"You okay?" Ramirez asked, flipping his cell shut.
I nodded.
"You sure?"
I nodded again, bobbing my blonde hair up and down. Which would have been a whole lot more convincing if a pair of tears hadn't picked that moment to slide down my cheeks, probably taking a generous helping of mascara with them.
"Come 'ere." Ramirez crouched down next to me, running the pad of his thumb along my wet face. "You look a little pale."
"Uh huh."
"You're shaking."
"Uh huh."
"You gonna throw up?"
"Uh huh."
Ramirez shook his head, hauling me to my feet. "Come on. Let's walk for a minute, you'll be all right."
He slipped an arm around me, propelling me forward as I continued the deep breathing thing. A few steps to the right, and then we turned around and stepped back to the left. The whole time Ramirez keeping a close eye on the door to L'Amore. After a few paces, feeling started to seep back into my limbs and my stomach stopped rolling like a Six Flags coaster. I took in a deep, shuddering breath.
"Better?" he asked, loosening his hold on me to brush an errant strand of hair from my forehead. "You gonna be okay?"
I put on my best brave face. "Eventually."
Apparently it wasn't that brave, as he pulled me in tight again. Not that I minded. The solid warmth of his chest was settling my stomach better than any antacid could.
"Was she..." I trailed off, not wanting to put the obvious into words but needing to know all the same.
I felt Ramirez nod. "No question. DOA."
I pulled back, looking up at him. He was in full-on cop mode. His eyes scanning the street for possible evidence, his body tense with nervous energy, itching to get at the crime scene, his face set into those grim, unreadable lines that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
"Jack, our wedding planner is dead."
He looked down at me, attempting (poorly) a smile. "Well, at least I got out of cake tasting."
I kicked him in the shin. "Not funny."
I knew he was just trying to make me feel better, but at the moment nothing about this was going to feel good. A woman I'd just spoken to yesterday was dead, her entire life over in one brief moment, leaving a lifeless heap where her sharp-as-a-tack personality had just been.
I shivered again, wrapping my arms around my sides as I heard the distant wail of sirens approaching.
As soon as the boys in blue got there, Ramirez handed me off to a uniformed officer whose nametag read "Hobbs" and told him to take me home. I started to protest, but as much as I wanted to know what happened to land Gigi facedown in my bridal cake, I really didn't have the energy to stick around and watch them wheel the human Hefty bag that was her final legacy out the front door. Besides, the press vultures were already starting to circle and the last thing I wanted was my mascara streaked face on the 5 o'clock news. Thanks to one tabloid reporter in particular, I had a distinct love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with the press. Instead, I let Hobbs follow my little red Jeep home, making sure I got all the way up the stairs to my studio before his cruiser took off down the street.
Once inside, I immediately flipped on the TV. So far the death of Beverly Hills' most prominent wedding planner had yet to make the airwaves. But I knew it was only a matter of time. A story like this didn't chill for long. Obviously Gigi hadn't expired from natural causes. And last I checked, it was pretty hard to stab one's self in the back. That only left murder. Murder in a Beverly Hills wedding studio! The paparazzi would have a field day with this one.
And here I was, smack in the middle of it. Again.
I fought another round of nausea at that disconcerting thought as a knock sounded at my front door.
I flipped off the TV and crossed the room to open it. Only to be attacked in a rib-crusher hug that knocked the air out of me.
"Oh, baby," Mom said, squeezing me like a boa constrictor. "It's just too awful. I can't believe this is happening to you."
"Karma. Karma's a nasty bitch sometimes," said the large, muumuu-clad woman wedging her way into my apartment behind Mom. Mrs. Rosenblatt.
Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three hundred-pound, five-time Jewish divorcee, who read tarot cards and talked to the dead. Eccentric didn't even begin to cover Mrs. Rosenblatt. 90% of the time, she could be found wearing either Birkenstocks or Crocs, and the only thing louder than her Lucille Ball hair color was her muumuus. Today's was no exception. Hot pink with neon blue polka dots all over.
Next to her, Mom's outfit almost seemed subdued.
