I stepped forward and looked into the room. Whisper was sitting with his bed half-inclined, staring at the wall opposite.

I knocked softly on the open door, hoping to get his attention.

"Excuse me. Mr. Pettibone? It's Madeline Bean. Do you feel up to a visitor?"

"I feel like bloody HELL," he said, turning to look me over. "I think I may die, but whether from the brilliance of my hospital treatment or of boredom I would hate to wager a bet." Whisper took a few labored breaths and said, "But why are you still standing out in the hall? Enter. Come in. I can't very well carry on a conversation with you if you insist on standing a mile away."

I entered the room. Whisper was hooked up to an IV line that led to a stand on wheels parked next to his bed. His head was bandaged and one arm was set in a cast. Several fabulous flower arrangements were in evidence, set side by side on the window seat. His skin, always a suspiciously deep tan, looked sunken on his prominent cheekbones, dark against the white linens. He kept his eyes closed when I approached, but now opened them and stared at me.

"Madeline Bean. Would you believe you are my first visitor? And I don't even know you, do I?" He took a moment to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses and smooth a hand back over his thinning hair.

"I wish I had had time to bake," I said, feeling awkward, "but I stopped at Urban Epicurean." I held up a large tote filled with the assortment of gourmet treats I'd picked up on my way over.

"Oh, goodie. Real food." He said it in a most sarcastic tone, but I think he was pleased. "Set it down over there." He gestured to the bedside table that was moved a few feet away. "I'll get one of the slaves, or would that be nurses? Yes, I'll get one of the nurses to put it away in a refrigerator. Probably the last time I'll see it, too. Thieves, the lot of them. Oh well, no matter."

I smiled. And he very grudgingly let his eye twinkle. But only for a fraction of a second.

"I've come, of course, to talk about the business. If you think you are up to it. There are some things that need to be dealt with, the sooner the better, but I don't want to bother you if you are too tired."

"The business? By that you mean my business, don't you?" Whisper Pettibone looked me over. "We hardly know each other, Miss Bean. And truth to tell, I really didn't think I liked you at all. Not at all."

"I got that impression, yes."

"But here you are, coming to visit me like I'm your sick uncle. Wearing that ghastly little dress. Bringing store-bought food." He clucked his tongue, annoyed at himself. "But quite respectable store-bought food, I must admit. And you don't gush, do you? You didn't go all wimpy asking about the nasty details of my injuries. Admirable. I may have to change my opinion of you..."

When it's a toss-up between being amused or being insulted, I take amused every time. Life is short. And where's the fun without the occasional kook, crackpot, or scalawag getting in the jambs? I sat there appreciating one of life's sincerely oddest old kooks, and smiled.

"...which, of course, I never, ever do. Because I'm always right, naturally, so it's never necessary. You see what a pain in the ass you have become to me, Miss Bean? So vexing. I begin to wish you had never shown up at all. However, seeing as how you are the only one likely to make this sacred pilgrimage to my sickbed, I must rise to the occasion. Do sit down."

I did.

"Have the police figured out who did this to you?" I asked, concerned.

"Don't make me laugh. Not a bloody clue. I mean, they are without a single brain cell between them. They're savages and good for little else than beating poor defenseless things about with their billy clubs. You only have to imagine how they dealt with a man of refinement and culture. I was bloody and unconscious, being rolled into the x-ray, and they were after me like hounds, trying to get information. I couldn't speak. How could I? It wasn't my own injuries, Miss Bean. I am not talking about mere pain of the body.

"It was from a much sharper pain that I was struck silent. You see, those bastards told me about Vivian. The first moment I recovered consciousness, they told me. I fought my way back from the depths of oblivion, only to be told I had lost my soulmate, my dearest companion, my very best friend in a wretched and desolate world. My lovely Vivian has been killed, they told me. I really cannot be expected to take this all in. I am an artist, with an artist's soul, and an artist's sensitivities." He closed his eyes.

