Mayhem in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "I'm aware that the groundbreaking is this weekend. However, Mr. Summerville will be unable to attend.

  "Yes, thank you for calling, the Aspen project is still a go, but you'll have to get the particulars from Janet in AP.

  "No, we're not hiring at the moment, but thank you for thinking of us.

  "Summerville Development, please hold.

  "Yes?"

  He paused for a breath. Then, "What is it?"

  "Oh. Right. You're talking to me."

  He gave me is best 'well duh!' face.

  "Uh, yeah, hi. I'm Maddie Springer, here to see Mr. Summerville."

  "Do you have an appointment?" he asked, his fingers whipping over the keyboard at lightning speed.

  "No, not exactly. But I was here before. We spoke about his wife."

  Sweater Vest paused mid stroke. "His wife?"

  "Uh, ex wife. Gigi Van Doren. The one that got... well..."

  "I'm aware who his ex-wife is," he said, his eyes narrowing. "What I'm not aware of is why he would discuss her with you."

  "I was a friend of Gigi's."

  "All the more reason he wouldn't want to talk with you," Sweater Vest said. I could feel his finger hovering just above the security button as his eyes narrowed into fine slits.

  I was just about to concede defeat when Felix nudged me aside, whipping something shiny and plastic from his back pocket,

  "Felix Dunn," he said. "L.A. Informer."

  "You're a reporter?" Sweater Vest crossed his arms over his chest. "In that case, Mr. Summerville has no comment. Now, good day to you both."

  Great. Real helpful, Tabloid Boy.

  But, instead of leaving, Felix leaned onto the desk in a way that clearly infringed on Sweater Vest's personal space.

  "Summerville owns a lot of properties, doesn't he?" Felix asked.

  "Of course."

  "Including the Palm nightclub in Hollywood?"

  "Yes. That's a matter of public record," Sweater Vest hedged.

  I watched the exchange, not sure where Felix was going with this.

  "It would be a shame then if word got out that the place was infested with cockroaches."

  Sweater Vest and I gasped as one.

  "It is not," he replied. "How dare you!"

  "I happen to have in my possession a picture of Paris Hilton at the Palm, a roach running over her Jimmy Choos." Felix made little running motions with his two fingers across Sweater Vest's desk.

  Sweater Vest blanched.

  "Now, I can either run it in tomorrow's edition, or I can speak to Mr. Summerville and see if we can't explain this little incident away. Your choice." Felix leaned back on his heels, a clearly victorious smile playing at his features.

  Sweater Vest's beady eyes bounced from Felix to me and back again. Finally, he squared his jaw. "Fine," he said, pressing a few buttons on his keyboard and mumbling into his headset that Mr. Summerville had visitors.

  After a moment he turned back to us. "You may see Mr. Summerville now," he conceded.

  "Thanks a bunch," Felix said, slapping Sweater Vest on the arm hard enough to make him wince.

  I tried not to smirk as we made our way down the hall.

  "Do you really have pictures of roaches at the nightclub?" I asked.

  Felix grinned. "Hey, if I can put your head on Pamela Anderson's body, I can put a roach on Paris's shoe."

  I shook my head as we pushed through Summerville's door, not sure if I should be impressed or disgusted.

  Summerville was scrolling his signature across a jumbo sized checkbook as we walked in. As with my last visit to see him, he was dressed impeccably - every scrap of fabric on him tailored exactly to his shape. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, lending a deceptively casual air to his persona as he held court behind his regal desk.

  "Please, sit down," he said, barely glancing up from his task.

  We did. And I noticed for the first time that our chairs were lower than his. I wondered if this was done purposely so that his visitors were made to look up to him.

  "Summerville," he said by way of greeting, extending a hand toward Felix.

  "Felix Dunn, L.A. Informer."

  Summerville raised an eyebrow. "I see. Though, I can't imagine what the Informer wants from me."

  "We're looking into Gigi's death," I said.

  "Yes, I remember you. But I thought you were working with the police?" He raised an eyebrow, a hit of amusement twinkling in his eyes as if we both knew that was a lie.

