Mayhem in High Heels (11 page)

I'd seen plenty of pictures and
Access Hollywood
footage of him attending premieres, but in person he was a lot smaller than I'd expected. I guess due to his high profile I was looking for a larger-than-life figure. In reality he was 5'5" if an inch, balding on top, growing paunchy in the middle, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his oversized nose, giving him a slightly Mr. Magoo look.

"Mr. Kleinburg?" I asked, gingerly stepping over a length of cable as we approached the monitors.

"Yes?" he asked, without tearing his gaze away from the scene on the screen. A man was being chased down the faux New York street by what looked like Al Capone's gang.

"I'm Maddie Springer."

"Who?"

"Uh... the fashion designer," I said.

Kleinburg turned to me, a perplexed look crossing his features. "Is there something wrong with wardrobe?"

"No, no. I, uh, I actually worked with Gigi Van Doren," I said. Which was almost true.

"Oh. Right." Kleinburg adjusted his glasses, inspecting me more closely. I suddenly felt like I was auditioning for his time. "Yes. Tragic about that. What can I do for you Ms. Springer?"

"Actually I wanted to speak with you about your daughter, Mitsy. She was a client of Gigi's?"

Kleinburg nodded, his bald spot gleaming the sun. "Yes. Poor thing's just completely distraught over it. You are going to find her another planner, right?" he asked.

"Me? Oh, well, we..."

"Of course," Dana said, jumping in.

I resisted the urge to elbow her in the ribs.

"That's actually what we wanted to talk to her about," I said. "I understand she didn't get on well with Gigi?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. Mitsy is a very strong-willed girl. Always has been. She knows exactly what she wants. Gigi sometimes had trouble delivering it, that's all."

"Had they argued over anything in particular lately?" I asked.

Kleinburg narrowed his myopic eyes at me. "Why do you ask?"

"Um... well..."

"We just want to make sure we pair her with the right planner this time around," Dana said, jumping in again.

I nodded. Even though I was a little worried about promising a new planner to Mr. Hollywood's finicky daughter. As Marco so aptly pointed out, these women booked months in advance.

"I see. Thorough of you," Kleinburg said, nodding. "Honestly, though, I don't really know. I can't keep track of all that wedding stuff. I just sign the checks. And let me tell you, there were plenty to sign. This wedding is costing me a fortune. You know I've spent more on flowers than I did on Mitsy's entire college education? It was quite a racket Gigi was running there."

I raised one eyebrow. "A racket?"

Kleinburg shook his head. "Every week Mitsy came back from that place with one more thing we just 'had to have' at her reception. A flutist, an ice sculpture, engraved stemware. I swear Gigi took one look at my daughter and saw dollar signs."

I had to admit, I'd seen that look in her eyes, too. Fleetingly, I wondered how much Kleinburg might have resented it.

"Mitsy had an appointment with Gigi the day before she died. Do you know what they discussed?"

Kleinburg shrugged. "You know, maybe you should speak to my daughter about this." His eyes started to wander back toward the monitors where the gangster had just caught up with our hero.

"Any idea where we could find Mitsy this afternoon?" I asked.

"Same place she is every afternoon. Shopping."

I raised an eyebrow. Maybe Mitsy wasn't so bad after all.

"She and her mother have been filling out that dammed registry for months," he went on. "You want to find her, check Bloomingdale's. Century City Mall. Now if you'll excuse me..." He gestured toward the dailies.

"Of course. Thanks for your help," I called as he turned away.

"He's a lot shorter than I thought he'd be," Dana said as we walked back to our cart.

"Seriously." I navigated around the foam taxi and slipped into the passenger side of the golf cart. "Though I'm liking the idea of Mitsy as the crazed homicidal bride more and more."

"So," Dana said, doing a three point turn back toward the front gate. "I guess we're going to the mall?"

I grinned. "It's a tough job but someone's got to do it."

Chapter Eight

The Century City Mall was as close to my Mecca as you could get. Row upon row of funky one-of--a-kind stores mixed with the standard mall fare like Abercrombie and Banana Republic all in an outdoor setting that capitalized on our California surplus of sunshine.

