Mayhem in High Heels (6 page)

I stuck my head in. Seth Summerville had his back to me, his full attention on the floor to ceiling glass windows overlooking bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 110 freeway as he shouted into his headset.

"No, go low. We want to cut off their assets at the ankles, Bob. We can't have this coming back to bite us in the ass with the fourth-quarter returns."

Dana squared her shoulders beside me and, before I could stop her, knocked loudly on the doorframe.

Seth Summerville spun around, and I got a good look at him. Salt-and-pepper hair, a long face, pointed nose, sharp eyes to match his sharp features. I put him in his midfifties, that age when men start becoming "distinguished" and women start going away for weeks at a time to have stuff "done." He wore a white button down over navy slacks, a matching blazer carelessly thrown over the back of an enormous leather desk chair. He had a broad, solid build and an aura about him that said he was used to getting his way, positively reeking of power in a manner that was more than a little intimidating. I suddenly felt about twelve in my jeans and tank. Like I was playing at being a grownup, but this guy was the real deal.

Luckily, Dana didn't intimidate that easily.

"Mr. Summerville?" she asked.

His brows hunched together. "Call you back in five, Bob," he told his Bluetooth. Then directed his attention toward us. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, my name's Dana Dashel and this is my colleague, Maddie Springer."

Colleague? I raised one eyebrow at her as Seth waited for the punchline.

"We're looking into the death of your ex-wife, Gigi Van Doren. We're working with the police," she added with a solemn nod.

Oh brother.

And Seth didn't seem to buy it either, taking in my high-heeled boots and Dana's micro mini with a pair of narrowed eyes.

"Any statement you need from me can be obtained through my lawyer."

"Fine, then we'll just come back with a warrant," Dana countered.

"Uh," I stepped forward, elbowing Dana in the ribs.

"Ow."

"Ix-nay on the arrant-wa," I whispered out the side of my mouth. "Actually, Mr. Summerville, we're not actually police officers."

"You don't say." Wow, the man had deadpan down to a science.

"No. I'm... well, I was a client of Gigi's."

"And good friend," Dana piped up, stretching the truth just a tad again.

I was about to give her another elbow, but the friend bit seemed to soften Seth's features.

"I was very sorry to hear of her passing," he said. Though whether that was part of his press release or an actual sentiment I'd be hard pressed to say.

"We know you divorced last year. Had you seen Gigi lately?" I asked.

"No. No, I hadn't. Not since we bumped into each other at a charity function a couple months ago. Uh, sit, will you?" he asked, gesturing to a pair of leather club chairs as he sank into the executive version behind his desk.

Dana and I complied, her bare thighs making a little farting sound as she shifted on the leather.

"Had you had much contact with her?" I asked

"No. Our divorce wasn't what you'd call a friendly one."

This piqued my interested. "Oh?"

Seth frowned, looking out the massive window again as if searching back into a memory he'd just as soon forget. "No. It was... tumultuous to say the least."

"You fought?"

"Constantly."

"About?"

He drew in a deep breath. "Her health."

Not the answer I had been expecting. I bit the inside of my cheek. "If you don't mind me asking, what was wrong with Gigi?"

"Absolutely nothing. That was the problem. When I first met Gigi five years ago, things were wonderful. Life was like one long honeymoon. But a few months after we married, she started obsessing about her appearance. Her wrinkles, her hair, her pores, her skin. Every inch of her body was under constant scrutiny. Finally, I suggested she see a doctor if she was so worried. Huge mistake on my part."

"Why is that?"

"She saw one all right. A plastic surgeon. At first, it was just a simple chemical peel. Then it turned into an eye lift, a brow lift, implants in her cheeks. She had so many procedures I can't even remember them all. And after each one I had to watch her go though the agony of a painful recovery, just to hear her pick apart another body part the next month. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore."

No wonder I'd had such a hard timed determining her age. It sounded like Gigi had gone to the plastic surgeon like most people go the supermarket.

"Exactly how old was Gigi?"

Seth shook his head. "Beats me."

"Wait, you didn't know how old your wife was?"

