The Muffia (22 page)

Berggren’s face relaxed. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

“That’s OK, isn’t it?”

“Stop worrying. You’re such a worrier. But they could have at least said good-bye.”

“You were in the shower.”

“Right. OK. Well, can you do me a big favor? We’re having salmon on cedar plank but I forgot to make the relish. We have to have that relish!”

“I can do that,” I offered, once again amazed at Berggren’s sense of drama. “I assume there’s a special recipe?” This wouldn’t be a problem. I’d make the call from the kitchen once I heard Berggren’s blow dryer start up.

“
Very
special recipe,” Berggren corrected. “Solomon’s Salmon Solutions in the kitchen with the other cookbooks.”

“Solomon’s Salmon Solutions—I’m on it.” Heading for the kitchen, I speculated that Solomon’s Salmon Solutions was a horrible name for a cookbook and might better have been the name for a line of smelly skincare products or medicinal extracts derived from the Omega3 fatty-acid-heavy fish. Locating the cookbooks on a special shelf above the wine fridge, I pulled down Solomon’s Salmon Solutions. Turning to the condiment section, I found there were seven recipes for relish.

“Berggren—!” I called. “There are seven recipes for relish. Which one do you want?”

I counted out the seconds, “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou—”

“The one with lime and cucumber,” she called back.

I looked down at the recipes again, flipping the pages quickly. Three of the recipes called for lime and cucumber. I wasn’t going to be responsible for picking the wrong one.

“Berggren—! Three have lime and cucumber.”

She appeared, hair combed out but still dripping, clad in a peach towel. “Lemme see. She fingered the pages and pointed. “That one.” Then she disappeared again mumbling, “I don’t know if it really matters.”

So much for the very special recipe
. Berggren cared a lot about most things but relish wasn’t one of them. Lauren, who’s all about the sauce and condiments, would have been appalled.

Glancing down at the recipe, I saw that in addition to the lime and cucumber, there was a very long list of ingredients. This wasn’t going to be quick and Berggren still hadn’t turned on the blow dryer.

I needed to call Cullen. I should have called already. He was probably waiting by the phone, desperate to get started. People would be arriving in less than half an hour and once they arrived, it might be too late to give him the time he needed to get to Nissim’s house, make his way inside, look around and leave undetected. Presumably he was already in the Hollywood hills awaiting my call but I couldn’t be sure. And now I realized that that was a stupid plan because cell service is spotty in the hills.

“Berggren, I need to make a call!” I yelled.

“Can you just chop the cucumber first? I’m almost done. I can whip up the rest of it while you make your call.”

“Sure,” I found myself saying before I realized the recipe called for the cucumber to be diced in half-centimeter squares. It could take an hour to peel the cucumbers and chop them into enough tiny pieces so that each of the guests could smother his salmon in it. And I already knew Berggren’s food processor was broken.

I began peeling then chopping and I chopped and chopped and was almost done when the doorbell rang.
Shit
.

“Coming!” Berggren waltzed in wearing a fitted black dress, her eyes painted dark and glamorous and her hair slicked back into a chignon—no blow dryer required. “Can you get the door, Doll, and maybe you can wait a bit longer, until more people get here before you make your call.”

“Sure,” I found myself saying again. Part of me didn’t want anyone I knew going to Nissim’s house, so I welcomed the excuse to delay, even though delaying could potentially ruin the plan.

Going back to the living/dining area, I pulled open the door to reveal three chic people, a man and two women, none of whom I knew, all in their forties, standing on the stoop, each holding a bottle of wine.

“Hi,” they said as a collective.

“Hi,” I said back, ushering them into the room, taking their wine and helping them off with their various jackets and wraps.

Berggren flitted in from the kitchen and gave the woman with the low-cut blouse and beautiful breasts a hug. “Daphne!” she exclaimed. Then she hugged “Esther” and “Samuel” in turn. “Thanks for coming. This is one of my oldest, bestest friends, Madelyn.”

“Hi,” everyone said again, adding things like, “nice to meet you,” “pleasure,” “traffic was terrible,” “pretty outfit,” and other similar pleasantries of the kind exchanged upon meeting someone for the first time.

I actually didn’t want to get too deep into an interesting conversation because I still needed to sneak off and make the call, but as if reading my mind, Berggren said, “Maddie, could you get everybody a glass of wine? I’m still working on the
magic
.”

“Sure,” I said again. “This way, everyone.”

Heading back to Berggren’s large gourmet kitchen, I poured wine for the recent arrivals and a small glass for myself. I needed a little help in handling the mounting stress I was feeling at not being able to call Cullen.

As soon as I’d had a few good swallows and had started to breathe easier, I noticed Berggren was chopping and stirring—already deep in conversation with Daphne, while Esther and Samuel were similarly engaged in the breakfast nook under the steady gaze of one of Warhol’s Marilyns. This was my opportunity to sneak away unnoticed. Then the doorbell rang again.

“I’ll get it,” I said, once again heading for the front door. As I pulled it open, I found I didn’t know this attractive couple either.

“Hi, hi, hi,” we all said.
There is a certain predictability to these things.

“Berggren and a few other guests are in the kitchen having wine,” I said gesturing in the general direction of wafting aromas and conversation. “Go ahead and join them and I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

The couple had no sooner thanked me and sauntered off, than I was out of the front hall and into the bathroom, dialing Cullen’s number. “Twenty-five sixty-one Lookout Lane,” I said in a loud whisper when he picked up.

“I was getting worried. What took you?”

“This is the first time I could sneak away to call.”

“It’s seven-thirty already. Are Nissim and his girlfriend there yet?”

