Dana reached for my arm to spin me again, but I quickly stepped back out of range.
“Halt!” I held up both hands in front of me to ward them off. “I’m getting dizzy.”
Marco crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Dana out of the corner of his eye. Dana put her hand on her hips, mirroring his combative stance.
“Look the doves are very nice…”
Dana gave Marco a triumphant look.
“…and so are the butterflies…”
“Ha!” Marco called.
“…but, I’m not sure we really need either.”
“What?!” Both of them gave me twin looks of horror.
“What do you mean we don’t need anything?” Marco said, his voice rising into a falsetto. “This is your wedding. You want people to remember it. You want to remember it. How can it be memorable if we don’t release anything?”
“Oh Maddie, you have to have something. Think how romantic it will be.”
“I know,” Marco said, “If you’re not into animals how about fireworks?”
“Right, we could time them to go off right over the wedding gazebo.”
“Wait!” I got a sudden vision of my gazebo going up in firework flames as guests ducked for cover, showers of sparks raining down on them. “Okay. We can have one of these guys.”
“Okay, doves it is?” Dana asked, gesturing to her feathered friends.
“Honey, butterflies.”
Dana shook her head. “Butterflies are so bad for the environment. You know, releasing too many of them into a non-native environment can change their migration patterns for generations to come. Pretty soon the whole place will be overrun with butterflies with not enough for them to eat and they’ll all die off. You don’t want to kill off the butterflies with your wedding, do you Maddie?”
“Uh… no?”
“I’m telling you, doves are classic. Classy. You can’t go wrong.”
“Doves are mean,” Marco said, scrunching up his nose. “I heard they peck people. You want doves nipping at your guests?”
“No. Definitely no,” I replied.
“They are not mean! They’re peaceful. So sweet. Here, see for yourself.”
She opened the cage, making soft, cooing sounds until one of the little white birds hopped from the twig to Dana’s index finger. Slowly, Dana pulled her hand out of the cage and offered the bird toward me. “Look how tame they are. You can even pet them.”
I reached out one finger and gingerly stroked it down the bird’s back. It just sat there. I stroked it again. Actually, it was kinda nice. Soft, pure white. It might not be such a bad idea to have a couple of these fellows at the wedding, after all. I moved my fingers over the smooth feathers on his head and found myself making little baby talk sounds at him.
“Who’s a pretty birdie? Who’s the beautiful bird? You are. Yes, you are.”
Unfortunately, it seemed he didn’t agree with me as he took that moment to start flapping his wings. Taking Dana by surprise, who yelped, causing the bird to freak out even more.
“He’s gonna start pecking!” Marco said, ducking behind a bag of birdseed.
I jumped back.
But not quickly enough. Mr. Dove flew from Dana’s hand, straight at me, his little clawed feet landing in my hair.
“Get it off, get it off!” I yelled, flapping my arms up and down in what I’m sure was an exact imitation of his wing flapping thing.
Dana tried to grab him, all the while chanting, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” as he hopped back and forth, tangling his little claws in my hair. I looked wildly around for a store clerk, but, of course, they would have all chosen that moment to go on their latte breaks.
Finally, Dana managed to wrap her hands around the bird’s little body, pinning his wings down as she lifted him from my head, taking a few choice strands of hair with her.
Unfortunately, she was just a second too late.
I felt something warm and wet hit the shoulder of my sweater.
“Ewwwwww,” Marco cried, pointing at me. “It pooed on you!”
I looked down. Sure enough, a brown streak ran from my shoulder all the way down the front of my white sweater.
Dana shoved the offender back in his cage with a, “Bad birdie!” then turned to face me.
“Maddie, I am so, so sorry,” she said, biting her lip.
I gave her a death look.
“So, um, maybe we should go with butterflies?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Ya think?”
