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  Squeezing between chairs that had been slipcovered in a black-and-white pinstripe satin, I made my way into the heart of the tight cluster of tables.

  “Excuse me. Mr. Grasso?”

  The face from the passport photo I’d examined earlier that afternoon looked up at me and smiled a perfect capped-teeth smile. Albert Grasso checked me out and appeared to like what he saw. He took in my slinky halter dress, his eyes lingering on my bare shoulders. I had to bend slightly to be heard over the auctioneers, who had just been introduced. Brianna, I noticed, was sloshed. When I turned my attention back to Table 10, I immediately regretted the deep V of my gown, as it now offered up my cleavage at exactly Albert’s eye level. Albert’s wife/girlfriend/whatever was on alert. She was a pale woman in her forties with a recently tucked chin and a short blond hairdo.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” I started again, unable to keep from putting my hand up over the deep neckline of my dress. “I wonder if I might have a word with you. It’s important.”

  Albert’s date had all she was going to take. She raised her voice and said, “Al doesn’t make business appointments at social events, dear.”

  Another man sitting at the table smiled at me. Clearly a young woman bending over their table was more than most of these tuxedoed old codgers had hoped for when their wives had dragged them out for another fund-raising evening. “Are you a singer?” the second man inquired.

  “A singer?” I was not following.

  Albert Grasso said, “I might be able to fit you in my schedule. What’s the problem? What’s your label? Are you signed?”

  “Mr. Grasso, I’m Madeline Bean. I’m an event planner. Actually, I’m surprised to see you here tonight—but you see, this evening’s Jazz Ball is an event my company is producing.”

  “Very nice,” Albert said. “Beautiful dinner.” And then he leaned closer to my bosom and asked with a wink, “And you sing?”

  What was it about singing? And then I remembered the pictures. Cher. David Bowie.

  “Are you a singing coach?”

  “A singing coach?” Albert’s date/wife parroted.

  “You don’t know who I am?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  In the background, the auctioneer from Sotheby’s was rattling off the first item and was already in high gear. The item up for bid was a week’s stay at someone’s private castle in Scotland, donated by one of the board members at the Woodburn. The last bid was $8,000, I heard as I turned back to Albert Grasso.

  “I’m sorry to bother you here at the party tonight. I probably should have waited until a more appropriate time, but I was so surprised to see your name on the guest list.”

  “I work in the music business, Ms. Bean. I know many of the musicians who played in the concert tonight. I always try to give back to the community.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m sure. It’s just that I have a personal matter to discuss with you.”

  The woman seated beside Albert Grasso had been following the rapid bidding as the price on the Scottish castle week went up to $12,500. She raised a card displaying her bidding number and the auctioneer quickly called her bid of $13,000. Onstage, Brianna Welk put two fingers to her mouth and whistled.

  “Yes?” Albert turned to me and waited for more.

  “A private matter, Mr. Grasso.”

  Albert’s companion pulled her bidding card down and snapped her head to hear our conversation.

  “Private?” Albert again looked at my tight dress and stood up. “Excuse me, Caroline,” he said, nodding to the woman and dismissing her as he turned to me. He put his hand on the small of my back as older men like to do, leading me out of the center of the tables and off to the side of the room.

  “My girlfriend gets jealous,” he muttered with a wink as we found a quieter spot to talk.

  “I hope I’m not causing you any trouble.”

  “A beautiful young woman comes looking for Albert Grasso. That’s the kind of trouble I dream of.”

  “Thank…you.” I couldn’t imagine if that was the correct response. “Mr. Grasso. I know this sounds like none of my business and it’s a very unusual question, but are you missing a lot of your private papers?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Just then an eruption of applause drowned out my response. We both looked up at the stage, where the Sotheby’s auctioneer was repeating the winning bid. The trip to Scotland with the castle that sleeps twenty-four had just gone for $28,500.

  “I live in Whitley Heights,” I started again.

  “You’re kidding! So do I.” Albert smiled at me. He thought I was making a pass at him.

