Perfect Sax by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online

rival.

“Party’s Over”
    U sually, I’m one of the last people to leave a party—I’m supervising, I’m carrying things, I’m working—but not this evening. Holly and Wes had it all well in hand, and I had this nagging urge to get back to my house in Whitley Heights and that carton of documents that Albert Grasso had been so excited about. As soon as the live auction ended, I went to the kitchen to grab my bag and headed out through the main entrance of the Tager Auditorium onto a tranquil, postmidnight, traffic-free Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles. At the curb, a trio of uniformed valets (black pants, cool newsprint T-shirts—okay, we were obsessed with our theme) were running to get cars for departing guests. As they brought up the vehicles, the lineup at the curb displayed the latest in luxury SUVs. Silver was the color du jour, I noted. The lacquered finishes on car after car shone bright as a string of silver beads in the light of the streetlamp. Tired men in tuxes went through the ritual of finding their parking stubs, tipping the valets, and taking their princesses home from the ball. I noticed many couples had been successful in the silent auction, as quite a few were loading giant cellophane-wrapped baskets or other large items into the backs of their SUVs. I handed my ticket to a young man with long sideburns and pulled my silk shawl more firmly around my shoulders.
    “Madeline? Are you leaving?”
    I looked up to see Connie Hutson, the Woodburn Ball’s auction chairwoman. Tall, with a halo of auburn hair and the sort of prominent cheekbones that didn’t need quite as much coral-colored blusher as Connie always wore, she was dramatic in white sequined pants. Her matching blazer dipped low, baring lots of tanned chest and a rather amazing diamond pendant.
    “Hello, Connie. What a spectacular job you did with the auction!” In speaking to clients after a party, I often gush. Whether it’s good PR or just exhaustion on my part, I have yet to determine.
    “Ah, it was hell, my dear. Pure hell. But we did raise a staggering amount of money for the Woodburn.” She gave me a look, half grimace, half smile.
    “Do you have a total?”
    “Liz Reed is doing a final tally, but I am simply dead on my feet. I’ve been here since nine this morning setting up the silent auction tables. Enough is enough.”
    Of course, I’d been at work even earlier, but it is a rare client who finds that fact compelling. Instead, I expressed my concern for Connie. “You must be so tired. I hope you plan to sleep for a week.”
    “I wish I could, Madeline. I’ve simply got too much to do. Ryan comes home from surf camp tomorrow and then he has his sax recital on Thursday, or we would have gone to our Cap Ferrat house and just unwound. Oh, look. Dave is waving at me.” She waved back at a handsome man standing farther down the curb who was balancing a neon-yellow splashed, custom-made surfboard, which I remembered seeing on one of the silent auction tables, and turned back to me once more. “Our car isn’t here yet, and Dave is not very patient. Well, I just wanted to tell you what a marvelous job you and your firm did for us tonight.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And listen, if you see that awful Patsy Stephenson, just whisper to the parking attendants to take their time retrieving her car.”
    “What? Tell me the scoop,” I said, sensing a story.
    “Ugh. Patsy. What can I say? She always volunteers to be on my committee and then does absolutely nothing. The rest of us are busting our tails tracking down leads and getting auction items, and she is always too busy or some other excuse. I swear, if her husband didn’t give us a check for twenty grand to underwrite the bar, I’d just kick her butt right off the committee.”
    “Which one is Patsy?” I asked, turning to look at the welldressed men and women who were continuing to make their way out of the party.
    Connie’s eyes followed mine and then she turned back.