"Like I told you, she was obsessed with being younger. She said there were some secrets women never tell. Frankly, it didn't matter to me, so I dropped it."

"Well, she must have had a good surgeon," Dana piped up. "I never would have known she had all those procedures."

"Oh, she did," Seth said. "The best money could buy. The revenue from her little wedding business," he said, flicking his wrist as if her million-dollar-a-year enterprise was nothing more than a blip on his radar, "every cent went into her looks. The woman was obsessed with staying young."

"What about your money?"

"Ha!" He let out a sharp laugh. "No way. I had her sign an iron-clad prenup."

I tried to ignore the I-told-you-so look Dana shot me.

"Gigi didn't see a dime from me once the divorce papers were signed."

So much for motive. The way he spoke of her, it was more like she was a minor annoyance, like a pesky mosquito that had buzzed through his life more than a passionate entanglement. Our husband theory was sinking faster than the
Titanic
.

"Do you know if she was seeing anyone new?" I asked, totally fishing now.

He steepled his fingers under his chin. "She was with someone at the charity gala last fall." He did a laugh slash snort thing. "Young guy, probably half her age. But I guess that's why her plastic surgeon now drives a Bentley, right?"

"Any idea who he was?"

He shrugged. "She said he was a musician or something. I didn't really pay attention. Attention was what she wanted, so that was the last thing I was willing to give her."

Spoken like a true bitter ex.

"Well, thanks very much for your time. And, again, sorry for your loss."

A flicker of emotion passed across his features, and he mumbled a, "Thank you," as Dana and I slipped out of his office.

Once down the hallway, we power walked past Sweater Vest with our heads down. Luckily, since it sounded like he was simultaneously on four different calls, he didn't even notice.

Marco was bouncing on his toes in the lobby waiting for us. We quickly filled him in on what Summerville had told us as we walked back to the parking garage.

"I still think he's a possibility," Marco said when we'd finished.

"I don't know." Dana shook her head. "From what I heard on
CSI
, stabbing indicates a crime of passion. Summerville didn't seem all that passionate."

"You do know that the shows on TV are fiction, right?"

Dana waved me off. "It's all art imitating life."

I shook my head. But I did have to agree that Summerville seemed about as over Gigi as a man could get. Which didn't leave much in the way of motive.

"What about the new guy? The musician?" Marco asked.

"Maybe her assistant would know who he is?" I said, remembering the way Gigi's right-hand gal had been the designated keeper of the schedule.

"Any idea how to contact her?" Dana asked.

I shook my head. "Other than at the studio, no." And considering that place was probably still crawling with
real
police officers, that was not an option.

"Google to the rescue," Marco piped up, pulling something from his pocket.

"You carry Google around in your pocket?" I asked.

"iPhone. Hello, honey, who doesn't have internet in their pocket these days?"

I was ashamed to admit the only thing lurking in my pockets was likely lint and a stale sick of gum.

"What's her last name?" Marco asked, already punching things into his touch screen.

I scrunched my nose up as I thought back to when Gigi had first introduced us. "Quick. Allie Quick."

I watched Marco's lips move as he typed it into his phone, silently spelling the name out. A few clicks later, he hit pay dirt. "I've got a MySpace page for an Allie Quick in Glendale. This her?"

Marco passed the phone forward and I squinted down at the photo on the screen. Sure enough, it was the same blue-eyed blonde who graced Gigi's front office.

"That's her! Can we call her?"

Marco snorted as he took his phone back. "Yeah, like she'd put her number on her page. We'll friend her, then message her. What's your username?"

"Username?"

"Yeah, your MySpace name?"

"Um... I don't have one?" I said. Though it sounded more like a question.

Marco rolled his eyes at me.

"Geeze, Maddie. I bet you still dial 411 instead of doing Yahoo Local, too," Dana said.

I declined to answer. Mostly because I had no idea what Yahoo Local was. "I don't do networking sites for twelve-year-olds, so sue me."

"Well, you do now," Marco informed me, stabbing at his phone with his index finger. "I just signed you up. You are now Maddie626 and your password is Manolo."

