I grabbed my insurance info from my glove box, and the two of us exchanged info. I thought about calling Ramirez to come be my white knight and rescue me, but I knew he had enough on his plate that day. Plus there'd be all those awkward questions, like where I had been going and why hadn't my brakes worked? Had it been just coincidence that they'd gone out? Or had someone done something deliberately to my minivan? That last question sent a shiver through me, despite the sun beating down on my taco covered self.
Not ready to answer any of those, I called roadside assistance to come tow my car. Then I dialed the preschool to let the twins' teacher know I was running just the teensiest bit late. In response to which she politely reminded me of their policy that they charged a dollar for every minute a parent showed up late. I assured her I'd be there ASAP, all the while wondering just how much this little incident was going to end up costing me.
It was clear I wasn't going to be driving the minivan home. I ran down a mental list of who could give me a ride to the kids' school the fastest. Since I was still in Beverly Hills, I dialed Marco's number. Fernando's was nearby, and with any luck, Marco could swing by and I'd only be a few minutes late to the kids.
Luckily he was in, the salon was slow, and when I gave him my location, he said he'd be right there. He arrived just as roadside assistance was loading my minivan onto a flatbed.
He parked his mint green MINI Cooper behind the taco truck (awaiting its own flatbed) and jumped out. Marco was wearing a butter yellow tank top with matching short-shorts so tight they looked about to cut off his circulation. He'd paired them with pink chunky flip-flops and a purse that was in the shape of a poodle.
Marco rushed me, grabbing me in a hug that smelled like lavender and baby powder. "Ohmigosh, Maddie! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"I'm fine," I assured him, pulling back from his honestly very comforting embrace. "My car took the brunt of the damage."
"And my taco truck," Carlos piped up beside me. He'd been giving his statement to a uniformed police officer, but when Marco had approached, all eyes had gone his way. Marco had that effect on people.
"Sorry," I told him again.
Carlos shrugged. "'S-okay. Like I said, I needed a new roll down window anyway."
"I thought you said new paint."
"That too."
Oh boy.
"What happened?" Marco asked, taking me in from head to toe. He scrunched up his nose. "You're wearing guacamole on your shoulder."
I swiped at it, but I feared it was a lost cause. "I'll tell you all about it in the car," I promised. "I need to get to the kids' school."
With his help, we transferred the twins' booster seats to the back of his MINI, just barely fitting them both in. Then I grabbed hold of the passenger door to get in.
"Uh, hang on, Mads." Marco held up a purple painted nail with sparkles, indicating for me to wait. "My seats are leather." He glanced down at my pants. Only minimally doused in salsa.
"Hold on a sec." Marco removed a magazine from the back seat, opened it up, and spread it out on his passenger seat. Then he held the door open for me.
I cocked an eyebrow. "You want me to sit on a magazine?"
"Don't worry, it's only the L.A. Informer." He gave me a sweet smile. "Sorry, honey bunches, but you smell rather icky."
I slumped in the seat and let out a groan. "I really need a hot shower."
"And some Chanel No 5," Marco suggested as he got behind the wheel and we sped off. "Now tell me everything that happened."
I did, filling him in not only on my car careening out of control but also everything else that had taken place before, including coffee with John, lunch with Rupert, Tina, and Dana, the breaking and entering at the studio, and finally our visit to the gym and Blakely's revelation.
When I was done, he let out a low whistle. "You've been busy." He clucked his tongue. "So, which one of your suspects do you think tampered with your brakes?"
Again I felt that chill at the thought of someone deliberately trying to harm me. "I don't know that anyone did," I hedged. "I mean, brakes go bad, right? I can't remember the last time I had them checked."
Marco took his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot me a get real look. "Is that what Ramirez said?"
I bit my lip. "I haven't exactly told him yet."
He did another low whistle. "He's going to be maaaaad."
"Yeah, that's kinda why I haven't told him yet." I sighed, leaning my head back on the seat.
