Mayhem in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Palm trees lined the yard, strung with hundreds of tiny white lights. In the center, two men in coveralls were setting up rows of pristine white folding chairs next to a long red carpeted aisle. Leafy green vines intertwined with delicate little white flowers lined the pathway, leading up to a large, white latticework gazebo, strung with more tropical flowers and tiny white lights. Beyond the altar I could see tents and clusters of tables and chairs being set out for the reception. The air was so fragrant with the scent of blooming foliage, I'd swear I'd just stepped into Tahiti and not Beverly Hills. Despite all my misgivings about putting the tacky twins in charge, it was beautiful. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  (Okay, maybe the two giant wooden tiki heads leading toward the reception area were a little over the top, but I could overlook those.)

  "Maddie's here," I heard a child's voice call. I wiped at my eyes to see Molly's middle child, Tina, bouncing up and down on the toes of her little pink Mary Janes. "We can start wehearsing now!" she lisped.

  Mom, Faux Dad, Larry, Molly, Dana, and the entire Ramirez clan all emerged from one of the big white tents, Marco bringing up the rear with a clipboard in hand.

  "Okay, people, we're already behind and we have a schedule to keep if we want this thing to go off. So, places. Chop, chop!"

  I couldn't help laughing. If Gucci ever deiced to take over the world, they had a readymade dictator right here.

  And suddenly I had a brilliant idea.

  "Marco," I grabbed him by the arm, pulling him aside. "You have been the best wedding planner ever," I said. And, right at that moment, I can honestly say I meant it.

  Marco blushed. "Well, it's been a labor of love."

  "How would you like to plan another one?"

  He cocked his head to the side. "How many times are you and Ramirez getting married?"

  "Not mine. Mitsy Kleinberg's."

  His eyes went round, his mouth dropping into a perfect "O". "The Mitsy Kleinberg?" he squeaked out.

  I nodded. "Yep. I think you'd be perfect for her." Marco was the one person I knew woman enough to handle Mitsy's tantrums and actually enjoy the drama.

  Marco nodded, his little face bobbing up and down so fast it was almost a blur. "Yes, yes yes! Ohmigod, yes!"

  I out a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down lest the hotel patrons think he was having an orgasm on the spot. (Honestly, I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't.)

  "Great, I'll give her your number."

  "Ohmigod, Mitsy Kleinberg," he walked away, fanning himself with his clipboard as he ordered the bridesmaids into position.

  After we were all lined up, Marco ran us through the paces of "elegantly" walking down the long aisle. He then paired up my bridesmaids with Ramirez's groomsmen by height. (Conveniently matching himself with Ramirez's cousin, Alfonso, who starred in a Latin soap.) Finally he cleared his throat and hummed a little "Dum, dum de dum," tune, signaling my cue. With Tina pretending to make a rose petal trail in front of me ("I get weal ones tomowow!" she gleefully told me.) I did the slow feet together, step, feet together, step thing as I'd been instructed until I made my way toward Ramirez, waiting for me beneath the flowering archway.

  I've always thought there was supposed to be something magical about walking down the aisle. Like that slow journey toward the love of your life, watching you with adoring eyes, was supposed to make something click inside. Some sort of feeling that you were walking toward your destiny. Or at least an evening of really great sex ahead.

  But I didn't. Instead, I was mostly trying not to trip over Tina. And Ramirez wasn't so much adoring as laughing at some joke Alfonso told him that included some hand gestures I was pretty sure the flower girl wasn't old enough to witness. For all the magic I felt, I could have been walking an aisle at the supermarket. It was mildly depressing.

  I swallowed down a tiny prickle of panic, telling myself it was just because I was preoccupied by my very silent cell in my pocket and the fact Felix had yet to call in with any news.

  I finally made it to the altar to stand beside between Ramirez and Dana, my maid of honor, then turned to face the person presiding over the ceremony.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  "Wait, where's Father Mahoney?" I asked, turning on Marco.

  "Uh well, he wasn't feeling well..." He looked to Dana for help.

  "Something about a bad clam sauce last night," she filled in.