Dana and I parked in the structure and walked through the corridors sheltered by a canopy of white, wooden latticework toward the center flagship of the mall, Blooomingdale's. I tried to put blinders on as we passed through accessories and handbags to the housewares section.

"I always wanted to register at Bloomie's," Dana said, her voice wistful as she eyed a pair of his and hers brandy snifters.

"Well, all you have to do is get some Hollywood mogul to adopt you and you're set."

She did a sigh, running her fingertips along a silver cake server.

"Come on, let's find Mitsy." Only, as the words left my mouth, I realized there was one fatal flaw in our plan. "Um, any idea what she looks like?"

Dana shook her head.

Shit.

I scanned the rows of crystal decanters, silverware patterns, and china plates for an expensively dressed girl who looked like she 'knew exactly what she wanted.' Unfortunately, that covered just about everyone. (We were, after all, in Bloomingdales.)

Then, near the back, I spotted a sign that read
Bridal Registry
.

Bingo.

I grabbed Dana by the arm and steered her toward the sign. A short, older woman with wiry salt-and-pepper curls sat at a desk beneath it. She wore a pair of thick glasses on a beaded chain around her neck, and a nametag that read
Beatrice
was pinned to the lapel of her maroon suit.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm purchasing a wedding gift for a friend," I lied. "I'd like to see her registry."

"Of course," Beatrice said, turning to the computer station behind her and tapping her computer to life. "The name, please?"

"Mitsy Kleinburg."

A frown settled between Beatrice's brows. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, but her registry isn't complete yet."

"Oh, really?" I asked in mock surprised. "Darn."

"Actually," she continued, "Mitsy's out on the floor with her mother right now."

"What a coincidence! Do you think you could point her out to me so I can congratulate her in person?"

Beatrice cocked her head at me. "You don't know what she looks like?"

"Oh, we're with the groom's family," I quickly covered.

"Right. Of course." She turned to her keyboard again, tapping away until a screen with Mitsy's name popped up. Beatrice lifted her glasses to her nose and squinted up at it. "The last item she logged was from the fine china department." She stood up and gestured the opposite way we'd come in. "It's through barware there and to the right. Mitsy's the lovely young brunette. Long hair, and I believe she's wearing pink today. She's with her mother, in Chanel. You can't miss them."

"Thanks," I said, as we followed her lead through rows of tinted martini glasses and fine champagne flutes.

Just to the right were the displays china plates, teacups with dainty saucers, and delicate little sugar bowls. All in various floral patterns - lilies, roses, green snaking vines. It was a veritable Eden of dinnerware.

And smack in the middle were the Kleinburgs.

As Beatrice had promised, they were hard to miss. Not that a Chanel suit and a brunette stood out in Bloomingdales. But the volume of their conversation did.

"Marion Lester has the Rose of India pattern. I will not have the same pattern as Marion Lester."

"Well, this one is hideous. What will people say when you serve them on something so pedestrian?"

"Royal Rose is a modern pattern. I'm not serving dinner on some old lady ware. And certainly not the same one Marion Lester has!"

"Well, what about Ivy and Rose?"

"Snoozeville."

"Ivy and Rose is a perfectly respectable china pattern."

"For the near dead!"

"Um, Mitsy?" I asked, coming up behind the pair.

Mitsy spun on me. "What?" she barked.

While her tone was abrasive enough to make me jump, there was no denying Mitsy was a lovely girl. Smooth skin touched with just the right amount of time in a tanning booth, lips any collagen devotee would die for, and long, sleek, brown hair that fell well past her shoulders in a perfectly layered cut that was both trendy and classic all at once.

Maybe money couldn't buy happiness, but, in this case, it could sure buy good looks.

"Hi, I'm Maddie." I stuck a hand out toward her.

She gave it a bland so-what stare.

"I'm a fashion designer. I, uh,... worked with Gigi," I said, sticking with the same story I'd spun her father.

Again with the so-what stare. Gee, a big talker, huh?

Luckily, her mom had the society manners thing down pat. "We were both just so shocked to hear about Gigi," she said, putting a hand to her heart as if the very thought may make it beat right out of her chest. "What a horrible incident."

Somehow the word 'incident' made the whole thing sound like a missed luncheon or quarrel with the dry cleaner over stubborn stain. It sanitized all emotion out of the equation. Which, I decided as I watched Mrs. Kleinburg, I'd bet is just what she meant for it to do.

