Mayhem in High Heels (9 page)

"The Symmetric Zebras."

I had to admit, I'd never heard of them. But, then again, the last time I'd aspired to be a groupie was when I was fifteen drooling over my Skid Row posters.

"Any idea how I can get hold of these Zebras?"

Allie shrugged. "Sorry, I'm not really a fan."

I was about to press more, when Allie's phone rang, vibrating across the coffee table.

She picked it up, flipping open the top. "Sorry. Text," she explained, reading the little screen. Then she did some fancy maneuver, flipping the screen sideways and turning the keypad into a mini-keyboard. She quickly typed back some message using her thumbs with a speed that I'd swear rivaled the best receptionists in the known universe.

"Wow, cool phone." Even though it would take me a year to figure out how to use it.

"Oh, thanks. Gigi gave it to me for Christmas. Same one she had. She said the bulk of her business was about organizing and timing. Double booking is like death to a wedding planner." She paused, cringing at her own word choice. "Uh, anyway, she said I needed a way to keep track of everything on the go."

"You don't happen to have Gigi's schedule on there as well, do you?" I asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Uh huh. Hang on a sec." She slipped a stylus from the side and stabbed at the little screen. "Gigi wanted to make sure I avoided any conflicts, so I always kept a copy of her schedule."

"Any idea what she had planned the morning she died?" I know, it was unlikely the killer had made an appointment to murder her. But it was possible someone she'd been meeting with had stabbed her in the heat of the moment. At the very least it might be worth questioning the people who'd last seen her.

"Let's see," Allie said, pursing her blonde brows together, "no clients that morning. But she had an appointment the afternoon before with Mitsy Kleinburg." Off my blank face, she added, "You know, the daughter of that guy who directed Johnny Depp's last movie? She's marrying some stockbroker in June and the chick is a total nightmare. Changes her mind like every five seconds, then blames us when things get delayed."

"Really?" I asked, making a mental note. So not
everyone
had been on hunky-dory terms with Gigi. I wondered just how nightmarish Mitsy could get. Enough to actually kill over a fouled-up table setting?

Yes, I was reaching. But it was a start at least.

"I don't suppose you have Ms. Kleinburg's number, do you?"

Allie bit her lip, then looked up at me through her enviably long lashes. "I'm really not supposed to give it out," she said. "A lot of Gigi's clients are high-profile personalities. I had to sign a confidentially agreement and everything when I came to work for her."

"Right." So much for Bridezilla.

"Sorry," Allie said, looking like she actually meant it.

"Anything else? She didn't have anything scheduled for that morning?"

Allie stabbed a little more with her stylus. "Just Paul."

"Another boyfriend?"

She laughed. "Hardly. Paul Fauston does all our wedding cakes. He was probably delivering the sample that morning that... " She trailed off, her eyes going watery again as she left the rest unsaid.

I patted her arm awkwardly.

While I'd yet to actually meet Mr. Fauston, I recognized his name right away. Gigi had said he was the best in the business, creating virtual sculptures out of sugar and egg whites. I may have been iffy about place cards, but the cake was one place I was not skimping. We'd taken Gigi's advice and ordered from him straight off. From what I remembered he had a bakery just a few blocks from Gigi's studio.

"Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I've got a test later," Allie said, gesturing toward her algebra book, "and I didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night."

"Of course. Thanks for seeing me," I said, rising from the sofa and crossing the tiny room to the doorway.

"If you think of anything else, here's my number," I said, slipping Allie my card.

She took it with a sniff, then shut the door behind me.

Once back in my Jeep, I opened my purse, pulling out a notepad and pen. While Mystery Rocker Boyfriend was still my number-one suspect, I wrote down Paul Fauston's name. I know. The baker visiting the wedding planner before a cake tasting was hardly in the arena of suspicion. But he'd likely been the last person to see her alive. And it
was
his cake knife that she'd been killed with. Which definitely bore looking into. Luckily, I had an appointment with him tomorrow to taste that cake sample, an excellent excuse to grill him.

I felt a little pang in my gut that I'd be doing it alone this time instead with Ramirez, but I shoved it down, telling myself I was a big girl. I could taste wedding cake alone. So what if Ramirez wasn't interested in the minute details of our wedding? As long as he showed up, it would be fine.

