Mayhem in High Heels (20 page)

"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.

"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.

And today was no exception. She was the perfect embodiment of the Material Girl, from her ripped-neck sweatshirt to a little black mole painted on her upper lip, bobbing up and down vigorously as she popped a piece of gum between her teeth.

Between the two of them, they had no fewer than six bags. All in pink leopard print.

"Maddie!" Larry called, waving as I got out of the car and eyed the baggage. Unless we tied Madonna to the roof, I had no idea how we were going to fit all of this.

"Hi, Larry," I said, returning his air kisses.

"You remember Madonna?" he asked, gesturing to his friend.

"Hey, doll," she said, giving me a gloved hand with the finger holes cut out.

I shook it. "Of course, nice to see you again." Madonna had been one of the few innocents at the Victoria Club not involved in a shoe smuggling ring Felix and I had busted a couple years ago. I hadn't spent much time with her then, but I'd gotten the impression she was a nice gal, and, if I remembered correctly, Marco had been more than a little sweet on her.

"I can't believe Larry's little girl is getting married!" She squealed, scrunching up her nose and shrugging her shoulders toward her ears. "It's just so exciting. So romantic."

Romantic was about the only word I
wouldn't
use to describe the wedding so far.

But I nodded and smiled anyway.

"I bought the most beautiful mother of the bride dress," Larry gushed. "Blue chiffon, with little yellow daisies all over. Just darling!"

I tried not to cringe. Partly at the fact that my
father
would be wearing a
mother
of the bride dress. But mostly at the fact anyone would wear blue chiffon.

While Dad and Madonna peppered me with questions about the band, the
hors d'oeuvres, and the flowers,
I did a very complicated packing job with the luggage in the back of my Jeep, relying on my years of Tetris training to fit pink leopard print into every inch of available space. When I was done, there was almost enough room for everyone to sit comfortably.

Almost.

We kind of wedged Madonna on top of one case so her head kept bobbing against the rollbar. But she didn't seem to mind, saying it was like she was on an L.A. safari.

"So, tell me what you've been up to lately," Larry said as I navigated my way out of the LAX rat maze.

"Oh, you know. Not much." Ha!

"I, uh, heard there was some difficulty with your wedding planner?"

"Oh. You did, huh?" I asked, biting my lip.

Larry nodded. "You want to tell me about it?"

I could tell by the look on his face, Larry was trying really hard to be "Dad" right now. As if being a sympathetic ear would start to make up for all those trips to the zoo we'd missed out on while he was go-go dancing and I was day-dreaming about how Ward Cleaver would one day show up at my doorstep calling me his own.

Larry was a far cry from Ward Cleaver. But, in all honesty, the Cleavers were kinda boring.

So, unable to resist his plea for a father-daughter moment, I spilled all, telling Larry and Madonna the whole sordid story as we wound up the 405 to their hotel in Santa Monica. By the time I was done, Larry was doing a concerned, wrinkled forehead face (another eerily "Dad" thing) and Madonna was bouncing up and down on her pink luggage.

"This is so
CSI
!" she said, clapping her hands with glee. "My money is on that Kleinburg girl. Ooo, she's got a temper on her, honey."

"Really?" I asked, perking up. "Do you know her?"

"Well, not me personally," she conceded. "But my roommate used to work at the Rio casino, and Mitsy was there a couple months ago with some of her rich bitch friends."

"What happened?"

"One of the waitresses spilled a cocktail on Mitsy, and Mitsy freaked. Grabbed the gal by the hair, took her down to the floor, and started wailing on her. Turns out, Mitsy's totally into cardio kickboxing and messed that chick up. Security finally broke it up, but my roommate said the waitress was lucky to walk away from it."

I turned off the freeway, mentally digesting this new information. Honestly, all I really had was Mitsy's word she'd fired Gigi. And even if she did, she still might have been upset enough over Gigi's inattention to take it out on the wedding planner. What if Mitsy had come back the next morning and had it out with Gigi? From what I knew of Gigi, she wasn't one to back down. Maybe things escalated and Mitsy had let her temper get the better of her.

