Mayhem in High Heels (26 page)

"He didn't?"

"He was out looking for Allie!" I said. A little more defensively than necessary perhaps.

"Right."

"I take it you haven't heard from her either?" I asked.

"No." His voice was rough and tense as if he hadn't gotten a whole heck of a lot of sleep either. "Listen, I think we need to talk with the attorney again."

"The attorney? Why?" I asked, propping myself up on one elbow.

"Gigi died the day after visiting her attorney. I find it hard to believe that's just coincidence. Whatever they discussed is likely what got her killed."

"And will lead us to Allie," I finished for him.

"Right."

"Well, we're in luck then," I said.

"How's that?"

"I've got an appointment with him this afternoon to draw up a prenup."

"A prenup? Ramirez is really making you get a prenup?"

"No!" Again with the overly defensive thing. I blamed the hangover induced migraine. "No, he would never do that.
I'm
having
him
sign one."

"Ah. Trust issues."

"Ramirez and I do not have trust issues!" Much. "It's just... I mean... I have to protect my shoes."

"What?"

"Nothing," I mumbled. "Look, my appointment's at two. Are you in or not?"

"I'll meet you there." And he hung up.

I flipped my phone shut and stumbled into the bathroom, immediately rifling through Ramirez's cabinets for an aspirin. Never mind that they were soon to be
our
cabinets, I still thought of everything at his place as his. I wondered how long it would be before I got over that? Would I ever get over it?

I tried to shake that thought - it was way too deep for a hung over chick - instead locating the magic pills and popping a pair into my mouth.

Trying not to feel too sorry for myself, I hopped in the shower, changed into a fresh pair of cropped jeans, a stretchy pink shirt, and white peep-toe pumps. (Because the pink ones that matched my shirt were still at my place. Dammit.)

I was almost beginning to feel human when my cell rang out, clanging those fire alarms again. Did Felix just love torturing me? I dove for it to cease the nausea producing noise.

"What, now?" I yelled.

"Wow, someone is little Miss Sunshine this morning," Larry said.

"Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Not Ramirez, I hope? You two are okay, right?" he asked.

"Yes, we're fine. Why does everyone think we're not fine?"

"Is this a bad time?"

I paused, counted to two Mississippi. It was totally unfair to take my hangover and Felix annoyance out on Larry. "No, Larry. It's fine. Sorry, it's been a long..." Night? Week? Six months? "What's up?" I asked instead.

"I just called to let you know I'm running a little late, but I'll meet you at Fernando's for our mani-pedi appointments in an hour, okay?"

Right. Manicures.

Three months ago when I'd first asked Larry to walk me down the aisle, he'd squealed like a tween at a Hannah Montana concert thing, then promptly made an appointment for us to get father and daughter matching manicures and pedicures for the wedding. I had to admit, it was my favorite way to bond.

I glanced at the clock. "Um, right. Okay, manicures. Sure. Two hours?"

"One!" Larry said.

"Right. I'll be there."

"Oh, and, Maddie? I'm bringing you your somethings," he sing-songed.

"My what?"

"You know, your somethings. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Well, I've got something for you that fits all four."

I had a sudden vision of walking down the aisle in drag queen chic. "Uh, Larry..."

"No, I'm not giving any hints, don't even ask. It's a surprise. See you in an hour!" And he hung up.

After retrieving my Jeep from Eden's, exactly one hour and seven minutes later I was pushing through the glass front doors of Fernando's, the doo-woop strains of Ricky Nelson hitting me full force as I entered the salon.

"Hey, blushing bride," Marco greeted me, roller skating out from behind his desk to give me a pair of air kisses. "Was last night fun or was that fun?"

"Uh huh," I gave a noncommittal nod. "Is Larry here yet?"

Marco gestured toward a pair of pedicure chairs near a cardboard cutout of James Dean. Larry, dressed in a lacy white sundress and red wig today, and Madonna sat side by side, debating between pink or raspberry polish. Larry looked up and gave me a little wave. Madonna nodded my way, then blew Marco an air kiss. I swear I think I saw Marco blush.

"They just started soaking," he assured me, grabbing me by the arm and steering me toward the duo. "Come on, let's get you in a tub."

Ten minutes later I was soaking my toes and filling Larry and Madonna in on the latest developments in the murder turned kidnapping.