  "Uh, I switched sides," I mumbled.

  "So, what can I do for you, today?" he asked, setting the checkbook aside and clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him.

  "I was wondering what you could tell us about Gigi and Allie."

  Summerville's forehead wrinkled. "Allie? Her assistant?"

  I nodded. "And daughter."

  Summerville froze, his entire body going rigid. "Daughter?"

  "You didn't know Allie was Gigi's daughter?" Felix asked, slowly leaning forward.

  "Hell, I didn't even know she had a daughter!" Summerville got up. Actually, he more exploded up, his chair shoving back into the wall as he shot to his feet and began pacing the room. His body suddenly hummed with the kind of barely restrain anger that made me infinitely glad I didn't have to meet him across a boardroom.

  "So, all the time you were married, she never mentioned Allie to you?" I asked.

  "We were only married a couple of years." He shook his head again. "But, no, never." And by the look on his face, I believed him. Even an Oscar winner couldn't fake that kind of surprise.

  I had to hand it to Gigi, she got an A plus in keeping secrets.

  "Her boyfriend told us that Gigi rarely talked about Allie. That she didn't want people to know she was old enough to have a grown daughter."

  Summerville scoffed, a self-deprecating sound, as he stood in front of his giant windows. "I told you she was vain. But, God, hiding a child from me?"

  "You never met Allie then?"

  He shook his head. "No. Not before she started working for Gigi. I stopped by L'Amore to pick up some personal documents a few months ago. I notice her then, but I never would have guessed..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

  "I'm sorry," I said. The man was visibly shaken, something I'd guess didn't happen often to Seth Summerville.

  "Well, don't be," he snapped. "Typical Gigi. Appearances were always more important to her than people."

  "Um, you didn't happen to see Gigi the afternoon before she died, did you?" I asked, fishing for our mystery cancellation.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why do you ask?"

  I bit my lip. But I figured I had nothing to lose. If he was innocent, he'd tell me. If not, he'd lie, so what was the difference?

  "Gigi cancelled an appointment with a client at the last minute the day before she died to meet with someone."

  "And you think it may have something to do with her death."

  "It was out of character enough for us to believe it worth pursuing," Felix piped up.

  Summerville sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. "So, you're hoping I secretly met with my ex-wife then returned the next morning to stab her in the back, is that it?"

  I squirmed in my seat, the leather making little squeaking noises. "Well... no... I just..."

  Thankfully, Felix jumped in again. "The police are looking at everyone involved as a suspect. If I can print an article stating your side of things, it might divert public opinion away from you. And," he added, "Summerville Development's properties."

  Summerville seemed to chew this idea over for a moment before finally answering. "I was in meetings all afternoon with the investors for our Aspen project. After that, I had dinner at my club, met a colleague for drinks, was home in bed by midnight. And, before you ask, yes, I have an alibi and witnesses for the time of Gigi's death. I was conducting a conference call from my office between myself, our head of finance, and our internal auditor all morning. Things go
t heated, the door was open, anyone on this floor can tell you I was here when my ex-wife was killed. Now, if that's all?" Summerville asked. Though the way he got up from his chair and towered over us, it was clear that was all whether we had more questions or not.

  I mumbled a goodbye, and we hightailed it out of the office, scuttling down the hallway.

  "Why do I always feel about twelve around that guy?" I asked.

  "I'll admit, 'intimidating' is a word that comes to mind," Felix agreed. "So, do we believe him?"

  I shrugged. "Well, if he was going to lie, he would have come up with an alibi a lot harder to check up on than that."

  "Good point. And didn't strike me as much of an actor."

  "Oh, that reminds me," I said, "I have an actor problem, for you. Or rather, actress." I filled him in on Dana's Flamingo issues.

  Once he stopped laughing, he promised to see what he could do.

  As we hit the end of the hallway and rounded the reception area, I spotted a familiar face standing at the front desk. Anne Fauston. She was conversing with Sweater Vest, a wicker basket overflowing with chocolate chip cookies in one hand.