"Mom, can't breathe," I choked out, my face squished up against her boobs.
Mom eased up and stood back. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know how this could happen but-"
I held up a hand. "Wait. Before you say anything else, let me just assure you that this was totally not my fault. I was just minding my own business, going to taste cake and then Ramirez was late, and then I was worried he wouldn't show, but he did, but I already had the hiccups by then, and when we tied to go inside to get a glass of water, there she was with a knife in her back."
Mom blinked. Then her face drained of all color, going a shade of pale even Casper couldn't attain. "Knife?" She swayed on her feet, leaning on the back of my futon for support. "What do you mean, 'knife'?"
Oh hell. "Uh... exactly why were you so sorry a minute ago?"
Mrs. Rosenblatt put a steadying hand at Mom's elbow. "We were sorry that the restaurant we booked for the rehearsal dinner cancelled. Said the health inspector came in and found a roach in the kitchen, shut the whole place down. So, we gotta have it someplace else."
"Oh." If I ever learned to shut my big mouth, it would be a miracle.
"What knife?" Mom persisted, grabbing my arm in a death clutch.
I bit my lip. Well, if the cat was out of the bag, I couldn't very well stuff it back in clawing and screaming. Reluctantly, I filled Mom and Mrs. R in on the events of the afternoon. Even though I tried to gloss of the more gory details, Mom's eyes were still dilated to an unhealthy size by the time I was finished and Mrs. Rosenblatt's mouth was hanging open, showing off her lipstick stained teeth.
"Oy, your karma really sucks, bubbee. You musta been Hitler in a former life or something."
"Great. Thanks."
"Oh my stars, I can't imagine how awful it would be to find her like that," Mom said, a hand going to her heart.
I cringed as the all-too-fresh memory of Gigi's limp body knotted up in my stomach. "It wasn't the best day ever. But Ramirez was with me," I added.
Which seemed to calm her a little.
"Oh my poor, poor baby. Why do these things always happen to my baby? I tried to raise you right. You had a good home, went to a good school. Granted, I might have been a little lenient with bedtime and maybe let you have one too many sweets now and then, but I did my best. So why, oh why, is it my daughter who always finds the dead bodies?"
Okay, a very little.
"Look, Mom, I'm okay." Mostly. "Ramirez is handling the case, everything's fine."
"You're sure you're okay?" she asked again.
"Yes." And, actually, the more I said it, the more I started to almost believe it myself.
"In that case, we'll handle the rehearsal dinner," Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up. "Now that I think about it, I seem to remember my second husband, Carl had a cousin who works in a place just down the street from the Beverly Garden. Italian joint. Has a live accordion player and everything. Classy."
While accordion didn't exactly scream "classy" to me, I let it go. In light of a dead wedding planner, the details of ambient music at my rehearsal dinner took a backseat.
"Call me if you need anything," Mom said as she and Mrs. R made for the door. "I mean it. Anything."
"Thanks." I gave her another hug, glad to see a little color returning to her cheeks.
As soon as the door closed behind them, I dug into my purse and pulled out my cell, speed dialing number one.
Three rings lat
er, Dana's breathless voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. And have I had a hell of an afternoon."
"Oh, man, tell me about it," she shouted. "I just finished that cartoon reading and my throat is so raw! You would not believe the high, squealy voice they wanted me to do. I mean, please, do flamingos even talk that way?"
"Listen," I said, "I need pedi therapy. Want to meet me at Fernando's in twenty?"
"God, yes."
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I pulled my car down Beverly and parked on the street, a block south of Fernando's Salon.
Mom met Faux Dad a couple years ago when, after twenty some years of being a single mother, she'd decided to reenter the dating scene with a whole new look. She'd gone to Fernando's where Faux Dad had used his cut and color talents to not only give her a stylish makeover, but to win her heart as well. Mere months later, they'd exchanged vows in a beautiful ceremony with yours truly as the maid of honor. Which shocked the hell out of me, let me tell you, since at that point I'd been 99% sure Faux Dad was gay. But, as dads go, he's been stellar. Mom glows like a teenager, her roots have never looked better, and I get all the free pedis I want. What more could a girl ask for?