Marco gave me a look, like he was in pain for his leather.
"How is Fernando?" I asked, artfully changing the subject.
Marco did more tongue clucking. He was sounding more and more like my mother. "In a state."
"Still?"
"Honey, again!"
"Oh no," I said, thinking of Tina rushing off to publish her article. "What now?"
"The press! That whole 'skeletons in the closet' thing in the Informer has whipped them into a frenzy. I've been fielding calls and giving 'no comments' all day." He paused dramatically as he stopped for a light. "He even got a call this morning from the Des Moines Register. Des Moines, Maddie. That's in Iowa."
I knew. "What did they want?"
Marco shook his head. "I didn't ask. I just gave them the standard 'no comment' and sent them on their way." He sighed as the light turned green and the road captured his attention again. "But that isn't going to suffice forever. If the media doesn't move on soon, someone is bound to figure out who Fernando really is."
I feared he was right.
Marco pulled in front of the school where Max and Livvie were waiting on the steps with one of the teachers. I jumped out of the car and hurried over to my babies. I mumbled a heartfelt apology to the woman for being late (twenty minutes. Ouch.), grabbed each child by the hand, and led them to where Marco was waiting.
"You're late," Livvie said disapprovingly.
"I know. I'm sorry, honey. There was a lot of traffic."
"Why are we going in Aunty Marco's car?" Max asked.
"Ours is…in the shop," I said.
"Did you get us tacos?" Livvie asked, getting into Marco's back seat. "I smell tacos."
"No. Sorry. No tacos," I said, buckling Livvie in.
Max held his nose as he sat in his seat. "What smells fishy?"
"Mommy does," Livvie said with a giggle.
I thought I heard Marco stifle a giggle of his own that sounded alarmingly like my daughter's.
"Were you in a food fight?" Max asked.
"Of course not!" I told him as I got back in the passenger side and Marco started up the car. "Grown-ups do not food fight."
"Then why do you have lettuce in your hair?" Livvie asked.
My hands went up to my head, picking a stray piece out. "I had an unruly salad for lunch," I mumbled.
Marco rolled his window down all the way and stuck his head out of it as he drove.
"Is it that bad?" I asked.
"Dahhling, you have no idea. You're lucky that I adore you. Otherwise I'd make you walk home."
Max began to gag in the back seat. "I think I'm gonna throw up."
"Wait! I don't have any more magazines." Marco accelerated.
When we reached the house, Marco offered to fix the twins a snack while I showered. I cranked up the water as hot as I could, shampooing my hair twice. Once I was satisfied that the smell of fish and jalapeños had disappeared, I threw on a pair of jeans and a pale blue tank top. Feeling much better, I found Marco in the kitchen, just putting the finishing touches on what looked like a professionally plated charcuterie board.
"Wow. Where did that come from?" I asked, not recognizing any ingredients I had in my refrigerator.
"Oh, I just whipped it up," he said, artfully arranging a flower sculpted from a…
I leaned in for a closer inspection. Banana peel? "That isn't edible."
Marco shrugged. "It's decorative. You eat with your eyes first."
"What's t
hat?" I asked, pointing to mystery meat artfully arranged in ribbons beside the banana peel flower.
"Bologna. Not exactly a traditional antipasto meat, but I worked with what you had on hand." He wrinkled his nose a little. "By the way, the turkey lunch meat had gone bad. Like, way bad."
I stifled a grin as I did recognize the other ingredients on his snack tray. String cheese, pickle chips, raisins, and some Paw Patrol trail mix packets to top it off. I was about to tell him the kids weren't that picky about presentation—they ate Cheetos off the floor—but I didn't get a chance, as the sound of the front door slamming interrupted us, followed by simultaneous cries of "Daddy!"
I glanced at the clock above the sink. "He's home early."
"Better start rehearsing that story," Marco advised, placing his last banana peel rose bud.
We went out to the living room to find Ramirez sitting on the sofa with the twins on either side of him. I leaned down to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Hi, honey."
