Perfect Sax (16 page)

So here was Dilly today, agitated enough about her looks that she was obsessing in the mirror over almost nonexistent wrinkles.

These men. They come to believe they should always have the best. Always have something perfect. What pressure their wives were under. It wasn’t for me. If I ever found the right guy, he wouldn’t be the kind who was looking for the best he could buy, always on alert for the latest upgrade. While I thought my thoughts, Dilly and Zenya caught up on the latest gossip, discussing who in their crowd was having what “done.” Plastic surgery. It was more of a lifestyle than I had realized. Then they turned back to me.

“Wasn’t the Black and White Ball fabulous?” Dilly asked, unable to resist reliving the past glory. “We couldn’t have done any better.”

“It was gorgeous,” Zenya agreed. It was an interesting dynamic between these two women. Dilly seemed to be the natural leader and Zenya always deferred to her opinion.

“Darius really came through for us,” I said, referring to the most outrageous florist on the west side.

“Incredible. Those big arrangements with the masses of white roses! And I had never before seen
black
hollyhocks.” Zenya smoothed her long blond hair off her shoulder with a swish.

“Alcea rosea nigra,”
I murmured, pleased.

“Oh, and then the dozens and dozens of Queen of the Night black tulips,” Zenya continued. “Gorgeous. Didn’t you think so, Dilly?”

Dilly nodded and picked up her wineglass. “There is nothing as sophisticated and simple as black and white. Like that etching, Zenya. Who’s that by?” She referred to the artwork on the wall of the Knight dining room, a naked Madonna held aloft by putti. As we finished a lunch of cold artichoke salad, the two fund-raising cochairs nursed large glasses of Chardonnay and I sipped my Diet Coke.

“Oh, that one is called
Magdelena and Her Travel in Heaven
by Raffaello Schiaminossi. Sixteen-twelve. Bill has a thing for old etchings. His collection was borrowed by LACMA, remember, Dilly?”

Dilly shot her friend a quick glance, clearly remembering something she didn’t want to mention while I was around. I wondered what that was.

The picture on the wall was large and impressive. Sixteen-twelve. Wow. The little boy angels looked like they were tasked by a heavy load, however. Seems this Schiaminossi fellow liked his female models in the Raphaelesque tradition—hefty.

“The L.A. County Museum of Art borrowed this piece?” I was impressed.

“This and a dozen others,” Zenya said. “We had a bit of bad luck with three of the best works, though. Dilly knows.”

Dilly looked like this was the very thing she had been avoiding mentioning. “Zenya was so distraught,” she said. “I didn’t want to bring up something that would upset her.”

“No, I’m fine,” Zenya said quietly. “I know we can never truly possess anything. I’m making my peace with the theft.”

Theft? I looked up from my artichoke, alarmed.

“What happened? If you don’t feel terrible talking about it.”

“I’m okay now,” Zenya said, refilling her tall wineglass with the last of the Chardonnay and opening another bottle. “We had just lent the best pieces Bill had in his collection. Most of them were Renaissance-period etchings. This one here is by a relatively unknown artist, although he is rare and therefore more valuable each year. Bill collects with a passion. The thieves knew exactly what they were doing. Only his prize pieces were taken.”

“They had a very nice 1502 etching of Adam and Eve by the German genius Albrecht Dürer,” Dilly said sadly. “There is one like it in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.”

“Oh no.” I was troubled. Was theft just a part of the rich person’s life? “How horrible. Were they stolen from the County Art Museum while they were on loan?”

“No,” Zenya said. “It was several months after they were returned. They were hanging in the living room again, but we were out of town. Bill and I had taken Kirby to our condo on Maui for a few weeks. We got a call one night. There had been a break-in here at the house. Three of our best pieces were gone. That was three years ago, and to this day they have never been recovered.”

“Did your alarm go off?” Dilly asked her.

Zenya shook her head.

“Oh, that’s right,” Dilly said, remembering. “Your brother was staying here at the time, wasn’t he? House-sitting?”