  “I live on Whitley just below your house on Iris Circle. Somehow, a lot of paperwork and photos and files with your name on them were dumped on my property.”

  “Holy shit.” The gleam went right out of Albert Grasso’s eye. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I can’t explain how this mess got on my lawn, Mr. Grasso, but I found your passport and I was planning on calling—”

  “My passport? What else do you have?”

  “Photos of celebrities. Confidential reports. Insurance papers. Bible-study notes.”

  Albert Grasso stared at me, his face ashen. “Where are they now?”

  “At my house. It’s also my office. I would have tried to get in touch with you earlier, but of course I had this big job tonight.”

  “So,” he said slowly. “Did you read my papers?”

  “Not really. I mean, I was planning on tossing it all out. It was just litter. But then I noticed the passport.”

  He glowered at me. Didn’t he realize I was trying to help him here? How do I get myself into these things?

  “How much do you want?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Do I want? I don’t want anything.”

  “Yeah. Sure you don’t. You better return every single sheet of paper. Every single file. I’ll pay two thousand.”

  Over the loudspeaker, Brianna Welk’s high voice came across with the slightest of slurs. She was the lead auctioneer on the next item and told the crowd that the bidding would start at $5,000.

  “Mr. Grasso. I’m beginning to feel insulted here. I don’t want any reward.”

  “Do I hear six thousand?” called out Brianna.

  “I’ll give you six thousand,” Albert responded, raising his own bid. What was going on?

  “Look, I have your address,” I said sternly. “I’ll have one of my staff return the box of papers to you tomorrow.”

  “I want it right now,” Albert said, grabbing my wrist. “I don’t know what game you’re playing. You say you have my personal papers, but just how did you get them? Did you break into my house? Is that how you have my address?”

  “No!”

  “You must think you’re clever. You knew I wouldn’t call the police. I’m a big name in Los Angeles, dear. I’m the top vocal coach in town. I have the trust of every singer that gets paid a million just to open his mouth, you understand? I have to protect my privacy and that of my clients. This morning I went into my home office. I saw the file cabinet was open. Obviously, I should have checked more carefully. I looked around and the art was there. The cash was there. But I knew something wasn’t right. I didn’t get around to opening every drawer, checking every file. I have been distraught, young woman. You think I wanted to come here tonight? Caroline insisted I take her, since she’s active on the board and I’d spent a thou on the tickets. Got it? So let’s get down to business. I want my files back and you have them.”

  “You really don’t understand.”

  “Calm down. You will get your payoff, young woman. Just tell me how much.”

  I pulled my wrist out of his tight grasp as the crowd applauded another winning bid. “Tomorrow,” I said, through clenched teeth, “I will turn in all the papers that I found on my property to the police. If you want your things back, I suggest you report what is missing to them. That’s what you should have done in the first place. Th
ey can sort all this out. I certainly want nothing more from you, Mr. Grasso.”

  “Ten thousand,” he called loudly after me as I pushed through the crowd.

  “I have a bid of ten thousand dollars for the private parking space at the Woodburn School,” Brianna Welk said with excitement, suddenly pointing to the back of the room, directly at Grasso. “Do I hear anything higher?”

  “All or Nothing at All”

  Madeline,” Dilly Swinden called out.

  I pressed my lips together, quickly changing gears, readjusting my mood. The client deserves a cheerful event planner. “You look stunning, Dilly,” I said, admiring her trim figure and the Prada gown covered in jet-black beads.

  “No, you do. Look at your long neck. But just wait until next year. I’ll look much better after my little trip,” she said, winking. “Madeline, have you been watching? They are about to auction off your luncheon.” Dilly gestured toward to stage, where Brianna was pulling the microphone out of the hand of the Sotheby’s auctioneer.

  Ah, yes. Our luncheon. “Thanks, Dilly. I hope we raise a bundle.”

  “We will,” Dilly said, grabbing my hand in a girlfriendlike grasp, the largest stone in her ruby ring bruising my fingers in friendship. “Thanks to your smoking martinis.”