"That's awful!" Madonna said, lifting a lace-gloved hand to her ruby painted mouth. "That poor girl."

I nodded.

"Do you have any clues who did it?" Larry asked, his bushy eyebrows puckering in concern.

I shook my head. "We have lots of theories, but that's about it. We've weeded out Mitsy. Dana's checking on Spike's alibi in Topeka. The ex was on conference calls the whole time. Fauston was making deliveries."

"So, no one did it," Marco said, skating up behind us with a tray of different colored nail polishes. "Pick."

I checked out Larry's color and selected a matching shade from the tray. "Well, Gigi is dead and Allie is missing, so someone has to be lying. The question is: who?"

"My money's still on Mitsy," Madonna said. "Oh, I know! Maybe she has a secret twin who she forced into giving her an alibi while she killed the wedding planner!"

The three of us turned and gave her a look.

"What? It could happen..."

"What about this," Larry said. "What if Allie staged her own disappearance to throw you off track? What if she did kill her mother, thought you were getting too close to the truth, and decided to leave town?"

I pursed my lips together. I'll admit, I hadn't thought of that. "It's possible I suppose."

"It's brilliant!" Marco said, skating in a neat little circle. "This is better than a telenovela."

"Unfortunately, if it's true, she's probably skipped to Mexico by now," I pointed out. A thought so depressing I could hardly voice it.

"Okay, enough murder talk," Larry said, sensing my mood. He clapped his hands together. "I've got something important to show you!"

He reached into his oversized handbag, and I took a deep breath, steeling my self against the worst.

"Ta da!" He drew his hand out and held up a big white hair scrunchie with little blue plastic butterfly charms sewn onto it.

"Um... what's that?" I asked, terrified of the answer.

"Your somethings to wear to the wedding."

I did a loud hiccup.

"It's from an act I used to do in the '80s to Billy Idol's 'White Wedding,'" Larry said. "It's real silk made from your grandmother's wedding dress - very old. I sewed on the butterfly charms which are, obviously, blue and also new-"

"-I helped picked them out," Madonna chimed in.

"-and since it's mine and I'm letting you wear it, it's also borrowed." Larry beamed. "Here, try it on."

Before I could stop him, he had my hair fisted into a ponytail and was wrapping the scrunchie around it like a butterfly-clad tourniquet.

"Ohmigod, she looks just like you, Larry!" Madonna squealed.

I did another hiccup.

"Geeze, you've got those bad, Maddie," Marco said. "You know, my mama always used to feed us a spoonful of sugar to get rid of the hiccups."

"Oh, I've got some Sweet 'N' Low," Larry exclaimed, digging into his handbag again.

"No, I'm fine re-(hiccup)-ally," I protested.

But, of course, no one listened. Larry found a pink packet, Madonna tore it open, and Marco dumped the entire contents down my throat as my mouth opened in another involuntary hiccup.

I clamped my lips together, feeling my face scrunch tighter than the hideous band in my hair as sacchariney sweet stuff melted down my throat.

"Better?" Larry asked.

"Oh yeah," I shuddered. "Peachy keen." I gave him a feeble thumbs-up.

Madonna tilted her head to the side. "You know, that scrunchie needs something."

A butane lighter and blow torch?

"Earrings!" Marco exclaimed.

"Oh, I have the perfect pair," Larry said. "Big white hoops, I wore them in my salute to Bette Midler last year. What do you think, Mads?"

I think my migraine was back.

* * *

By the time my nails were dry, I'd convinced Larry I already had a perfectly good pair of diamond earrings to wear to the wedding (not that they were fancy Bette Midler style or anything), and I'd slipped my freshly pedicured toes back in to my peep-toe heels, I had just enough time to hop on the freeway and make it to Kaufman's office before my appointment.

That is, if traffic weren't backed up all the way to the 110 because of an overturned ice cream truck. I kid you not, there was mint chocolate chip all over the freeway. It would have been hilarious had I not been stuck in it for over an hour.

As I sat idling behind a pickup with a decal of a Calvin and Hobbs character peeing on the back window, my cell rang, displaying Dana's number.

"Hey," I said.

"It's me. Listen, I got through to the driver who took Spike to the airport."

I sat up straighter in my seat. "And?"

