Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

“I was on the list.” Okay, I’ll admit I just liked saying that. I mean, how often does one get on that kind of list? “I’m working here. On the set. I’m the new wardrobe assistant.”

  Those eyes narrowed again, so far that I wasn’t even sure he could see out of them. “New wardrobe assistant?”

  I nodded, doing another dry gulp. I was ninety-nine percent sure that Ramirez was like an M&M: hard coating on the outside, but kind of sweet and soft inside. But as I stood there, his dark, intent face hovering over mine, that white scar running menacingly across his eyebrow, and his black tattoo peeking out of his sleeve (not to mention the fact that I knew he always carried a loaded gun somewhere on his person), I was a little intimated. Okay, fine. I was a lot intimidated. I pitied the criminal who had to come up against that face across an interrogation table. They’d crack like a cheap Naugahyde bar stool.

  Which, of course, was exactly what I did.

  “See, here’s the thing: I thought that maybe if I was on the set I could help you with this whole stalker dealie. I mean, people tell their stylist things they never tell anyone else. And I totally know Magnolia Lane. I mean, like megafan know it. And Dana decided we should go undercover, and then we’d find the stalker, and you could go back to homicide and wouldn’t have to spend your days babysitting a bunch of flawless actors. Speaking of which, I’ve heard that Mia is a bit of a pill, so you might not want to get too involved with her. I mean, not that you’re involved. I mean, you wouldn’t be, and I’m totally not jealous at all because I know how that turned out last time, and I’m so not going there again, and I know that even if I was, you wouldn’t. You know?”

  Ramirez took a deep breath. And I could see him mentally debating the merits of throwing me over his shoulder and bodily carrying me off the studio lot.

  Instead, he gritted his teeth, that vein in his neck pulsing double-time. “I told you to stay out of this. To stay away from me. What part of that was so hard to understand?”

  My turn to narrow my eyes. “Listen, pal, didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m doing this for you.”

  Both eyebrows headed north this time. “For me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough for me lately?”

  “I said I was sorry about that.”

  “And yet here you are. Doing it again.”

  “I’m here to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “You know, you don’t seem all that happy to see me.”

  “Happy? Happy!” Ramirez clenched his jaw, and I could tell he was thinking a really bad word. “You don’t ever listen, do you?”

  “Look, you just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine!”

  He leaned in so close that I could feel his coffee-scented breath on my cheek. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”

  I ground my teeth together. But, to my credit, I didn’t even shoot back a smart remark. Mostly because I couldn’t think of one. The heat of his body so close to mine suddenly chased every logical thought right out of my head. Instead, all I could think of was the last time our bodies had been this close. And, if that vein bulging in his neck was any indication, how very long it could be until we were this close again. Without meaning to, I inhaled deeply. Fabric softener and woodsy aftershave. I felt my stomach flutter.

  Damn traitorous body.

  Ramirez stepped around me and stalked into Mia’s trailer, back straight, jaw clenched so tightly he’d need a crowbar to pry that sucker open.

  I had a bad feeling that unless I repaired the damage I’d done with Ramirez quickly, there might not be anything left to repair.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon washing, pressing, and patching clothes, in between running back to wardrobe for Dusty’s last-minute changes. The woman may be pierced in some weird places, but I was beginning to think she was a saint. Despite the outrageous requests from the actors (like Margo’s insistence that she wear a three-inch, rhinestone-studded brooch over her scrubs in the hospital scene), Dusty managed not only to make sure everyone was fully clothed for each scene, but to keep some semblance of peace on the set as well. Even when it came to Mia. Who, I realized as the day wore on, just didn’t want to do anything. Ever. For anyone. I found myself wishing it were Ashley in the coma instead of her husband. By the time Stein-man, the director, yelled the longed-for, “It’s a wrap, ” it was growing dark outside and I was beyond beat.

  I picked up my bag and dragged my tired self through the Sunset city and out the back gates, barely managing to drop Dana off at home and climb the steps to my apartment before collapsing fully clothed onto my futon.

