A blonde, perky-looking reporter in a pound of makeup chatted about the upcoming election, the price of gas, and the rising temperatures for the weekend. I was only half paying attention, the long day and the wine doing their thing to make my eyelids feel heavy.
Until the perky woman said, "And in other sad news today, we've just gotten word about the death of a Los Angeles icon."
I sat up, suddenly fully awake as a picture of a man flashed on the screen beside the newscaster. It was a face I knew well—having spent the better part of the afternoon looking at it.
Unshaven, craggy wrinkles, glassy stare.
Doggy Z.
CHAPTER THREE
I flicked back and forth between news channels for a while, hopping from one story about the dead rapper to another. The details were scant, so I picked up my phone, checking social media for more. From what I could glean, Dog had left the Jeopardy! taping and been dropped off at home by his son. A few hours later, he'd ordered Chinese food, and the delivery driver said he'd found the front door unlocked and Dog lying on the floor a few feet away. Dead of an apparent drug overdose.
I thought back to Dog's behavior during the taping. I'd suspected he was high then, though I'd half thought it was just him perpetuating the persona his fans expected of him. I felt a pang of guilt that we'd all seen him acting funny but no one had intervened. Of course, there was a big difference between looking like he'd indulged in a couple puffs of legal marijuana before the show and dying of an overdose afterward, so how could we have known?
Two hours later, I'd scoured everything there was to be seen on Doggy Z's death. Which was not much more than the initial info. Though as the night wore on, more and more fans left their condolences and comments on social media. I finally went up to bed around midnight, where I quickly drifted off to sleep. I halfway remembered Ramirez kissing me and getting into bed at some point, but when I awoke the next morning, I was once again alone.
I dragged myself into a very hot shower, dressing quickly as I heard the twins waking up in their bedroom down the hall. I opted for a pair of skinny jeans, a cold-shoulder top in a pale yellow, and a pair of strappy blue sandals with a three-inch heel. I was just adding a swipe of lip gloss and some mascara as the sounds of Paw Patrol told me the twins were not only up but also in possession of the TV remote.
After I'd served them cereal and juice in front of the television, I found the message Ramirez had scrawled for me on a Post-it Note, next to the coffeemaker.
Messy case. Media frenzy. Call you later. Love you.
I tucked the Post-it away in one of the kitchen drawers as I grabbed a cup of coffee and contemplated his word choice. Messy case. I could well see where a high-profile death like Dog's could be a messy media frenzy, especially if illegal drugs were involved. Or, for that matter, even enough prescription ones to cause a deadly overdose. I wondered if Dog had taken them on purpose or if it had been accidental. He hadn't seemed particularly unhappy at the taping, even if he had been kind of out of it. It was clear he'd tanked on Jeopardy!, but as much of a joke as that would be in the press, it hardly seemed worth ending your life over. On the other hand, I could easily see how an out-of-it Dog might have forgotten how many pills he'd taken and accidentally added one too many to the mix.
I itched to text Ramirez and ask more, but it sounded like he had enough on his plate already that day. My curiosity could wait until I saw him. Instead, I downed my coffee and added a slice of toast before packing up the kids' lunches and backpacks for preschool. I was just going in search of two pairs of shoes when my phone rang and my mother's name showed up.
"Hey," I said, tucking the phone under my chin as I retrieved a pink sandal from under the sofa.
"Did you hear about Dog?" she asked.
"I did. Ramirez is working the case."
"So sad," she lamented. "He was so full of life, wasn't he?"
"He was full of something," I mumbled, laying hands on the sandal and spying its mate on the coffee table.
"Well, Ralph was just beside himself when we saw it on the news last night," my mom went on. "I mean, he was just talking to the poor man yesterday, and now he's gone."
"It's shocking," I agreed, slipping a pair of wiggly little feet into the sandals.
"Do you know what happened?" Mom asked. "Did Ramirez tell you anything?"
I shook my head. "No. I haven't had a chance to ask him yet. But they're saying on social media it was an overdose."
"That's what the brunette on Channel Seven said too. So tragic. What a way to go."