Chapter Eleven
After the shit hit the cashmere I decided I’d had enough wedding business for one afternoon. In an attempt to make amends, Dana offered to pick me up later to go the Symmetric Zebras concert and even offered to buy me a souvenir T-shirt. She seemed so genuinely sorry I couldn’t help forgiving her. (Even though I noticed she didn’t offer to buy me a new sweater.)
Clad in one of Dana’s sports bras (the only spare clothing any of us had in our trunks) I hopped on Wilshire and took surface streets home to Santa Monica. The sun was setting into the sea in the distance, and as I trudged up the stairs to my studio, a large, square package on the front step caught my eye. Another wedding offering courtesy of the postman? I stooped down for a closer look at the return address. My Aunt Lorraine in Idaho. I picked it up. It kinda rattled.
I entertained the idea of ripping it open right then and there, but remembered the moment of horror with the christening dress and shoved it on the kitchen counter, hitting the shower instead.
After a fresh shampoo and blow dry, I checked my messages (just one from Mrs. Rosenblatt offering to do a pre-wedding aura cleanse for Ramirez and I), then dug into my closet for an appropriate rocker-chick outfit. After trying on and discarding a couple (ten) outfits, I finally settled on a black miniskirt, black knee-high boots and a red clingy shirt with tiny silver fibers running through it that sparkled when the light hit it just right. I capped it all off with a little red lipstick and a lot of mascara, and I was ready to rock someone’s world.
I contemplated adding a pair of black chunky earrings that dangled down to my shoulders, but wondered if that might be a bit much. I was still holding them up in the bathroom mirror when a familiar shave-and-a-haircut knock hit my front door. I dropped the earrings and crossed the apartment to the door, throwing it open.
And realized nothing I could put on would be a bit much.
Dana wore a teeny tiny spandex dress in electric blue with cutouts at her belly and back. The top part of the dress was held to the bottom part with big sliver rings that would have given her a really funky tan line in the sunshine. On her feet were a pair of matching electric blue heels that made her tower over me by almost a foot. Not including her teased hair.
I gave her a slow up and down.
“You bought the dress just to have something to wear the shoes with, didn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you? They’re rockin’ shoes.”
She had a point.
“Ready to go?”
“Wait!” I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed the chunky earrings from the counter. “K, now I’m ready.”
* * *
The Inca Theater was located in Hollywood, just down the street from the famous Mann’s Chinese Theater and walk of fame. Once an icon of Hollywood architecture, the Inca had housed chorus girls and later black and white films, until it started to crumble in the 70s as much of old Hollywood died off. After a decade of being boarded up as an eyesore, new owners with a penchant toward preservation had come in and restored the old theater to its original glory – or at least something passable enough to draw the tourists back in. These days the Inca played host to Latin awards shows, reality TV dance-offs, and the occasional minor rock bands.
The outside of the Inca looked like any other building in Hollywood. It was tall, white stuccoed and sandwiched between Happy Hollywood Souvenirs and a talent agency touting open auditions for kid’s commercials. The interior was just like the name would indicate
- Incan.
Dark, stone walls carved with ancient totem-looking faces glared down at us. The high ceilings were patterned with intricate mosaics of half naked men with bronzed skin and dour expression building temples in the sun, and lights fashioned to look like torches blazed in sconces along the walls. Deep blue, red and purple mood lighting shone through the theater, giving the Incan faces a gruesome, ominous glow in the shadowy interior.
I tried not to let them creep me out as I followed Dana to a spot on the floor where the crowd was eagerly watching the red curtains, waiting for a glimpse of their rock gods.
They didn’t have to wait long. Almost as soon as we settled into place (between a guy with a green Mohawk and a gal in Docs with teardrops tattooed on her cheeks) the first chord struck, vibrating off the walls like 6.2 on the Richter scale. I grabbed Dana’s arm for support as she threw one hand up in some two finger rock salute and shouted out a loud, “Wahooo!”