  "But he promised he'd be here tomorrow."

  Dana nodded. "Absolutely. I mean, they pumped his stomach for a full twenty minutes last night, so he's totally emptied out by now."

  "In the meantime," Marco said, "Mrs. Rosenblatt is our stand in."

  "Yeah," Mrs. R piped up. "And if he don't show, I do a pretty snazzy kabbalah ceremony you'd love."

  A loud hiccup erupted from me.

  "Maddie, you better take care of those before the ceremony," Mom said, a frown of concern settling between her brows.

  Yeah, 'cause it was hiccups that were gonna ruin this wedding. Trust me, this wedding never had a chance.

  Marco walked us through the rest of the paces without incident, (unless you called Dana choosing a Don Ho version of "All You Need is Love" as our first dance an incident---which, in an effort to stave off further hiccups, I didn't) and we all made our way back to our cars to caravan to the rehearsal dinner.

  I lingered behind, checking my cell readout for the fiftieth time that night. Nothing.

  I slipped behind a palm tree and dialed Felix's number. Luckily, he picked up on the third ring.

  "Felix Dunn."

  "It's me. Maddie me," I clarified before he could ask. "Where are you?"

  "I'm watching Fauston have dinner at a Taco Bell."

  I frowned. "Fasuton? What happened to Anne?"

  "She went back to the bakery. She and Fauston had a conversation. Then he took off and she stayed behind. I thought he'd be the better bet to lead us to Allie."

  "And you just left Anne there?" I hissed. While I agreed with his logic, the idea that Anne could at this very minute be carrying out some orders from Fauston to axe Allie made anxiety curl around my stomach.

  "I can't very well be in two places at once, now can I?" he said. Though I could hear the same anxious thoughts swirling through his voice.

  "Look, I'll..." I bit my lip, watching my wedding party trail down the street. "I'll go follow Anne."

  "What about you rehearsal dinner?" he asked.

  "This is more important." Something I never thought I would have said even a few weeks ago. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I promised, then flipped my phone shut.

  "Be where?"

  I squeaked out a yelp as I spun around to find Ramirez standing behind me, a frown puckering his brow.

  "Nowhere," I said.

  He gestured to the phone in my hand. "Who was that?"

  "No one."

  His eyes narrowed. "A blond British tabloid reporter no one?"

  I bit my lip again. "Maybe."

  I didn't think it was possible, but his eyes narrowed even further, into dangerous cat like slits.

  "Look, I... something came up," I said lamely.

  Here's the deal - as much as I was sure Anne and her uncle were the ones who'd offed Gigi, I had zero proof. Basically, it was just a really, really good hunch. And, as Ramirez had pointed out to me numerous times, hunches didn't stand up in court. If I wanted to help Allie, following Anne was my best bet.

  "'Came up'?" Ramirez asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Hmph." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Everything okay?"

  I nodded vigorously.

  "You sure?" he probed.

  "Yeppers," I yelled. Geeze, when did I turn into a Disney character? Tone down the perky a bit, girl. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just... I kinda have to leave a little early."

  "How early?"

  "Now."

  He clenched his jaw shut. "Wanna tell me why?"

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  "Maddie..." he said, his voice a war
ning growl low in his throat.

  "Look, you just have to... trust me," I said, slipping around him. "I'll call you later. Tell Mom I'm sorry."

  For half a second I thought he might chase after me. But apparently he thought better of it, instead, calling after me, "Just be careful. And don't get into any trouble, okay?"

  "Who me?" I asked, blinking innocently as I walked backwards toward the parking lot. "Never."

  * * *

  Three minutes later I was in my Jeep heading toward Fauston's. I felt just the teeniest bit guilty at abandoning Ramirez with both our families, but I shoved it down. If we ever did make it to that honeymoon, I promised myself I'd make it up to him. Instead, I concentrated on driving as I sped down the surface streets at speeds that would make a CHP officer's head spin, weaving through Beverly Hills and pulling up to Fauston's Bakery again just as the white van rounded the corner, Anne at the wheel. Talk about timing. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Was I good or was I good?

