Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Dana nodded, her gaze straying only minimally to Biscotti Boy, who was leaning over the counter to squeegee off the bakery case. “So we’re back to the letters. Whoever has been writing them is our killer.”

  “Right.” I sipped at my coffee again, wondering if Ramirez had made any headway on that front. Not that he’d tell me. Not that he was even speaking to me at this point. A thought depressing enough to tempt me into a second mocha. With whipped cream. And a chocolate-chip muffin.

  “Did the guy sign them or anything?” Dana asked.

  I shook my head. “No name on the one I saw. Just, ‘your adoring fan.’ ”

  “Creepy.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Well, if there’s nothing terribly distinguishing about the letters themselves, we’ll just have to focus on the person delivering them.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning find out who on the set has the biggest grudge against Mia.”

  I did a mental shiver at the thought. “Speak for yourself, but I’m not particularly crazy about the idea of interrogating this guy face-to-face.”

  In fact, I wasn’t even particularly crazy about the idea of going back to the set. Now that Ramirez’s assignment had been bumped up to homicide, every cop in town would be on the Sunset lot. Honestly, what could Dana and I do that they couldn’t?

  “Hey, ” Dana said, cocking her head to the side as she watched Biscotti Boy bend over to pick up a stray napkin off the floor. “You think he’d go for an older woman?”

  I shot her a look. “Seriously? I think he started shaving yesterday.”

  “Look at those glutes, Maddie. Don’t they make you just want to sink your teeth into—”

  “Down, girl. Remember your chip.”

  Dana bit her lip and moaned. “I think I need to go for another run.”

  After dropping Dana off at the gym for her noon Spinning to the Oldies class, I pointed my Jeep in the direction of my studio. Like a good girl, I was going home and staying the heck out of Ramirez’s way. (I made a mental note to remind him of this the next time he accused me of butting in.)

  I took the 405 south until it merged into the 10 west to Santa Monica. I pulled my little red Jeep into my space just as Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs was letting her cat out. I gave her a friendly wave.

  “Morning, Mrs. Alvarez.”

  She nodded in my direction. “Someone left a package for you, ” she said, gesturing to the top of the stairs. I glanced up. Sure enough there was a brown box sitting on my doorstep. My heart lifted. The suede Michael Kors boots I’d ordered from Zappos.com? Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, ” I called, taking the steps two at a time.

  She nodded again before shutting the door and returning to The View.

  I picked up the package, not even waiting until I got in my apartment before tearing off the tape and peeking inside.

  “Ewwwwww!”

  I did a big girlie squeal and dropped the box at my feet, doing a jogging-in-place-waving-my-hands-in-the-air dance to shake off the cooties. It was so not my suede boots. Instead, lying inside the box was a squirrel. Or, more accurately, most of a squirrel. The poor little thing looked like he’d suffered a run-in with a Ford Bronco on the 101.

  I shut my eyes against the mangled image, now burned into my brain, and kicked the box down the steps with the toe of my Gucci pumps, willing myself not to vomit in Mrs. Alvarez’s azalea bush.

  I did a sweep of the street, searching for teenagers giggling behind trash cans at their prank. Nothing. The only sign of life was Mrs. Alvarez’s cat licking its privates on the hood of my neighbor’s Chevy. Doing one more icky squirm, I unlocked the door and quickly slipped inside my apartment.

  Instinctively, I dialed Ramirez’s number. Then, remembering how our last conversation had gone, I hung up after the first ring. The way we’d left things had been a little tense. Okay, fine: tense was sugarcoating it. But suffice to say I wasn’t altogether sure Ramirez would be happy to hear from me. Especially now.

  If his superiors were angry before, I could just imagine how they felt after this morning. Forget Hollyweird duty. Ramirez would be lucky to get a job ticketing illegally parked cars on the Promenade.

  And it was all because of me. Okay, so I hadn’t actually killed Veronika, but thanks to his girl-whom-I-refuse-to-actually-call-my-girlfriend, Ramirez was in the really wrong place at the really wrong time. I wasn’t sure if forgiveness would even be on the table after this.

  And calling him about a dead squirrel wasn’t likely to improve his mood.

  Instead, I made a mental note to buy him one of those singing Hallmark cards (did they make one that said, I’m sorry I ruined your career and a starlet showed up dead on your beat?) and grabbed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s from the freezer. I polished off the entire thing standing in my kitchen.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I asked, half expecting it to be PETA, interrogating me about my curbside roadkill.

  “Oh my God, Maddie, don’t tell me it’s happening again, ” Mom screeched.

  “What’s happening, Mom?”

  “Maddie, I just heard about the young woman on that show you’re working on. Is it true? Is she really dead?”

  I debated the merits of lying, but remembering the way Felix was snapping pictures, I thought it unlikely that I could keep this one from her. “Yeah, it’s true.”