  And dreaming of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to do it all over again.

  Isn’t Hollywood glamorous?

  Somehow I pulled my tired body out of bed at the crack of dawn and by 7:37 (only seven minutes late today—I was improving!) I made my way through security and onto the lot. Solo today. We were scheduled to shoot a bedroom scene between Ashley and Chad, so obviously no extras were needed. Though Dana assured me she was booked for the following two days and would be “back on the case.” (Ever get the feeling your life has become a Charlie’s Angels episode?)

  After blindly stumbling through New York, Boston, and San Francisco (all the while wishing I’d gone for the venti latte instead of the tall), I came to a screeching halt outside stage 6G.

  A crowd was gathering around Mia’s trailer. And not the good kind of crowd, where someone has just been nominated for an Emmy and we’re all celebrating with early-morning champagne instead of lattes. This was a hushed, speaking-in-whispers, pointing, and doing that “can’t look away from the car wreck” kind of crowd. I jockeyed myself into position to get a look at what they were all staring at. Only, since I’m just five-one-and-a-half, my chances of seeing anything were slim to nil.

  I spotted Kylie standing a couple of feet away.

  “Kylie!” I called her name as I approached.

  She jumped as if I’d startled her. “Oh, hi. Wardrobe, right?”

  I nodded. “What’s going on?” I asked, gesturing to the crowd, which I could swear was growing by the second.

  Kylie grimaced, rolling her lips inward and stuffing her hands into her pockets. “You haven’t heard? It was all over the morning news.”

  I shook my head. The only report I’d tuned in to had been traffic between Evanescence songs on Star 98.7.

  Kylie frowned again, scrunching up her ski-jump nose. “It’s Veronika, ” she said. “Mia’s stand-in.”

  “What about her? Is she okay?” I asked, craning to see again.

  Kylie bit her lip, her voice cracking. “No, she’s not. Maddie, she’s dead.”

  Chapter 5

  I blinked at her, my vision going fuzzy. It was one thing to witness dead bodies on Law & Order, but the idea of someone I’d just seen alive and well yesterday suddenly needing a toe tag made my itty-bitty latte in my stomach feel like a loop-d-loop coaster at Six Flags.

  “Dead?” I repeated. “What do you mean, dead?”

  Kylie’s throat bobbed up and down. “They found her this morning. In Mia’s trailer.”

  “Mia’s trailer?” My limbs turned to instant Jell-O. I leaned a hand on the side of the building for support, vividly remembering that creeped-out feeling I’d had in her trailer just the day before.

  Even though Veronika had looked the picture of health yesterday, I had to ask. “Did she have a heart attack or something?”

  But I already knew the answer even as Kylie shook her head, strands of blonde hair whipping her cheeks. Young pretty actresses didn’t just have heart attacks. Especially not in the trailers of women being stalked by obsessive fans.

  “No. They’re saying she was”—Kylie lowered her voice to a whisper—“killed. Can you believe it? Stein-man said we should all go home. He’s closing the set today, you know, because of all this…” She trailed off, staring at the hovering gawkers.

  I took a deep breath, trying to get that churnin
g latte under control. This was way too much to absorb before 9:00 A.M. I craned to see through the crowd again. Grips mingled with extras, who mingled with hair and makeup, all straining for a glimpse of what would undoubtedly be Access Hollywood’s top story tonight. And mixed in with the curiosity seekers, I spotted someone I knew.

  Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there.

  He hovered near the back in a rumpled white button-down, sneakers, and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants. He had to be the only person in the known universe who could wrinkle Dockers that badly. He looked like he’d slept in his car, or worse yet, not slept at all. His neatly clipped, sandy blond hair stuck out ever so slightly in the back, and his jaw bore the tiniest dusting of blond hairs, giving him an overall lived-in look. He was one of the few people not craning his neck to get a better look at the gruesome sight I now knew hovered just beyond my eye line. Instead, he was talking into his hand, where I’d bet anything he held a tiny voice recorder.

  “Felix, ” I mumbled, stepping up beside him.