  Onstage, Brianna began reading the description of our offering, called a Flower and Gourmet Lover’s Garden Party for Twenty Ladies, including the flower-arranging lesson (two arrangements would be made and taken home by each of twenty guests; all flowers, vases, and extras were included) and a gourmet luncheon (including a special lobsterand-avocado salad) catered by Mad Bean Events. Brianna’s reading was surprisingly flawless, and it made me wonder if she was equally talented at reading her studio TelePrompTer under the influence. I would certainly be watching the local news with a new perspective.

  Brianna asked the crowd to open the bidding at $5,000. I, alone, gasped.

  Soon, a hand was raised, and although many of the diners were enjoying after-dinner refreshments and greeting their friends, enough guests were following the auction to keep the bidding lively.

  Holly brought over a plate filled with chocolate-dipped strawberries about the size of billiard balls. “Schnitzel! It’s up to thirteen thousand.”

  Brianna was getting dramatic, trying to keep the bidding going. “This money is going to the children,” she pleaded. “Come on, people. Pay attention to me, here. Let’s focus! I’m asking for fourteen goddamn thousand now. Do I have fourteen?” She got a bid of $14,000, but the cross-conversations among the happy dinner crowd did not subside.

  “Did Brianna Welk just cuss out the guests?” Holly asked, with a whoop of shock.

  “One smoking martini too many, I’d say.”

  “Holy moley.”

  There seemed to be three women who were still in the bidding for the garden party and gourmet luncheon and I was a little overwhelmed at the money folks were willing to pay. By the time the bids reached $18,000, I began thinking I’d better add caviar to the menu.

  Brianna was wrestling to get the crowd to settle down so she could persuade the bidding upward. Just then, Albert Grasso’s date, Caroline, approached from out of nowhere.

  “You have some nerve,” she said, right in my face.

  “Hey, whoa!” Holly said, yelping as Caroline trod on her foot.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked. “Because right now they are auctioning off—”

  “I don’t care if they are auctioning off your ass, sweetie,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant. “You and me are going to have a nice little talk.”

  I stared at her. What now?

  “Albert wants his papers back and he said you weren’t willing to cooperate. He’s not going to pay your blackmail money. I’ll have you know we have already called our lawyer and the police. Expect to find them at your doorstep with an arrest warrant.”

  “What?” Holly said, gasping again.

  “It’s a lucky thing, then,” I replied, “that I have over a dozen witnesses to testify I was working in my kitchen on this party all day and an eyewitness to my finding the litter dumped on the lawn.”

  “You do?” Caroline hesitated for just a minute.

  “Do I hear twenty thousand?” Brianna warbled over the PA. “Please, people, settle down.”

  “It is ludicrous for you and Mr. Grasso to come so unglued. But now that I think about it, I can’t possibly know to whom all those files actually belong.”

  “What are you saying?” Caroline said, confused and angrier than ever. “Of course those papers are Al’s!”

  “Are they?” I asked calmly.

  She looked furious, her tight little chin quivering.

  The people near us were all laughing and joking loudly, unaware of our spat or the auction, which had reached $21,500.

  “I have decided this really is a police matter,” I finished. “I am a very close friend of a detective on the LAPD, and I think it’s wise to let them handle it, Caroline. And my suggestion to Mr. Grasso is, please keep going to that therapist.”

  “Everyone…” Brianna called from the stage, her high-pitched voice projecting over the loudspeaker. “Listen to me now. Everyone…”

  “Mad,” Holly whispered as Caroline stood there, sputtering, “What the hell?”

  “EVERYONE…” Brianna tried again, much closer to the mike.

  “You are going to regret this!” Caroline shouted at me.

  “WHAT?” Holly and I yelled at the same time.

  “You leave my Albert alone!” she shouted back.

  At which point, Ms. Brianna Welk, up on the stage, had simply had enough. She expected the crowd’s respect. She assumed their devotion. And most of all, she demanded their goddamned attention. She screamed into the microphone, “SHUT UP!”

