Spying in High Heels Read online

  “Ahhhnt.” Dana made a buzzer sound. “Wrong answer. They’re going to read him his rights and slap a pair of cuffs on him. Honey, they tore his office apart, they searched his home. They don’t do that unless they’re after a serious suspect. Don’t you watch C.O.P.S.?”

  My heart sank into a hollow pit in my stomach. I did. And she was right. The look in Ramirez’s eyes as he’d questioned me yesterday had been clear enough. Richard was no longer considered just a witness.

  “But Richard is innocent,” I protested. Only it sounded oddly uncertain even to my own ears. “And there’s more,” I admitted.

  “What ‘more’?”

  I leaned in close, half whispering to avoid Marco’s gossip radar. “When I was going through Richard’s office I kind of found something. Something that shouldn’t be there.”

  Dana leaned in so close I could smell her morning nonfat decaf latte on her breath. “What?”

  I swallowed hard. “A condom wrapper.”

  She blinked, looking at me as if still waiting for the punch line. “So?”

  “So, Richard and I have never done it in his office. I mean, we’ve only done it in his bedroom. Or mine.”

  “Wait, you mean to tell me that you’ve never had sex with Richard outside of a bed?”

  I’m no shrinking violet. I watch HBO, I have frank discussions with my gynecologist using anatomically correct language, and I’ve had enough sexual experiences that I have to take my socks off to count them all. But something about the way Dana was looking at me as if I’d just confessed I didn’t know where second base was made my cheeks grow instantly hot.

  “No,” I said defensively. “Richard likes to be comfortable.”

  Dana made a disbelieving sound, something between a snort and a cough. “Comfortable and sex are two words that should never go together. Wild and sex, maybe. Passionate and sex. Even animal and sex-”

  “Okay, I get the point.” I think Mrs. Spears was beginning to stare.

  “Wow. You live a sheltered life.”

  If my cheeks got any hotter, I’d erupt. So, Richard liked things comfortable. What was wrong with being comfortable? Comfortable was fine. No gear shifts in your back, no soap in your eyes. We might not be on the sexual safari that Dana was, but Richard and I were fine. And I swear my mind did not even flash for a second on Ramirez when she mentioned wild animal sex. Not one second.

  “Dana, you’re missing the point. That condom was not mine.”

  “Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe it wasn’t his, maybe it was one of his friends’.”

  Yeah right. That was the same excuse I’d used the one time I’d been dumb enough to try pot senior year of high school and my mom had caught me trying to air out my room before she got home from work. It was flimsy then and it didn’t sound much better now.

  But I was desperate.

  “You think?”

  “Sure. Or maybe he just emptied his pockets onto his desk after an overnight at your place.”

  Hey, that one didn’t sound so bad. “Right. That’s probably it.”

  “Of course it is. Richard’s mad about you. It’s not like he’d go bop his secretary or something.”

  Richard and Jasmine? That thought made me ill. I’d have to buy a gun and put myself out of my misery because I didn’t want to live in a world where the likes of Miss PP could steal a boyfriend from the likes of me. Not that I’m a conceited person, but Jasmine was one step up from belly button lint.

  “Right. You’re right. I’m sure Richard will have a perfectly good explanation.”

  Once I found him.

  * * *

  After our toes were Fuchsia Fusion and Pinkberry Stain, Dana and I went for lunch at the Brown Bag Deli on Wilshire. There Elvira, Mistress of the Dark Eye-shadow, signed no less than three autographs for star happy tourist, with a hopeful, “I’m so getting this part.” By the time we were both stuffed with kosher pickles and turkey sandwiches (hers with low fat mayo and sprouts. Mine with extra cheese and salty fries. Hey, I was possibly eating for two now, right?) it was getting late and I realized I hadn’t touched the Strawberry Shortcake hightops in days. I promised Dana I’d call her as soon as I saw Althea and dropped her at her audition before heading back to my studio.

  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, 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?”