"Okay I'll take the doors on the left," Marco said, stepping up to 3D.
Ling took the ones on the right, and I opted to go talk to the downstairs neighbor. Having spent several years in a small apartment myself as a single lady, I knew that one man's ceiling was indeed another man's floor. Or, in our case, possible murderer's floor. Her downstairs neighbors may not have seen anything, but I'd bet money they'd heard Katrina on a regular basis.
I retraced my steps back into the stairwell, opening the metal fire door at the second floor and crossing the hallway to apartment 2E. I knocked. A beat later I heard footsteps shuffling to the door. After a short pause, a shadow crossed the peep-hole, then the door opened a crack.
A pair of dark eyes set in a mocha color face stared back at me. "What?"
I bit my lip. Not the most friendly greeting ever…
"Uh, hi. I'm a friend of Kat's," I said, stretching the truth farther than the elastic on Mrs. Rosenblatt's pants. "Your upstairs neighbor?"
The eyes just stared back.
"I haven't seen her in a few days and was wondering if maybe you knew where I could find her?"
"What am I, her babysitter?" The door opened further to reveal a middle-aged, African-American woman, her hair in curlers, a housecoat that looked like it belonged in a fifties sitcom around her, and a pair of slippers on her feet that appeared to be shedding pink yarn.
"No. Clearly not," I backtracked. "I just wondered if maybe you'd heard anything lately. Like Kat's footsteps. Has she been home?"
The woman shook her head. "Thank God. That thing sounded like she was tap dancin' on my ceiling every night. I told her to keep it down one day, and you know what she said to me?"
I shook my head.
"Told me to 'mind your business fatso'", the woman said, doing air quotes. "You believe that bitch? Bringing my glandular condition into it."
"She sounds like a real peach," I said, sympathetically. "But you said it's been silent lately?"
She nodded. "That's right."
"When was the last time you heard her?"
She shook her head. "Sorry. I didn't notice. I figured maybe she's been stayin' with her boyfriend."
"Kat had a boyfriend?" I said, jumping on the info.
"That's what I assumed. I mean, from the way they was arguing, they had to be dating."
"You heard arguing? With a man?"
She nodded again. "Yep. Lots. Just before the tap dancing stopped actually."
"What did they say?"
"No idea," she said, shaking her head. "Alls I heard was loud yellin' in some foreign language."
"You didn't happen to see the boyfriend, did you?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Sorry. I don't pry," she said, giving me a look like she thought I shouldn't either.
I took that as my cue to leave and thanked her.
I bit my lip as I digested this new info. So Vlad had caught up to Katrina both at the club and here at home. Then Irina shows up dead and so does he. Did Katrina kill them both? And, if so, where was she now?
I was still letting my sleep-deprived brain mull those questions over as I stepped into the stairwell again. The fire door closed behind me with a bang as I trudged up the flight of stairs back to the third floor.
I got halfway up when I heard a sound behind me. Metal on the metal stairs, echoing off the walls.
I froze, my heart racing.
"Hello?" I called out.
But I got nothing in response except my own breath coming fast.
I was being paranoid. It was a big building. Busy. Any number of people could be in the stairwell at any time.
Ignoring how dark and isolated the stairwell suddenly felt, I quickly ran up the remaining steps. My hand was just on the doorknob to the third floor exit when I heard the sound behind me again.
This time much closer.
I spun around to see what it was.
But I was too late.
Before I could register any visual, pain exploded behind my left ear, my vision went blurry, and I watched the stairs at my feet rush up to meet me.
Then everything went black.
Chapter Sixteen
I was lying in the softest bed imaginable. Feather pillows on top of feather pillows, surrounded by big, downy comforters and fluffy blankets. I was warm, cozy, and even snoring just a little. I was wearing the same pink flannel pajamas with white bunnies on them that I'd had in second grade. They smelled like fabric softener and milk chocolate. I burrowed deeper into my fluffy, warm nest feeling completely rested.
