I snorted. "Fat chance of that."
Dana her head around. "What does that mean?"
I shook my head. The sad truth was that if I'd thought it was hard to get Ramirez involved before, it was going to be downright impossible now that a homicide was thrown into the mix. When it came to a case, he was like a pit bull with a big meaty bone - focused to a fault. As I voiced my concerns to my friends, I pictured his cop face earlier that day and had a horrible vision of me standing at the altar, staring down an empty aisle. Forget cake tasting, it would be a miracle if he remembered to show to the wedding at all.
"Surely he's not that bad," Dana said. "He'll show."
"Right. Remember my birthday? How I waited outside the opera for a full hour for him."
Marco clucked his tongue. "And they were such good seats."
"Double homicide in the West Hills wins out over La Traviata every time," I sighed.
"But this is his wedding," Dana protested.
I know she was trying to make me feel better. But I had a sinking feeling that tuxedos, slow dancing, and being barraged by four hundred well wishes while surrounded by delicate flowered centerpieces rated even lower on Ramirez's wish list than a night of listening to the fat lady sing. As he'd so aptly put it, he wasn't really a wedding-y guy.
"Well, we'll just have to make sure the case is closed by then," Marco said.
"He's right," Dana said, nodding. "If the death was solved, Ramirez would be free to focus on the wedding"
I bit my lip. "I guess."
"Good, then it's settled," Marco said, his eyes taking on a dangerous twinkle. "Oh, I just love it when we play Charlie's Angels!"
"Me too!" Dana squealed, molting more feathers as she clapped her wings together.
"Wait!" I held up both hands. If there was one thing in this world I had learned to fear it was when my friends used the term 'Charlie's Angels.' Ninety percent of the time it resulted in bodily injury.
Usually to me.
"Listen, as much as I appreciate the help, guys, there's nothing we can do that Ramirez and his crime scene buddies can't."
Dana put her hands on her hips. "Really? Tell me, exactly what did Ramirez say when you told him you were going cake tasting today?"
I felt my cheeks go hot. "He turned on a basketball game."
"Of course he did, because all men hate weddings."
Marc opened his mouth to protest.
"Present company excluded, of course."
He shut it, giving her a nod.
"My point is," she continued, "Ramirez doesn't know the first thing about weddings or wedding planning. He wouldn't even know where to begin looking for Gigi's killer. Maddie, we totally have the advantage over him."
I looked from Marco's beaming face to Dana's smug smile.
Oh boy.
For a brief moment, I almost felt sorry for Gigi's killer. The poor man had no idea what he'd gotten himself into.
Chapter Four
Once our toes were passion pink and ruby rendezvous, respectively, Dana and I settled down on the poodle skirt sofas in the front of the salon while Marco skated back and forth in front of us with a pad of lined yellow paper, outlining our strategy.
"So, where do we start?" Dana asked.
"With centerpieces! We must have floral centerpieces at each reception table. Roses? Carnations?" Marco asked, pen poised.
"Actually, I meant where do we start looking for Gigi's killer?" Dana pointed out.
Marco stuck his lower lip out in a pout. "Oh."
"Roses," I said.
Marco perked up immediately, making a note on his pad.
"What about the husband?" Dana asked.
"Ramirez?" Marco cocked his head to the side. "You think he'd rather have carnations?"
Dana rolled her eyes. "No, Gigi's husband. The husband is always the first suspect on Law & Order."
"You do know that's a fictional show, right?" I pointed out.
"She might be right, though," Marco added. "I'd look at the husband first. Marriage drives people crazy. I mean, you spend that much time with someone, odds are you're gonna want to kill them at some point."
Dana shot a wary glance at me, then stuck a foot out and kicked Marco in the shin as he skated past.
"Ow!" He looked at me. "Oh." Marco's face went red. "Oh, right, well, I totally didn't mean your marriage, Maddie."
"Uh huh. Sure. Thanks."
"Back to Gigi," Dana said, clearing her throat loudly. "Do we know if she was married?"