"Swell," I mumbled under my breath. I was now officially a member of the cyber age.

"K, I messaged her-" He paused. Then annunciated very slowly as if he were talking to a two year old. "Which means sending her an email..."

I gave him the finger.

"...telling her that you need to speak with her as soon as possible."

"Great. So, now what?"

"Actually," Dana said, stealing a glance at her watch, "I've got to get home. Ricky and I have class tonight and I promised I'd go over our scene together first."

She was right. It was getting late and, on the off chance Ramirez actually came over tonight, I wanted to be at my studio to pump him for information.

"Okay, let's wait till we hear back from Allie and go from there tomorrow," I said

Marco agreed, hopping into his little day-glo yellow Miata with a promise to call me for updates tomorrow from the salon. I jumped on the 101 and dropped Dana back off in Studio City before pointing my Jeep toward the ocean. Of course, it being rush hour (meaning gridlock the entire way down the 405) it took me over an hour before I pulled my Jeep up to my own apartment.

Where I almost hit my neighbor's trashcan with a lurching halt.

While I'd been expecting Ramirez's SUV to fill the other half of the drive, the beat up blue Dodge Neon parked there instead had me swerving in surprise.

As did the man lounging against the dented back fender. White button-down shirt, wrinkled khaki Dockers, shaggy rumpled blond hair, and a kill-all cocky grin that became ever so slightly bigger as I gaped at him.

Felix.

Chapter Five

My fingers clenched the steering wheel so tight my knuckles went white. I took two deep breaths and steeled myself for what might happen when I got out of the car.

Felix was the
L.A. Informer
's star reporter, and we had what you might call a complicated history.

My first contact with him had been after my ex-boyfriend went to the slammer and I'd caught a killer by popping her breast implant with a nail file. Admittedly, it was the kind of sensational story the
Informer
lived for. But that still didn't excuse the fact that Felix had run the article with a photo of my head pasted on Pamela Anderson's body and the headline, D
OUBLE
D
'S
B
EWARE!

He'd endeared himself to me even less when I'd had the pleasure of meeting him in person, this time while investigating the disappearance of my biological father, Larry. Felix and I had formed a reluctant alliance to outwit the mob, which had ended with us getting kidnapped and Dana blowing a hole through some thug's chest. Again, not one of my finest hours.

Recently, however, Felix had been conspicuously absent from my life. Probably due to the fact that a completely accidental kiss in Paris had prompted me to realize that Felix's feelings might go a bit beyond friendly. Rumor had it he was even in love with me.

I hadn't seen Felix since we were backstage at the Jean Luc LeCroix show at fashion week. Right before someone had tried to kill me. (See what I mean? No exaggeration, I am a
total
trouble magnet.) Felix had been staring deep into my eyes, ready to confess his true feelings for me. It was a moment that was a little too honest, a little too intimate, and a little too fresh in my mind. One which
should
have made me feel icky, squeamish, and like washing my tonsils out with soap. Oddly enough, it didn't. In fact, if he hadn't been interrupted by a homicidal manic, I'm not sure how I would have responded to his confession.

As it was, my feelings toward Felix were... well... complicated.

And what all that translated into now that I was engaged to Ramirez, I had no idea. Though the word "awkward" immediately came to mind.

A knocked sounded on my car window and I jumped in my seat, giving off a little terrier-esque yelp.

"Hey." Felix's crooked smile and dimpled cheeks filled my vision.

Willing my heart rate to return to normal, I cracked the window.

"Yeah?"

"You gonna come out?"

"I was thinking about it."

His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and I was pretty sure they were laughing at me. "Come to any conclusions yet?"

I took a deep breath and shook off the part of me that wanted to put the car in reverse, pretend I'd never seen him, and drive straight to the nearest comforting Ben & Jerry's ice cream parlor. I was being ridiculous. We were two grown adults. Well, I was grown. Sometime I wondered at Felix's maturity level. He did work for a tabloid after all.

I opened the door, sliding out of the car and planting my feet on the sun-warmed pavement with as much dignity as I could after being caught cowering in my driver's seat.