"Are you at the salon?" I asked, slipping Max's backpack onto his tiny back.
"No, but I will be soon. Ralph left early to take care of a nail emergency for one of those Real Housewives."
"Which one?" I couldn't help asking.
"I can't remember. Ralph said the catty one."
If only that narrowed it down. "I'll stop by after I drop the twins off at school," I promised, handing Livvie her Vampirina lunchbox.
"Would you? I think Ralph could really use the moral support today. This has all been so upsetting for him."
"Happy to," I told her. And that wasn't just because I could use a little nail touchup myself. "I'll see you soon," I promised before saying goodbye and ushering the twins out the door.
An hour later I'd dropped the twins off, grabbed a grande pumpkin spiced latte with extra whip from Starbucks (life was too short to drink unflavored coffee), and pulled my minivan up to the curb in front of Fernando's. Yes, I was a minivan driving, Starbucks drinking mom of two, but I did it in three-inch heels, which meant I narrowly avoided being a cliché.
Fernando's salon was located at the center of Beverly Hills' Golden Triangle, at the corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard and only one block north of Rodeo. Faux Dad had started his career long before I met him, in a strip mall in Chatsworth, though through word of mouth and a few recommendations in the LA Times, Faux Dad had primped and permed his way out of the Valley and into the playground of the rich and pampered. He'd met Mom one fateful day when she'd come in for a cut and color and left with a date for that weekend and, as it turned out, a mate for life.
I pushed through the front doors, inhaling the strong scents of ammonia based hair dyes, floral shampoos, and acetone nail polish remover. Several dryers were in use, humming loudly over the sounds of women chatting and sipping champagne as they had their nails done. Faux Dad was currently going through a rococo decorating period, and the salon walls were covered in pale pink flocked wallpaper and paintings in ornate gold frames depicting classic landscapes and curvy women lounging on chaises.
"Maddie, dahhling!" Marco, Faux Dad's longtime receptionist and my good friend, came running over to kiss me on both cheeks. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and so on the cutting edge of fashion that he was often in danger of falling right off. Today he was dressed in fishnet leggings, three-inch silver platform heels, and a plaid jumper that looked like he'd stolen it from a Catholic schoolgirl. He attacked me with air kisses as he blinked his long lashes at me. Real ones. I had severe lash envy. "Did you hear the news?" he asked breathlessly.
"About Dog?" I nodded. "Yeah, I heard."
Marco shook his head. "He was so young. So clever. So talented."
I wasn't sure we were talking about the same celebrity.
"How's Ralp—er, Fernando?" I asked.
Marco sighed dramatically. "As well as can be expected. It's all been an emotional twenty-four hours. First the high of celebrating his win last night followed by the plunging low of his fellow contestant's death."
I honestly felt for Fernando—I knew how much he'd been looking forward to being on Jeopardy!, never mind winning. I wondered if they'd even continue the tournament now. "Where is he?" I asked, looking past the large dryers and pedicure chairs.
"He's hiding in the back. Trying to avoid the reporters."
"Reporters?" I frowned.
Marco nodded. "TMZ was outside with a cameraman when I opened this morni
ng. Fernando thought at first it was to talk about his win, but all the guy wanted to know was how Dog had looked yesterday."
Ramirez's note about the media frenzy came to mind. "His death is big news. And I supposed Fernando was one of the last people to see Dog alive."
Marco nodded. "Well, TMZ wasn't even the worst of it. Wait till I tell you about the call from—"
Only he didn't have the opportunity as the phone behind the reception counter rang. Marco held up a sparkly silver nail, indicating for me to wait, and hurried behind it to answer. "It's a wonderful day at Fernando's. How may I help you?"
I waited while Marco took the call, scheduling a root touch-up for the woman on the other end. I sent Faux Dad a quick text that I was there and glanced around at the ornately carved settees in the lobby and the naked cherub statuettes Fernando had installed on every available surface in keeping with the 17th century France vibe. I was just admiring a pair of gilded wall sconces holding pamphlets on eyebrow threading, when Fernando scuttled from the back room, his eyes darting left and right as if anticipating the paparazzi to have followed me in.