I shrugged. I had to admit, I didn't know much about Gigi except that she didn't understand the word 'understated.'
"Leave it to me, dahlings," Marco said, skating around his desk to the slim, black computer behind it. He pulled up a Google screen and typed in the name "Gigi Van Doren."
As Marco scrolled through pages of hits, we learned that Gigi was on the alumni committee at UCLA, had signed an online petition to save the polar bears, and had an aunt named Eloise who'd recently died of lung cancer in Poughkeepsie. Finally we hit jackpot as Marco pulled up the online presence of the L.A. Informer.
An article about Gigi Van Doren separating from her husband of two years hit the front page last July, the reporter cruelly pointing out the irony of Beverly Hills' hottest wedding planner not being able to keep a marriage together herself.
"So much for the husband theory," Marco said.
"Well, an ex-husband is even better than a husband. Alimony is a great reason to want someone dead," Dana pointed out.
"Does it list his name?" I asked.
Marco scrolled down. "Seth Summerville. Says he's a real estate developer." He opened a new window, bringing up a yellow pages site, then typed the name into the search engine. A page of Summervilles popped up, ranging from dry cleaners to attorneys. Marco scrolled until he hit on "Summerville Development" in downtown L.A. He clicked the link, printing the address out on a giant printer hidden under a Styrofoam jukebox.
"Perfect, let's go pay the ex Mr. Gigi Van Doren a visit," Dana said, clapping her hands. And molting a few more feathers.
"Uh, maybe you'd like to change first there, Daisy Duck?"
Dana looked down. "Oh. Right. K, we'll stop by my place first, yeah?"
"Definitely."
"Call me the moment you know something!" Marco called out after us as we pushed through the front doors.
* * *
Half an hour later, Dana had ditched the poultry look and was dressed in leather mini and ankle boots, once again looking human. I took the 101 south from her Studio City duplex into downtown, then wound down Figueroa until I hit the address on Marco's printout. It was a big chrome and glass building looming over the street, shimmering in the afternoon light as if to say it was way more important than the other office buildings vying for space in the few short power blocks of downtown.
I circled the structure and parked my little red Jeep in the garage at the end of the block. After clubbing my steering wheel, Dana and I made our way down the street, passing two Starbucks (one on each side of the street, because heaven forbid you'd have to cross) and one Jamba Juice before hitting the Summerville building.
Yeah, he owned the whole building.
"Wow, I hope she had a good prenup," Dana said, as we pushed though the glass front doors into a spacious air-conditioned lobby. "This guy's loaded."
"No kidding." Though from Gigi's designer shoes and nip-tucked appearance, I figured she hadn't made out too poorly.
"How about you, Mads?" Dana asked, consulting the directory by the elevator. "You and Ramirez signed a prenup yet?"
"A what?" I asked, giving her a get-real look.
"A prenup. Have you signed one yet?"
"Me? Um. No. God, no. I mean, why would Ramirez have me sign a prenup?" While Ramirez did own a cozy little two-bedroom in West L.A., it was far from an entire building with his name on it. And his cop salary was at least a few zeroes short of Richie Rich.
"Not him. You," Dana emphasized. "Maddie, you'v
e got to protect yourself."
I choked back a laugh as we stepped into the marble tiled elevator.
"Me? Seriously? Have you seen my studio?"
"Mads, your designs, girl."
"What about them?"
"Well, what are they worth?"
I bit my lip. I guess my career had been looking up a bit lately. But I was still a far cry from a wealthy mogul. "Dana, I really don't think I need to worry about that yet."
"Oh, please, Maddie, everyone gets a prenup these days. You've got to protect yourself girl."
"From Ramirez?"
Dana turned to face me, a frown settling between her strawberry blonde brows. "Maddie, California is a community property state. Did you know that half of any design you create while married to Ramirez will belong to him?"
I paused. "Seriously?" I hadn't actually thought about it before.
