ideas.”
“That she does,” Wes agreed. “It was a beautiful night.” He turned the car south on Vine Street and said, “I wish she had come back to my house to celebrate.”
“I think she’s exhausted,” Holly said, finger combing her loose platinum wisps as she ran through the obligatory party post-mortem with Wesley. “She doesn’t usually leave a party so early.”
“I know,” Wes said. “But even Maddie needs a break.”
Madeline Bean, the head of one of Hollywood’s trendiest party companies, had managed to rise quickly in the world of spectacular party producers. At just under thirty years old, she was a seasoned veteran of the ever rising and falling Hollywood social whirl, and had managed to weather quite a few ups and downs of a dicey economy to stay afloat. One way she had found to succeed was simply to work harder than anyone else. A case in point had been the Jazz Ball. Madeline had been indefatigable for the past two weeks. The number of details involved in pulling off a party this grand was enormous. All the intense attention Maddie had paid to a zillion small concerns—the black linen napkins that arrived were in actuality lavender! The white peppercorns she had ordered were at the last minute unavailable!—must by now have finally taken its toll.
Wes stopped at a traffic light and looked over at Holly. “When Maddie and I decided to start the company, I don’t think either of us realized how much real, honest-to-God work we’d be in for.”
“Ah. I finally understand why you so quickly hired an assistant,” Holly said, smiling over at him.
“We were stunned by your talent.” Wes was always a gentleman. And then he added, “You have no idea how hard it is to find a good schlepper.”
Holly had begun as their assistant six years ago and worked her way up by mastering just about every party job she encountered. Holly filled in wherever she was needed, as an extra bartender, or the person to make the emergency run for more white asparagus, or the one in full-face clown greasepaint twisting a balloon giraffe for six-year-old birthday twins. Six feet tall, scrappy, and much more likely to wear a retro, Day-Glo paisley polyester miniskirt than anyone else you might meet—ever—Holly Nichols was made for parties. And even though she was apt to gaze upon certain celebrity guests with more dogged affection than was entirely suitable for a staff member working a private party, she was in all ways a most valuable asset to the team.
Holly pushed her white-blond bangs off her forehead and six rhinestone encrusted bangle bracelets clacked as they fell down her wrist.
Wes shot her another glance. “You sure you’re up for coming to my place?”
“Absolutely. I’m wide-awake. And starving.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“True. And you always cook so divinely for me.”
“True.” Wes looked happy with the arrangement. He loved to cook and together with Madeline, devised the menus and supervised the chefs at their events.
The traffic was thin at this late hour as Wes continued carefully driving through Hollywood, heading southwest toward his house in Hancock Park. He pushed his thick brown hair back off his forehead. His black leather jacket, he noticed with the habit of one who takes in every visual detail, looked not at all bad against the new white leather seats of the Jag. The Black & White Ball. They’d just pulled off another stunning event. He hummed a riff of “In the Mood.”
“That’s jazz, right?” Holly asked, perking up. “I’m all about jazz, now. The band that played at the ball was flat-out awesome. Who knew that kind of music could sound so groovy?”
“Jazz? You mean you don’t listen to jazz, Holly?”
“Well, no. I’ve been major into Eminem. Hip-hop. And rock, of course. I always thought jazz was kind of hard work. But tonight was amazing. The horn section! That trumpet drove me wild!”
“The instrument?” Wes knew Holly well. “Or the incredibly beautiful young man playing the trumpet?”
Holly had been pulling her light blond wisps up on the top of her head, and she pinned it all there with a sparkly pink clip that she’d rummaged from the bottom of her enormous bag. “Yeah. He was adorable. True.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“Hey! He turned me onto jazz, you moron!”
“He turned you on, all right,” Wes observed.
“Look,” Holly said, her dignity in need of defense, “I’m putting on the jazz station. See?” She punched a few of the preset buttons on the radio in Wesley’s new car. The sound system boomed and sputtered as Holly rapidly punched in FM station after station, quickly discarding country music, an all-talk format, a cello symphony, and an opera, to run out of steam at one that featured all-news.