I just prayed he'd show up.

Under Fauston's name I wrote,
Mitsy Kleinburg
with a notation,
bitchy bride
.

If Mitsy had really been as bad as Allie said, maybe she and Gigi had had a falling out? Maybe Gigi had ordered the wrong hors d'oeuvres? Booked the wrong chapel? Maybe in a fit of bridal induced rage, Mitsy had offed Gigi? As I well knew, getting married was more than enough to stress a person out. Maybe Mitsy had just snapped?

Allie may not be at liberty to divulge Mitsy's number, but, thanks to my addiction to celebrity gossip magazines, I did know where to find Mitsy's famous father. Al Kleinburg was wrapping up production on a period piece already being hailed as next season's Oscar frontrunner. It was the angsty saga of one family's fall from grace during the depression and, according to
Access Hollywood's
Nancy O'Dell, was currently being shot on the Sunset Studio's lot.

With new purpose, I flipped a U-ey on Verdugo and hopped onto the 134 heading west. I was just merging at the 101 interchange when my cell chirped to life from the depths of my purse. Driving with one hand, I used the other to navigate around a tube of lipstick, a sheaf of credit cards, and some old mints until I finally laid hands on my phone, flipping it open just as it was about to go to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Maddie?" Mom shouted on the other end.

I cringed, pulling the phone away from my ear. "Hi, Mom."

"What?"

"I said 'hi.'"

"Speak up, baby, I can hardly hear you," she shouted.

I rolled my eyes.

"I said 'hi!'" I yelled.

"Oh. Hi, baby. Listen, where are you?

"I'm on the 101. Why?"

"Oh, thank God. I was worried with all that had happened you'd forgotten."

Oh. Shit. "Forgotten?"

"The fitting. You didn't forget, did you?"

Mental forehead smack. The dress fitting.

Four months ago Mom and I had spent three full weekends scouring every boutique in town for the perfect wedding dress. I'd tried off the shoulder, one shoulder, spaghetti strap, empire waisted, pleat waisted, long sleeved, puff sleeved, lace, beaded, satin, silk, and everything in between. For once in my life, I had to admit, I'd been shopped out.

Finally, we'd found this new boutique started by none other than Austin Scarlett, one of Heidi Klum's
Project Runway
cast-offs. The most gorgeous couture gowns you ever saw. On the very back rack, the last dress I tried on... I found my perfection. Never mind Ramirez, I was pretty sure that this dress was my soul mate. A slim, corset waist, cut low in the back with a full skirt and delicate beading around the hem in a lovely white satin that made my skin feel like it was indulging in a silky bubble bath every time I put it on. Only better. 'Cause I got to wear a tiara with it.

Today was the final fitting to check every nip, tuck, pin, and seam. As much as the last twenty-four hours had taken out of me, I felt my mood lifting just a little at the thought of putting it on.

"Right. The dress. Of course. Uh, what time is the fitting again?" I asked, glancing down at my dash clock.

"It's in half an hour. You didn't forget, did you?"

"Me? Forget? Never," I said, taking the next exit. "I'm on my way."

Chapter Seven

Austin Scarlett's bridal salon was located in an unassuming white-stuccoed building off Beverly, sandwiched between a trendy French bistro with an outdoor patio and the Lucky Happy Time nail salon. The front window featured headless mannequins in gorgeous, flowing gowns of bright white satin holding large, foam geometric shapes in primary colors that looked like they should be in a preschool block bin. The contrast was striking, bold and oh-so-very high fashion.

I pushed through the glass front doors and inhaled deeply the scent of fresh couture as my eyes scanned the small interior for my merry band of wedding misfits.

I spied Mom right away, her neon green stretch pants standing out like a sore off-the-rack thumb among the soft, beaded gowns. While I loved my mother dearly, I thanked the gods on a daily basis that I hadn't inherited her fashion sense. Though I had to admit, lately she'd been trying. After experiencing Paris Fashion Week last year, Mom had finally seen the fun in fashion. She'd absorbed every outfit she'd seen go down the runway. Then had promptly come home and started downloading fashion shows from YouTube.

