Spying in High Heels

I forced myself to finish the sparkly laces and Velcro closures for the Shortcake shoes, then ordered delivery from the Vietnamese place down the street. I was too tired to bother with dishes, so I ate my rice noodles with a plastic spork while standing at my kitchen counter. And trying to avoid eye contact with the little pink box that had become my obsession.

I knew I was being a wuss. Just take the damn test already. But if there had been too many IF’s for comfort before, there were way too many now. If Richard was involved with Greenway. If he wasn’t entirely innocent in this whole thing. If Ramirez – or heaven forbid Greenway – found Richard first.

If Richard didn’t have a good reason for that condom wrapper.

So instead of opening the box like a normal, rational women, I decided to go with the if-I-don’t-look-at-it-it- doesn’t-exist theory of matter and plopped down on the futon, turning the TV on instead. Denial is a girl’s best friend.

But wouldn’t you know it, the first channel I flipped to showed a perky reporter with a Tipper Gore bob doing a report from Celia Greenway’s swimming pool. Ramirez appeared (dressed in butt hugging Levi’s and a slick leather jacket – seriously hide-your-daughters sexy) and gave the reporter an update on the investigation. Basically repeating what he’d already told me. The coroner’s office wasn’t yet ready to release a statement and in the meantime it was being considered a “suspicious death.” Suspicious was right.

The rice noodles squirmed in my belly as pictures flashed across the screen. A smiling, red haired Celia sitting on the beach. A press clipping of Devon Greenway, hair slicked back, dressed in a tuxedo as he shook hands with some politician. And another of the Newtone Technologies Corporation, now under investigation for fraud, misappropriation, embezzlement, and a whole host of other charges that made the reporter’s plucked eyebrows knit together in practiced concern.

Thankfully there were no pictures of Richard.

Yet.

Chapter Six

The next morning I woke up early, a bundle of nervous energy even before my requisite cup of coffee. All night long images of Ramirez, Greenway and, most importantly, Richard kept swirling through my head. Not to mention the permanently seared image of Richard’s stray Trojan.

The more I thought about it, the more uncertain I became that Richard was merely an innocent bystander in all this. From the looks of his financial statements, he had needed money. And there was twenty million floating around unaccounted for. It was pretty tempting. And as much as I liked to think Richard was above temptation, I just wasn’t sure.

I decided in the wake of my fitful night’s sleep to treat myself to a double grande mocha-latte with decadent whipped cream for breakfast. (Sometimes a girl needs to splurge.) I slipped on a pair of low-slung, boot-cut jeans, a black Calvin tank and silver patent leather sling backs that complemented my Pinkberry toenails. I grabbed my purse and pointed my Jeep in the direction of the nearest Starbucks.

Amazingly I found a parking place right in front and took my place in line, which, as usual, was about a million caffeine starved people long. It gave me way too much time to contemplate the bakery case. By the time I reached the pimply kid behind the counter, somehow a chocolate chip muffin and a blueberry croissant had been added to my order.

I found a quiet corner in the back and settled in to my breakfast of fat, sugar and mass amounts of caffeine. By the time I’d polished off the croissant and was digging into the chocolate muffin (melt in your mouth delish, by the way!) I was beginning to feel like myself again.

Okay, maybe not totally like myself, as the biggest worry my usual self had to encounter was if the Spiderman rain boots were going to cover this month’s rent. Now shoes seemed to be the last thing on my mind. Which was a sign my life was really falling apart.

I was just licking the muffin remains off my fingers when my purse rang. I pulled out my cell to see Mom’s number lighting up my LCD screen.

“Hello?” I answered, still picking up the little stray muffin crumbs with my fingertip.

Mom sighed deeply into the phone. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Oh shit. Not again. “No, mom, of course I didn’t forget.” What now? I racked my little brain for what wedding related activity I’d spaced out this time. Flower selection? Cake testing? Please, God, don’t let it be helping her pick out honeymoon lingerie. Yick.

“The dress fitting? Maddie you were supposed to be here at ten.”

Mental forehead slap. The bridesmaid fitting. Mom’s best friend, my cousin, Molly, and I all had the honor of being Mom’s bridesmaids on her second trip to the altar. Mom had picked out vintage gowns for each of us that we’d been measured and pre-fitted for weeks ago, but today was the final unveiling. Mom had refused to show any of us the actual gowns, wanting it to be a “fun surprise.” A phrase that inspired no end of fear in me.

Originally I had offered to design the dresses for her, after all I did have a degree in fashion, but Mom wanted a kitschy vintage theme. She instisted that this time around she wanted fun, something that had been seriously lacking from her first marriage.

On her first trip to the altar, Mom had gotten married in a stuffy church with stained glass windows (chosen by my Irish Catholic grandmother), with vows said in traditional Latin (insisted upon by my Irish Catholic grandmother) and an ancient priest to preside over the ceremony (picked out by my Irish Catholic grandmother – see a trend here?). Four years later Mom had found herself a single mother of a precocious three year old (yours truly) and Dad was on a plane to Vegas where I’m told he shacked up with a showgirl named Lola.

This time around Mom was doing the wedding her way. A civil ceremony presided over by a female justice of the peace on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. And vintage, “fun” gowns.

I put on a brave face.

“You are coming to the fitting, right?” I heard panic creeping into my mother’s voice.

“Of course. I’m on my way now. I, uh, just got stuck in traffic.” Yes, I know, I was going to hell for lying to my mom.

Mom sighed on the other end and I could almost see her rolling her eyes toward the sky as if asking for patience from somewhere above. “Just get here, okay, Madds?”

“I’m on my way,” I said. Then added for good measure, “Seriously this time.” I flipped the phone shut before she could respond and downed the rest of my coffee in one sugary gulp. I paused only long enough to touch up my lip-gloss before jumping into my Jeep and making a beeline for the 101.

Ten minutes later I was frantically circling Bebe’s Bridal Salon, looking for a place to park. I rounded the block twice. Nothing. With a glance at my watch, I parked semi-legally with my tail end sticking into the red zone, hoping the fitting didn’t take too long.

Mom was waiting in the lobby, her eyes blazing beneath vintage blue eye-shadow. Today she was wearing an ankle length denim skirt with sports socks and Keds. Topped off with a frilly button down blouse in a tiny floral print the color of refried beans. I suppressed a shudder and ignored that little voice of warning telling me I should have insisted on designing the dresses myself.

“Sorry I’m late.” I kissed Mom on the cheek, which softened the fire in her eyes some. Not much, but some.

“I swear to God, Maddie, if you’re late for the wedding, I’m disowning you.”

“Mom!” I said in mock shock. “I’m hardly ever late.”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Okay. I’ll set two alarm clocks.”

I think I actually saw her suppress a smile that time.

“Come on, you. They’ve got your dress in the back.”

I followed Mom as she led me to a fitting room in the back of the shop. Bebe’s Bridal was small by Hollywood standards, with just three private fitting rooms in the back and a main showroom filled with six racks of long,