"Last night," she said. "You really slammed my father."

"They get pretty pissed if you don't answer direct questions," I said. "I've found this out through past experience."

"So who cares what the police think?" Beryl had the typical lawyer's viewpoint.

"Sorry, Beryl. Your dad was fighting with your mother last night. Other people may have heard them. I don't think the police will necessarily..."

Lest I forget, in her everyday life Beryl was a tough lawyer, and by the tone of her comments, I was getting a dose of her lawyer style. Beryl's look of intense, oh-give-me-a-break-ness stopped me cold.

"Can we cut the crap? Someone broke Vivian's neck. They say she couldn't have jumped. They don't think she fell. So what does that make it? Cops don't have much imagination. Naturally, they figure my father murdered Vivian."

"Did they arrest him?"

"Not yet."

"Then there may be other suspects."

She met my gaze. "I have a lovely alibi for the time after I left my mother at the museum."

"Oh."

"Ah, you're surprised. As it happens, I was a guest on an Internet chat show for the full hour between eight and nine last night. My sources at Parker Center tell me Vivian was killed sometime after eight-fifteen. So I'm in the clear. But my poor father isn't so lucky."

I couldn't help myself. I started wondering who else might have wanted to see Vivian Duncan dead. And just because one is typing away on an Internet chat, is there really no way to get another person to continue typing for you while you slip away? Or...

"So why are you doing that?" she asked, swerving the topic back to ice cream. By now, I was on subject-shift alert and took it in stride.

I had scooped mounds of the fresh Deep, Dark Brown Sugar ice cream onto a tray. I was starting to squeeze and pat them, using plastic wrap to protect my hands, into perfectly sculpted palm-sized balls.

"After I mold them into works of art," I explained, with just the right touch of modesty, "they go into the freezer. Three hours. Then we'll roll them..."

"Roll them?"

"In toppings. Like shredded coconut or bittersweet shavings or chopped nuts and cinnamon or mini white chocolate chips. Each one different. They should look nice piled up on a platter."

I've often found myself settling down, destressing, by the simple steps and movements necessary in working with food. As Vivian's mixed-up daughter sat there watching my hands go about their swift work, the rhythm of ice cream molding seemed to have a settling effect on Beryl Duncan as well. A little more thoughtfully, then, she introduced yet another subject.

"Aren't you a little curious why I'm here?"

"Curious?" I looked up at her and smiled. "Beryl, I'm curious about everything. Trust me. It's one of my most endearing weaknesses. Or so my friends keep telling me."

"Then why haven't you asked?"

"I figured you would tell me when you were ready. I imagine your mother's death is a terrible shock."

For a split second I caught sight of an expression that might resemble sadness, but it was quickly replaced by her usual disapproving facade. "Well, it's about her wretched business. Who is going to take over Mother's work? She's got weddings scheduled for two years solid."

I stopped patting my ice cream balls. All those poor future brides, I thought. Now here were young women who were probably weeping over the loss of Vivian Duncan.

"Mother told me you were buying her company. Well, actually, that's not quite true. Vivian never told me anything. Whisper told me. But now, Vivian is dead and she's left a terrible mess. Anyway, the point is, the reason I rushed over here today is, I think you should do the weddings."

I had just spent the better part of last night trying to disentangle myself from Vivian's clawish dreams. But here I was again, just like in one of those unalterable recurring nightmares, sinking deeper and deeper, unable to wriggle out from the death grasp of Vivian's determination.

"Beryl, it was all a mistake. I never wanted Vivian's company. Besides, I'm in no position to buy it. It was all something Vivian was dreaming up."

"Don't tell me that. I can't cope with that!"

"Why don't you have some ice cream?" I suggested. "We'll figure something out." I pulled down two pink bowls from my Metlox collection.

"Deep, Dark Brown Sugar," she said, after a thoughtful spoonful. "It's brilliant. But what's that other flavor that makes it seem so intense?"