As I pushed through the glass front doors of Fernando's, I saw that this season's theme was Rock 'n' Roll retro. Think Happy Days and the Fonze.
In addition to Faux Dad's talents with a blow dryer, he was also a bit of an amateur interior decorator. (See what I mean? For a straight guy, he totally had the queer eye.) He'd painted the walls in alternating vibrant pinks and blues, with a smattering of old vinyl records tacked up along the ceiling. The reception desk was a chrome and formica piece that looked straight out of a '50s diner, and the stylist stations were each adorned with cardboard cut outs of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. From somewhere doo wop was being pumped into unseen speakers, and the front chairs had been upholstered to look like they were wearing giant poodle skits. I suddenly had the urge to order a double malted, Daddy-o.
"Mads!"
Faux Dad's receptionist, Marco, came gliding in from the back. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore enough eyeliner to single handedly keep Maybelline in business.
In keeping with the theme, he was wearing skintight blue jeans, ending a good two inches above his white socks, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket, a la West Side Story. His jet black hair was slicked back from his forehead and on his feet were - I kid you not - roller skates. He skidded to a stop just inches from me, leaning on the reception desk for balance.
"Dahling, it's been ages since you've been in. Color touch up?" he asked, eyeing my roots.
Self-consciously, I fluffed my hair. "No. Actually, I wanted to see if you could get Dana and me in for pedis."
Marco frowned. "You know it messes up my whole schedule when you drop in like this, Maddie." He consulted his big black book.
"Pretty please, Marco. I need comfort today."
"Oh?" He lifted one drawn-in eyebrow. "Do tell, honey."
Marco was the current frontrunner for biggest gossip in all of L.A. County. I knew if I told him, within minutes it would be on every blog, Yahoo! loop, and MySpace bulletin in cyberspace. But, since the press would be running with it soon enough anyway, I figured I'd give him the pleasure of breaking this particular story.
"It's Gigi Van Doren."
"She's your wedding planner, right?"
"Was."
"Was?" There went the other eyebrow. "What happened?"
"Someone killed her."
Marco took in a shocked breath, his hands flying to his mouth. "No!"
"Yes. This morning. Ramirez and I walked in to taste the cake and found her there."
"Heart attack?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Not unless it was brought on by a knife in her back."
"Oh, my God, the poor thing!" Though Marco's eyes were shining like he'd just won the gossip lottery.
"Ramirez is with her now. So... a pedi-worthy emergency?"
"Good, God, yes! I'll fit you both right in. Come on, come soak and tell Auntie Marco all the gory details."
Ten minutes later my toes were encased in a lavender-scented foot bath and Marco was on gossip overload, his eyes glazing over like he was high. He was just beginning to look truly feverish when Dana walked into the salon and plopped down in the pedi chair next to me.
"God, what an afternoon. I swear I'm going to be hoarse for the next week."
I turned to look at her. And blinked. Twice.
She was clad in a pink leotard covered in feathers that started at her throat and ended just above her derriere. Hot pink stockings and pink boots covered her legs, while her arms were encased in long, loose sleeves that seemed to be molting pink feathers all over the black and white checkered floor.
"Hey, Big Bird," Marco said.
Dana looked down at her outfit. "Very funny. I had a reading."
"A voice over reading," I reminded her,
"Right. I'm playing a flamingo."
"For a cartoon. You do realize that they usually draw cartoons right?"
Dana waved me off. "Ricky says the best way to know a character is to live like that character. We're taking this new method acting class together. It's at the Uta Hagen studio."
Ricky was Dana's boyfriend of the past year and star of the prime-time soap Magnolia Lane. Ricky had recently won a People's Choice Award for his portrayal of the hunky gardener on the show, after which Dana had vowed to follow any and all advice he had for her own acting career (such as it were). I hesitated to point out that Ricky's popularity probably had more to do with the fact that he took his shirt off in every episode than it did his amazing acting skills. But I had to admit, Uta Hagen was the premier acting coach to have. Though...
"Wait, I thought Uta Hagen passed away?"
