"You coming?" she called over her shoulder as I watched Mrs. R get up from the table and wedge herself onto a bar stool beside the unsuspecting Selma Frost.
"Yes, Mother," I mumbled, jogging to catch up with her at the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thanks to its proximity, we reached Selma's bungalow at the Grande Moose Hotel before the ice cubes could have melted in Selma Frost's drink back at the tavern. We avoided the main office to lessen the chance of Irwin the clerk or his popcorn-loving mother spotting us.
Mom walked right up to the front door of Selma's bungalow as if we had every right to be there. She tried to turn the knob, but it didn't move. Clearly locked.
"Well, that's that," I said. "It was a nice idea—wait, what are you doing?"
Mom had pulled a bobby pin from her purse and was straightening it out with her teeth. "I'm muma ick a ock."
"What?"
She pulled the pin out of her mouth. "I'm going to pick the lock."
I shook my head. "You can't pick the lock."
"Of course I can. They do it on TV all the time. How hard could it be?" She shrugged and stuck the pin in the keyhole. "Keep a lookout."
"It's not as easy as it looks on TV," I warned her. Don't ask me how I knew that.
She stuck her tongue out, wiggling her pin. "I think this is just a little sticky."
I rolled my eyes. "Here. Let me do it." I took the pin from her hand and wiggled it to the left.
"You know how to pick a lock?" Mom asked. "Who taught you how to pick a lock?"
I caught my lower lip between my teeth. "No one taught me. It's more like on-the-job training."
"You've done this before?" Her voice lifted.
"Sssh." I shook my head. "Of course not." Not very often, anyway.
"You are a mother, Maddie," she said, hands on hips. "I mean, it's one thing for me to do it. I don't have babies at home, but you should not be running around picking locks and—oh, you did it! Good for you!"
We slipped into the bungalow, which was more luxurious than I'd expected, given that it was part of a hotel called the Grande Moose. The carpet was thick underfoot. The air was redolent with the scent of lavender. The bed was a California king, dressed in a fluffy floral patterned comforter.
"Dibs on the bathroom," my mother said.
She could have it. I'd already zeroed in on Selma's suitcase, tucked in next to the dresser.
"Make sure your phone is set to vibrate," I called softly after her. "We don't want to miss any possible texts from Mrs. Rosenblatt."
She lifted a hand in acknowledgment before disappearing into the bathroom. A second later, she stuck her head back out the door. "Maddie, come here! You have to see this!"
"Did you find something?" I rushed across the room.
"I sure did." She gestured to the vanity, where a little gold jar sat, surrounded by lots of other jars and eye pencils and makeup brushes. "Do you see that? That's Fourteen Karat. Four hundred dollars an ounce!"
I looked at it. "Perfume?"
"Oh, no." My mother's hand hovered over the jar, fingers twitching. "It's why Selma's got the skin of a two-year-old."
"Moisturizer?" I frowned at it. "Four hundred dollars an ounce? Botox would be cheaper."
"Not moisturizer," she breathed. "Gold nano particle infused anti-aging balm." She took out her phone and snapped off two quick pictures.
"What are you doing?" I asked. "You can't take pictures here. They could be used against us!"
"By who? Who's going to see them? I'm not posting them on Facebook."
"Mom!" I felt a stab of horror that was exactly what she was envisioning doing.
"I don't want to steal it," she said. "I just want to covet it a little."
"Covet it online," I told her. "Come on. We don't have much time here."
"Can't I just feel it?" she begged. "One finger, that's all I need. I just want to know if it's everything the beauty experts say it is."
"It isn't," I said. "It never is."
"Let me be the judge of that." She took a step closer, drawn to the bottle by some kind of magnetic field to which I was impervious.
"Mom!" I snapped. "You can't leave a fingerprint in a jar of face cream!"
That stopped her. She spun around. "I didn't think of that."
I didn't even know if that was possible, but it got the job done. Chastened, she followed me back to the bedroom, with only one wistful glance over her shoulder.