I looked up, alarmed.
Dexter?
Wait, now. Had Dilly just said Dexter had been here, watching his sister’s house, while millions of dollars’ worth of artwork up and walked out the door?

I
t was the season for last-minute parties. In addition to rushing to bring off the Woodburn flower luncheon on Monday, we had been asked if we could possibly do a teen’s birthday brunch on the Saturday two days earlier. Connie Hutson, the tireless organizer who had helmed the Woodburn auction committee, was determined to throw a battle-of-the-bands-style affair for her son Ryan’s thirteenth. Our business was enjoying a summer boom, and coming as it did after a particularly slow winter, we hated to say no to anything. Feast or famine—our business as well as our finances.

I pulled into the driveway of the Hutson house after briefly stopping by the office to give the invitation specs to Wesley and Holly. They were now busy producing the invites, glue-gunning dried, pressed flowers to vellum, while I took this last-minute client call. The Hutsons lived in Pasadena, a twenty-minute drive out of Hollywood.

“Come on in, Madeline,” Connie called from the sunroom of her genuine Arts-and-Crafts-period home. She was seated on a dark settee, a Mission oak beauty that I would swear was an authentic Stickley. Connie’s bright summer dress, a turquoise silk jungle print, perfectly set off her thick auburn curls, which she wore, as always, neat and short. Her makeup appeared pronounced in the natural light of the bright sunroom.
Her full lips were painted dark coral, her cheeks set ablaze with blusher. And a funny thing: I began surreptitiously checking for any signs of plastic surgery. See how suggestible I am? I remembered Dilly and Zenya mentioning Connie’s name and I couldn’t help but check her out, up and down. Her boobs may or may not have been real, but they were awesome.

Before we could begin our discussion of the birthday party she wished to host, a quiet young Hispanic woman brought in a large pitcher of lemonade and left.

“Thank you, Graciela,” Connie said before she called out for her son to join us.

Ryan appeared at the sunroom door, looking awkward and skinny and just about thirteen. Surf camp had bleached his long stringy hair blond. Adolescence had left his skin in a muddle. “My birthday is not until August twentieth,” Ryan said in a sort of a whine.

“But we’re going to France in August,” Connie said to him.

“That’s what you keep saying,” Ryan replied. “I don’t want to go to stinking France.”

“You’ll love it,” she answered patiently.

“So my mom wants me to have my party now.” Ryan Hutson’s hands found the pockets in his long, baggy shorts and settled there.

“You’re inviting all your musician friends?” I asked him, opening my notebook.

“Sure. The kids who are still in town. I told my mom we should wait until school starts and more of my friends are here,” he began again, addressing his mother.

“I need to get this
over with,
” she said, in a measured way.

Ryan’s eyes darted down and I bit my lip. I’m sure Connie didn’t hear how it sounded. And I had learned never to jump to judgment with parents of teenagers. Never.

“We want you to have something nice,” Connie coaxed.
“And this is our last open weekend in three months, sweetheart.”

“Right,” Ryan said under his breath.

His mother gave him a penetrating look and he sulked back to her. Oh, lovely. Another happy family.

“I’d love to help plan Ryan’s party,” I said. “But you do realize we are limited in what we can provide with such little time to prep. What sort of food did you want?”

“Nothing dorky, Mom.”

“How about In-N-Out?” I suggested to him. He smiled at me, suddenly a kid again, and happy. “We can get a truck to come to your house.”

“Awesome.”

“That sounds fine,” Connie said, easily agreeing to the fast-food burgers the kids all loved. The popular restaurant chain had a few mobile lunch trucks in which their cooks grilled up fresh fries and cheeseburgers to order.

“I just have to see what strings I need to pull to get a truck here this Saturday. They book up at least six months in advance. We may be asked to pay a fairly steep premium, if it’s available at all.”

“Mom?” Ryan was now on board. “Please.”

“Oh, fine,” she said, happy to see her son get into the party spirit. “Don’t worry about the money.”