  I followed her east on Wilshire, wondering if we were on one last late night delivery or if Anne actually drove the van home. She made a right on Dayton, then a left on Palm, and I suddenly realized I was retracing my Speed Racer moves from just a few moments ago. My suspicion was confirmed when she pulled up to the back of the Beverly Garden Hotel ten minutes later. Mental forehead smack. She was delivering my wedding cake.

  I parked in an empty spot behind a Dumpster (lest Ramirez wander back and spot my Jeep), then hoofed it around the corner of the receiving bay just in time to see Anne wheeling a huge box toward the prep kitchen on a metal dolly. I ducked behind a bush, out of sight from the back of the hotel, where a couple of waiters stood smoking cigarettes.

  I looked to the right, my rows of chairs and flowered archway sat in the dark, mocking me as I started to wonder if I wasn't on some wild goose chase. Here I was crouched in the shrubbery while half a mile away my entire wedding party was dining on veal piccata and toasting my happiness. And the truth was, I really didn't have any evidence that Anne was involved outside of a non-alibi.

  I glanced back at the bakery van sitting in the lot a few yards away. What do you think the chances were there was any evidence of her crime in there?

  I stole a glance at the kitchen door, still closed. Then, not even really sure what I might be looking for, made a dash for the van.

  I dove behind it, first trying the driver's side door. Locked. As was the passenger side. With one last glance at the kitchen door - still shut tight as a drum - I tippy toed around to the other side and jiggled the silver handle at the back of the van.

  Ah ha! Apparently it was a little hard to lock a door while juggling a metal dolly and a three tiered wedding cake.

  Feeling rather proud of my self, I turned the handle.

  But I never got a chance to see what was inside.

  Before I even realized what was happening, pain exploded at the side of my head, a loud crack echoing through the air as the landscape danced in nauseating circles before my eyes.

  Chapter Twenty

  My head instantly throbbed as I struggled to keep the black fuzzing at the corners of my vision from taking over.

  I spun around to find Anne standing behind me, something flat, dark, and menacing looking in her hands. What the hell was that thing? I squinted, trying to blink way the pain gnawing at my every nerve ending as I focused on it. Had she hit me with a cookie sheet?

  I didn't have time to find out as she swung the heavy metal square at me again. This time I ducked, instinctively diving to the right, and took off at a sprint in the other direction.

  Anne dropped the pan to the ground with a clang and took off after me. Luckily, thanks to Dana's gym regimen, I had a good head start, diving into the first white tent I saw.

  Which was apparently set for my reception dinner as empty chafing dishes and piles of silverware graced the linen clad tables. Red linen. With big white hibiscus print on it. Then again, what did I expect hiring a flamboyant hairdresser as a wedding coordinator?

  But I didn't have time to linger on Marco's tropical travesty decor further, as footsteps pounded behind me.

  "There's nowhere to run," Anne yelled, pushing the flap back on the tent. "I know you're in here."

  I grabbed the nearest thing I could find - a shiny silver chaffing dish - and spun around, whacking her square in the face.

  I heard a crunch and a grunting sound as she staggered backward.

  "Bitch! My nose!" she yelled, hands going to her face where I could see red liquid gushing between her fingers.

  I fought back a wave of nausea and turned to run.

  Unfortunately, Anne recovered quickly. I only got a couple of steps away before I felt her grab a handful of hair, yanking sharply.

  "Uhn." I cried out as my body followed my hair, stumbling backward on my heels. She whipped me around, throwing me toward a group of tables and chairs, where I landed with a thud, taking three place settings down to the ground with me.

  I shook the stars out of my eyes to see her lunging again. I rolled to the right, quickly scrambling onto my hands and knees, crawling out of her reach.

  Well, almost out of her reach. Damn those long willowy arms of hers.

  A hand shot out and locked onto my ankle. I twisted right then left, kicking at her with my free leg as my eyes scanned the ground for a possible weapon. Spoon, napkin, butter knife. Shit, I knew we should have ordered steak.

  Then I spied an orange plastic cooler with an Anaheim Angels sticker on the side stuck under the buffet table a foot away.