I pointed to the dresser. "Why don't you look through there," I said. "Remember, we're trying to find the envelope."
"I know, I know."
"Try not to disturb her things," I said. "She might notice."
"I don't even want to touch her things," Mom said. "Would you want a stranger pawing through your intimate apparel?"
"Don't paw," I said. "Sift. Use a tissue if you want."
"I don't have a tissue." She brightened. "I'm sure there are tissues in the bathroom. Why don't I go check?"
I stifled a sigh, thinking now I was going to have to add Fourteen Karat to my Christmas shopping list for her. "This is no time to be a fan-girl of wrinkle cream," I said. "Just do the best you can."
Bending, I reached for Selma's suitcase, when I noticed the wastebasket a few feet away. It hadn't been emptied yet, and some torn-up pieces of paper lay on top.
"Mom," I said.
She paused to glance up.
I pointed. "Look." I pulled the pieces from the basket and spread them out like a jigsaw puzzle on the floor. Mom bent over my shoulder to study them with me. It wasn't clear how they fit, and it was nearly impossible to tell what the document as a whole had been. One by one, I looked at the landscape of each disparate piece, dismissed it, and returned it to the wastebasket, disappointed.
I struck gold about halfway through with a small bit that seemed to hold an address. It was colored in green and looked like a fragment of letterhead.
Mom read over my shoulder. "Dr. Rabino… " She trailed off, as the piece was torn just after the o. "It's in Beverly Hills," she noted, pointing to the partial bit of address showing.
I was about to go through the rest of the pieces for more of the letterhead, when I heard someone outside the bungalow yell, "Bullwinkle!"
My mother's hand fell on my back. "Did you hear that?"
"Bullwinkle!"
I jumped up, my heart firmly lodged in my throat. "What's she doing here? She was supposed to text us if Selma left the bar!"
"She never could follow directions," Mom said. "What are we going to do? If we go out the door, Selma will see us!"
"Bullwinkle!"
"The bathroom!" I pulled her along with me, pushing the door nearly closed so we wouldn't be visible as soon as Selma came into the bungalow. And she was obviously coming in. I could hear them at the door.
"Out the window!" I gave Mom a shove. To my surprise, she quickly lifted it and slithered over the sill and out of sight.
"You are a very strange person," Selma was saying at the door. "Now would you please leave me alone?"
"Bullwinkle!" Mrs. Rosenblatt shouted.
"Do I have to call the police?" Selma had clearly had enough of Mrs. Rosenblatt. I knew the feeling, although I was appreciating her more than ever at the moment.
I heard the door open.
Moving fast, I shoved the piece of letterhead into my pocket and dove out the bathroom window, taking a moment to turn and lower it behind me before scurrying back to the road, where my mother waited.
"That was close!" Mom's eyes were shining. "I had no idea that detective work was so exciting!"
"That was a little too close," I said.
Mrs. Rosenblatt came trundling around the corner, breathing hard. "Did you hear me back there?"
"I think they heard you in Montana," I told her.
"You were an excellent lookout, Dorothy," Mom told her.
"Thank you for the warning," I conceded as we walked the few paces back toward the Big Moose. "But what happe
ned? You were supposed to text us if she left the Tipsy Moose, not escort her home."
"She pulled a fast one on me," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I don't think that woman understands the concept of Girls' Night. You don't abandon your girls—it's rule number one."
"Since when are you her 'girl'?" I asked.
"Since I bought her a moose-tini. Might have bought myself another one too," she added with a slight hiccup as she struggled to keep up with our pace. "Anyway, we were just talking when all of a sudden she said she had to use the ladies' room, and she sneaked out the back door on me like she was dodging a bad date. Good thing I happened to look outside and saw her scurrying across the street."
"I'm glad you used the code word," Mom said, nodding. "That was a very good idea."
Mrs. Rosenblatt preened. "I don't think Selma suspected a thing."
Except that Mrs. R was off her rocker for screaming the name of a cartoon moose at the top of her lungs.
"How about you two?" she asked. "Did you find the envelope?"