"Hey." Ramirez nodded amicably at Marco, and then his gaze shifted back to me. "Where's your car?"
"It's in the shop," Livvie said.
"On account of an unruly salad," Max chimed in.
"But don't worry. Mommy washed it out of her hair," Livvie said.
"And I almost threw up in Aunty Marco's car," Max added. "It was cool."
Ramirez shot me a look.
I sent him a big, innocent smile.
Marco cleared his throat nervously. "Well, would you look at the time? I've gotta run. Lovely to see you all," he said as he practically did run toward the door.
It took all I had not to run right along with him, as my husband gave me a long, hard stare.
"Anyone hungry?" I asked, trying at a diversion. "Aunty Marco made snacks!"
This was met with a chorus of cheers, and I took the opportunity to slip into the kitchen.
Unfortunately, Ramirez slipped right along with me as I grabbed the charcuterie board toddler style. I got a small reprieve as Ramirez found a beer and popped the top and I laid out the kids' snack in front of the TV, but the hard stare was still waiting for me as soon as the kids were settled.
"So, the minivan," Ramirez said as he steered me back into the kitchen and away from children's earshot. Which was a sure sign this conversation was not going to be pleasant. "Where is it?"
"In the shop," I said, parroting Max's explanation.
"Uh-huh." He took a long sip from his beer. "And why?"
Defeated, I sighed. "I had an accident today."
A line of worry crossed his brow as Ramirez reached out to put a hand on my arm. "You okay?"
No. "Yes." I launched into a quick explanation of what had happened, leaving out as many scary parts as I could.
Which clearly hadn't been enough, as the worry line was that much deeper when I finished. "You sure you're okay? You didn't get an EMT to check you out at the scene?"
"I'm fine," I promised him, even though a warmth blossomed in my chest at his concern. "Really. Just…a little shaken. It's the car that's not so fine."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about that. It's fixable. You're not."
The warmth went into full bloom as he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around me.
"I'm fine," I repeated. A statement that started to feel a little more honest in his safe embrace.
Finally he pulled back. "So what do you think happened with the brakes? Were they acting up at all earlier?"
"No," I said slowly. "But it's possible someone might have tampered with them."
"Tampered?" He frowned. "Who would do that?"
"Well…" I bit my lip.
Ramirez set his beer down on the counter, the hard stare back. "Maddie."
One word had never carried so many threats before.
"It's slightly possible I might have accidentally upset the suspects in Dog's murder today."
"Suspects."
I was wrong—this word was equally full of unspoken threats.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself I was not a child to be chastised but a full-grown adult who had set out fully intending to mind her own business that day.
"I had coffee with Laura Delmoore's son and found out that Dog's estate, which Laura helped build but is getting none of, is worth 20 million."
Ramirez's hard stare remained. "Go on."
I licked my lips. "We also 'did lunch' with Rupert Blick, who argued with Dog just before he died."
"We?"
"Dana was with me." Mentioning Tina would just open a whole other can of worms. One likely to raise Ramirez's blood pressure into dangerous territory. So, to protect his health, I let that detail slide.
"Of course she was." Ramirez sighed. "Is that all?"
"Well, we did find out that Aunty Mae lied about her husband getting Dog off of In the Kitchen. In fact, he'd been trying to sign him for another three year contract. Plus, Mae is on antidepressants. And likes vodka."
He raised an eyebrow but thankfully did not ask how I'd found that out.
"And it was after lunch that your brakes went out?"
"Yes. Well, and after we crashed Caitlyn's hula fitness class and confronted Blakely about her weed habit. Those are Wives Numbers Three and Four."
"I know who they are." Ramirez shook his head. "Okay. Look. I know that you love Ralph, and I know his name has been in the press."
"You do?"
"Yeah. I read today's Informer." He shot me a meaningful look.
Oh boy.
"But," he went on, "you've got to leave this to the authorities."
"I tried!" I threw my hands up. "It's not my fault if trouble just insisted on tracking me down today."