  To his credit, when I hissed in his ear he didn’t jump nearly as high as Kylie had.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he answered with the hint of a British accent in his deep voice. “This is the story of the century, love.”

  Felix Dunn worked as a reporter for the L.A. Informer, which, as I may have mentioned, is one of Southern California’s sleaziest tabloids. In addition to regular photos of myself engaged in various…misunderstandings…they delighted in printing photos of celebrity cellulite, Bat Boy’s secret lover, and Big-foot’s love child with the Crocodile Woman. Generally their stories were ten percent truth and ninety percent sensationalism. I had worked with Felix on one of his rare real stories last year, purely out of need on my part, but I hadn’t seen him since. Which was a good thing, as far as I was concerned. Felix had an annoying habit of snapping unflattering photos of me, then pasting my head on Pamela Anderson’s body.

  “Isn’t this a bit out of your league?” I asked. “I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any indication that Sasquatch was involved.”

  “Ha, ha. Bloody funny. You ever think of dropping the whole shoe career for the comedy stage?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. What can I say? Felix brought out the second-grader in me.

  “For your information, ” he continued, “the Informer will pay thousands for a story like this. Not to mention photos.”

  I paused. Thousands? For a half second my bank account warred with my sense of morality. “Thousands? Seriously?” I asked.

  Felix shrugged. “What can I say? Tabloids sell.”

  He lifted his hand, ostensibly to scratch his head, but I noticed his palm was facing toward the trailer. Not only a voice recorder, but he also must have had a camera tucked in there.

  I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity got the better of me.

  “What do you see?” I asked, standing on tiptoe again.

  Felix shrugged. “Not much. They’ve got the trailer sealed off. They haven’t brought her body out yet. A few blokes with black bags have gone in. And there are cops all over.”

  At the mention of the word cops, my mind suddenly went to one cop in particular. Ramirez. I wondered if he was here, and if so, how badly his superiors would rip him a new one this time. He’d been assigned to this “babysitting” job, as he put it, to watch the set. And now look. A dead body. Ironically, he was back in the middle of a homicide investigation, but I wasn’t altogether sure his superiors would see this as a good thing. Homicide detectives usually came on the case after the body was dead, not before.

  As if he could read my mind, Felix said, “I saw your boyfriend go in a few minutes go. He didn’t look too happy.”

  “Yeah, well, most people aren’t happy when some-one’s murdered. Unlike tabloid reporters.”

  “What? I’m sorry the poor girl died, ” he responded. He grinned, showing off a row of slightly crooked teeth and dimples in both cheeks. It was, as I was learning, his charming look, à la Hugh Grant. Luckily I knew him well enough not to be deceived by a little thing like charm.

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you’re grinning like the Cheshire cat, Tabloid Boy.”

  “What can I say? I guess I’m just a happy-go-lucky kind of fellow.” And with that he did a mock stretch and yawn, pointing his palm toward the trailer for a few more clicks.

  “So, what happened here?” I asked.

  Felix shot me a sidelong glance.

  “Come on, I know you’ve got all the dirt.”

  He grinned again. “And suddenly Tabloid Boy has his uses.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You going to share or not?”

  Lucky for me, Tabloid Boy couldn’t sit on a juicy story. “All right, since you asked so nicely. It appears the wardrobe girl—”

  “Dusty, ” I supplied.

  Felix raised one eyebrow, making a mental note. “You know the bird?”

  “Met her yesterday. Go on.”

  “Okay, well, it seems Dusty found her this morning around six-fifteen. She was in Mia’s trailer, dead. Strangled with—you’re going to love this part—a pair of panty hose.”

  I always knew those things were evil. I grimaced as Felix continued.

  “So far, the speculation is that she died sometime between midnight and three A.M. They’re questioning everyone with access to the lot. But what Veronika was doing in Mia’s trailer, no one’s sure of yet.”

  “And Mia?” I asked. “Where’s she?”

  Felix shrugged. “Probably surrounded by body-guards at this point. I’ll tell you one thing she’s not doing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Talking to the press. Don’t suppose you could convince her, eh?”