I tried to keep up as the band appeared and the mob started to gyrate in time to the pulsing beat, bumping into me on all sides, generating a mass of body heat until I could feel warm sweat break out on the back of my neck. While I wasn’t the world’s most private person, the thought of all these strangers touching me was a little icky. I tried to groove with it, focusing on the guys on stage instead, wondering which one of the Zebras Gigi might have been seeing.
The drummer was a guy with shaggy brown hair, pounding away with a vigor that had sweat darkening his gray T-shirt - one that sported a picture of a multicolored zebra on it. The guitar player was a blond with freckles, his hair tinted with green streaks, and the guy on keyboards was wearing the tightest pair of leather pants I had ever seen in my life. (Though I had to admit, he filled them out nicely. Hmm… I wondered how Ramirez would look in leather…) I had no idea what the bass player looked like – he moved too fast, dancing all over the stage like some hyper Chihuahua with a guitar. And the lead singer was a skinny guy with pink hair wearing a kilt. Honestly, none of them looked like he fit with the image of the Prada-wearing, schedule-toting Gigi.
But, as they say, opposites do attract.
Just about the point where I was starting to hear bells ring in my ears, they jammed out the last song, hitting the high ending note so hard the place nearly shook and I had the irrational fear that the Incan gods on the wall might come to life, angered by the noise. The band threw their guitar picks into the crowd and the curtain closed, allowing the roadies time to switch out the set for the night’s main attraction.
“Come on,” Dana yelled in my ear, grabbing me by the arm. She steered me to the side, skirting the line of the stage toward a door on the left.
Unlike myself, Dana was a pro concert-goer, having threaded her way through many a crowd with her backstage pass. Before meeting Ricky, my best friend had been a bit of a… well… okay, there was no nice way to say it. A slut. I loved her dearly, but let’s call a spade a spade. It wasn’t that she set out to bed-hop her way through L.A. It was that she was a blonde, blue eyed, 5’7” aerobics instructor. She was hawt. Men fell at her feet. And, while she had a heart of gold, Dana was a weak woman when it came to a well-built man.
At least, she had been before Ricky. Apparently Ricky and monogamy worked for her, for which I was eternally grateful. (My midnight “Maddie, I’m such a bad person because I just slept with Mr. Blank and Mr. Blank in one night” calls had significantly decreased.)
However thanks to her many hours in the arms of rock stars, Dana knew her way around the backstage at just about any venue in Los Angeles.
And the Inca was no exception.
She pushed her way through the mob to a spot on the far side where a small staircase led to a level just below the stage. A big guy with bulging forearms stood there, an earpiece in his ear, sunglasses covering his eyes even in the dim horror house lighting.
Dana held up the backstage pass around her neck and he silently stepped aside, opening the door for us. A line of groupies behind us shouted, “No fair!”
I couldn’t help feeling just a little cool.
We followed a corridor to a big room full of tables of pizza and beer, reams of wires and amplifier cords and guys in black jeans, flannel shirts, and backwards baseball caps skittering every which way.
A particularly large one in a black hat with a green pot plant painted on the brim and sporting a belly that looked like he was due in June spotted us right way.
“Dude, Dana!”
He grabbed Dana like she was a ragdoll and spun her around.
“Hey, long time no see,” Dana responded once he’d put her down. “You remember Maddie. Maddie, Mort, my old roomie.
“Hi,” I said, raising a hand in greeting.
“‘Sup, dude?” Mort said, nodding my direction by way of greeting.
I took it to be a rhetorical question as his bloodshot eyes immediately went back to Dana. Or, I should say, her cleavage.
“Dude, you look good. Watcha been up to?”
“You know. Same old.”
“Well, whatever you been doing, keep doin’ it.” He cackled at his own joke, showing off a row of teeth that didn’t see much time at the dentist.
“I was wondering if it would be possible to talk to the band?” I asked him.
I was half afraid I was shouting, as that ringing was still echoing in my ears. But if I was, he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was just permanently deaf from one too many nights on the road.