Unfortunately, she'd taken the outfits just a little too literally. Anyone who's ever seen a runway show will know what I mean when I say the outfits are for
show
, not necessarily ready for the racks at Nordstrom. They're a jumping off place for the wearables that hit stores that season. Not even models could get away with wearing show outfits around town for an afternoon of brunch and gossip with the gals without catching snickers and stares.

And I could see Mom already eliciting a few from the other shop patrons.

She'd paired the neon stretch pants (because, as she'd told me, "Bold color is in this year, Maddie!") with a long, billowy white shirt that was just a tad on the see-through side ("This spring is all about sheers!") and a leopard print bra that was way too visible beneath (Apparently she hadn't downloaded any lingerie shows yet.). A pair of iridescent silver boots covered her feet and long, dangling neon green earrings hung from her ear lobes. She'd capped the effort off with matching green eye shadow that went all the way from the line of her chunky mascara to her penciled-in eyebrows.

I did an internal shudder, thankful she hadn't been kicked out of the boutique by now.

"Mads!" she cried, rushing across the shop and enveloping me in a hug. "Oh, I'm so glad you made it. Almost on time, even."

I generously let the comment slide.

"BillyJo just left," she continued. "Her dress fits fine, and Marco's helping Molly and Dana get dressed now."

BillyJo, Molly, Dana, and Marco were the girls I'd convinced to be my bridesmaids. (Yes, I lumped Marco in with the girls. Trust me, he was thrilled.) BillyJo was Ramirez's sister and, while I got the distinct impression she wasn't all that fond of me, she'd seemed pleased to be included in the wedding party. Especially since all five hundred of Ramirez's brothers and male cousins were groomsmen.

Molly, or The Breeder, as I liked to call her, was my cousin. She'd popped out four rugrats in just under five years. I was pretty sure I didn't have one recent photo of Molly where she didn't either look like she was smuggling watermelons under her shirt or have a kid glued to one hip. Or both. After the last munchkin, Conner "The Terror", had been born, Molly told her husband he had two choices - either he could make an appointment with their doctor to get a vasectomy or he'd have to sleep with one eye open and hide all the kitchen knives. 'Cause one way or another, the guy was getting snipped. Wise man that he was, he made an appointment the next day.

"Come on, everyone's in the back," Mom said, leading me to a private section of the shop that opened up to three fitting room doors. I could see tiny feet beneath two of them. Beneath the third, pink loafers. On a plush sofa to the side sat The Terror, sucking on a Tootsie pop.

"Hey, Connor," I said giving him a little wave.

He stuck his artificially grape colored tongue out at me. Connor wasn't what you'd call a master conversationalist.

"Mads, is that you, dahling?" Marco called.

"Yep. Almost on time, even," I said, sending my mom a playful look.

"We'll be out in a second. Wait until you see what Dana and I did to the bridesmaid outfits!"

Did? Uh oh.

"Um, they were kind of done already, weren't they?" I called back, taking a seat on the sofa as far away from Connor's sticky fingers as possible.

I'd gone with simple yet flattering gowns for all three ladies. They were long, flowing white, with touches of red along the hem and sleeves. Dana had wanted to do spaghetti straps, but Molly had vetoed that, saying that after breastfeeding for five years straight her boobs hung somewhere around her belly button. Without her ultra industrial strength support bra she looked like a mutant. After we'd measured the width of said mega bra's straps (two inches of the strongest spandex modern man could make) it was pretty clear spaghetti straps were out of the question. We'd gone with flirty little cap sleeves with a red trim instead, then dressed Marco in a white suit with a white shirt and red tie.

All in all, simple, elegant, tasteful.

Which is why a knot of dread was forming in my stomach now.

"What do you mean 'what you did' to the bridesmaid outfits?" I asked again.

"Weeeeell," Marco said, drawing out the word, "we realized your wedding didn't have a theme."

"Theme?"

"Yes, a theme," Mom piped up. Apparently she'd been in on this.

"Oh, Mads!" Dana popped her head out of door number two. "You have to have a theme to your wedding."

"She's right," Molly's voice chimed in from behind door number one. "I read it in
Good Housekeeping
. Themed weddings are in. Boring traditional weddings are out."

"Boring?" I asked, the dread growing.

"Boring," Dana repeated.

"You don't want a boring wedding, Maddie," Mom said, shaking her head.