"And, he said he dropped them off at seven a.m. the day Gigi was killed. Which means their flight didn't arrive at LAX until eleven."

"Which means Spike is in the clear." As much as I'd genuinely felt sorry for his grief, I was a little disappointed at crossing yet another name off my mental suspect list. At this rate, I was starting to wonder whether it wasn't just a case of random wedding planner stabbing.

"Sorry," Dana said.

"Thanks for checking."

"No prob," she asked. "Oh hey, did you see the front page of the
Informer
this morning?"

Uh oh. "No. What did Felix do this time?"

"He totally pasted my head on Hilary Clinton's body."

"Oh shit."

"No, it was brilliant! He found this picture of her reading to underprivileged kids, and now it totally looks like I was reading to them. I'm not a bad influence anymore!"

"Oh. Good." I think.

"That's not the best part," she continued. "After it hit the stand this morning, my agent got a call from CBS. They want me to do a bunch of public service announcements during Saturday morning cartoons about how drinking is bad. Is that cool or what? I always wanted to do PSAs! Of course, they want me to do them in the Flamingo outfit, but it's still pretty cool."

Huh. Who knew Felix could use his Photoshop skills for good instead of evil?

"That's great, Dana."

"Thanks. Oh, and I confirmed with the makeup artist for tomorrow. He says he'll be at your place at ten."

"Cool."

"And the hairdresser will be there at eleven."

"Okay."

"And the limo is picking you up at one."

"Do I have to remember all this?"

"Nope, that's what you have me for."

For once, I was grateful Dana had taken over planning.

"Thanks."

"Anytime. Oh, hey, Ricky just walked in." I heard her giggle, then a low male voice and a half-hearted "Stop it, you," on Dana's part. Followed by more giggling.

"Well, I guess I'll leave you two lovebirds alone..." I trailed off as a couple growls came through the other end. "See you tonight," I said. Then quickly hit the off button before I was ear witness to sex Flamingo style.

Miraculously, only twenty minutes later, a giant tow truck with a crane came and cleared the ice cream truck off to the side of the road, allowing traffic to crawl past, and I pulled up in front of the shining chrome and glass office building that Johnson, Levy, and Kaufman only marginally late.

As I huffed through the front doors, a receptionist with springing auburn curls looked up with a placid expression. "May I help you?"

"Maddie Springer. Here to see Kaufman."

"Oh, right," she said, smiling. "Just down the hall and through the door on your left," she said, indicating behind her. "You're fiance is already here."

I paused and for a moment insanely wondered how Ramirez knew where I was before I realized who she was talking about. Felix.

"Thanks," I called, making my way down the hall as I concentrated on bringing my breathing back to normal.

I pushed open a door marked
A. Kaufman
to find my
fiance
lounging in a leather chair across a sleek mahogany conference table from a large, barrel-chested man with a graying crew cut on a head a least a size too big for his body. They both rose as I entered the room.

"Maddie, what took you so long, darling?" Felix asked, planting a kiss on my cheek.

"Traffic.
Darling
," I answered, wiping it off with the back of my hand.

"Lovely to meet you, Ms. Springer," Kaufman said, offering a large, beefy hand. "Your fiance here is quite a character. I can see what drew you to him."

"Hmm." I made a noncommittal sound as I gave Felix a sidelong glance, wondering just what he and Kaufman had been chatting about while I suffered through mint chip traffic.

"So," Kaufman said, as we all took our seats, "you'd like me to draw up a prenuptial agreement?"

"The little woman here has some silly notion that I'm only after her money," Felix said, sending me a wink.

I think I showed great restraint in not hopping over the table to strangle him.

"Well, I have to say, she's right," Kaufman said, nodding. "I recommend them to anyone. Divorce is a terrible thing for newlyweds to contemplate, but it happens all the time. Fifty-two percent of the time to be exact. And it's better to be safe than sorry, isn't it?"

I shot Felix an I-told-you-so look, before I remembered he wasn't actually my fiance.

"I've got a couple of forms here," Kaufman said, sliding a pile of papers across the table to me.

I looked over them as he explained the main points, the legalese wording, and how exactly we should customize our agreement. Then he had his assistant type it all up, and in record time I had a prenup sitting in front of me with Ramirez's and my names on it, just ready for signatures.