  "Anne," I said, hailing her as we approached.

  She spun around, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she recognized us. "Maddie. What are you two doing here?"

  "We wanted to offer our condolences to Mr. Summerville," Felix quickly lied.

  "Oh," she said, the lines in her expression evening out. "Right."

  "You making a delivery?" I asked, gesturing to the basket. Even through the cellophane outer wrap I could smell fresh baked goodness calling out to me.

  "Yeah, we deliver cookies every other day for the conference room. My uncle got the account when Gigi was still married to Summerville. I guess good cookies outlast marriage, huh?"

  Amen to that, sister.

  "Listen, I was wondering if I could ask you something," I said. Garnering a look from Sweater Vest that said we were clearly ruining his carefully plotted schedule.

  Anne nodded. "Sure."

  "I was wondering what you know about Gigi's relationship with Allie?" I asked.

  She shrugged. "Not much. She seemed like a fine receptionist."

  "So... you didn't know she was Gigi's daughter either?"

  Anne's eyes got big and round. "Wow. Really? I mean, no. She never mentioned it." She paused. "But, honestly, most of Gigi's dealings were with my uncle. I was just the delivery girl, you know? She took the pastries, signed the slip, then I was dismissed."

  I detected a slight note of bitterness in Anne's voice and jumped on it. "Gigi was rude to you?"

  "Oh, no." She shook her head so hard her brown hair followed her like a dark curtain. "Nothing like that. She was just busy and I wasn't that important. I mean, we didn't like chat about stuff, you know?"

  "I see."

  "Certainly not about her daughter. I mean, Allie's only worked there since the fall. I don't think I've said more than two words to her."

  "They're waiting," Sweater Vest cut in, gesturing to Anne's basket of goodies.

  "Right." Anne hauled them off the desk. "See you later," she said, then took off down the hall.

  Sweater Vest gave Felix and me a pointed look. I held up my hands in a surrender gesture and made for the door. It was clear we'd gotten all the cooperation we were going to from Summerville Development.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Well, now what?" I asked once we were outside.

  Felix looked down at his watch. "I'd love to continue banging on doors with you, but right now I've got a lunch date."

  Right. With Allie.

  "Maybe I should come with you," I said. There were more than a couple questions I had for the perky blonde, and I wasn't entirely sure I trusted Felix to ask the right ones. Or, more specifically, pay attention to the answers when faced with her D cups.

  "As much as I adore you, three's a crowd, love." He winked at me.

  I scoffed. Loudly.

  He grinned. "But, I'm glad to see the green-eyed monster is alive and well this morning. Just admit it, Maddie. You want me bad."

  I punched him in the arm.

  "Ow. Careful, I bruise easily."

  I rolled my eyes. "Just call me as soon as she leaves. I want to know everything."

  He cocked any eyebrow at me. "Everything?"

  I made a fist to punch him again, but he scuttled out of reach. "Okay, okay, I'll call you later," he promised, folding himself into his car. Then pulled out of the garage, making a left at the light.

  I stood watching his taillights disappear, a strange nauseated sensation swirling in my stomach. Probably fear he'd botch the interview with Allie. Definitely not jealousy. I mean, she was a college kid, for crying out loud. He couldn't possibly be serious about her. I mean, not that I cared if he was serious with someone. I didn't. Not a bit. He could get serious with whomever he wanted. It didn't matter to me. Because I was not jealous.

  Thankfully, before I had to convince myself any further, my cell trilled from my purse.

  "Hello?" I answered.

  "Maddie!" Mom's voice rang in my ear. "Where are you?"

  "Downtown. Why?"

  "You didn't forget, did you?"

  "Forget?"

  "Oh hell, you did forget. Maddie, I swear to God if you think I'm picking up that man from the airport, I'm disowning you."

  That man. There was only one person in the world my sweet, loving, even tempered mother would call "that man."

  My dad.

  My whole life I'd been told the story of how, when I was three years old, my father left Mom and me for Las Vegas and a showgirl named Lola. But recently I'd learned that story was only half true. Dad had left all right, but he hadn't so much run away with Lola as become Lola - the star of an all-male "showgirl" review.