  “First the shootout—”

  “Misunderstanding.”

  “—and now this?”

  “It’s that Mercury in retrograde. It can be a bitch, ” shouted Mrs. Rosenblatt in the background.

  “Maddie, please tell me you’re carrying your pepper spray, ” Mom said.

  I sighed. “Mom, I’m fine. I don’t need pepper spray.”

  “I could always look for one of Ollie’s guns, ” Mrs. R offered.

  “No!” I closed my eyes and did a silent mini meditation. “Okay, fine. I promise I’ll carry pepper spray to work tomorrow. Happy?”

  “I’ll be happy when your life stops making headlines.”

  Join the club.

  “Just be careful, Maddie, ” Mom said. “And I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Sunday?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  There was a pause. Then Mom groaned. “Oh, Maddie, don’t tell me you forgot about Sunday.”

  “Of course not, ” I lied, racking my brain. In my defense, a dead actress and a dead rodent all in the same day did funny things to one’s memory.

  Mom sighed again. “Connor’s birthday party.”

  Oy vey. I had forgotten. Connor was my cousin, Molly’s, youngest spawn, just turning one and already known in our family as the Terror. The last time I’d visited, he’d spilled grape juice on my favorite white espadrilles. The time before that it was a half-eaten lollipop in my Kate Spade. And the time before that, he bit me. Seriously. Right on the ankle, like a little dog. Not something I was looking forward to again.

  Especially in light of the fact that when I’d first gotten the invitation, I’d stupidly asked Ramirez to go with me. Now that I was on his shit list, I was going to have to endure Molly’s brood, the Terror, Mom hinting at my own biological clock ticking like a time bomb, and my Irish Catholic grandmother’s stories about how she had already birthed seven kids without anesthesia by the time she was my age. All alone.

  Sigh.

  “I’m not sure I can make it, Mom. I think I have something else to do that day.” Like wash my hair. Or clean my belly-button lint.

  “Maddie!” my mother admonished.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll try to be there for the Terror’s birthday.”

  “Maddie!”

  Oops. “I mean, Connor’s birthday.”

  I could feel Mom’s frown through the phone. “You have a gift, right?”

  “I have to bring a gift?”

  The frown deepened and was acco
mpanied by a low sigh. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow after work to go shopping.”

  Great. Dead bodies, roadkill, and Toys “R” Us. Could this get any better?

  I decided I’d better hang up before I tempted fate with that particular question.

  “Sorry, Mom, I’m going through the canyon.” I made fake whooshing sounds. Yeah, I know, I’m a terrible person for lying to my mother. “I think I’m losing you.”

  “I’ll pick you up at five!” she yelled as I hit the off button.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately watching the reporters on E! flock like vultures to the story of Veronika’s murder, and trying to concentrate on the Pretty Pretty Princess designs for Tot Trots. Between shots of Mia’s trailer and Magnolia Lane press photos, I added a mini heel and tiny pink bows to the patent-leather Mary Janes. But my heart wasn’t really in it. And by the time I watched them wheel Veroni-ka’s body out in a human Hefty bag, I’d abandoned the kiddie shoes and was glued to the TV.

  Granted, I hadn’t even really known Veronika. In fact, I think I’d spoken only a total of three words to her yesterday, when Dusty had asked me to fetch her for a fitting. But she’d been about my age, single. I wondered if she lived alone. If she’d had any plans for the weekend that would now go unfulfilled. Compared to strangulation by panty hose, the Terror suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Poor thing. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time. I wondered how Mia felt about all this. Did she feel at all responsible that her stalker had offed the wrong person?

  Knowing Mia, probably not. Probably she was just pissed that a pair of panty hose were ruined.

  I ordered Chinese, eating it in front of the television while watching Entertainment Tonight. So far there wasn’t any new information beyond what Felix had told me that morning, though I did notice a couple of photos of Mia’s trailer that were suspiciously from Fe-lix’s vantage point.

  On the ten-o’clock news, the chief of police finally held a press conference, though it was filled with mostly, “We have no information on that, ” and, “We can’t comment at this time.” I scanned the background for any glimpse of Ramirez.

  The truth was, I had kind of hoped that Ramirez would call me. Besides the fact that my coworker was found murdered this morning, he had to know I was dying to hear about Veronika. Okay, poor word choice. But it felt weird that he hadn’t at least called to make sure I was okay.

  And there was the fact that the last time we had spoken we’d been fighting. I hated fighting. I hated leaving things like this, because a teeny, tiny part of me, the part that freaked at the mention of the Cabana Club, worried that maybe he wouldn’t call. Ever. Maybe this was it. He wasn’t going to forgive me.

  Maybe this time I’d actually gone too far.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning my alarm clock began playing “Good Day Sunshine” at exactly 6:00 A.M. I rolled over and smacked the snooze bar. Ten minutes later, “Pretty Woman” blasted through my apartment. I whacked the snooze again.