"You seem to have that problem a lot."
"You know, sarcasm can lead to long nights on the sofa," I countered.
His cop face cracked in a half smile. "Look, I just want you to be safe." He pulled me in for a hug again that melted away any indignation.
"I know," I said, snuggling into his chest.
Ramirez held me a little tighter. "I wouldn't be any good without you," he said softly, emotion thick in his voice.
I choked back a tear in my own throat, reliving the moments of panic I'd felt in my car that afternoon. "Ditto," I told him, struggling to get the one word out without breaking down into a sobbing mess.
He held me there for a long moment before finally pulling back and blinking away what was most definitely not tears that he was too manly to shed. "Give me the name of the place you had the car towed to," he said. "I'll call tomorrow to ask about the brake lines. If necessary, I can send an investigator out to look into it."
"Thanks," I said, glad that at least he was taking my theory seriously.
"Just…promise me you'll stay home tomorrow," he said.
I shrugged. "I kinda have to. No car. I'm grounded," I joked.
Which earned me a grin in response. "You know, you're kinda cute when you know you're in trouble."
"Cute?" I said, raising an eyebrow his way. "What, like a bunny or a cocker spaniel?"
He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in closer. "Can't you just take a compliment, Springer?"
Any feminist protests died on my tongue as his lips moved in to meet mine, lingering there long enough to make that heat in my chest move somewhere distinctly lower.
I was just about to suggest an early bedtime for the kids, as the familiar strains of the Jeopardy! theme music came from the TV, followed by Livvie shouting, "There's Grandpa!"
We ducked into the living room just in time to see a picture of Faux Dad's face flash across the screen beside Pippi Mississippi, aka Pip, as Alex Trebek reminded viewers who would be competing in the finals the following night.
"And alongside them will be one of these three Wild Card contestants. Let's reveal the Final Jeopardy! question and find out who it will be," Trebek said.
Angela Gold was in the first podium to the host's immediate left and looked polished and poised in an off-the-shoulder dress that
accentuated her tan. To her left was a child sitcom star all grown up and a former basketball player who towered over the other contestants like a virtual giant.
Trebek's voice filled the screen as we saw that the category for that night was Oscar Winners. We listened to him read aloud from the screen as the question came up against the familiar blue background. "This 1946 Best Actress winner did not attend the actual ceremony when she won, claiming that she was ill. Good luck, contestants."
The music started, and Ramirez draped an arm around me. "I'll go with Debbie Reynolds."
"No, I don't think she ever won an Oscar." I tried to rack my brain for the right answer but was far more interested in watching the contestants write down their responses. Angela wrote hers quickly, clearly confident. So did the basketball player. The sitcom star was sweating bullets.
The music stopped, and Trebek addressed the former child star first, who was in last place. "Let's see who you picked."
He shot the audience a full-fledged grin as his answer was revealed. Who is Florence Henderson?
Everyone laughed, including Trebek. "How much did you risk?"
He'd risked nothing, leaving him with a total score of $3,800.
"Now, Kevin," Trebek said, addressing the basketball player. "You had $6600 coming in. Let's see who you picked."
Kevin had written Who is Katherine Hepburn?.
"Good guess," I mumbled.
However, it was wrong as well. He had risked only $1600, bringing his total score to $5,000.
The spotlight shifted to Angela, who looked cool and collected. She had written down Who was Joan Crawford?.
"And that, of course, is correct!" Trebek said.
Angela beamed. The audience cheered.
Angela had risked $2,000, giving her a total of $8,000 and enough to claim the Wild Card spot in the finals.
I watched her preen and shake hands with her two fellow contestants as the credits rolled, wondering if it was possible that Angela Gold could have rekindled a love affair with Dog and written him the letter…and killed him out of anger when it had gone south once again.
"Looks like it will be an interesting match tomorrow," Ramirez noted, nodding toward the screen. "Didn't Ralph play against her last time?"
Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12) Page 16