It was quite a speech and had clearly exhausted him. His labored breathing began to sound more and more like snoring. Just as I was sure the man had fallen asleep, he spoke up.

"I hope you will not leave just yet, Miss Bean."

Startled, I sat back down.

He opened his sunken eyes and looked at me. "I'm worried," he said.

"About the business?"

"It's all I have, Miss Bean. Are you still determined to take it from me?"

"No. Absolutely not. Don't you give it another thought."

"What's that? Are you toying with me? What, dear lady, are you saying?"

"I never wanted Vivian's company. I am not sure why she fixated on the idea, but she approached me and kept after me. I thought she might have needed the money."

"Nonsense. We are doing well, naturally. And Vivian is worth a fortune. Everyone knows that."

"Are you sure? Sometimes people give the impression..."

"Hush!" he interrupted me, "I see her books. I do her personal finances. I know where her offshore accounts are kept. I pay the bloody insurance premiums on her jewels and furs. I have a key to a joint security deposit box, which is filled with cash, if you must know. We are not in any way low on funds. And Vivian came into the business with so much capital she barely knew what to do with it all. Have you seen her home on Courtney Road? She bought it with cash. Shortest escrow in the history of Beverly Hills."

"I see."

"I should hope so. Be sensible. In all the time I've known Viv she has never made a decision based on money. My word, we were above all that."

"Then I can't understand why she was so insistent that I buy her out. I told Vivian no at the wedding, but she didn't want to listen to me."

"I'm not sure I believe you, you know," Whisper said, upset. "Oh, I don't know what to believe. It was most unusual from the start." He looked at me, as if to decide how much he wanted to confide. "Should I tell you?"

"That has to be your call," I said.

"You don't beg, do you? You don't pry and you don't insinuate. Most amazing in a girl like you."

"Actually, I prefer being referred to as a woman."

"I'm sure you do. The problem I'm having is with Vivian's behavior, don't you see? It doesn't seem at all Vivian-like. It troubled me then and it troubles me now. She was secretive. Well, that wasn't so unusual. Viv liked to have her little secrets. Silly woman. Of course I found out every single one. Why wouldn't I? I was in charge of the purse strings. I kept the accounts. Let me tell you it is very difficult to keep a secret from the man who balances the books.

"When Viv was seeing that young waiter, who did she imagine was paying the Visa bill that listed all those single-night stays at the Hotel Bel Air? And did she imagine I bought the story that all those clothes she charged at Saks were for Ralph? I think not."

"Are you saying Vivian was seeing someone?" I asked.

"Of course she was. She was a very complicated woman. Ralph couldn't begin to understand her. Why she kept him around is a question for the gods, but she wouldn't hear a word against him."

Vivian's husband. Vivian's boyfriends. Any of these people could have motives to have murdered Vivian. Even Whisper himself. If he really believed Vivian was planning to sell him out, what would he have done?

Whisper must have been figuring things out, too. He looked startled, and then reached up his thin hand and touched his mouth. "Oh, my word. Don't tell me you are trying to solve Vivian's murder, my dear? Can that possibly be what is going through your brain? Stop it this instant. I have been going over it all, again and again, and believe me, if anyone were able to get to the truth, it would be me. And it's all nonsense. No matter what you think of any of us. No one would kill Viv, no matter what they may have hoped to accomplish."

"You said her husband..."

"No balls! That man is not very good at anything but drinking scotch rocks, my dear. He would simply not have the appropriate gonads to pull off such a stunt. And if Ralph somehow surfaced from his Glenlivet haze long enough to have done the deed, how in the world do you imagine he discovered the courage to drag her poor body across half a museum, up a bloody staircase, and toss her across that heap of bones?" Whisper's eyes blazed at me, challenging me to disagree.

"That's the million dollar question."

"So you are trying your hand at playing detective. This is too rich! And who, pray tell, is among your other suspects?"

"Please don't take this personally, Mr. Pettibone, but I find just about everyone suspicious."

"How wise. How young and how wise you are, Miss Bean. And by that I suppose you mean to say you suspect me?"