“Sweetie,” Wes said, trying to get Holly’s attention, “Try KJAZZ at 88.1 FM.”
“You always know everything,” she replied in a way that didn’t sound entirely complimentary. But before Holly could change the frequency, the baritone voice of the news announcer had begun a new story.
“Tonight, organizers at the Woodburn School of Music were unavailable for comment on the apparent theft of a rare and valuable instrument that was the featured item this evening in the auction at their annual fund-raising ball.”
“Hey, it’s about us,” Holly said, cranking the volume dial.
The newsreader continued, “One of the school’s instructors who was present at the gala event, famed jazzman Bo Bernadello, described the instrument as a one-of-a-kind silver tenor saxophone made in the 1950’s by the Selmer Company, a top Parisian maker. Bernadello went on to say he was ‘shocked and saddened’ that the saxophone was stolen from the downtown Tager Auditorium, where the black-tie event was held earlier this evening. Police are looking for anyone who might have information to call the LAPD hotline.” The station then began playing a commercial that was mildly persuasive if one had a deep need for buying the cheapest mattress in Los Angeles County.
“Bad news travels fast, huh?” Holly whipped her head to stare at Wes. “I was hoping that old sax would just turn up somewhere, misplaced or something.” They had been aware there was a screwup with the auction. It wasn’t something they were supervising, so it didn’t fall under their domain.
Wesley frowned. “This is just perfect. We worked hard to make this party come off well and what will everyone be talking about tomorrow? That sax.”
“Something spooky always happens at parties. Something we can’t predict and we can’t control,” Holly said. “But it’s not usually something that makes the cops come running.”
“Or makes the news,” Wes agreed.
“How did they get this story so fast, Wes?” Holly looked at her wrist and shook several of the bangle bracelets until her tiny rhinestone watch was revealed. “It’s only two A.M.” They had begun breaking down the kitchen before midnight and then spent almost an hour standing around out in the parking structure with their crew overseeing the loading of their equipment and kidding around with the waiters and chefs as they left.
Wes eased the car into his Hancock Park driveway but just sat there, staring at the car radio, turning the sound level down as the commercials rolled on, while Holly pulled a tiny cell phone out of her giant bag and began to dial.
“You calling Maddie?” Wes asked. “Wait a sec, there, Hol.”
“Shouldn’t we let her know something is going on?”
“Not yet,” Wes said, thinking it over. “What can any of us do about the missing sax? Look, Maddie left early. Chances are she doesn’t even know about it. Let her sleep.
”
The newscaster’s voice returned to news after the commercial break and began another story. “With a disturbing report, we hear now from Ken Hernandez, who is out in the Hollywood Hills at the site of a shocking crime. What is going on out there, Ken?”
“It looks like L.A. has been hit by another shocking crime, all right, Jim. I’m standing in the quiet neighborhood of Whitley Heights, where police have just informed us there has been an apparent home invasion robbery that turned violent.”
Sitting in the dark car, Wesley and Holly were once more riveted to the news. Whitley Heights was the tiny section of the Hollywood Hills where Mad Bean Events had its offices and professional kitchen. The company worked out of the lower floor of Madeline’s home. Wesley’s hand jabbed for the radio knob and cranked up the sound.
“We have yet to get the whole story here, Jim, but the police tell us the body of a young woman, age approximately mid-twenties, has been found in the house which is the residence of one of the city’s most successful party planners…”
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Holly’s pale skin turned paler.
The original news anchor spoke up. “We understand it’s the home of Madeline Bean. Are the police aware that Bean’s catering company was responsible for producing The Jazz Ball at the Woodburn School earlier this evening—the scene, we have just learned, of yet another serious crime? Is there a connection, here?”
“I don’t know about that, Jim. I’ll try to have more information for you in my next report.”
Mumbo Gumbo Page 28