"Oh Maddie, love," he said, grabbing me in a hug.
"Hey, Ral—er, Fernando," I said, correcting myself quickly. "How are you?"
"Horrendous! It's shocking. Tragic. Downright upsetting, all of it." He fanned himself with one hand, bejeweled with three gold rings today. His white shirt was open two buttons at the top, showing off a tanned chest in Simon Cowell style, though the cuffs were adorned with ruffled frills, giving off a slightly pirate vibe. He'd paired it with magenta slacks and white loafers for an outfit that would be hard to miss if any photographers were, in fact, after his likeness.
"I heard about Dog," I told him, putting a hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."
He nodded. "I almost can't believe it. I mean, one minute you're talking to a man, and the next…poof, he's gone."
"Did he say anything to you yesterday?" I asked. "Anything that might have indicated he was using drugs?"
Faux Dad gave me a look. "Honey, you saw him at the taping. We all thought he looked high as a kite."
Good point. "How was his mood?" I asked.
"Fine." Faux Dad shook his head. "He was laughing and joking in the greenroom. He seemed in good spirits. Even after he lost. That's what makes it all so tragic."
"That and the reporters," Marco said, shaking his head.
Faux Dad turned to me. "It's true. Did Marco tell you about the call from"—he paused, leaning in close and mock whispering—"the L.A. Informer?"
"The Informer?" I frowned. I knew the tabloid well. I'd had several run-ins with their staff over the years—some positive and others more what I'd call unsettlingly intrusive.
"I was just about to tell her," Marco said.
Faux Dad shook his head, his dyed black hair not moving an inch from its perfectly gelled position. "Some reporter from there called earlier. Tammy, Trina…?"
"Tina," Marco supplied with a scowl. "Tina Bender."
"Yes, Tina. That's it," Faux Dad said, pointing at Marco.
I knew that name as well. She was the gossip columnist for the paper and made a living spreading rumors—the juicier the better. Whether they were true or not was secondary.
"What did she want?" I asked.
Faux Dad licked his lips. "Well, she started asking about Dog."
"Just like TMZ did," Marco added.
"Yes, but then her questions veered off into more personal territory. About me. She wanted to know when I'd first moved to LA, where I got my start, where I was from…" He trailed off, giving me a pointed look. "Maddie, I think she knows."
"Knows?" I asked.
Faux Dad licked his lips. "About…you know. My background." His eyes darted to a pair of women toting Hermes bags who were getting mani-pedis nearby. They didn't seem to be paying us any attention, but Fernando looked nervous anyway. "My real background," he emphasized in hushed tones.
Marco nodded emphatically. "She even mentioned something about the weather this time of year in Iowa. Iowa, Maddie!"
That didn't sound good. "What did you say?" I asked.
"Well, I wasn't sure what to say!" Fernando did more hand wringing. "She was relentless. She said…" He turned to Marco. "How did she put it?"
"She said it was 'funny' no one 'has a record' of a Fernando before the salon opened." Marco narrowed his heavily lined eyes at the memory of the interrogation. "As if there was something untoward there!"
Untoward, no. Not totally Kosher…well, maybe.
As if reading my thoughts, Faux Dad said, "Maddie, I'm afraid she's planning to print something in her gossip column. Something to"—more leaning and mock whispering—"out me."
At one point in his relationship with my mother, I would have thought he meant as gay. Now I knew it was just as Midwestern. Which, in Hollywood, was possibly the bigger sin.
I was about to ask exactly what Fernando had told her when the little bell over the front doors rang, signaling a newcomer.
"Oh, Maddie, you beat me here," Mom said, bustling into the lobby in a pink polo shirt and a denim skort. Yes, skort. Apparently they still existed.
"Hi, Mom," I said, giving her a wave. I noticed Mrs. Rosenblatt enter the salon behind her, waddling in a way that made her hibiscus printed muumuu sway from side to side. "Hi, Mrs. Rosenblatt."
"Hi, bubbee," she answered. "Oy, it's gonna be a scorcher out there. I've got boob sweat already."