"Seriously. This screenwriter friend of mine, his wife was always bitching at him to go out and get a real job. Eventually she left him. He sold the script two months later and, guess what? She got half his royalties. Turns out since the script was written while they lived together, it was technically a marital asset. Talk about irony, huh?"
"Ouch."
Dana nodded vigorously, her bangs bobbing up and down as the elevator doors slid open at the seventh floor. "When you're married, Ramirez will own half of everything you have. Split down the middle. Even half of your tampons will belong to him."
I opened my mouth to protest just how ridiculous that was.
But only a hiccup came out.
"Think about it, Maddie," Dana said as she pushed through the glass doors with the word "Summerville" stenciled in curvy script. "Everyone who's anyone gets a prenup these days."
I clamped my lips together. No doubt that I loved Ramirez. But I hadn't actually given thought to the idea of sharing everything with him. Sure, he had his own shelf in my medicine cabinet, but it had taken me months to get used to even that.
I tried to shove those disconcerting thoughts to the back of my mind and calm my jumping diaphragm as I followed Dana across the posh reception area of Summerville's front office.
My heels clacked on the hardwood floor leading up to a massive wood desk so tall I feared my petite frame might not be visible behind it. The gargantu-desk was manned by a small, slim man in a pink dress shirt and bright green plaid sweater vest. A pair of wired rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose as he talked into a headset glued to one ear.
"Yes, Mr. Summerville will be at the planning commission on the third, but the groundbreaking in Tokyo will have to wait until he comes back from his trip to New York.
"Yes, thank you for calling Summerville, please hold.
"I'll transfer you to HR immediately.
"May I help you?"
His speech was so rapid fire it took me a minute to realize he was talking to me. But his pointed "What?" look, one eyebrow cocked up, head tilted to the side finally clued me in.
"Oh, uh, yes. I was wondering if we could speak with Seth Summerville?"
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Um, not exactly-" I started.
But Mr. Sweater Vest cut me off. "What is this in regards to?"
"Uh..."
Luckily Dana was faster on the draw. "Mr. Summerville wanted to talk with me about modeling for him in their next brochure. You know, for the project in Tokyo?"
Sweater Vest narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. Well, Mr. Summerville is indisposed at the moment. But if you'd like to make an appointment, I'm sure he'd be happy to see you."
"Okay, I guess." Not the immediate gratification I'd been looking for, but not a 'no' either.
Sweater Vest opened a window on his computer and consulted the screen, all the while chatting away to his headset.
"Summerville, please hold.
"Yes, I'll transfer you to Mr. Peterman in accounts receivable.
"No, no the plans for the Fairfax building were messengered over Thursday.
"I have one opening on the twelfth."
Sweater Vest looked at me expectantly.
"Oh, you're talking to me?"
He cocked an eyebrow, tilted his head. Yep, he was talking to me.
"Right, sure. The twelfth will be fine."
"Of April."
I blinked. "April?" It was only February!
"Mr. Summerville is a very busy man."
I felt my heart bottom out my toes. So much for our prime suspect. But unless I was approaching him with a badge and a warrant, it looked like we were SOL.
"Are you sure he doesn't have just a few minutes for us?" Dana asked.
Sweater Vest gave us a stern look that said he was positive. "Shall I pencil you in?'
I shrugged. "Yeah. Sure," I said and gave him our names.
"Fine. See you on the twelfth.
"Yes, the offices are open until five today.
"Mr. Summerville will have to call you back after his conference call this afternoon.
"You'll have to consult local zoning regulations.
"Are you still here?"
I jumped a little at his pointed gaze, realizing he meant us. "Right. Just leaving."
Thusly dismissed, Dana and I marched back to the elevators.
"Well, that was a bust," she said once we got back outside.
I looked up at the building. Then down the street at the twin Starbucks.
Hmm...
"You in the mood for a latte?" I asked Dana.
She shrugged. "Sure."
I pulled out my cell, dialing Marco.
"Yes, dahling?" he answered on the first ring.
"Hey, Farrah. The angels need you. Meet us at Summerville?"
Marco did a happy squeak. "I was just getting off. I'll be right there."