Which should have been my first clue I was dreaming. It had been exactly one-hundred and two days since I'd had enough sleep to feel anything even close to rested. (But who was counting?)
"Maddie!" I heard someone call my name. Faintly at first, just the mildest irritation to my peaceful slumber world, like a buzzing gnat in my peripheral. "Maddie! Speak to me, Maddie!" Then it became louder, more insistent, accompanied by a jarring motion that shook my brain against my skull in pounding waves.
"Uhn," I responded, grunting at my interruption.
"She's alive!" I heard someone else yell.
I slowly blinked one eye open, grunting again as the sudden onslaught of glaring light slammed against my brain.
Marco's face hovered over mine, his drawn-in eyebrows curved in a V of concern.
"Ohmigod, Maddie, speak to me, honey. Don't go toward the light!"
If it didn't hurt so much, I would have rolled my eyes. "I'm not going toward anything."
"She's fine," I heard Ling's accented voice in the background. "Just a little bump. I've gotten worse falling off the pole."
My hand went to the back of my head, feeling a large lump forming there. "What happened?" I asked, still blinking. My head hammered like I'd been indulging in margaritas but without the fun buzz first.
"We heard a sound in the stairwell. Then when we got here, we found you on the floor. Unconscious!" Marco yelled, grabbing me up in a hug. "I thought I'd lost you, dahling."
While the over-drama was crushing the air out of me, the sentiment was touching.
"I'm fine," I said, disentangling myself from his clutches. Which was close to the truth, I realized as I wiggled my limbs, one at a time. My knee was growing a bruise, and my nose was scraped raw from meeting the sharp steps. And my head hurt. But nothing felt broken or beyond repair.
"Someone hit me," I told them.
Ling gasped. "You were attacked? I knew this neighborhood was no good."
I agreed. But I didn't think there was anything random about this particular attack.
"Did you see the guy?" Marco asked.
I shook my head. "I heard someone. But he hit me before I could see his face." I paused. "Or hers." While someone had packed quiet a punch, it could easily have been male or female. I closed my eyes again, rubbing my temples, trying to remember anything I could from right before the attack. I'd heard footsteps, sensed a presence. But that was about it. No tell-tale perfume smells or limping gait like in the movies. In real life, being hit on the head was far less glamorous or helpful.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Marco said, helping me to my feet. I didn't protest, leaning on him as I gingerly put weight on my bruised knee. It felt like someone had kicked me hard, but it held. I hobbled down the two flights of stairs to the first floor, leaning on Marco's shoulders as Ling held the doors. Then we all hightailed it back to my minivan where Marco hopped behind the wheel. After dropping Ling back at Glitter Galaxy, he drove me home, where he insisted on carrying me into the house.
"I can walk," I protested as he groaned under my weight.
"No. (pant) It's okay. (pant) I can do it. (pant, pant) You're light as a (pant) feather."
"Are you being sarcastic?" I asked him.
"Who me? Never."
I wasn't sure I believed him, but seeing as he was playing nursemaid, I let it go.
He set me down with a jostling thud on the sofa, then made up a hot pack for my neck, a co
ld pack for my knee, and a compress for my head. He made tea, got aspirin, and elevated my leg on a pillow. I had to admit, it was kind of nice being the one babied for a change. Even though the aspirin and cold pack were making my head feel better at a rapid rate, I let him continue his dramatic ministrations for another half hour until I finally felt ready to take on the twins and texted Mom to bring them home.
I did my best to hide my injuries from her as she and Mrs. R dropped two miraculously sleeping babies in their cribs. Amazingly, she ignored my hobble, quickly rushing back out the door, saying she was five minutes away from winning a hot eBay bidding war on a discount designer purse.
I was just ushering Marco out the door, assuring him for the umpteenth time that I was not hovering near death, when Ramirez's SUV pulled up in the driveway.
I took a deep breath, shoved the cold packs back in the fridge, and ran for the bathroom where I applied an extra layer of make-up to the scrape on my nose.
