Played to Death (2 page)

Jamie

The estate was grand even by Holmby Hills standards. After checking our invitation, the guard waved us in through the gates. Another guard pointed us toward the house, where a gaggle of valets were helping people out of their cars. When we pulled up, the valet looked at Pete’s battered Jeep Cherokee with a raised eyebrow but opened his door without comment. Another valet opened my door, and I climbed out.

The foyer of the house was high-ceilinged and the hallway that stretched to the back doors was as wide as a two-lane road. There were flowers everywhere in various shades of white, pale pink and fuchsia. Pete said to me, “Got your inhaler?”

“Yep.” With my history of asthma, I never went anywhere without my inhaler.

We didn’t linger in the hall. The back doors were open onto a huge infinity pool, sparkling in the sun. We walked out onto the pool deck and were met by a guy in a tux, wearing a fuchsia cummerbund and bow tie that matched the flowers in the hall. He checked our invitation. “Kent or Graham?”

Pete said, “Kent.”

“Left side, please.” He handed us two programs that had the dimensions of road atlases - like menus at an expensive restaurant, engraved with Kent’s and Graham’s names and the date. We walked around the pool to the left. The seats were arranged in three sections, with two aisles. We picked a row toward the back, since we were both tall, and on the outside edge of the row.

We got settled and Pete started studying his program. “Geez. This is a little over the top.”

“Ya think?” I decided to save the program to read in case the ceremony was boring and took a look around. There was a string quartet playing at the front. I glanced at them then did a double take. I nudged Pete. “Hey. Check out the string quartet.”

Pete looked up. “Yeah? What about it?”

“See the guy on cello?”

Pete squinted a little. “Yeah?”

“It’s my ex. Scott.”

“No shit.” Pete scrutinized Scott. “He’s very... blond.”

“I wonder what he’s doing here? He almost never plays weddings.”

Pete flipped through the program to the back. “Here are the names of the musicians. No Scott.”

I looked at the page in my own program. “Oh – Cameron Wiley is a friend of Scott’s. I bet he had to cancel at the last minute and talked Scott into substituting for him.”

“And there wasn’t time to change the name in the program.”

“Right.”

“This is the guy who broke up with you in the hospital?”

“Yeah.” I’d been admitted to the hospital after a vicious asthma attack had turned into a case of pneumonia. Scott broke up with me that evening. I’d had an oxygen mask on my face and IVs in my arms and was almost too sick to care.

Pete glared in the direction of the quartet. “I don’t think I like him.”

“Hey, he did you a favor. If he hadn’t broken up with me, I’d still have been with him when you wanted to start dating again.”

“True.” Pete studied the musicians. “Those kids playing with him don’t look old enough for the Philharmonic.”

“I don’t think they’re in the Philharmonic. Wiley teaches at Pasadena City College. Those are probably students.”

“Kind of a comedown for a Philharmonic guy, right?”

“Yeah. But I’m sure the money’s making it worth his time.”

The wedding was interminable. There were ten groomsmen on each side, each wearing a tux with a fuchsia cummerbund and tie, and it took a while for them to all walk to the front. I noticed that the music was
Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring
. Scott was probably gritting his teeth while he was playing. Then the grooms entered, both in white tuxes with pink cummerbunds, each on the arm of his pink-clad mother (according to the program). They walked down the aisles at the same time to meet in the front. One of the grooms - Graham, I supposed, since he was on the opposite side - was carrying a fluffy white dog. Good God.

Pete whispered, “Is that a
dog?
”

“Think so.”

Pete made a “pah” sound. The woman in front of us turned around and glared at him, but the glare was replaced by covetousness as she looked Pete over.

I snickered.

Both grooms and the minister were miked, so we could hear every word. And there were a shitload
of words. The minister spoke first, sort of a celebration of marriage equality speech. Then each groom read a poem to his mother. Then the mothers were seated while the quartet played a selection. Then each groom recited a poem to the other, then the quartet played again. Then the minister talked more, then the grooms read prose selections to each other, then there was another piece from the quartet. And this cycle was repeated about three more times. By the time they got to the actual vows, I’d read the entire program twice and was making notes to myself on its blank back page about ideas for an article I was writing. Pete was studying the menu for the reception. I glanced at Scott a couple of times during the blather; his face was a carefully composed blank. I laughed to myself. Scott had an extremely low tolerance for this kind of thing. He must be going out of his mind.

Finally,
the minister pronounced the grooms married, and everyone cheered. The quartet played the recessional and the grooms walked back to the house. The minister invited everyone to have a seat under the tents for dinner and people got to their feet and started milling around. There weren’t place cards, thank God, so Pete and I snagged two seats at the outer edge of the nearest tent. We didn’t sit down immediately - we’d been sitting so long - and I realized the quartet had stopped playing. That was odd; I’d have thought that they’d be playing while people were moving. Maybe they were getting a break. I glanced in that direction, and saw that one of the violin players was missing. Scott was checking his watch, and there was a man talking to him and waving his arms.

And then someone screamed.

Scott

The ceremony was a fucking hour and a half long. When it was finally over, the quartet played one more piece while the grooms walked back up the aisle. The wedding planner had told them they could have a ten-minute break after that before people began to sit for dinner. As soon as they finished the
Allegro in D
from
Water Music
- which made Scott grit his teeth again - the kids laid down their instruments and scattered. Scott stood up and stretched, looking around. There must be 400 people here.

Stacy came right back and got settled, ready to play. Scott decided he liked her. They chatted about the Philharmonic for a few minutes. At ten minutes exactly, Brian reappeared, looking flushed.

Stacy asked, “Where’s Elena?” Ah, so that was her name.

