“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, emphasizing 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 said 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.
Felix tried again, leaning into the button.
The door of the unit next to Allie’s popped open, an Asian woman with a crying toddler stuck to one hip emerging.
“Can you stop ringing the bell, please? The kid’s teething and seriously needs a nap.”
From the dark circles under Mom’s eyes, I could tell she did, too. Ah, the joys of motherhood.
“Sorry, I thought we were ringing Allie’s,” I said.
“The walls are thin,” she explained. “It echoes. Besides, Allie’s not here.”
“Did she say where she went?”
The woman gave me a rueful grin. “No. Like I said, the walls are thin. I heard her banging around in there a couple hours ago, then slam the front door on her way out.”
I glanced at Felix, wondering where Allie had gone off to, if not to meet him.
“So, can you lay off the bell?” she asked, shifting the baby to the other hip as it continued it’s wailing. I didn’t know how she didn’t go deaf from the racket.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, turning away.
“So much for that,” Felix said, falling into step beside me.
I nodded, glancing back at Allie’s dark apartment.
“Look, maybe Allie is on the up and up and maybe she isn’t. But I’ve got a bad feeling she’s not going to be much help with those phone records.”
He nodded. “She didn’t exactly come through today. So, what do you suggest?”
“Well, Allie said that Gigi kept copies of her phone bills at the office and at home. Maybe we could access her home files?”
He grinned. “By ‘access’ I’m assuming you mean break into her house?”
“Not break! Maybe, kinda slip in. For a minute. For a very good cause.”
His smile widened, reminding me of a big hungry crocodile. “Maddie, it’s always for a good cause.”
“So, you’re in?”
“We’ll take my car,” he said, leading the way to his Neon parked up the block.
“Why?”
Again with the crocodile grin. “Unless you’ve got a lock-picking kit in the glove box, it’s the only way we’re getting in.”
Right.
I never quite got the full story of how Felix learned to pick locks, but from what little he’d said, it had something to do with a youth spent in London a private boy’s school and a young Felix with way too much time on his hands. Honestly, it was probably better I didn’t ask too many questions. (Can we say, accessory after the fact?) But, I had to admit, his less than completely moral skills had come in handy on occasion. Me, I’d tried to pick a lock once. Just once. (For a good reason, of course!) I’d ended up breaking my Macy’s Visa card in half trying to wedge it in the doorframe. Had to wait four weeks for a new one to come in the mail. And trying to explain to the nice customer service rep in India how I’d damaged the first one? So not worth it.
“But we’re not really breaking in. Just…”
“Slipping in,” he finished for me.
“Right,” I said, wedging myself into Felix’s Neon. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the pile of newspaper, takeout bags, and computer equipment filling the backseat as we merged into traffic.
“So,” Felix said, “any idea where Gigi’s house is?”
I shook my head. “We could go back to my place and google her.”
“No need.” Felix pulled a phone from his pocket and stabbed at the screen. “I’ll do it.”
“Geeze, am I the only person left in the world who doesn’t have Google in her pocket?”
“I’m fairly certain my mother doesn’t,” Felix responded, typing Gigi’s name into the tiny screen.
Considering his mother was a seventy-year-old widow living in the Cotswolds of England, that didn’t make me feel much better.
“Here we are,” he said, squinting at the screen. “She’s got a white pages listing in Pacific Palisades.” He read off the address, getting on the 5 south.
Twenty minutes of gridlock later, we merged onto the 10 west, then snaked up the 1 toward the posh ocean side city of Pacific Palisades. While we were a mere block from the Pacific, the air still smelled more of car exhaust than salty sea water, but the multistory glass homes and funky pink stucco crab shacks were a dead giveaway we�
��d hit the ocean.
We wound around a golf course, coming up on a neighborhood of towering homes in the eclectic California architecture tradition – imposing faux Tudors next to mock Italian villas next to craftsman style cottages on steroids. The address Felix had pulled up was in the middle of the block, one of the faux Tudors, pale white stucco gleaming against dark woods that crisscrossed like ancient beams along the face. A long expanse of lawn separated the home from the street, edged in a tall hedge along the property giving it the illusion of privacy.
As Felix maneuvered his Neon up the winding drive, I did a slow survey of the place.
“Wow. Nice,” I said with a low whistle. “No wonder those place cards cost so much.”
“We’ll park around the side,” Felix suggested, indicating another line of thick hedges.
He pulled around, obscuring the car from the front of the property before we hopped out and made our way to the front door. My kitten heels seemed to clack like cannons on the expertly cobbled drive in the silence. Gingerly looking over my shoulder as if expecting vicious guard dogs to be alerted to our presence, I walked up to the front door and knocked. Since the occupant was currently residing in the L.A. County morgue, predictably there was no answer.
I tried the knob. No such luck. Firmly locked.
I peered in the front windows. Inside I could see the furnishings were every bit as showy as Gigi herself had been. A pair of oversized sofas in gold brocade faced a large marble fireplace with some sort of family crest above the mantel.
“What do you think the chances are that a back door’s open somewhere?” I asked.
Felix shot me a look. “Slim.”
“Slim as in, let’s go check it out?”
“Slim as in Kate Moss after a colon cleanse.”
“Damn.” I really hated bending the law like this. But… a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
I stepped aside. “Okay, do it.”
Felix sauntered up to the door, cocky too mild a word to describe his swagger, and pulled a narrow black case from his jacket pocket. He slowly unzipped it, revealing an array of instruments that all looked vaguely like flat screwdrivers to me. I waited in silence as he slipped one into the keyhole of Gigi’s lock. He twisted it back and forth, listening intently for some kind of sign it was working.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 117