"Long story. Tell you later." I looked up at the stripper poles again. "Um, please tell me we're not here to see strippers?"
Dana laughed, propelling me over to the table where Marco shoved a fruity drink into my hand.
"No, silly, were not watching strippers."
Oh, thank God.
"We're being the strippers!"
The fruity drink froze midway to my mouth.
O-kay. Much worse.
"Say what?" I looked around the room, a sudden vision of Mrs. Rosenblatt going full monty triggering a gag reflex in the back of my throat.
"We're getting a pole-dancing lesson from Eden. She's like the best exotic dancer in all of Hollywood. She's totally going to teach us how to work the pole. You know, so you can make the honeymoon extra special," Dana said, waggling her eyebrows up and down.
"Plus, it's great for your glutes," Molly added. "I joined a pole-dancing class after Connor was born. Worked off the baby fat in six months flat."
"Huh." I took a big gulp of my drink, hoping that whatever it was there was lots of alcohol in it.
"Is this the bride-to-be?" A tall woman with a thick wave a shiny brunette hair emerged from behind a curtain to the left. She wore a black latex bikini and six-inch black leather books that came all the way up to midthigh over a pair of fishnet stockings. "Hi, I'm Eden," she purred, holding a hand out to me.
I shook it. But didn't get a chance to respond as a loud hiccup erupted from me.
Eden giggled. "Woo, looks like someone's enjoying the drinks already. Okay, are we ready?" she asked, turning to my assembled group of friends.
"Doll, I was born ready," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.
Oh lord. I took another sip of my drink. A really big one.
"Great you can go first. Maddie?" Eden asked, gesturing to an empty pole.
I shook my head. "Can't. Hic-(hiccup)-ups." For once those buggers came in handy.
"You got them things again?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "You gotta get rid of them. Bubbee, what you need is a good scare."
I was pretty sure if she got on that pole, I was going to get one.
"Okay then, anyone else want to try?" Eden asked.
"Oh, I'll do it!" Marco said, raising his hand and bouncing up and down in his seat.
"Great, let's get started." Eden crossed to a stereo system in the corner and pushed a few buttons. Immediately the room filled with the sound of the Pussycat Dolls wondering if we wished our girlfriends were hot like them.
"Our first move is the butterfly twist," Eden yelled over the beat, jumping up onstage and claiming the pole between Marco and Mrs. R. "You start with an extended right arm, swing your body, then crook your right leg around the pole and ride it down." She demonstrated, her legs wrapping around the pole as she swung in an arcing circle. With her long, lean form and hair flowing behind her, I had to admit, the move was fluid and almost elegant. Maybe this pole dancing thing wasn't so bad.
I took another sip of my fruity concoction and even found myself bobbing my head to the music a little as Double D walked in carrying a tray of fresh drinks.
"Once you master that one, we'll add a twist to it where you arch your body back, then release, engaging your abdominals," Eden instructed. "Why don't you both give it a try?"
"This is so fun!" Marco grabbed the pole in both hands, swinging his weight around it. But, since Marco weighed about as much as a mayfly, he didn't so much slide seductively down its length as look like a kid flipping around the monkey bars. Or maybe I just got the jungle gym image from the way he shouted out, "Weee, look at me!"
"My turn," Mrs. Rosenblatt announced.
Then I watched in horror as she kicked off her Birkenstocks and grabbed onto the pole with both hands, grunting as she tried to hoist her weight off the ground. Which, since she weighed more than half the linebackers in the NFL, was completely futile. But that didn't stop her from continuing to try. She pulled with all her might, lifted one leg and wrapped it around the pole, arching her back until her muumuu rode up her leg exposing a roadmap of varicose veins.
"Am I doing it?" she asked, her cheeks turning pink as the blood rushed to her head
"Um, maybe a more stationery move might be-" Eden started.
But she didn't get to finish.
An ominous cracking sound interrupted the Pussycat Dolls, and Mrs. Rosenblatt flew backwards onto her derriere as the base of her metal pole ripped away from the stage, taking a plank of hardwood flooring with it. The pole toppled to the right, hitting Marco with a thud and taking him down to the floor as little white chunks of ceiling fluttered down on them both.
"Did I do it?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, coughing up ceiling dust.
Eden screamed, Mom gasped, Dana laughed, Double D's mouth hung open like a fish, and I grabbed another fruity drink from her tray of cocktails and downed it in one big gulp.
Hurrah to singlehood.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time I left Eden's Garden I'm pretty sure I'd heard enough Pussycat Dolls to last a lifetime and had decided that those women in the tiny tassels were way underpaid for the skills it took to do their jobs. And I was drunk. After seeing Mom give the pole a go - really, really drunk. I called a cab and had the driver take me to Ramirez's place. I only vaguely remembered slipping my little pink key into the lock and collapsing on his bed before going into a fruity drink coma.
I awoke with the distinct taste of gym socks in my mouth and a ringing in my ears that sounded like a thousand fire alarms all going off at once. I groaned, rolling over and glancing at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Way too early to be awake. I moaned, sinking into my pillow and putting my hands over my ears to the stop the ringing. Only it didn't help as I realized the sound was actually coming from my phone. I twisted left, cracking one eye open as I fumbled for my cell on the nightstand.
"Hello?" I croaked out.
"Hey, it's me," Felix yelled.
"Shhh. Hangover."
"Oh no, don't tell me Dana got you drunk last night?
"Worse. She made me pole dance."
There was a pause. Then, "How come you never invite me to these things?"
"It's six a.m. What do you want?"
"Any word from Allie?" he asked.
I shook my head. Ouch. Bad idea. An instant migraine erupted behind my eyes. "Unh uh."
"The police have any leads?"
I rubbed at my temple. "None that they've shared with me." I looked at the empty half of the bed beside me, noticed the distinct lack of percolating coffee scent in the air. "Ramirez didn't come home last night."
"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 rifl
ing 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 dr
iver 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.
Mayhem in High Heels Page 20