"I hope that doesn't make you too uncomfortable," I said, pleasantly.

"Pish-tush! Let's not quibble about niceties. Not when we are beginning anew, Miss Bean. Not when we have a whole delicious relationship to embark upon. Not when you assure me, as indeed you have assured me, haven't you? That you have no intention of taking our wedding business away from us. So let's put our heads together, shall we? Let's think deep thoughts. What if, as you suspect, I had been upset and angry with Vivian? Let's even say I had a very good reason. Can you guess what that might be?"

"Perhaps you hadn't been consulted about selling the business?"

"Excellent point. See how well we are doing? So there I am, distraught over the thought of losing a business I had worked for twenty years to build up. A business, I might add, that had been promised to me all these years. Well, if not promised, then implicitly pledged, as anyone would assume after I had traveled such a long and hard journey building the business up. Even if one imagined I had ample reason to work myself up to hate Vivian, which is pure nonsense-I simply worshipped and adored her-but should I have felt thrust out, as surely you must have suspected, as you wisely suspect everyone, would I have it in me to kill her? Well?"

"I don't know."

"Good answer. You don't know me at all. But I know me. I could never do such a thing in a million years. But let's say you don't take my word on it. All right, then, let's look at the question logically. Since you have cleverly worked out a possible motive upon the notion that I covet Vivian Duncan Weddings, why then, dear lady, you can't believe I would harm the business. I wouldn't. Had I any motive which involved keeping and preserving and running the business which is Vivian Duncan Weddings, the last place I'd commit a murder would be at one of our own weddings. Don't you see? It would be exactly like pissing in one's own Jacuzzi. Simply not done."

"Excellent point, Mr. Pettibone."

"Whisper to you, now that we're friends."

"Why do people call you Whisper? Your voice is quite booming, really."

"Another time, perhaps," Whisper said, playing at being elusive. "A gent must keep an air of mystery. Now, I wonder if you would be good enough to pour me a glass of water. No, no, not that awful stuff they put in that pitcher. It's from the tap, for the love of God. No, I have a bottle of San Pelegrino here, somewhere. Ah, yes, that's it."

I poured out a glass for Whisper and then, in the brief lull as he drank, grabbed the chance to get a word in and ask one of the questions I was really after.

"I'd like to know more about the day Vivian's car was stolen. Would you mind filling me in a little?"

"I'm sorry? When was that?"

"When her Mercedes was car-jacked." I sat down and I looked at him. "Don't tell me that doesn't ring a bell. Three weeks ago. The day she was supposed to meet Sara Bell and her fiance at Darius for their tabletop. You called me later that day, remember? You had been worried because you couldn't reach Vivian."

I could tell, as I spoke, that it was the first time Whisper Pettibone had heard of the car-jack incident. And he had claimed it was impossible for Vivian to keep a secret from him. Hah. On the other hand, just exactly why would she have kept such a traumatic crime quiet?

"This is most alarming." Whisper chewed his lower lip. "That is not the story I heard at all. Vivian took the Mercedes to the shop, she told me. Some gizmo gone wrong at the worst possible time, that sort of thing. Certainly, if she had been robbed, I would have known. And she came home late that night, as I remember, driving her own car once more. This is very disturbing. I would suggest a car-jacking never happened, but I believe you would only contradict me."

"I was there. I saw it. I was almost run down by the car as it tore out of the alley." I looked at Whisper, shocked he didn't know what I was talking about. "Didn't Vivian tell you I found her on the pavement?"

"No." He looked at me, shaken. "But now you mention it, dear girl-scratch that-woman, I do recall that I found Vivian's poor pink Chanel wrapped up for the trash. Snagged something tragic! Vivian said it was ruined as she scrambled under a car to fetch a child's fearful kitty. The snags. The oil. The tiny rip. These she explained away as the inevitable consequences of helping this crying tot."

"And that sounded like Vivian to you?" I asked.