"Hey, babe, you home?" I heard my husband yell from the front door.
"Yeah. In here," I called back, giving myself a once over. The scrape was better, but still visible. I added some powder on top.
"Hey," Ramirez said, peeking his head around the doorframe. "Babies sleeping?"
I nodded, ducking my head down. "Amazing, right?"
"You have the magic touch."
I cringed. Actually, my Mom had the magic touch. My touch seemed to inspire howls lately. But I glossed over the details. "How was your day?" I asked.
"Good. Long," he answered, turning back toward the living room.
I followed behind him, only slightly limping, hoping he didn't turn around.
"Make any progress on Ricky's case?" I asked as he flopped onto the sofa. I sat down next to him, snuggling into the crook of his arm. Both because it was a pretty sweet place to snuggle and because he couldn't very well see my nose from that angle.
Ramirez shrugged in answer to my question. "I guess."
"Oh? New developments?"
Ramirez shot me a look. "No. Contrary to what you see on TV," he said, gesturing toward the offending object, "real police work is about following up on evidence. A new breaking twist doesn't happen at every commercial break."
"Geeze, lay off the TV, huh? What did TV ever do to you?"
He grinned. "Sorry. Like I said, long day."
"I feel you." Boy, did I feel for him on that score.
"I don't suppose you have dinner plans?" Ramirez asked.
I bit my lip. "Weight Watchers low cal chicken teriyaki?"
He groaned. "If I tell you that you look hot and skinny, can we have lasagna?"
I swatted his arm. "You can have whatever you like."
Ramirez raised a hopeful eyebrow my way. "Really?"
"Uh-huh. As long as you cook it."
"I knew there was a catch." He sighed. "All right. I guess I'm having sandwiches again." He slapped my knee as he got up.
I bit my lip to stifle a wince at the pain.
"You sure you don't want lasagna?" he asked again, disappearing into the kitchen.
"I'm sure!" I called out, breathing through my mouth as the pain in my bruised knee subsided.
I leaned my head back on the sofa. This lying thing was so not my style.
* * *
If ever there was a day I would have loved to sleep in, the next one was it. Unfortunately, sleeping-in was a foreign concept to the twins, who started their dueling wails before dawn. I dragged myself out of bed, noticing that the other side was already empty, and shuffled into the nursery, systematically changing one baby, then the other. (Then the first one again, as he spit up on his blue, teddy-bear clad suit.) I settled them both into their swings, warming up two bottles and simultaneously feeding them. Then I made a really big pot of coffee and took two more aspirins.
As I shuffled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror I realized what a fortunate thing it was that my husband had taken off early again. The scraped nose had taken on a purple hue and was swollen like Marsha Brady. I slapped more foundation on it, a layer of powder, then some bronzer to even it all out. I contemplated a shower but considering the fussy state of the twosome this morning, I opted for a double layer of deodorant, mascara, and hair spray instead. I climbed into a white, denim skirt and a Baby-doll T, and by the time Dana showed up at my front door I was looking mostly presentable.
Mostly.
"Ohmigod, your nose!" Dana cried.
My hand flew immediately to my face. "Is it that bad? I tried to cover it up."
"It looks like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson."
"No, just one round with a flight of stairs," I told her, running back to the bathroom for more cover-up. As I dabbed it on, I told her about the trip to Katrina's apartment and the attack on the stairwell."
"You think it was the same person who killed Irina and Vlad?" she asked when I'd finished.
I shrugged. "If I had to guess? Yes." I paused, checking my reflection. "How's this look?"
Dana squinted at my nose. "It looks like you need more cover-up."
"It's already caked on as thick as I can get it."
"I've got some stuff at home," Dana said. "I'll go grab it. It's a new Lover Girl product. The stuff is like silly putty; it covers anything."
"You're a lifesaver."
"So you didn't get a look at him? The guy that did this?" Dana asked.
I shook my head. "Or girl," I amended.
"You think it was Katrina?"
"Who else would be hanging around her apartment building?"
