The L.A. Museum of Nature is located near USC, set back on a public square. It's in a part of south central Los Angeles to which most of Sara Silver's wedding guests rarely venture after dark. It was past the museum's closing time. The vast adjacent parking lots were empty. But all things considered, no thoughtful bride would expect her friends and relatives to walk the lonely half-block from the parking lot to the museum entrance. Not wearing their finest jewelry. Not at night. Not in that neighborhood.

Wesley pulled smoothly up to the curb where a platoon of parking attendants, wearing crisp white shirts, stood ready for our arrival.

"I'm starving," Holly said.

"Down, Holly," Wes said. "They're valets, not hors d'ouvres."

As we stepped out of Wes's car, Holly and I took a quick moment to straighten out our attire. Holly wore a long, black, strapless tube dress that glittered in the streetlights. Its metallic threads of elastic quilting molded the dress to her tall, slender form. The hors d'oevr...the valet parkers noticed.

Wes came around to check us out.

"Subdued," he commented to Holly, noting her bright red lipstick. She is the one among us who likes to take the occasional fashion leap. Then he turned to me, checking out the severe black silk dress, scooped low in front, that had cost me a fortune.

"I think," Wes pronounced in a whisper, "you may single-handedly bring back cleavage as an art form."

Holly, tottering on extremely high-heeled sandals, turned away from our discussion of my chest with hunting-dog-on-a-scent alert.

"Maddie! Was that Brad Pitt?" She strained to see the dimly lit form of a young man walking far ahead of us, as he disappeared into the giant entryway of the Museum of Nature.

"I'm dying! Brad Pitt! Is he a guest?" Holly pulled at her short, blond, spiky bangs.

We followed Holly, who had picked up her pace to a trot, veering around the spotlit and dramatic bronze replica of the museum's most famous artifact that had recently been installed out in front of the entrance. The statue showed dinosaurs, under attack. At night, the aggressive forms looked beautiful, the bronze gleaming in the indirect lighting.

I scanned past the building ahead of us, but not for celebrities. Wes stopped next to me and said, "The tent must be out back."

"Yes. Behind the far wing," I agreed. As caterers, we were both intrigued by the logistics of setting up a temporary kitchen large enough to serve dinner to 200 demanding guests. The museum is a star location, but its kitchen facilities are not available for private functions.

Up ahead, Holly stopped just past the sculpture and turned to us, impatient. "Guys!"

"I guess we'll check out the catering setup later," Wes suggested.

"Possible Pitt sighting," I agreed.

Holly had already walked up to the sixteen-foot-tall pavilion door and entered the three-story domed marble foyer. Two private security guards stood at the door, checking invitations against the guest list. I thought again of the expense of leasing this magnificent space for a private party.

Once in the grand foyer, I was stunned by the success of the decoration.

"Awesome," Holly whispered.

Several huge potted trees had been brought in for the party, each ablaze with hundreds of tiny twinkling white lights, glimmering in the semidark hall.

Instead of using the museum's fluorescent overheads, a lighting designer had been brought in to create a custom look for the event. Baby spotlights picked out the gold leaf detail in the forty-foot-tall rotunda ceiling. A hammered-silver bar had been set up at the far side of the foyer, lit with covered lamps, making each bottle of gin look like a glowing jewel, each row of glassware a sparkling necklace. In a further corner, an African drum band was playing an exotic rhythm, lit up on their low riser by perfect stage lighting.

Several dozen guests had already arrived, and, as Holly scanned the crush of tuxedoed men for a tousled blond head, even more new arrivals flowed past us. Each wedding guest appeared mesmerized by the brilliant effect; the light and dark shadows played against the breathtaking architecture. Surely most had visited during daylight hours. Struggling with maps and nephews and crowds, had any of us really noticed the beauty of the place, the spectacular columns, the inlaid marble mosaics on the floor?

Of course, the one sight I did remember quite clearly from prior daytime sightseeing was the centerpiece of the foyer. With the sound of tribal African music rendered by fine musicians on drums and reed flutes in the background, I turned to gaze at the museum's most famous display. Mimicking the new bronze sculpture in the courtyard were the fossilized bones of an enormous Triceratops rearing back, arranged in a fearful pose. Roaring over this beast was a skeletal T-rex positioned in vicious attack, its six-foot jaws open, its huge fangs like daggers.

The entire installation rose over twenty feet high on a black marble base. In the semidarkness of the room, spotlights threw fierce shadows onto the floor.

"Maddie," Wes said, catching my attention. I moved from the dinosaur display and joined him at a white-skirted table not far away. "Unusual location for a romantic ceremony. Very original. Who's the bride, again? A Jurassic Park fan?"

"Her family are big benefactors of the museum," I said.

"Ah, yes." He nodded. "Money talks."

