Spying in High Heels

flowing bridal gowns. I put blinders on as we passed by them. Not that I was one of those girls that has her dream wedding picked out by the age of five, but something about being surrounded by this much Happily Ever After couture had my female hormones squealing like a sixth grader. In fact, I spotted a Wang knock off on a passing rack that actually made my heart speed up.

Did I want this? A wedding? I mean, when I’d first realized I was late, all sorts of crazy thoughts had buzzed through my mind. Admittedly, some of them covered in white lace and gauzy wedding veils. But at the time I’d been envisioning the groom as a successful, predictable, if somewhat anal about folding his socks, lawyer. In the last 48 hours he’d morphed into a man on the run of dubious character. For the umpteenth time I wondered just how much Richard really did know about Devon Greenway. Or, even more disconcerting, what did he know about Celia’s murder?

I shook my head, realizing my mother was talking to me.

“…and when I found this dress on the internet, I just knew it would be perfect for you.”

Internet? Uh oh.

“Now,” she continued, “I tried to pick different styles that would flatter everyone. Of course, we’ve had to let Molly’s dress out a bit, but I’m sure yours will fit like a glove.”

I smiled, trying not to let my trepidation show.

Mom settled me on a white sofa in front of a full-length mirror. Three curtained-off fitting rooms stood to the side. I could see bare feet peeking beneath the curtains of two of them.

“Dorothy? Molly? Maddie’s here,” Mom called to the curtains, then turned to me. “I’m going to grab your dress. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!”

Wouldn’t dream of it.

One of the curtains opened and my mother’s best friend walked out. Or, more like waddled out. Dorothy Rosenblatt was a fifty-six year old, five-time divorcee who shared a body type with the Pillsbury doughboy. She was all of four feet eleven inches, topping out at around two hundred pounds. Though once she opened her mouth, people tended to forget about the outside. Mrs. Rosenblatt was what we in L.A. liked to refer to as “eccentric.”

She and my mother met years ago when Mom went to Mrs. Rosenblatt for a psychic reading after a particularly depressing Valentine’s Day alone. Mrs. Rosenblatt predicted Mom would meet a handsome black male and fall head over heels in love. Two weeks later a stray black lab showed up on our doorstep. Barney, as we named him, turned out to be the love of her life, and Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt have been firm friends ever since.

Mrs. Rosenblatt was obviously already in her bridesmaid dress, a pale lavender gown shaped like a lampshade and covered in embroidered green daisies. (My trepidation kicked into overdrive.)

“Maddie, you made it,” she said, clapping her hands in front of her. Her arms jiggled with Jell-O-like aftershocks from the force.

“Sorry I’m late,” I leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“Wait!” she commanded. “Something’s wrong.”

For a second I had the horrible thought she’d somehow picked up on my other lateness. (Okay, I didn’t totally buy into this whole psychic thing she had going on, but I was too chicken to totally discount it either.)

Mrs. Rosenblatt stood back and narrowed her eyes at me. ”You’re a purple,” she finally said.

Huh? “I’m purple?”

“Your aura, Maddie. Oy, bubbee, it’s streaked with purple flares. Is something on your mind?”

Hmm… My boyfriend is missing, possibly involved in embezzlement and murder. I watched the Los Angeles county coroners office fish a woman out of her swimming pool, talked to a wife killer on the phone, and found a used condom wrapper at my boyfriend’s office. Oh, and I may be pregnant. Nope, everything’s peachy.

But, I decided to give her the condensed version.

“Nope, everything’s peachy.”

“Hmmm.” The lines between Mrs. Rosenblatt’s painted on eyebrows (Lucille Ball red) deepened. “Stay out of the rain. Rain is very bad for purples.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. I’m not sure I totally succeeded. “It doesn’t rain in L.A.”

“Madds!” An overweight woman in solid lilac ruffles burst out from behind the other curtain and attacked me with air kisses. It took me a minute to realize she wasn’t really overweight, just pregnant. Again.

“Hi, Molly. And, congratulations,” I said, trying to navigate a hug around her already bulging belly.

Molly beamed from ear to ear, rubbing her tummy like a good luck Buddha. “Thanks. Stan and I are really excited. We’re due in December. We had our first sonogram last week, you want to see the picture?” Molly didn’t wait for me to answer before pulling a bulging wallet out of her purse. She flipped it open and a string of plastic encased baby photos unfolded.

“Isn’t it darling?” Molly asked, shoving a fuzzy black and white photo of a deformed Muppet at me.

“Oh, yes, darling.” I squinted, trying to figure out what I was looking at.

“Stan says he think it’s going to be a boy this time, because we’re carrying a little low.”

We? I wondered how often her husband actually carried that belly around for her.

Mrs. Rosenblatt put a palm on Molly’s stomach, rolling her eyes back in her head until she looked like a reject from Dawn of the Dead. “It will be a boy.” She paused. “Or else a girl with a whole lotta chutzpah. You’re gonna have to watch out for this one.” Mrs. Rosenblatt wagged a fat finger at Molly.

“So,” Molly said, nudging me in the ribs with her elbow. “Any wedding bells chiming in your future?”

I cringed at how very silent the bells in my life were at the moment.

“I have a boyfriend,” I said by way of defense.

Mrs. Rosenblatt pressed a thick palm to my forehead and closed her eyes. “I see a wedding. And babies. Very soon, babies. Lots of them.”

I felt faint.

“I’m back!” My mother emerged with something behind her back. She was smiling like the cat that ate the wedding canary. “Who wants to see Maddie’s dress?”

This was met by excited squealing in stereo. (I’m sure I don’t have to add, none of which came from me.)

“So…” Mom pulled a purple shower curtain out from behind her back. “Here it is. What do you think?”

Oh lord. It wasn’t a shower curtain. It was a dress. My dress.

“Wow.”

Mom did a pleased little nose scrunch, letting out a squeal of pleasure that only small dogs could hear. “I knew you’d love it.”

The first mistake my mother made was taking my “wow” for one of awe and not horror. The second, and by far a much bigger mistake, was choosing the dress.

“Where did you say you got this?” I asked, horrified that I might have to be seen in public with this.

“Ebay. Can you believe it was only going for $29.99?”

I could believe it all right. “Wow,” I said again.

“So, try it on.”

I gulped, my skin suddenly clammy at the thought of having to touch that. “Oh wow.”

Somehow in a whirlwind of ruffles and Molly squeals, my own jeans and tank came off and I became a vision in purple. And not lilac or lavender. This was Barney purple.

“Is this polyester?” I asked, feeling itchy already.

Mom moved around me, tucking, buttoning, adjusting. As if it would help. “Uh huh. It should wash really well. That way you can wear the dress over and over.”

I’m proud to say I did not laugh out loud at this.

“So, what do you think?” Mom asked.

I hesitated to even look the mirror. But it was like a train wreck. I couldn’t not look. I peeked one eye open, taking in my reflection as Mom stood back, clasping her hands together in front of her like she’d just created a masterpiece.

“Oh Madds. You look so lovely.”