"Yes, horrible," I echoed. "You were a client of hers?" I asked, turning to Mitsy again.

"I was. But I fired her," she responded, sticking her chin up in the air.

"Oh?"

"Yes, she was impossible. I mean, she said she would give me my dream wedding. Those were her exact words. 'Dream wedding.' Then whenever I asked for something, she couldn't deliver."

"Really?" I asked. "Anything specific she didn't deliver on?"

"God, everything!" Mitsy rolled her brown eyes toward the ceiling. "First she said we couldn't change the flowers this close to the wedding, even though I pointed out that they would now clash with the new color we picked out for the bridesmaid dresses. Then she said the Italian pastry chef I wanted to do my cake wouldn't fly in from Milan to bake it. Then there was the whole orchestra disaster."

"Orchestra?"

"Yeah, I wanted a nine-piece orchestra. Gigi said the reception hall we'd booked could only accommodate five. So, I told her to find a new place. Well, of course she went up in arms saying it was too late to book the size venue we needed. But the last straw was when I was supposed to meet with her at the church to discuss the ceremony arrangements and she totally blew me off. Canceled at the last minute."

"When was this?"

"Saturday."

"The day before she died?" Dana piped up.

"Yes. Why do you ask?" Mrs. Kleinburg stepped in, eyeing Dana and I. Apparently she wasn't as open as Mitsy with her dirty laundry.

"Well... we just want to make sure that this sort of thing doesn't happen again with your new planner." I cringed. I was not the world's best liar and I had a bad feeling the more fibs I told, the sooner they'd come back to bite me in the butt. But in for a penny, in for a pound.

Mitsy nodded vigorously. "Thank you! I've gained two and a half pounds from the stress! I need someone who is way less pain in the ass."

"Mitsy. Language," her mother said, visibly flinching.

"Had she ever missed an appointment with you before?" I asked. With the way Gigi had emphasized the importance of an organized schedule to her assistant, I had a hard time picturing her forgetting a client meeting.

Mitsy shook her head. "Never. She told me something had come up at the last minute."

"Hmm." I wondered if that something had anything to do with her death the following morning. "She didn't happen to say what had come up, did she?"

"No. She sent me a text, so she didn't elaborate. Just, 'unavoidable' and 'terribly sorry.'" Mitsy snorted as if she didn't believe it. "Old hag probably needed an emergency Botox or something."

"Mitsy," her mother chided again.

"Anyway, I was so done with her after that," she said

I made a mental note to ask Allie about it later. Maybe it was wrinkle related, but then again, maybe not. Unexplained absences the day before the victim's death were the things those
Law & Order
guys salivated over.

"Hey, which pattern do you like?" Mitsy asked, gesturing to a row of plates. "Royal Rose, Rose of India or Ivy and Rose?"

I looked down. All three plates had a yellow background spotted with red roses. I squinted hard, trying to see some difference among them. "Umm... Royal Rose?"

Mitsy gave her mother a smug I-told-you-so look. "See?"

Mrs. Kleinburg looked hardly convinced. "Well, it was lovely to meet you," she said, clearly not meaning it at all.

"Thanks. And same to you," I said, giving a nod Mitsy's direction.

She shot me a wan smile, then turned back to her china.

As Dana and I made our way out of the breakables section I watched Mitsy from behind. While she was clearly a nightmare client, I had a hard time putting her in the role of murderer. She seemed more the type to hire out that sort of unpleasantness. Besides, if she had really fired Gigi on Saturday like she said, I didn't see the motive in it.

Then again, I only had her word that Gigi had missed the appointment at all. I wondered if Allie could confirm it. While I'd asked her for Gigi's schedule, I hadn't thought at the time to ask if Gigi had actually kept to it.

"Which pattern did you pick?" Dana asked, pulling me out of my thoughts as we stepped outside.

I shrugged. "Honestly, all those roses looked the same to me."

"No, silly, not just now. I mean which china pattern did you and Ramirez pick out?"

"Oh. We didn't."

Dana stopped in her tracks as we passed The Gap, grabbing my arm in a vise grip. "Seriously? You didn't pick a china pattern?"

"Um. No?"