“Yeah. Totally. They’re chillin’ in the green room. You wanna meet ‘em?”
I nodded.
“Cool. Follow me, dude,” he said. He grabbed Dana’s hand and steered us down another corridor.
I heard them before we saw them. Loud laughter and female screeching, punctuated by the occasional song verse, poured out into the hallway as we approached an open doorway on the right.
As we entered the green room (which, by the way, was actually a dingy gray) the first thing I saw was vodka bottles. Lots of them. Mostly empty. A faint sweet scent hung in the air, like Mrs. Rosenblatt’s incense burner, and a thin haze of smoke drifted near the ceiling. I tried to take shallow breaths, remembering my one not-so-swell encounter with pot in high school when I’d spent two hours giggling like a maniac, then polished off every box of Duncan Hines cake mix in the house.
The band—along with a generous helping of girls in miniskirts and tube tops—sprawled on a pair of sofas that looked like they’d been salvaged in a Dumpster dive. Dana paused, adjusting her bra upward and her top downward before we approached.
“Rockin’ set tonight, Alex,” Mort said to the one in the kilt.
“Thanks, man,” he responded, doing some sort of complicated handshake thing with him.
“Dude, this is Dana. She used to live with me, man.”
“Right on!” the singer replied. He turned his attention to Dana, holding out a hand. “Hey.”
“Hey. You guys are great.”
He grinned like he already knew it. “Thanks.”
“This is Maddie,” she said gesturing to me. “We heard about your band from Gigi. Gigi Van Doren,” she said, stretching the truth just a little.
I watched the lead singer’s face closely for a reaction, but only the same slightly stoned one stared back at me. “Cool.”
“Did you know her?” Dana probed. “Gigi?”
He shook his head. “Nope.” He turned to his band mates. “Hey, any of you guys know a Gigi?”
The guy in the leather pants stood up, almost toppling over the brunette hanging on his arm in the process. “What about her?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of hers. Or… was…” I said, correcting myself. “Maddie.”
He nodded. “Hey. Spike.”
“You knew Gigi, Spike?”
He nodded again. “Yeah.”
“You were dating?” I asked, realizing I was going to have to be direct with this guy. Though whether it was grief or vodka creating the one-word answers, I wasn’t sure.
“Yeah, we went out,” he said.
And as I got a closer look at him, I could see why Gigi had been drawn to him. He had jet black hair that curled a little near his ears. Uncommonly vivid blue eyes and small piercings in each ear that gave him a bad boy look while still being approachable. In addition to the assets highlighted by his tight leather pants, thick muscles ripped along his forearms and chest, contained by a loose-fitting black tank showing off biceps that made me check the corners of my mouth for drool. Intricate dragon tattoos snaked down both of his arms. All in all, Rock God personified.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
His eyes darkened, hitting the floor. “Yeah.”
“How long had you been seeing each other?”
“A few months,” he said. “But it was serious, you know? I mean, we like felt a total connection right away.”
I shot a quick glance back at his displaced brunette.
“For real,” he said, following my gaze. “Look, I may hang with the groupies a little now and then, but with Gigi and me it was the real deal.”
“I can’t help but ask – she was a bit older than you, wasn’t she?” Dana said trying to put it as delicately as she could that they were a virtual odd couple.
Spike grinned. “Hey, I dig mature girls,” he said. Then glanced my way.
I threw my shoulders back, thrusting my barely B’s a little higher. Hey, I was not mature.
“Anyway, she was generous,” he continued. “She didn’t mind throwing a little money my way now and then, you know. It’s tough when you’re just starting out. We’ve got all kinds of studio expenses and stuff. She was a doll about pitching in now and then.”
“Ah,” I said. Sugar Momma. “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
He bit his lip, his eyes turning watery before hitting the floor again. “Last week. We went to dinner.”
“Not since then?” I asked, stopping myself just short of asking if he’d been her mystery meeting on Saturday.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 113