"Not on your life. No. Sacrifice a two-thousand-dollar Chanel? And this season's, no less? For a child? I knew it wasn't the truth, but I figured she was keeping one of her boyfriends somewhere messy. This would have explained her sorry excuse for an excuse. I let it go. It was our way. But now you are telling me Vivian had been attacked weeks before the evening of the wedding?"

This was big. I pulled out my phone and dialed Honnett's private line. When he didn't pick up, I left a message.

"Unless..." I could see Whisper Pettibone puzzle it out in his mind. "Unless she was indeed covering for some reprobate boyfriend she was seeing at the time. I hadn't thought she was into that riffraff scene anymore. Frankly, it has been years since I've known her to take on a new friend. But if, indeed, she had found a young man who hung with the wrong sort...well, it's possible he or one of his sordid little mates stole the Mercedes. If Vivian recognized who took the car, she would never have wanted to report it to the police."

"Yes. Whoever did this would have counted on her silence. She feared bad publicity. She was the perfect victim. She'd never tell the police."

Whisper said, "Of course. But, really, I can't think this is possible. I would have known. She might have kept a brief car disaster from me, but never a love interest."

"Do you think you could find a picture of her old boyfriend-the waiter you mentioned? And any others. I'm sure she'd have pictures somewhere, and only you could probably find them."

I thought it over. If Vivian had gotten herself mixed up with an immoral lover, who knows what he might have been capable of? Had she somehow threatened him to keep him in line? After all, she got her car back almost immediately. Had he gone a step further and murdered Vivian? Oh, yes, this was promising. Except for the fact that we had absolutely no evidence "he" even existed.

"Aha! Entertaining a visitor this morning, Mr. Pettibone? Lovely!" A cheery nurse, the size of a cement truck, entered the room, carrying a tray with needles.

I knew my cue and stood up. "I'll leave this list with you. The messages on your answering machine."

"No need," Whisper said, briskly. "I got them this morning. First time I wasn't drugged up to kingdom come. I'll take care of the business, now, don't you fret"

"Fine. If you're sure. I know Beryl was worried."

"Beryl? Worried about the business? That is such a laugh, my dear lady, I cannot begin to tell you. Little Beryl worried about mummy's business. Ho-ho-ho."

"She's working on a very big case and she seems like she might snap. I guess mother and daughter had a difficult relationship."

"Tell me about it," Whisper said, as the nurse came around to tidy up his table. "It was simply vile. I talked to Vivian about it. Constantly. But what could one do? Viv was simply not maternal. It was regrettable, but there it was."

"And you don't think that Beryl..." I let the sentence hang, in view of the bustling nurse.

"My, my, my. You do suspect everyone, don't you? Who would ever guess that a pretty little thing like you had such a nasty, nasty imagination?"

The nurse was raising one of the needles, checking it in preparation for a stick. I made for the door.

"Miss Bean! Madeline, if I might? Don't run away. I would hate to think you were offended, now that we've become such fast friends. I meant no offense, dear lady. Your nasty imagination is one of your most charming qualities."

Chapter 18.

"All I ever wanted was my own house." Sara Silver sat on the floor of the large living room of her grandfather's house, cross-legged. "Didn't I?"

"Well, that and a man," the thin redhead said, giggling.

"Denise!" the tall brunette hissed. "Cut it out."

Sara was not alone. Three former bridesmaids sat with her offering support in her time of need. Or if they couldn't actually provide support, they seemed determined to stick by her side, come what may.

"I thought I was getting out of here, anyway." Sara sighed. "Would you want to live here?"

I looked around. The four walls were paneled in dark mahogany. The wood floors were covered in fine antique oriental carpets. The furniture, in burgundy and brown, was of the heavy, tufted leather variety. Accessories like the brass spittoon and the large alabaster ashtray finished the masculine look. But I almost missed noticing any of it, so overwhelming were the room's central features.

"Well..." What was the polite thing to say?

"I'm afraid I'd feel the souls of these animals stalking my dreams," Denise said, clearly not one to give the niceties a second thought.