It always came. They always want to know the secret ingredient.

"My secret," I said conspiratorially, like a magician revealing his trick, "is sour cream."

"Wow."

"You have to add it just before the ice cream begins to set."

Beryl regarded me. "So will you help me?" She had finished her ice cream. "Let's leave buying the business out of it. Will you help me?"

"Why not Whisper Pettibone? Isn't he the best choice?"

"Yes. Whisper has the master planner in his office and he should be doing all of this work! But who knows where that man is? I've been trying to call him all night and all morning, but I can't find him. He won't pick up his cell phone. And he's not answering my pages, either." She sighed. "He was very close to Vivian. He's probably a mess."

"I'm sure he'll turn up." I hoped he'd turn up. And soon. I couldn't help but notice the sucking sound as the quicksand rose over my ankles.

"Look, please, could you just do me this favor? The master planner sits on Whisper's desk. Just go down there and get the schedule, so we can start making calls. I'm late for a meeting as it is. I'm getting a good defense attorney for my dad. Just in case."

She placed a small key ring, which contained two keys, on the island counter between us.

"I'd like to help you. Just so you understand that I will not be taking on any weddings, okay? As long as..."

"Thanks! You're great," she cut me off. "When you get the date book, if you'd call all the brides, that would be a start."

"You want me to call?"

Beryl looked at me from under plain eyelids that had probably never held a dab of eyeshadow. "I've never been married, okay? I specialize in divorce. I don't know how to talk to those women. Can't you smooze them or something?"

"Schmooze," I corrected.

"You're perfect. Look, Madeline. I've had you checked out. You are smarter than you look."

I glanced up at her.

"I mean, for a caterer."

"Hmm. Thanks."

"You know what I mean. You know a little more than just how to add sour cream to bring out the flavor. I think," she continued looking straight at me, "that you're interested in what happened to Vivian. You told me yourself, you're curious. And you're a natural detective. One of your clients was killed last year and the word was you were responsible for finding the killer. Isn't that right?"

"Well..."

Okay, I couldn't help myself. I was curious. Why had young bridegroom Brent and slimy old Whisper Pettibone both disappeared? Had they, I thrilled, slipped away together? On the young man's wedding night? And, really, there were so many other questions bubbling to the surface.

"I think you could help me, and not just by calling a few brides. I think you could probably save my poor dad a whole lot of grief," she said, standing and handing me the key to Whisper's office, "if you would kindly help figure out who killed my mother."

Chapter 12.

The 400 block of South Melwood Drive offered a jumble of retail establishments located in gracious two-story buildings that dated from the forties. Gourmet delis and upscale pooch groomers sat side-by-side with specialty dry cleaners and French bakeries. Here, several blocks of shops and cafes vied for neighborhood customers across wide Wilshire Boulevard from the city's chicest boutiques. For Beverly Hills, south of Wilshire passed for low-rent.

Above these shops, up on the second floors, various anonymous offices went almost unnoticed by the foot traffic on the street below. These were the types of businesses for whom appointments were discreet, and services could be contracted with a minimum of publicity.

Between the storefront belonging to Hilda, European Tailoring and Alterations at 409 South Melwood, and Melwood Fine Wines at 411, a stairway led up one flight and ended at a landing where two doors faced each other. On one dark, heavy, paneled door was a small brass plaque announcing VIVIAN DUNCAN WEDDINGS, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. Across the landing, stood a matching door. On it, was simply the word PRIVATE marked in small brass letters. Apparently, for the past twenty-four years, Vivian had turned right at the top of the stairs, while her devoted assistant, Ted "Whisper" Pettibone, had turned left.

I climbed the granite stairs, leaving the bustle of noonday traffic down below as the street level door closed slowly behind me. So I wasn't really sure if I heard a strange noise coming from the floor up above.

I stopped, midway up the staircase, hyperalert, listening hard. No further noise was audible.

