“Can’t. I’ve got a bachelorette party to attend tonight.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Bachelorette party?”
I nodded. “Dana’s throwing it for me.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
That makes two of us, pal.
I looked down at my watch. “I’m late already. I should go.”
He frowned. “Okay. But come by my place when you’re done.”
I nodded. Then planted a quick kiss on his cheek before hiking the block back up the hill to my Jeep. Once inside I quickly turned the key, letting the engine warm up before flipping on the air.
Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was go to a bachelorette party. The scene I’d just witnessed brought back all too fresh memories of Gigi facedown in my cake sample. Only this was somehow worse. Because Allie was out there somewhere. Maybe alive, maybe not. But definitely in the hands of someone unscrupulous enough to kill.
I thunked my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes.
Think, Maddie, who could it be? I had the nagging feeling I’d missed a vital piece of information somewhere along the way. So far all I had was a handful of unlikely suspects. The only thing they all had in common was that they knew Gigi. And, unfortunately, all had alibis. So, who had stabbed Gigi and possibly kidnapped Allie? There had to be something I’d overlooked.
A knock sounded on my window and I freaked so badly I nearly peed my pants.
I turned to find Felix rapping on the glass. Trying to still the jackhammer in my chest I rolled down the window.
“What?”
“Any chance I can catch a lift with you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Informer office. Hollywood. Near your bachelorette party by any chance?”
I opened my mouth to tell him that I honestly had no intention of going through with the party now. But, quite frankly, I figured the easiest way to “ditch Felix” was to drop him off somewhere myself. At least then, instead of looking over my shoulder for a Neon tag-along, I’d know for sure which rock he was under.
“Fine, get in,” I said, putting the car in gear as Felix climbed into the passenger side.
I made a semi-legal U-turn and headed back toward the freeway.
* * *
The Informer offices were housed in a nondescript white(ish) building in Hollywood, smack in the center of tourist heaven. I counted no fewer than four souvenir shops on the same block, all four sporting life-sized cutouts of Marilyn Monroe. I dropped Felix off out front, each of us promising to call the other if we heard anything from Allie.
I looked down at my dash clock. Seven fifteen. I could go back to my apartment. But somehow the idea of being alone right now was less than appealing. Despite my bravado in front of Ramirez, I was more than a little creeped out by the site of all that blood in Allie’s kitchen. Option number two was to go to Ramirez’s place and wait for him to get home. But somehow, the idea of being alone in Ramirez’s place was even more depressing than being alone in my own.
And then there was option three.
With a resigned sigh, I pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard and made for Vine. And did a double take as I pulled up to the address Dana had given me. The Garden of Eden. And I wasn’t talking Bible study here. The place had those kind of blacked out windows and neon signs with lots of Xs in them. A neon eye above the door alternated between doe-eyed wide and winking seductively as I locked my car and steeled myself, hitting the front door.
Loud music emanated from speakers hidden in the ceiling, pounding out a rendition of “Cat Scratch Fever” that made me want to scratch out my own eardrums. A stage to one side held three stripper poles, all being made love to by women wearing teeny tiny G-strings and strategically placed tassels. On the floor of the Garden sat rows of tables, most occupied by Asian businessmen and groups of rowdy frat boys with Sierra Nevada bottles in hand.
I glanced back at the door. Did I have the right place?
A waitress in a pink bikini who obviously believed in the “more is more” credo of silicone cup sizes approached carrying a tray.
“Can I help you, honey?” she asked.
“Uh… I’m here for a bachelorette party?”
“Oh, right!” She nodded.
And any hope that I’d been mistaken in writing down the directions vanished. (As did stripper number one’s tassels, I noticed. Yikes!)
“In the back,” she said, indicating a pair of doors to the far right of the place. “Your friends are already here.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying not to look at the wiggling boobies on stage as I made my way through the club.
“And, hey, congratulations!” Miss Double D called after me with a wink.
I waved feebly. Then pushed my way through the back doors.
The backroom wasn’t as large as the main area, obviously reserved for private parties. A smaller stage was constructed here, though a trio of silver poles was still the highlight. Luckily, they were empty. (For now.)
Three tables were set up in front of the stage. At one sat my mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt, Marco, Dana, and Molly. All four sipped from some kind of fruity drink with pineapple slices floating on top.
Dana jumped up, grabbing me in a hug.
“Maddie, I’m so glad you made it.” She pulled back. “You’re late, you know.”
“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, we’re 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 of shiny brunette hair emerged from behind a curtain to the left. She wore a black latex bikini and six-inch black leather boots 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 derrière 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 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 que
en 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!”
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 121