  I clawed my way forward, my fingers digging into the soft grass. A couple more inches, one more... finally my fingers connected and I ripped the lid off the cooler, tossing it backward. It collided with Anne's forehead with a satisfying thud.

  "Ow! Bitch," she spat out.

  But she didn't let go. I leaned forward, shoving my hand in the cooler and coming out with... a frozen tamale?

  Without thinking, I threw it behind me too, hearing another thunk answer back. I grabbed another and another, chucking them behind me rapid fire.

  "What the hell are you throwing at me? Burritos?" she screamed. Her grip loosened on my ankle just enough for me to wiggled free.

  I leapt to my feet (wow, those step classes were really working. I'd never leapt to anything before.) and took off at a dead run for the back of the tent. I heard Anne following suit a step behind me. As I burst through the flaps I paused only a second to get my bearings. The hotel was dead ahead of me. But, since Mom had booked the largest garden in L.A. County for my "small and intimate" wedding, it was a full football field away. Or at least it seemed that far as I ran for my life toward the safety of lights, people, and snooty concierges.

  I got as far as my tropical-flower laden altar when I felt a sharp shove between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward with a jerk. My arms flailed as I went down, grasping for anything to hold on to. I caught a vine. A big one. Only, as I hit the ground, it came with me, pulling the entire altar to the right. I watched in slow motion horror as the white lattice gazebo titled, then creaked, then fell forward, collapsing down on both Anne and me as she struggled to get a hold on my hair again.

  Luckily, Anne took the brunt of it, her eyes rolling up into her head, momentarily stunned. I wriggled out from underneath her as she struggled to lift the heavy beams off her legs. I rolled to the left, just as she freed herself and rolled right. Both of us coming up on opposite sides of the mangled structure. Only her side was closer to the hotel. Damn.

  We stood there in a sort of standoff, our breath coming hard, knees bent, ready to bolt either way should the other lunge first.

  "You killed Gigi," I said, trying to distract her. If I could inch to the right just a couple steps, I thought I could make a break for it.

  Anne grinned, showing off a row of white teeth that looked eerily like the Cheshire cat in the sparse moonlight. "And here I thought you were just some dumb blonde."

  I narrowed my eyes. "N
o, you're just some psycho brunette."

  She laughed, a high-pitched kind of cackle that held more menace than humor. And I realized my insult wasn't too far off the mark. There really was something seriously wrong with this chick. I should have known. I mean, really, what normal person doesn't like chocolate?

  "Where is Allie?" I asked, watching her eyes dart to the left, then right, as if looking for a way to get the jump on me.

  "Wouldn't you like to know, Miss Nosey? You know, everything was going fine until you showed up."

  "Yeah, I get that a lot," I mumbled. "Does he have her?" I asked.

  Anne's eyes clouded for a moment, then narrowed. "Oh, you know about him, then, do you?"

  I nodded. "No way did I think you were smart enough to pull this off on your own."

  I know, maybe not the brightest plan to piss off the psycho. But the longer I could keep her talking, the greater the chance some hotel employee would see the standoff in the wedding garden.

  "Shows how much you know!" she shouted. I glanced toward the hotel. Sadly, we were too far away for anyone to hear us.

  "How so?" I stalled.

  "Allie was my idea!"

  Ah ha. Now we were getting somewhere.

  "So, you did kidnap her?"

  "Of course."

  "And kill Gigi."

  "That old cow. She looked right through me. I was happy to see her gone. It was so simple. I just showed up at her studio, told her that my uncle had forgotten something for the samples and, when her back was turned, hit her with a cake knife."

  I fought down a wave of sickness, remembering the scene. "But it wasn't your idea to kill her, was it?" I asked, treading carefully.

  Anne faltered. Then shook her head. "No. I did it for him. I love him. I'd do anything for him."

  Geeze, I loved my family too, but no way was I offing my Uncle Mickey's ex girlfriend in Bocca.

  "But why Allie?" I asked. I glanced back toward the hotel, again. I could see a group of businessmen in suits drinking scotch on the back patio. Could they see us in the dark out here?