I made a mental note to check into Mitsy's alibi for the morning of the murder as I pulled up to Larry's hotel and helped the leopard twins unload their luggage.

Once they were checked in, I left the two girls to unpack and promised I'd call if anything new came up.

As soon as I got back into my Jeep, I dialed Dana's number on my cell.

"Hello?" she asked, picking up on the first ring.

"It's me."

"Oh."

"Gee, don't sound so excited."

"Sorry, I was waiting for a call back about Spike."

"So, no confirmation on the boyfriend's alibi yet?"

"Not yet. But, I did find the car company that drove them to the airport. Just waiting to hear back from the driver what time that was."

"Awesome, Lacey."

"Who?"

"Never mind," I mumbled.

"Listen, did you get a chance to talk to Felix about my, um, problem?"

I nodded as I flipped on the AC. "Yep. He'd see what he could do about Flamingogate."

"Oh, thank God," she breathed. "I swear some kid outside the studio even harassed Ricky over it. Can you believe? I tell you, Ricky has been
so
amazingly supportive during all of this, but I've been so worried more photographers were going to show up any second . I wasn't even sure I should go out for the party tonight."

"Party?" I searched my overtaxed brain. "What party?"

"Your bachelorette party."

Oh. No.

"Um, do we really need a party?"

"Oh, come on, Maddie. You didn't think I'd let my best friend get married without one last big hurrah from singlehood?"

I felt myself shaking my head. There was no way this was going to turn out well.

"I'm not sure I really need any hurrahs..."

"Just be at the corner of Sunset and Vine at seven tonight."

"Dana, I don't need..."

"Oh, Ricky just got home. Gotta go. Seven. Don't be late!" she said. Then hung up.

I flipped my phone shut and thunked my head backwards against the headrest. I so needed that vacation when this wedding was over.

I briefly contemplated just driving back to LAX, getting on the first flight to Tahiti and skipping straight to the honeymoon part. But, considering my groom was still currently married to his case, I nixed it. Instead, I glanced at the dash clock. 2:30 p.m. Felix's lunch "date" must be long over by now. I keyed his number into my cell. Straight to voicemail. I left a message asking him to call ASAP. Then I tried Allie's number again.

Again to the voicemail.

I was getting the distinct impression this chick was avoiding my calls.

But, I pulled my Jeep into the right lane, hopping onto the 10 toward her Glendale apartment anyway. As far as I was concerned, Allie definitely had some 'splaining to do. And if no one was taking my calls, I was just going to have to get a straight story out of her in person.

Half an hour later I parked at the curb on Verdugo and walked up the front pathway to unit F.

Only, it appeared someone had beaten me to it.

Felix stood on her doorstep, his usually crumpled khakis looking almost as if they'd seen an iron, his white button-down shirt gleaming with that freshly bleached looked. Even his hair looked like he'd taken the time to comb it since I'd last seen him, instead of just slathering on a handful of Dollar Store gel like he normally did.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my heels clacking up the front walkway. "Didn't you get enough of her at lunch?"

He spun around, a small frown between his brows. "No, actually, she never showed."

I tried not to smirk. "Ah, stood up?"

"You can wipe the smirk off your face."

Okay, I didn't really try that hard.

"And it wasn't like it was actually a
date
, you know," he said, sulking like a kid who'd missed dessert.

"Right. And you're not actually wearing clean clothes."

"It was wash day," he responded. But the way he shuffled his feet and kicked at a stray rock told me I'd hit a nerve.

"So, is Blondie in?" I asked, gesturing to the door.

"I was just about to ring the bell."

I stepped aside. "By all means, go ahead, Romeo."

He shot me an annoyed look, but pressed the button anyway.

I heard an answering buzz echo inside the small apartment. But instead of footsteps, it was followed by silence.