Wes was standing at a table skirted in mosquito netting which held an awesome display of genuine Beanie Babies. A few hundred miniature beanbag leopards sat at the ready, each with a card tied around his neck with black satin ribbon.

"Are these the escort cards?" I asked, reaching out to the Beanie Baby Wesley was holding up to me.

"They're a special limited edition," Wes said, checking another one out.

"Amazing." A calligrapher had written the names of each guest and their table assignment on the cards tied to the necks of these collectible treasures.

Holly appeared, looking disappointed. "It wasn't Brad Pitt." She made a face. "I think it was Kato Kaelin."

"It's going to be a long night," I advised my star-struck assistant. "Hang in there."

Wes handed her a seven-inch leopard from the table. "Cheer up. Look at this."

"Holy shit! I can't believe it. This is a Beanie I've never seen before." She checked out its tiny label. "And it's for real!"

"Charming touch, aren't they?"

We all looked up to see Vivian Duncan, smiling broadly at us. She looked better than the last time I'd seen her. More upright.

Vivian explained, "Those were made for us and only us by the Ty company. Sara wanted to have something extra-special for all her guests to enjoy. Nice, eh? I tell you Madeline, you're going to love working with my clientele. They have so much to offer you."

"Vivian," I said. "I know you're busy right now, but I've been..."

"Darling girl," Vivian said, grabbing my arm warmly in her tight grip, "introduce me to your friends. Wesley I know." She smiled a dazzling faux smile in the direction of Wes and then focused on Holly.

"Holly Nichols," I said.

Holly, trying to do the right thing, held out her hand.

At that moment, Vivian disengaged herself from clutching my arm and swiftly turned toward a waiter who had just passed.

"Marco?" she said in an unpleasantly tense voice, her gravelly whisper almost coming out a hiss.

She caught herself and turned back to our group once more.

Holly said, "Miss Duncan, I'm..."

"Must run," Vivian said brightly to me, flashing me a tight smile. "See you later, Madeline. We must have our attorneys get together. Soon, okay?" And she turned quickly towards Marco's retreating back, leaving without so much as looking again at Holly or Wes.

I turned to Wes, almost smiling. "Must run?"

"Must drink." Wes pointed us towards the bar in the corner.

"Must barf," commented Holly, hiking up her strapless tube dress.

"Must drop the bomb," I added, trying to catch up with the pair making a beeline for the booze.

Ahead, at the bar, I noticed an unhappy-looking man, his thinning hair combed straight back from his tall, tan forehead. Wire-rimmed glasses winked in the subdued lighting, and as we approached he seemed to clear his throat. I looked at him and got the feeling he expected me to recognize him.

"Miss Bean, isn't it?" he asked in a low, smooth voice. I recognized the voice.

"Mr. Pettibone." So this was Vivian's aide-de-camp.

"At last we meet," he said, with a smile. It was meant, I think, to be charming, but came off as sinister.

"This is my friend and partner, Wesley Westcott," I introduced, as Holly began to order our drinks from the bartender. "And that's Holly Nichols. What a wonderful party."

"Yes," Pettibone said, not making eye contact with either of my friends. "So." He smiled again, and then whispered, "Do you actually imagine you could handle such a magnificent wedding as this one on your own?"

Wes was helping Holly get the drinks, and I realized I was the only one who could hear Pettibone's remark.

I turned to face him. "Excuse me?" This bozo was taking me on.

"Doubtful," he said softly, smile intact, and moved closer to my ear. "But, perhaps you are smart enough not even to try it."

"How rare it is these days to find open hostility. And you do it quite well, I must add."

"Why, thank you," Ted "Whisper" Pettibone replied pleasantly.

"'Thank you' for what?" Holly asked as she rejoined us. Then she announced, "Shampoo!" and handed me a crystal flute of bubbly.

"Miss Bean thinks a lot of herself. I wish her luck. Is she courageous? Or simply foolish?" Pettibone's eyes darted away and then he murmured, "Vivian needs me. I'm sure we'll talk again, later," and quickly left.

"What was that?" Holly asked, sipping her "shampoo."

"Territorial bullshit." Wes appeared annoyed.

"He does not seem like a happy camper," I agreed. "I wonder how much Vivian has told him?"

By now, most of the guests had arrived in the grand foyer-a swirl of tuxedoed men and thin women in black designer dresses. The insistent, sexy drumbeat of tribal Africa swelled in the background beneath the happy, chattering roar. Glasses tinkled, relatives laughed, waiters sweated, future in-laws air-kissed, bachelors drank, Beanie Babies were snatched up, and teenage girls giggled, while the movements of the occasional semicelebrity punctuated the scene, followed more or less discreetly by so many pairs of eyes.