  I shot him a look.

  He shrugged. “Oh well, was worth a try, right, love?” Felix stretched and shot a few more frames of the crime scene.

  The idea of someone on the set leaving threatening letters in Mia’a trailer was disconcerting. The idea that one of the people milling around the scene at this very moment might be a murderer was downright chilling. I shivered despite the sunshine pelting down on us and wrapped my arms around myself.

  I hung around for a few minutes more, but there honestly wasn’t much to see. Instead, I walked back through the lot to my Jeep and dialed Dana’s number on my cell.

  “Yello!” she answered in a way-too-perky voice.

  I jumped, pulling the receiver back from my ear. “Wow, what are you on this morning?”

  “Sorry, ” she shouted. “I’m doing the treadmill thing. It’s noisy.”

  Dana lived in a duplex in Studio City with a seemingly never-ending stream of other actors. Her various roommates had included No-neck Guy (with whom she’d had a brief thing until she’d caught him ogling another woman’s “pecs” at the gym), Stick-figure Girl (who’d checked herself into an eating-disorder clinic last summer), and, my all-time favorite, Asian Guy Who Always Smelled Like Peanuts. Yick. Currently Dana was living with Daisy Duke, thus named for her endless supply of short shorts. Daisy had just landed a recurring role in a string of Budweiser commercials, so instead of taking on a third roommate this month, she and Dana had turned the extra bedroom into a home gym. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, considering that Dana worked at an actual gym, but to each her own. Me, I’d have turned it into one big shoe closet.

  “So, what’s up?” Dana asked, breathing heavily.

  “Seen the news this morning?”

  “You know I never watch that stuff. Too depressing.” She paused. “Why? What happened?”

  I gave her the quickie version of the morning’s discovery, amidst her cries of, “No way!” and, “Ohmigod!” When I was finished, she was panting like a Doberman, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was the treadmill.

  “Ohmigod, a real, live Hollywood murder! I can’t believe it! The one day I’m not on the set. So unfair.”

  “Um, I guess.” Only I had to admit this wh
ole Hollywood-glamour thing had worn off the second the words dead body had entered the picture. It was one thing to gawk at stars going down the red carpet, but when said stars were strangled with support hose, it was a whole different ball game. “Listen, the set’s closed today. You want to meet me for coffee?”

  “Sure. I’ve got one more mile to do, and then I’ll be right over, ” Dana said, panting.

  “One more mile? Don’t you have, like, a gazillion aerobics classes to teach today?” I asked.

  “Yeah, ” she panted back, “but not until noon. I need to keep busy until then. Therapist Max says I have to find positive new outlets for my sexual frustrations. It was either running or macramé. And I’ve already got all the plant hangers I need.”

  Twenty minutes later Dana and I were sipping lattes at a corner table at the Starbucks on Ventura and Alcove. I was going over what little I knew about Veronika’s tragic demise one more time, while Dana tried to keep her eyes on me and not the college kid in tight jeans serving biscotti behind the counter.

  “Felix said they found her strangled with a pair of panty hose. How cruel is that?”

  “Totally sucks.” Dana sipped at her latte (low-fat, decaf, soy milk).

  I nodded, taking a big gulp of my mocha (full-fat, double shot, with extra cocoa powder). What can I say? Dead bodies made me seek comfort food.

  “So, let me get this straight, ” Dana said, “Veronika looked just like Mia?”

  “They could be twins.”

  “She usually wore the same clothes as Mia?”

  “That’s the whole point of the stand-in.”

  “And she’s found in Mia’s trailer.”

  I nodded again. “Yep.”

  “So, maybe Mia was the target.”

  I took another warm sip of my drink, inhaling the coffee aroma. “That’s what I was thinking. I mean, it would be a bit of a coincidence, the letters and now this, right?”

  “So, the stalker was going after Mia and got Veronika by mistake?”

  “It makes sense. It was late at night, dark. Chances are, the guy probably came at her from behind. I mean, I can’t imagine Mia or Veronika inviting him in for a chat.”