And anyway, why shouldn't there be noise? Just because I was approaching the offices of a woman who had died, that didn't mean there couldn't be someone about. Where, after all, was Whisper? Party planners have a very finely tuned sense of duty. No matter the emergency, the party must go on. And that went double for weddings.

Wait. I did hear something this time.

I pulled out my cell phone and hit the speed dial button. A few moments later I heard Wesley answer the phone.

"Yes?"

"Wesley? It's me. I'm over on South Melwood."

"I got your note. So you're going to take over Vivian's wedding clients now?"

"No."

"Good."

"Well, not unless it's absolutely necessary." I waited a beat, then added, "So do you want to kill me?" I leaned against the cool wall, still halfway up the narrow staircase between 409 and 411 South.

"You know, for a tough chick, you sure seem to let people push you around."

"I know. I'm working on it. But here's the thing. I told Beryl Duncan that I'd find her mother's wedding files. I'm just about at Whisper's office, and..."

"Yes?"

"I thought I heard a noise," I mumbled, feeling terribly idiotic.

"You wimpin' out?"

"It's spooky inside this staircase. Very otherworldish. But now that I have you talking in my ear, I am ready to rock."

"We are quite a team."

"Aren't we? So now I'm going to go up the stairs. Hey, where are you anyway?"

"Driving over Mulholland. I'm going to help Paul move some of his books. You know, I kind of promised him awhile back."

In addition to his lawyerly skills, Paul Epstein was a man of many outstanding and often odd qualities. Like a mad genius. His resume, if he would ever commit anything about himself to paper, would be amazing. He played seven instruments beautifully. He'd been a Marine in Nam. He couldn't part with a single book he'd ever read, and I believe he read just about every book published. And, due to his passionate belief that conspiracy theorists were the only clear-headed thinkers in the country, he had designed a stealth lifestyle, always underground, always on the move, never at one address for longer than nine months.

I reached the landing, faced the door marked PRIVATE, and knocked. After a few seconds, I pulled out the key ring Beryl had given me.

"So, what gives?" Wes asked. "Are you...vmmph...mphet?"

"Wesley?" The phone just spat out static. Great. Wes must have been driving through one of the many annoying dead zones in L.A.'s cellular grid. In the hills, that wasn't so unusual.

"So what's happening?" Wes asked, perfectly clearly.

"I'm trying the keys. The first one doesn't work." As I slipped the second key into the lock, I hitched up my shoulder to hold the tiny cell phone up to my ear. Using both hands, the second key turned easily in the lock and, twisting the doorknob, I felt the door opening.

Then, bam! All hell broke loose. Somehow, the tiny upper landing was instantly filled with men. Big men. Shouting men. Men with guns drawn and pointed at me. Large hands shoved my back, flattening me against the door jamb as the doorknob to Whisper Pettibone's office flew out of my hands, and the door slammed wide open.

"Wes!" I shrieked, trying to grab my cell phone before it fell.

Static on the other end. Dead zone. Shit.

"Wes!"

"SHADDAP! NOW!"

A man's hand grabbed my wrist and jerked it behind me. With my faced pressed into the wall, I couldn't see anything. But I felt my cell phone slip and go crashing down the stairs as I felt the rush of several massive men push past me, entering the office I'd just unlocked.

"Who the hell are you?" I yelled, feeling an adrenal rush of clarity replace the fear. I tried to make sense of it. Where had they come from?

Hell! They'd been in Vivian's office all along. So, they were either the guys who had killed Vivian. Looking for something. Or...

"Are you cops?" I yelled, as I heard the sound of men scuffling "LAPD! Let's see some I.D. Now!"

Holy shit! I'd walked right into the middle of some police ambush. Dehumanized in under five seconds.

"Madeline Bean," I said, trying to dig through my bag for my driver's license. I took it out and handed it to the man. "Vivian Duncan's daughter sent me here."

"Cuff her," one of the cops said.