"Good point," Dana agreed. "I don't suppose any of the neighbors knew where Katrina went?"
I shook my head, relaying what Marco and Ling had told me on the ride home. "No. The woman next door said she heard arguing, just like the downstairs neighbor. But no one knows where Katrina went afterwards. She wasn't particularly close with anyone. They all said she had a temper and kept to herself."
"Just like Irina," Dana mused. "You know, I wonder… they both seemed to want to keep their private lives very private."
I nodded. "True."
"I mean, Irina didn't even want people to know she had a sister."
"Right..." I said, my tired brain trying to play catch-up to wherever Dana was going with this.
"So, why would she risk bringing Vlad on the set? I mean, it's clear to just about everyone on the show that there's a press leak. So, she must have had a really good reason. I mean, she could have easily arranged buying votes over the phone. Why have Vlad there in person?"
I bit my lip. "Great question."
One I was still pondering when my cell buzzed to life in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a text from Mom.
u up? big ebay find
Oy. I was going to have to stage a fashion intervention for her at some point.
I'm up I texted back.
As soon as I hit "send" my cell rang, Mom's number flashing. I stabbed the on button.
"Hey, Mom."
"Maddie, you'll never guess what I found on eBay this morning."
"Half price tie to go with the Armani?"
I could hear her shaking her head. "No! Dancing shoes!"
Mental forehead smack. "Mom, please tell me you're not taking up tap dancing."
"Not tap, Maddie. They are ballroom dancing shoes. Gorgeous shoes, too. Purple, suede, little kitten heels."
I raised an eyebrow. I was impressed. Usually my Mom wore only flats and mules. The fact she knew a kitten from a wedge was a sign there was hope for her after all.
"Anyway, the reason I'm calling is it may relate to your investigation," she continued. "The listing says that they're shoes worn by Irina on Dancing with Celebrities."
I perked up, suddenly giving Mom my full attention. "Wait, are these the shoes she did the tango in?" I clarified. "With little blue rhinestones down the sides?"
"Yes! It says they're authentic, but I'm not sure how that could be. I mean, don't they usually keep the wardrobe on the set?"
>
Usually they did. But, as I well knew, these particular shoes had been the first item to go missing from the DWC set.
And now I knew just where they were.
"I'll be right over," I told her. "Don't let anyone outbid you!"
Chapter Seventeen
Half an hour later Dana had run home for the latest and greatest Lover Girl had to offer, I had assured my mom that even though I looked like a prize fighter (and a losing one, at that) her "baby" was okay, and the twins had shouted in gleeful unison at the sight of their favorite babysitter. I tried to tune out the guilty feeling that brought on, instead directing my attention to my mom's computer screen. There, in front of me, were the purple, suede, strappy ballroom shoes with rhinestones down the side that Irina had worn two weeks ago. So far, the bidding was up to $346 dollars, with the auction set to end in just seventy-two minutes. There was no doubt about it. We'd found Lana's missing wardrobe piece.
And after checking the name of the eBay seller - DWCKat12 - I had a pretty good idea who had taken them.
"So it was Irina's sister that was stealing from the set all along," Mrs. R said. "No wonder she argued with her sister."
She was a possible murderer, she'd hit me over the head, and she was a thief. I was beginning to like Katrina less and less.
"How do we find out where she is?" I asked Mom, scanning the page for info. The item location was listed as Los Angeles, California, but that didn't narrow things down a whole lot.
"You could try clicking on her name," Mom instructed me.
I did, a page about DWCKat12 coming up. Unfortunately it had scant info. She had been a seller for only three months, had a 4 star approval rating, with two reviews stating that they had experienced "fast shipping." I narrowed my eyes at the previous reviews. What did you want to bet they were for purchases of a sequined waltz headpiece and a sparkly gown in a men's fifty-six long.
"Is there any way to contact the seller?" I asked, scanning the page.
I felt Mom nod behind me. "Sure. You can send an email." She pointed to a contact link.
Danger in High Heels Page 14