  And at that, this assembled group of happily partying arts patrons, parents, and philanthropists, some soused, some flirting, some chatting loudly with friends not seen in weeks, along with Albert Grasso’s overwrought lady friend, simultaneously stopped speaking in sheer surprise and alarm.

  “That’s better,” Brianna drawled over the mike, not noticing the stunned glares of disapproval. “I just wanted to say, the flower-thingie luncheon is going…going…gone! Sold to the lady at Table 4 for twenty-six thousand five hundred!”

  “Gadzooks!” Holly said, shaking her head, as someone on the auction committee rushed onto the stage and managed to pry the microphone out of Brianna’s hand. The Sotheby’s auctioneer took over and the party guests went back to a slightly quieter form of chatter. “Say, what happened to that nasty woman?” We both looked around, but Caroline had disappeared. “And why was she so angry?”

  “That’s a good question. It has to do with the papers I found in front of my house this afternoon. There may be something private among those papers that our neighbors do not want anyone to see. Why else would they get so bent out of shape?”

  “Just what you need, Maddie, more crazies.”

  I smiled.

  “And what was that you were telling her about being ‘a very close friend of a detective on the LAPD’? Are you speaking to Chuck Honnett again?” Holly asked.

  “Well, no. I still hate him, of course. Nothing’s changed there. But I was so sick of all her threats and intimidation. I thought it made me sound more substantial to say I have friends in high places.”

  Holly nodded. “It did.”

  I smiled back at her. “I know. I wish I still did have one, too.”

  Honnett and I. Now there was a story. He was this detective with whom I’d had a short, kind of passionate thing. It had started earlier in the year and had ended not that many months later. A pity the whole thing blew up, since we had some great chemistry. Really great. But he hadn’t been honest with me. He hadn’t told me everything.

  “Being hot is not a crime,” Holly reminded me, referring to Honnett’s long, lean body and stong-jawed, edgy looks.

  “We really had nothing in common,” I
said. I knew it was lame, but there was truth to it. My friends were chefs, artists, bohemians, writers, the unemployed. Honnett was a cop. His buddies were cops. He liked rules. He liked guns. He liked being a macho man, not too many words. I was all talk. This thing would have ended sooner or later. I just hadn’t seen the end coming quite as soon as it had.

  “What are you talking about?” Holly asked, staring at me. “You and he were cool. So he was a little older than you—”

  “Like about fifteen years,” I drawled.

  “Maybe a real man isn’t such a bad thing to have around,” she countered. “Maybe on him the years looked pretty good.”

  “It wasn’t that. It was the fact that he hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that he hadn’t completely divorced his wife yet. That kind of got in the way, Hol.”

  “True. That wasn’t good.”

  I smiled at her. Neither of us had had such good luck with men. Holly had an on-again, off-again relationship with an adorable young screenwriter. In fact, a few months ago they decided to run off to Vegas and elope. We all went out there on a moment’s notice, Wes, me, Holly and her Donald, and a dreamy rebound guy I thought I should fall for, John.

  Only, when we got to the Venetian Hotel, Holly started getting calls from her mother and her sisters. They wanted to be there when Holly got married. They couldn’t believe she’d do it without them. Soon Donald’s mother was calling them on their cell phone, too, pleading for them to set a date in a reasonable month and let the family come in from the Midwest for a real wedding. In the end, the impetuous couple gave in. Just goes to show what romantic havoc a cell phone can play. Holly swears if Romeo and Juliet had had a cell, they would never have been lying in bed together when the light from yonder window broke, what with Romeo’s mother calling every five minutes looking for him.

  Still, we did have a lovely time in Las Vegas. Wes won twelve hundred dollars playing Caribbean stud. Donald got his picture taken with an Elvis impersonator. My new date, John, was a doll and a real gentleman, despite the fact that I kept thinking about Honnett the entire weekend. And Holly was approached about trying out as a showgirl. Poor Holly. Poor me.