Brian grunted. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

At fourteen minutes, Elena still hadn’t appeared. Scott was about to send Stacy to look for her when the wedding planner scurried up. “Why aren’t you playing?”

Scott indicated the empty chair. “We’re missing one.”

The wedding planner was agitated. “Unacceptable! Can’t you play with three?”

Scott looked at Stacy and Brian, who both shrugged. “Sure.”

And then someone screamed.

Jamie

The scream had come from our right, behind the tents, in the direction of the house. Pete said, “Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He slipped out the back of our tent and disappeared. Pete had been out of LAPD for eight years, but he still couldn’t help responding to emergencies. I decided to sit down. It was getting warm, so I hung my suit jacket over Pete’s seat.

The arm-waving guy who’d been talking to Scott’s quartet hurried toward the sound of the scream. The grooms had been greeting guests in the tents on the opposite side of the lawn; I saw one of them – Graham – hand the dog to Kent and walk in that direction as well. No more screams were forthcoming.

After about five minutes, Graham came to the center tent and clapped his hands. “Excuse me, everyone! We’ve had a minor medical emergency with one of the staff. Nothing to worry about. We’ll begin serving dinner now. Enjoy, please!” He then rejoined Kent, whispering something in his ear. Kent looked alarmed, but Graham squeezed his shoulder and they resumed their circuit of the tents.

The servers started delivering plates to the tables - delicate china with bands of pink, fuchsia and gold circling the outer edges. Pete still wasn’t back. Several other people had claimed spots at our table and were chatting amongst themselves. I was wondering if I should go look for Pete when I saw him. He walked from behind the last tent over to the quartet and said something to Scott.

Oh shit. Why was Pete talking to Scott?

Then I heard sirens. Police cars, not ambulances.

What the hell was going on?

Scott

After the groom made his announcement, Scott turned to Stacy and Brian. “Okay, guys. We need to play. If there’s a piece that’s heavy on second violin, we’ll just skip it.”

The kids nodded and Scott turned to the first piece of dinner music. “
Water Music Suite One
. We should be able to do this. Let’s re-tune.” They tuned and were all in position to begin the piece when a tall, dark-haired man approached them. The guy was gorgeous. Scott couldn’t help it – his brain short-circuited for a few seconds.

The guy spoke to Scott. “Your second violinist is missing?”

Scott gathered his wits. “Yeah. She never came back from our break.”

The guy nodded. “Would you mind coming with me for just a minute?”

“Is it necessary?”

“Completely.” The guy gave Scott a look that he couldn’t interpret.

“Okay.” Scott secured his cello in its case and stood up. He could hear sirens getting closer. “Is she the one with the medical emergency?”

The guy didn’t answer until they were out of earshot of Stacy and Brian. “It’s worse than a medical emergency.”

“What do you mean, worse?” Scott was having trouble keeping up with the guy, who was a good four inches taller than him.

“Worse, as in we need you to confirm that the body the caterer found is your violinist.”

“
Body?
” Scott skidded to a halt, his brain short-circuited again. “The groom said it was a minor medical emergency!”

Gorgeous Guy was grim-faced. “He lied so there wouldn’t be a panic.”

“Oh,
fuck
.”

“Yeah.” The guy led Scott past the side of the pool house where the wedding planner was sitting on a folding chair, hyperventilating into a paper bag, being attended to by a security guard. As they approached the main house, the guy stopped and held out his hand. “No farther.”

From their vantage point Scott could see a shape on the ground, crumpled at the base of the main house. One of the catering staff was standing off to the side, crying, being comforted by one of her coworkers. Scott heard slamming doors from the front of the house, and a couple of uniformed cops appeared, a man and a woman. The woman spoke to the caterers and escorted them gently away from the house to where the wedding planner was sitting; the man began to unspool a roll of yellow tape, attaching it to a shrub at the front of the house. Crime scene tape.

The woman cop - her name tag said
Branigan
- seemed to recognize Scott’s escort. She said, “Hey, Ferguson. What are you doing here?”

“I’m a guest at the wedding.” Ferguson indicated Scott. “I was just bringing this guy to identify the body.”

Branigan turned her focus to Scott. Her gaze felt like laser beams. She said. “And you are?”

Scott swallowed hard. “Scott Deering. I’m in the string quartet.”

“Okay, Mr. Deering. And you can identify the body?”

“Maybe. One of the other musicians is missing.”

“Okay. Hang on a sec.” Branigan returned to the side of the house and said something to the male cop, who had secured the other end of the yellow tape to a tree at the edge of the yard. He snapped on latex gloves, knelt at the side of the shape, took out a small camera and snapped a picture, then handed the camera to Branigan. She came back and held the camera so Scott could see it but didn’t actually hand it to him. “Is that your musician?”

It was. From the picture, it looked like she’d collapsed in place and fallen to one side. There were indistinct marks on her neck that hadn’t been there before. “Yeah.” Scott swallowed again and nodded. “It’s her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her first name is Elena. I don’t know her last name. It’s in the program.”

“Okay.” Branigan turned back to Ferguson. “About how many people are here?”

“Three fifty, four hundred.”

“Shit.” Branigan sighed. “We’re gonna need help. And the detectives.” She said to Scott, “Thank you, Mr. Deering. You can go back to your seat and someone will come to take your statement.”

Scott glanced at Ferguson. “Should I tell the other two kids?”

“Not yet. Can you all start playing again? Pretend everything is okay for a while longer?”

“Um – sure.”

“Okay, good. Thanks.” Ferguson held his hand out. He was looking at Scott oddly; Scott couldn’t identify the expression on his face. “Pete Ferguson, by the way.”

Scott shook Ferguson’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Ferguson smiled faintly. “Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

What was
that
about?