I flipped my phone shut and grabbed Dana by the arm, dragging her down the street to Starbucks number one.
The barista behind the counter wore about fifteen different piercings, half of which were in her lower lip, silver rings jingling with each breath. I tried not to stare (much) as I ordered two grande lattes - one nonfat soy (for Dana), one extra whip (for moi) and three empty paper cups in a cardboard carrying case (for entry to Summerville).
Forty minutes later Dana and I were appropriately caffeinated and waiting again in the lobby of the Summerville building, when Marco showed up. While he was still in his greaser chic garb, I was relieved to see he'd traded in his roller skates for a pair of sensible loafers. Well, as sensible as Marco got. They were iridescent silver with red velvet hearts on the top.
I handed him the three empty cups and quickly filled him in on my plan to get past Sweater Vest as we rode the elevator back up to the seventh floor.
Marco strode through the glass doors, Dana and I hanging back. We waited through a five-Mississippi count, then followed, crouching low as we pushed through the doors, then crab walked across the hardwood floor, ducking below the desk.
"Are you sure Jennifer Moss doesn't work here?" I heard Marco saying. "I swear she said to bring the lattes to the conference room on the seventh floor. You know how much trouble I'm gonna be in if she isn't here?"
Sweater Vest let out a loud sigh. "I'm sorry, but she doesn't work here."
"Maybe she's new?"
Another sigh. This one even louder. "I'll check again, but I can almost guarantee you've got the wrong building."
The sound of fingers clacking on the keyboard sounded above, and Marco glanced down to give me a wink.
While Sweater Vest had his full attention engaged with the names on his computer screen, Dana and I continued our crabwalk around the right side of the desk, slipping down a hallway and to the left before straightening up to our full height.
Wow. It worked. Whatta ya know?
I glanced around the hallway, getting my bearings. It was punctuated by offices on either side, each filled with men and women in tailored suits talking into Bluetooth sets. I gingerly peeked my head around each doorframe, checking out the nameplates on the do
ors until we hit a large one in the corner with the words "Seth Summerville" stenciled in flowing script.
I stuck my head in. Seth Summerville had his back to me, his full attention on the floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 110 freeway as he shouted into his headset.
"No, go low. We want to cut off their assets at the ankles, Bob. We can't have this coming back to bite us in the ass with the fourth-quarter returns."
Dana squared her shoulders beside me and, before I could stop her, knocked loudly on the doorframe.
Seth Summerville spun around, and I got a good look at him. Salt-and-pepper hair, a long face, pointed nose, sharp eyes to match his sharp features. I put him in his midfifties, that age when men start becoming "distinguished" and women start going away for weeks at a time to have stuff "done." He wore a white button down over navy slacks, a matching blazer carelessly thrown over the back of an enormous leather desk chair. He had a broad, solid build and an aura about him that said he was used to getting his way, positively reeking of power in a manner that was more than a little intimidating. I suddenly felt about twelve in my jeans and tank. Like I was playing at being a grownup, but this guy was the real deal.
Luckily, Dana didn't intimidate that easily.
"Mr. Summerville?" she asked.
His brows hunched together. "Call you back in five, Bob," he told his Bluetooth. Then directed his attention toward us. "Can I help you?"
"Hi, my name's Dana Dashel and this is my colleague, Maddie Springer."
Colleague? I raised one eyebrow at her as Seth waited for the punchline.
"We're looking into the death of your ex-wife, Gigi Van Doren. We're working with the police," she added with a solemn nod.
Oh brother.
And Seth didn't seem to buy it either, taking in my high-heeled boots and Dana's micro mini with a pair of narrowed eyes.
"Any statement you need from me can be obtained through my lawyer."
"Fine, then we'll just come back with a warrant," Dana countered.
"Uh," I stepped forward, elbowing Dana in the ribs.
"Ow."
"Ix-nay on the arrant-wa," I whispered out the side of my mouth. "Actually, Mr. Summerville, we're not actually police officers."
Mayhem in High Heels Page 4