I shook my head but showed her the piece of letterhead I'd found in the wastebasket.
"This gives some credence to your theory about how she met Jaden Plume," she said thoughtfully.
"That's what I was thinking," I said. "It's looking more and more like Jaden and Selma did know each other before meeting in Moose Haven. I just wish I could have—" I broke off, staring ahead of us at the Big Moose Hotel.
A police car was parked haphazardly outside the front doors, lights flashing.
"Uh-oh."
Mom put her hand on her chest. "Maybe Selma did suspect something. She called the police on us."
I slowed my steps, trying to remember Ramirez's whereabouts, realizing he hadn't actually said. I hoped he was somewhere close. I had the feeling we might be needing him.
"She's had no reason to call the cops on me," Mrs. Rosenblatt said.
I licked my lips. "Maybe it has nothing to do with us. Maybe it's just a coincidence."
Mom and Mrs. R stared at me.
"How did I raise such a naive daughter?" Mom shook her head.
"Gee, thanks," I said, bravely leading the way toward the lobby doors. While part of me agreed with Mom and wanted to run the other direction, the truth was if the police were there for us, it wasn't like we could hide. Moose Haven was all of three blocks long. Unless I had the Dragon Queen's spell of invisibility on me, I was out of luck. I sucked in a deep breath, held my head high, and put one foot in front of the other, willing to accept my fate.
As we approached the lobby, the hotel's front doors swung open and three figures stepped out. The first was Detective Bartlett—face grim, shoulders straight, eyes alert. The second was the uniformed officer he'd brought with him to interrogate Dana the other day, Sergeant Pembroke.
But it was the third one who had made me gasp, clasp my hands at my side, and feel my skin go cold.
Dana. Sandwiched between the two police officers. And wearing a pair of shiny metal handcuffs as they perp-walked her toward the squad car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"Wait!" I rushed toward them, stopping only when Sergeant Pembroke put his hand on his holster and shot me a warning glare. "There's got to be a mistake," I said. Then nearly winced at the cliché. Sure, everyone said that, but in this case, it was the truth. "You can't arrest her."
"Maddie!" Marco burst through the hotel entrance, barefoot, wearing only pleather short-shorts and a lacey white tank top as he trailed after the trio. Unsurprisingly, every eye gaped at him. "Thank goodness you're back! They're taking Dana away!"
"I can see that," I told him.
"We have to do something!" he cried.
"If your friend wants to do something, maybe he should go put on some clothes," Bartlett suggested. "There are children in this town."
Marco snapped his fingers. "Excuse me, honey, but these hot pants are Versace, dahling. And they beat the heck outta flannel!"
A crowd was growing around the commotion, and I glanced nervously around. I spotted Allie Quick in her hot pink power suit, along with a few other reporters I'd seen earlier on the set. I feared Dana would once again be the morning headline of choice.
"Please." I stepped closer to Bartlett. "Do you really have to arrest her? She's not going anywhere. She'll be working here in town for weeks still."
"Clear the way, ma'am." He stretched out his arm to block me.
"Maddie!" Marco tugged on my sleeve. "We have to do something! They can't do this!"
Honestly, I wasn't sure what to do. The sight of Dana in handcuffs was so shocking, so wrong, that I could barely form a coherent thought. She hadn't said a word. Probably afraid to say anything that could be used against her in a court of law. She hung her head as if ashamed of the crime she didn't commit. A few people pulled out their phones, filming the whole thing.
"You're harassing an innocent citizen!" Mrs. Rosenblatt yelled. "What about her rights?"
"You're making a mistake, young man," Mom told Bartlett. "I'm sure if we sit down and talk about this, we can work it all out."
He opened the rear door of his cruiser and guided Dana inside with a hand on her head. "Stand back and let me do my job," he commanded. "Or your friend won't be the only Hollywood type in a cell tonight."
"That's a threat!" Marco shouted. "Everyone heard that, right?"
Some heads bobbed in agreement. An eighty-something man raised his hand and smiled at Marco.