“No. But people are starting to arrive so they should be here pretty soon. Where are you?”

“About half an hour out, I think, but you know Hollywood traffic on Saturday night.”

I did know. “Yeah.”

My phone did its little double xylophone ding thing, which tells me there’s a new text message. I took the phone away from my ear and saw the text was from Jelicka.

“So, I guess that’s it then,” I said to Cullen. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Can’t think of anything,” he replied cheerfully. “Tally-ho.”

“Good luck and be careful and
please
make sure no one’s in the house before you go in.”
One would have thought that went without saying
.

“I thought I’d wait until they come back from the party and ring the bell, actually.”

“You’re not serious,” I said.

“I’ll just say I was lost or had the wrong house. But I could have a look at them and maybe decide whether you and your friend Jelicka are out of your minds.”

“Right.” I drew out my sarcasm, wishing I’d never agreed to tell him.

“I’ll keep you posted.” He rang off.

Jelicka’s text should have been expected:
I’m at Hollywood Costume—need to get something to wear. Possibly going as stripper or homeless woman.

What?
I had to call her. But she didn’t pick up. I called twice. Any minute someone would knock on the door. “You don’t need to get something to wear,” I said to her voice mail.

She was treating this whole spy/counterspy thing like a movie in which she was not only the featured player, but also costume designer. She was going to what I considered to be unnecessary lengths—truly unnecessary since I had no intention of giving her the address. Then again, perhaps this costume enterprise would keep her busy and she’d lose track of time. “Get the homeless woman outfit,” I said, amending my message, “or the stripper. I mean, either could be good. And why not try on others?”

I hung up feeling pleased that Jelicka didn’t know Nissim’s address, nor had she asked.

“Please, Jelicka—" I begged out loud,
Don’t call me.

Crack-crack-crack!
“Maddie, are you in there?” It was Berggren knocking on the bathroom door and talking in a hushed voice.

“Almost done,” I responded.

“Hurry up. Someone out here I want you to meet.” It sounded like her lips were literally on the crack in the door. “He’s really hot.”

“OK,” I said. “Out in a sex—I mean sec.”

My cell phone rang. Cullen again.

“Did you say twenty-six fifty-one Lookout Lane?”

I looked down at the address still in my hand. “Twenty-
five
sixty
-one.”

“I knew that,” he said. “I just wanted to hear your voice one more time in case they've booby-trapped the house and I'm blown to smithereens.”

“Cullen, you know, on second thought, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Ten-four. Too late.”

“Then don’t stay too long.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

“And don’t forget to wear gloves.”

“Yah-
voll
.”

“And if you move things, they’re going to know. So put them back.”

“Will do.”

“Please, will you take this seriously?” He was making me laugh.

“Don’t worry your purty head about me, li’l girl. You have fun at your party.” Then he was gone. Maybe gridlock would keep him from getting there.

I stuck the address in my purse along with my cell phone and opened the bathroom door. Across the living room, up against the sliding glass doors, I spotted Berggren talking to a handsome guy with prematurely gray hair. He
was
kind of hot.

“Madelyn,” Berggren called, beckoning me over with outstretched arm. The man standing next to her, calm and very cool, was about six-two and almost too perfect- looking. His hair was thick with multiple color shades ranging from light gray to black and his teeth were sparkling white and even. He was wearing a starched white shirt, no tie, and an expensive-looking sports jacket. Guys who look and dress like him don’t usually go for me. I’m a little too eclectic. I find guys like this one want a woman who’s the female version of them only more submissive. I can only play that role about one-tenth of the time. But perhaps, despite his perfect exterior, his inner life was interestingly imperfect—like mine.

“Rex, this is my dear, dear friend Madelyn,” said Berggren. “We’ve been friends for twenty-two years.”

“Hello,” I said, extending my hand the way I always do when meeting someone new, hoping to convey an interesting blend of intelligence, warmth and self-possession. I knew I looked pretty good that night. I was wearing an updated halter-top and unusually trendy pants (for me) that flattered my curves and de-emphasized the bulges. I’d curled my usually straight, boring hair into cascading curls, which framed my face, and the overall effect took five years off my age—or so I thought.

“Very pleased to meet you,” said Rex with his own blend of intelligence, warmth and self-possession.

And he had an accent. Uh-oh, this could be dangerous
.
I’d learned I had a weakness for
accents.

“Rex is from the British production company,” said Berggren. “He’s here helping us line up some strong actors for one of my new movies.”

“Fantastic.”

“Maddie is a mediator, lawyer and she has a daughter a year older than Say and May. They’ll all be back in a couple of hours. So,” she went on, “talk amongst yourselves. Dinner is just moments away.”

Berggren moved off, in her element, chatting with people as she went, making all of her fourteen or so guests feel at ease. Looking around, I noticed that neither ZsaZsi nor Nissim was present and I made a mental note to call Cullen if they hadn’t arrived in another fifteen minutes.

“So what does a mediator
do
in America exactly?” Rex asked, drawing my attention back to him.

“Well,” I began, “a mediator is an unbiased third party who helps people solve disputes. Isn’t that what they do in England?”

“We don’t have disputes in England.” He said this with utmost seriousness, smug as a character in “Downton Abbey.”

“What a lovely, idyllic existence it must be for all of you there.” He flashed a smile and I got the very clear impression that he was accustomed to having it work on the female of the species.

“I love London but it rains too bloody much.”

“Hmmm . . . I like the rain,” I countered. “I’m from the east coast—of America, that is. Here, it’s too bloody sunny all the time, if you ask me.”