  Yes, my father was a drag queen. (At least now I knew where I got my love for fashion.) So, you can see why my mom might be a little touchy when it came to the subject of that man.

  After twenty-some odd years being MIA, he'd finally contacted me last year when he'd gotten mixed up with a ring of Prada smuggling mobsters. Our first face to face had been, to say the least, awkward.

  Since then Larry (I couldn't yet quite bring myself to call him 'Dad') and I had kept in touch, and I was slowly starting to get to know the man who'd been largely myth my whole childhood. Granted, we weren't in best buds territory yet, but I had asked him if he and Faux Dad would give me away jointly at my wedding. He'd done a giddy squeal of delight and promised he'd be there with bells one. (I only hoped he didn't mean literally.)

  "I'm on my way now," I lied, hopping into my Jeep.

  "Good." I could hear the relief in Mom's voice. "He said he brought a plus one so look for two of them."

  "Got it."

  "Oh, and, I talked to the restaurant where we're having the rehearsal dinner. They said they have a big party coming in before us, so they're bumping us back to eight. Which is fine, because we're going to need time for people to get to the rehearsal from work, and you know there'll be traffic."

  "Right," I said, making a mental note to give my 'wedding planners' this detail.

  "And Molly said Tina's got a cold, but as long as there's no fever, she'll still make flower girl. But, if she gets a fever, she's going to dress Tandy up in Tina's outfit and bump her up to flowers girl, so she may have to hem the dress a little."

  "Fine. Great." I pulled into traffic, heading toward the 110.

  "And your grandmother wants to ride in the limo to the hotel with you. She says she doesn't trust your cousin Shane to pick her up on time."

  "Yep. Limo. Got it."

  "Oh, and the caterer called and said they weren't sure they have enough chairs for all the extra people on the guest list," Mom said, empathizing the word. Apparently Marco had filled her in on Mama Ramirez's additions to the festivities. "But," she added, "they said if you wanted they could bring in some benches."

  "Lovely. Is that all?" I asked.

&nb
sp; "For now. I'll call if anything else comes up."

  "Super." I hit the end button, suddenly drained.

  If this wedding ever went off, it would be a miracle.

  * * *

  If you've never been to LAX, it's an experience everyone should have at least once in their lifetime.

  Los Angeles International Airport is the West Coast travel hub where you can see anyone from George Clooney to the King of Nigeria (the real one - not the one that keeps sending spam emails about his family's fortune being all yours if you'll just send him all your bank account information) walking through the endless concourses, confused looks on their faces as they try to locate baggage claim. The airport is so big it could actually qualify as its own city, complete with separate police force and fire station. Occupying over five square miles, the place is a maze of ramps running to the domestic and international terminals, arrivals, departures, loading zones, and long-term parking. It's enough to make a person swear off driving forever.

  Not to mention the taxis. Maybe in New York taxis are a necessity. But in L.A., where anyone over the age of sixteen owns a convertible, cabs are just an annoyance. One that was currently eliciting a string of curse words I'm sure would make my Irish Catholic grandmother grab her rosary in a two-fisted clutch.

  Just as I was really starting to get creative (I swear if one more son-of-a-banana-sucking-ape cuts me off...) I found Larry and his friend at the curb outside domestic baggage claim.

  Not that they were hard to spot.

  Larry was a six foot two, male, fifty-something version of... well... me. A long blonde wig, red, four-inch heels, and a white minidress bulging slightly around the middle where his corset was losing the battle against his middle-aged spread. He'd donned a wide-brimmed white hat and capped the outfit off with a cropped red leather jacket. All in all, not what you'd call subtle.

  Especially considering his traveling companion.

  I recognized Larry's friend right away as one of the women (men?) Larry performed with at the Victoria Club in Vegas. Her (his?) specialty? Impersonating Madonna, specifically the "Like a Virgin" years. A role she took very seriously, seldom seen outside of her fluffy black tutus and totally eighties jelly bracelets.