"Hollywood type?" Mrs. Rosenblatt repeated. "I knew it! You're biased! You're locationist!"
Bartlett shook his head, his face reddening in a way that made me worry that he just might carry through on his threat to arrest us as well.
Mom nudged me. "Ramirez," she said quietly.
I looked up to find him slicing his way through the crowd, people parting for him from the sheer force of his ferocious expression.
"Did you know they were going to do this?" I demanded when he joined us.
"You have to stop them!" my mother pleaded.
"We ought to sue them," Mrs. Rosenblatt muttered. "We'll end up owning this town."
"I wouldn't want it," Marco said. "Who needs all these rude people?"
I put my hand on Ramirez's chest. "Can you do anything?"
He covered it with his own. "Don't worry. I'll walk her through it. We might be able to get her out on bail in a few hours."
"Might?" I repeated, alarmed. "Can't you do something to stop this?"
He hesitated, reluctant to answer. "Maddie, we have to be realistic. She's being charged with murder."
Just the thought of it made me feel ill. "What can I do?"
"Nothing. I mean it, Maddie. Let me handle this. But please, do me a favor and stay in the hotel tonight. Even better, stay in your room. I don't want to have to worry about you, too."
I swallowed hard, eyes going to the cruiser, before I nodded in a silent consent. "Someone should call Ricky," I told him. I had no idea what time it was in Paris, but Dana needed all the support she could get.
"I'll take care of it," he said. And with that, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried off to his car.
"This is just so wrong," Mom said as we watched them all drive away.
"We could organize a protest," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I bet we could get everyone from the movie to show up. We need Free Dana signs, and maybe some cowbells. Cowbells would be good. You can't ignore cowbells."
"No." I turned to go inside the hotel. "No cowbells and no protest. I don't want to risk making things worse for Dana." I glared at the reporters, who looked giddy with glee.
"We understand." Mom put an arm around me. "What do you say we go get ourselves a drink. We don't even have to talk. We'll just keep each other company."
"I say it's the best idea I've heard today," Marco said. "Let me go get my shoes."
"You might want to get a real shirt, too," Mrs. Rosenblatt told him. "I mean, you look good and all, but I don't think these folks appreciate fine fashion."
&nbs
p; I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'm just going to head to my room. Like I'd promised Ramirez." It was the least I could do.
Mom and Mrs. R gave me dubious looks. Like I was breaking some girl code again.
"Are you sure, honey?" Marco asked.
"I'm sure."
Mom kissed my cheek. "Well, call me if you change your mind. We could watch television or something."
"Or binge-eat," Mrs. R said. "I'm sure I could find some snacks in the general store."
"Come on." Marco linked arms with me. "We'll walk you through the vultures. Don't answer a single question."
No problem there. I didn't have any answers.
Once inside the lobby, the four of us parted ways, dispersing to our own rooms. As soon as I got to mine, I shut the door and turned the lock. And then I instantly felt the composure I'd managed to maintain outside fall away. I couldn't believe Dana had actually been arrested. I couldn't erase her stunned expression from my mind. And I was angry with myself that nothing Ramirez or I had done had been able to prevent this.
Dana was going to spend a night in jail. I refused to consider the possibility it might be more than one. It couldn't be more than one. Ramirez would bring her back to the hotel, hopefully in a few hours or, at worst, in the morning.
I sank into the bed, tears slipping down my cheeks as I lay in the dark, hugging Ramirez's pillow to my chest. I wasn't sure how long I lay there feeling sorry for Dana, sorry I'd dragged Ramirez into this, sorry for myself that I was such a dead body magnet. But eventually I must have fallen asleep, as I started awake the next morning to the sounds of neighboring hotel doors slamming.
I glanced at the bedside clock. Just after seven. I blinked eyes puffy from crying in the pale early morning light. The other side of the bed was empty. If Ramirez had come back at all, he'd gone again already. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one for Dana.
I dragged myself out of bed, stretching sore limbs as I texted my husband.
You with Dana?
Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11) Page 21