"Oh, she did. It's being taught by one of her student's cousin's coaches. Bernie Sholpenstein. But it's so her method."
"Ah." I'm proud to say, I totally didn't roll my eyes here. See what a good friend I am?
"Anyway, what's the pedi emergency?" she asked, slipping off her boots and letting her toes settle into a bath of hot bubbly water.
Marco and I quickly filled her in. (Okay, mostly Marco. He was already embellishing the scene with blood spatter, ominous music in the background, and a feeling of foreboding creeping up my spine as I walked into the studio. Needless to say, I didn't even try to hide the eye roll this time.) When we were finished, Dana's eyes were as big as two round ostrich eggs.
"How traumatic! Maddie, are you okay?" she asked.
I nodded. And here in the bubbly, warm, lavender-scented comfort of Fernando's, it was almost true. Seriously, there was something magical about pedis. I swear if more people took time out for their toes, we'd have altogether less war and crime in the world.
"So, who do you think killed her?" she asked.
I shrugged. "I dunno."
"I bet it was one of her clients," Marco said. "You know she did the Spears wedding last spring."
"Britney?"
"No, Hank. Britney's cousin. But it was all over the Us Weekly special. Very tasteful."
"No," Dana said, shaking her head (prompting pink feathers to molt into her pedi tub). "No, why would her clients want her dead? I mean, without her, there's no wedding, right?"
Marco gasped, his hands flying to his face again. "Maddie, does this mean the wedding's off?"
I'd been so freaked out by encountering the dead body I hadn't even thought of that. Was I a bad person that for a brief moment I was relieved I wouldn't have to order four hundred linen place cards after all?
"No, no way," Dana protested. "No, the wedding will go on. It's too late to cancel."
"But it's too late to book another A-list planner. Honey, those gals book moooooonths in advance," Marco said, drawing out the word and punctuating it with a sharp snap of his wrist.
"You know what? It's fine," I said. "We don't need a planner. I mean, we really wanted somethin
g small and intimate anyway. We'll just scale it down a little-"
"Oh!" Dana said, cutting me off as she popped up from her chair. "I know. We'll plan it ourselves!"
"Uh... we?"
"Marco and I."
I looked from Marco's roller skates to Dana's flamingo feathers. "Um, I don't know..."
"That is the most fabulous idea ever conceived!" Marco shouted, slipping forward in his excitement and grabbing the arm of my pedi chair to keep from skating away. "Surely most of the heavy work has already been done. The wedding venue, the minister, the caterer, all booked right?"
Reluctantly I nodded. "Yeeees. But..."
"So all we have to do is decorate, organize, and deal with the last-minute stuff."
"I totally know how to do this," Dana chimed in. "I've played a bride three times on the Lifetime channel. Oh, and I even auditioned for that J Lo movie about the wedding planner. I totally know weddings."
"Me too!" Marco squealed. "Oh, I saw this special on the Home and Garden Network about these tulle rose bouquets as gifts for your guests. They were daaaaaahling! We must do those!"
"Um, guys, I'm not sure..."
"Perfect! Oh, and I know one of Ricky's friends that has this band that's totally off the hook. Usually they do bar mitzvahs, but I'm sure they can do weddings, too."
I felt dread curling up from my pruney toes all the way to the tips of my fingers. "Guys, really, I don't think I need all this. I mean, the wedding's pretty planned already. We're good. Really."
"Oh, yeah?" Dana challenged. "When are the flowers arriving?"
"Uh..."
"And the limo?"
"What do I need a limo for?"
"The photography arrangements, the tux rentals," she said ticking items off on her fingers, "the makeup artist. Do you even know who's doing your makeup for the event?"
"Um... me?"
Marco and Dana gave me twin stares. Both said I was totally outnumbered. Again.
I threw my hands up. "Okay, fine. You two can plan my wedding."
"Eeek!" Dana said, engulfing me in a hug that sent feathers up my nose. "I'm so excited, this is going to be the best wedding ever. First thing is to sit down with you and Ramirez and pick a color scheme."
Mayhem in High Heels Page 3