“I can’t promise,” I said to Ryan, “but I usually get what I’m after.”

“Cool.”

“Entertainment?” I asked.

“Wynton Marsalis is coming,” Connie informed me. I was stunned to hear her casually drop the name of one of the world’s most famous jazz greats. “Dave invited him and he had a day free. That’s why Saturday is the date we must have, you see.”

“Wynton Marsalis is going to play for Ryan’s party?”

“And his jazz ensemble. Oh, yes. Dave took care of it.”

“So you’ll need a sound system and chairs set up for…how many?”

“Just a hundred,” Connie said firmly. “We’re calling friends and doing it all very impromptu and fun. Don’t worry about invitations.”

“Can I get a contact number for Mr. Marsalis’s people?” I asked, scribbling notes quickly. “We’ll want to arrange to have everything he needs.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Connie said.

“And for the adults,” I asked, “would you like us to do a small buffet? A few salads, some fresh fruit, desserts, coffee?”

“Yes, whatever you think would be appropriate is fine with me,” Connie said, looking pleased.

“Or we could bring in sushi?” I said, thinking aloud.

“That’s perfect,” she said. “Absolutely perfect. My husband, Dave, loves sushi.”

I wrote more notes. In-N-Out burgers and sushi. Ah, yes. Another eclectic kids party. However, this was all doable. We’d get my favorite sushi restaurant to deliver on Saturday. I’d pull in a big favor with the burger people and get the truck to cook up fresh Double-Doubles right in the driveway out front. The biggest challenge would be getting the staging and audience section set up. I needed to get a plan of their backyard. I asked and Connie Hutson agreed to have it faxed to my office.

“What about the cake?” I asked Ryan.

His mother answered. “We’d like a large cake, Madeline. One that will serve all the teens, so make it for a hundred and fifty, just to be on the safe side.”

“Chocolate,” Ryan said. “With whipped cream.”

“Sounds great,” I said, writing.

“And how about in the shape of a saxophone, Ry?”

He wrinkled his nose. “A tenor?”

“Sure,” his mom said. “Ryan has been begging to move up to a tenor sax. He currently plays alto. We’re trying to get the Woodburn to let him change instruments, but his instructor there, Mr. Braniff, has been reluctant.”

That was interesting. I thought again about all the fuss that had been made over the great Selmer Mark VI saxophone that had disappeared from the Woodburn after the live auction on Saturday night. I couldn’t help but wonder if the wealthy dad who had arranged for Wynton Marsalis to play at his boy’s party hadn’t also thought a spectacular instrument like the Selmer might make the perfect birthday gift.

We talked over a few more essential details, and although I knew Mad Bean Events was cutting things close on too many events, I said we’d do it.

Ryan quickly slipped out of the room, relieved to escape the grown-ups, to get back to his waiting Xbox.

Connie walked me to the door.

“Thanks, Madeline. This is going to be fun.”

“I’ll fax the budget to you later,” I said. “We need approval and a deposit before we can start renting chairs and ordering food. I’ll begin lining up vendors and contact the Marsalis people, but we have to move quickly.”

“No problem. I’ll have Dave run a check over to you tonight, if that’s okay.”

“Fine.” I looked at Connie, who was taller than me, even standing in her flats. “By the way, I’ve been curious about the Woodburn auction. Did it do well?”

“Well! We did
fabulously
well,” she said, her face all smiles. “We outearned every damn benefit ever thrown for the school in forty-two years of fund-raising. We surpassed our goal of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Wow.” That was an incredible amount of money.

She nodded happily.

“Even after losing the money for the sax?”

“We didn’t lose any money,” Connie said.

“Bill Knight still paid you the money?” Stranger and stranger!

“Uh,
no.
” We both chuckled at the idea. “It was insured, sweetie. We wouldn’t have risked bringing such a priceless instrument to the event without insurance.”

“That’s so lucky.”

