Mayhem in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page A

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