One group of movers and shakers I recognized included a man who owned a Cadillac dealership, a man who owned a bank, and a man who owned a football team and a lot of real estate south of Los Angeles. But the business community held no interest for Holly. Just as I was worrying that she might trail George Hamilton into the men's room, I caught sight of Vivian sending Whisper Pettibone away on some errand. This might be the best time to get to the woman. The wedding ceremony would start in another fifteen minutes. If I caught her now I could finally tell her Wes and I were not buying any wedding consultant firm-including hers.

Pushing through the crowd, I tried to follow Vivian's movements halfway across the foyer. With knots of wedding guests moving between us, I momentarily lost sight of her slight figure dressed in pale blue. I reached the other end of the foyer, puzzled. I had somehow lost her again.

"Looking for Vivian?"

Deep voice. British accent. I turned. There stood one of the most striking men I'd ever seen. Staring at my cleavage.

"Yes, actually."

His heavy, dark mustache drooped around a very sexy mouth. His large, brown eyes seemed focused about twelve inches below my chin. I suddenly felt flushed, and wondered if my one sip of alcohol on an empty stomach was entirely responsible.

"Back there," he said, pointing down a corridor, his gaze meeting mine.

"Thanks," I said. Witty.

"Not at all." He touched his hair, pushing it behind his ear.

Out of things to say, I turned down the corridor he had indicated to find Vivian.

Almost at once I heard her voice, and as I turned the corner, I saw her. Vivian Duncan was speaking on her cell phone. I slowed down, not wanting to intrude on her privacy. She smiled and waved me over as she continued to speak into the phone.

"...in a matter of minutes. That's exactly what I'm saying, you idiot. It's their honeymoon, for Christ's sake. Get those tickets and get your ass down here!" Her tone was sharp, but she still managed to give me a friendly wink. Honestly.

"No, no. I said no, dammit!" she continued into the phone. "I am not carrying you on this one, dollface! I expect you to keep your word. This lovely couple is about to get married and I should think even a moron would know they need to have their tickets tonight. Good. That's settled, then. Get here immediately!" At that, she hit the disconnect button on her tiny digital phone and gave me a big, glossy smile.

"Details!" she said, tossing the phone into her tiny beaded bag. "But that's why they pay us so much, isn't it? How do you like this setup, honey?" She began walking me back toward the main foyer. I could hear the sounds of the crowd getting louder and had to stop her. This was my chance.

"Vivian, before we go back to the party, I thought I'd better get something..."

"Mother!"

I looked up to see a tall, thirty-something woman approach us, and sighed. What was I thinking? I should have known how difficult it would be to talk to a party planner just before an event. I'd have to wait until the wedding was over to get Vivian alone. I noticed that Vivian's daughter did not look a whole lot like her mom. Dark-haired, built on a heavier frame, she wore a deep gray pantsuit with no makeup or jewelry.

"Beryl, darling, I'd like you to meet the woman who is buying out your mother's business. Madeline Bean, please meet my daughter, Beryl."

"Nice to meet you," Beryl said, hardly looking over at me before plunging ahead. "Mother, I told you..."

"Before you 'tell me' anything, you know I've asked you to call me Vivian. It may not matter in front of dear Madeline, but in front of my clients I insist." She stood there looking at the tall young woman with disapproval. "Now, Beryl, if you don't intend to wear those lovely earrings I had made for you, then send them back to me."

"Vivian!" The young woman sounded strained. "Vivian, you must stop forcing my father to run your little errands. I just got a call from Dad..."

"Whining, I'm sure," Vivian said, with a throaty chuckle. She pulled a cigarette out of her evening bag and played with it. "I give him so much business and how does he repay me? By doing the most incompetent job he can possibly do."

"Mother!" Beryl's irritation was getting the best of her. "Vivian, he's your husband. Can you for once talk about something other than his ability to do business? You know he doesn't really care about any of that."

"Madeline," Vivian said, keeping her eyes on her upset daughter. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could all live a comfortable life and never have to think about business? Is that what your father tells you?" she said, with heat, forgetting to address her caustic comments my way. "Your father is not able to deliver the wedding couple's honeymoon plane tickets before the goddamn honeymoon! I have to send Whisper to the house because I doubt very seriously whether your father can find them and find his way down here. Pretty sad, Beryl. But what exactly was your point, dear? I'm in the middle of a marvelous wedding and," she consulted her exquisite jeweled wristwatch, "the ceremony is about to begin."

"Just forget it!" Beryl's voice had lost its thin veneer of patience, although no one back at the party was likely to overhear the row going on down this corridor.

I had already turned to escape when I saw Wes, coming to look for me.

"Did you tell her?"

"Impossible. My timing sucks."

We walked back to the main foyer, leaving the heated pair to their own family drama.

"Was that Beryl Duncan back in that hallway?" Wes asked as we gathered with the two hundred others to file into the Hall of Large Mammals where the wedding ceremony was to take place.

"She's Vivian's daughter. Do you know her?"