Ick. Now I had to try to get that image out of my head.
"Oh, darling, look at you!" Mom frowned at Faux Dad. "You look so pale." She rushed forward, putting her hand on Faux Dad's unnaturally tanned forehead.
"I'll be alright," Faux Dad said, giving her a smile.
"How's your blood pressure? Have you taken it lately? You know you're not supposed to get worked up. Dr. Holcomb said so."
"I-I'm sure it's fine," he reassured her.
"You look shiny. Are you sweating? Do you feel warm?"
"Your aura looks a little puce," Mrs. R said, squinting at him.
"Puce?" Faux Dad frowned. "Is that bad?"
"Well, it's no magenta, let me tell you," Mrs. R said with a knowing chuckle.
"It's the reporters," Marco jumped in. "They've been hounding him all morning."
"Reporters!" Mom said, turning a concerned glare his way. "How did reporters get in? Did you let them in?"
Marco put two hands up in a surrender motion. "Don't look at me! I told that guy from TMZ where he could shove his camera."
"Come on," Mom said, grabbing Faux Dad by the arm and steering him toward the back of the salon. "You need to sit down and rest."
"I've got some sage in my bag somewhere," Mrs. R said, reaching into her purse. "We could do some smudging."
I almost felt bad for Faux Dad as the two whisked him away, fussing over him. But honestly, from the sag of relief to his shoulders, I thought he could use the fussing.
"So," Marco said once they'd cleared the lobby, "what are we going to do?"
"Do?" I asked.
"About Tina Bender," Marco prodded. "We can't let her out Fernando. It would ruin him!"
I bit my lip. "I'm sure Tina has much bigger items on her desk right now."
"She mentioned Iowa, Maddie. You know Ralph was born just outside Dubuque!"
I actually hadn't. Fernando rarely talked about his life in America's heartland before his transformation into the European stylist to the stars.
"I don't know if there's anything we can do," I said.
"Don't you have a friend who works at the Informer?"
Friend was probably overstating the relationship a bit. Felix Dunn was the Informer's Editor in Chief, and we had a history that was complicated. It had started with him stalking me for a story and ended with a kiss in a castle in England. But that was a different story from a long time ago—before Married with Children Maddie. "I know the editor," I hedged.
"Well talk to him! Tell him to leave Fernando alone. Rein in that Tina
person and kill the story before she outs him to the whole of Beverly Hills."
I pursed my lips. While asking Felix for a favor didn't feel quite comfortable, Marco did have a point. I knew Fernando had worked hard to earn his place among the West Coast's most fashionable, and they'd be less than forgiving if they knew they'd been had all this time. The only thing money hated worse than a bad perm was to be made a fool of.
"I guess I do have a little time before I need to get to work…"
"Fabulous!" Marco said, a smile hitting his lips. Painted ruby red today. "Just let me grab my bag and tell Fernando that I'm taking an extended lunch. I wouldn't dream of letting you go alone."
That much I'd already guessed.
* * *
The L.A. Informer offices were located on Hollywood Boulevard, hovering between the touristy part of town and the part of town it was best not to enter after dark. The building was done in the Spanish revival style that much of old Hollywood was, but this one had been neglected and left to fade in the sun, its once white stucco now a dingy beige that had seen one too many smoggy summers.
I parked my minivan in the half-filled lot, and Marco and I rode up in the elevators to the second floor where the tabloid's offices were located. As soon as the doors opened, the sounds of keyboards clacking, muffled telephone conversations, and raucous laughter from the back rooms greeted us. While I knew the paper was mainly digital these days, I could still smell the lingering notes of toner in the air from eras gone by when the ancient Xerox machine in the corner saw daily action.
In the center of the room sat a glass walled office, where the blinds were currently open, giving us an unobstructed view of its sole occupant.
Felix Dunn was medium height, medium build, and had sandy hair that was often standing on end from him having run an exasperated hand through it one too many times. His eyes were blue, his clothes generally rumpled and looking like he'd slept in them, and while I knew his net worth had several zeroes involved, he favored sneakers designed by skateboarders to stuffy wingtips.
Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12) Page 3