She winked at me. “It’s smart. One of our members took care of it for us.” And in an instant, Connie’s face changed from sunny to cloudy. “Oh, dear. It was Al Grasso who took care of it. You know about what happened to him?”

I stared at her. Grasso was connected to the stolen saxophone. He’d arranged for the insurance. How did this add up?

“Connie, I have to ask you a question. Was your husband terribly disappointed to have lost out on the bidding for the sax?”

“Of course not,” she said, her face completely composed. “He didn’t really want it at all.”

I looked at her. She had to be the best liar I’d ever met. Or perhaps what she was saying was true. “Really? I thought he was bidding it up against Bill Knight.”

“Yes, well…” She winked at me.

“What?”

“We were doing it for a good cause, you understand. That made it all right.”

“What made what all right?”

“Before the auction, Bill Knight asked Dave to keep the bidding going on the sax.”

“No way!” I looked at her, but she was grinning. Not a sign of guilt on her.

“We wanted to raise the pot, you see? Bill said he was going to buy it, but he wanted to get the price high, make a big
donation, and get a big write-off. He thought it would make for good drama, and we wanted to inspire other bidders on other objects to be really generous. We thought it was a sweet idea. So Dave played the game.”

“Played the game?”

“Well, okay. It got way out of hand. Bill was hamming it up, scuffling with Dave at the table during the bidding. That was outrageous, but that’s Bill Knight. He’s larger than life, sometimes.”

“Excuse me, Connie, but are you absolutely sure about all this? I was in Bill and Zenya’s car the night of the Black and White Ball. Bill was screaming about Dave. My goodness, he actually rammed into your car. You and your husband looked appropriately horrified. What was that all about?”

“Bill can be a real asshole when he’s drunk,” she said flatly. “What we have to put up with from our men, sometimes. If I knew Zenya better, I’d tell her to watch that guy.”

“So you forgave him for plowing into your car?”

“We were shocked when he hit our car. But Bill can be a cowboy. Dave says Bill is going through a midlife crisis to end all. I mean, you’ve seen it yourself. Bill’s been drinking too much. He’s been loud. He chased us after the party. He’s even been seen with…Well, that’s not important. We realize Bill can get a little unstable at times. He sent us an apology the next morning, along with a case of Dom Pérignon and a large check to fix our car. It’s in the shop right now.”

I shook my head. “Then why was Bill saying Dave stole the Mark VI?”

“What?” Connie put her hand on my arm, looked in my eyes. Her face drained of color, leaving only dark coral lips and red-stained cheeks. “He said Dave
stole
the sax? He’s insane.”

I looked at her, not knowing what to think.

“Maddie, who do you think donated that saxophone in the first place?”

Oh ho.

“Dave found it in a bankruptcy auction in Milwaukee. He bought it for under five thousand dollars. We didn’t think such a fine instrument should go to a child, or we would have kept it for our Ryan. We were hoping to make this auction the best one ever and we did. The rest of this is all ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry. I’m a fool. I should have known. It was such a shock to be in Bill Knight’s Hummer and watch him attack you like that. He was just raging.”

“Well, Zenya must be used to it,” she said, quieting down. “Between you and me, no one would blame her if she took the kids and left him.”

“I see.”

“But I refuse to get dragged down by the Knights or anyone else, Maddie, and you shouldn’t either. The important thing to remember is we raised a good deal of money for the Woodburn last week, and that means many more children will have a chance to study music and develop their art.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m sorry Bill Knight had a tantrum, I’m sorry the saxophone has been misplaced or whatever happened to it, but the insurance covered that and the Woodburn will get its money.”

I looked at her, suddenly curious. “Did you insure the Selmer for five thousand dollars?”

“No. As a matter of fact, the policy was written to insure each item for its full auction value, and since we had already held the bidding, we had the current auction value on the Selmer Mark IV established.”

“You mean the Woodburn gets a
hundred
thousand for a five-thousand-dollar instrument?”

She nodded.

“Boy, that was lucky,” I said.

“Smart,” Connie corrected, her natural color coming back once more.