  I have no idea how many snoozes later it was that I heard the “William Tell Overture” cut through my sleep. Instinctively I banged my snooze bar, but that didn’t do much good. I popped one eye open, grasping around for my purse, and dug my cell phone out.

  “What?” I croaked. Between dreams of dead squirrels and dead actresses, I was in no mood for a telemarketer this early.

  “Where are you?” Dana chirped from the other end.

  I blinked, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. “In bed. Like a normal person. Where are you?”

  “You’re still in bed? We’re supposed to be on the set in, like, half an hour!”

  I groaned. “For real? You want to go back?”

  “Um, hello? Yes, of course. How are we supposed to catch the killer if we don’t go back?”

  I glanced at the clock. 7:15 A.M. “Dana, the entire LAPD is looking for Veronika’s killer. You really think they need Lucy and Ethel on the case, too?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind, ” I mumbled, pulling the blankets over my head.

  “Listen, my agent said that they’re shooting the scene where Chad and Ashley finally find out who the father of Ashley’s baby is. Don’t tell me you’re going to miss this?”

  I pulled the blankets back. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I even had to sign a disclosure thing promising not to spill the secret to anyone.”

  “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  I did a quick turn under the blow-dryer and dressed in skinny jeans, red kitten-heeled patent-leather slingbacks, and an oversize black T-shirt with the neck cut out of it. I topped it off with a big red belt and a swipe of Raspberry Perfection on my lips, and I was out the door. Though I did pause long enough to grab my can of pepper spray, because I had, after all, promised Mom. Okay, I grabbed it mostly because I had promised Mom. Partly, I was still a little creeped out by whatever punk had left roadkill on my doorstep. If I caught the little sucker near my door with a squirrel again, I was gonna spray him.

  Half an hour later I had Dana in my Jeep, and we were pulling up to the studio almost on time. That is, we would have been almost on time if there hadn’t been a line to get through the back gate that wound around the entire block. Dana and I took our spots at the end, and I craned my neck to see what the holdup was. Blake, aka comatose husband, was standing two people in front of me. I reached around and tapped him on the shoulder.

  He jumped as if I’d hit him with a Taser gun. Blake was five-foot-ten, and starting to thin a little on top and spread a little in the middle. There’d been rumors last season that he’d had a breakdown (and who could blame him, having to work with Mia every day?) and had checked himself into a mental hospital over the midseason break. And if today was any indication, his nerves were nearing their breaking point again.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Blake licked his lips nervously. “No, no. Th-that’s okay.”

  “I was just wondering if you know what’s going on.”

  “New security measures. They’ve got two guards on each gate today, and they’re going to be locking down the back gate after dark. They’re even putting extra security on the main gate twenty-four/seven. They’re being very careful after yesterday’s…unpleasantness.”

  Unpleasantness. Now, there was an understatement alert.

  I craned again to see around him, but all I could make out was a long line of people checking their watches and tapping their feet.

  Finally (half an hour later!), we got close enough to see exactly what the holdup was: a walk-through metal detector. Not only that, but they also had one of those scanner machines used in the airport to X-ray your luggage. Apparently everyone’s purses and wardrobe bags had to be scanned before they were let onto the lot.

  Dana and I gave our names to the old guy in Coke-bottle glasses and wearing a name tag that read BILLY, who checked them against his list. Then Dana set her Fendi (fake from eBay) down on the conveyer belt. I set my little Kate Spade (real because I chose to live on Top Ramen—it’s all about priorities, people) down next to hers, and we watched our bags disappear into the X-ray machine. Billy’s magnified eyes roved the monitor, carefully scanning the entire contents of my purse for any knives, guns, or suspicious-looking electronic devices.

  Beside him stood a bored-looking woman in security blues who was the spitting image of Queen Latifah.

  “Next, ” she called, waving Blake through the plastic archway.

  Blake stepped through.

  The machine beeped.

  Blake did a little terrier yelp and clasped his hands together until his knuckles turned white.

  “Your watch, ” Latifah said, pointing at the gold Rolex on his left wrist. He took it off, setting it in a little metal dish, then stepped back through the machine again.

  Beep.

  Latifah rolled her eyes, popping a wad of bubble gum between her teeth as Blake proceeded to take off his class ring, a big gold-colored thing
from USC, and pulled a key ring out of his pocket. And again he walked back through the plastic doorway, gingerly this time, almost wincing as he placed one loafer-clad foot over the threshold.

  Beep.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, ” Dana mumbled under her breath.

  Latifah shook her head, popping her gum like little firecrackers. “Come on, I gotta wand you now.”

  She waved Blake through, then ran a plastic wand over his extremities. I could see sweat starting to break out on his forehead.

  After he’d been thoroughly molested by her stick, the security guard let him pick up his watch, class ring, and battered shoulder bag, and Blake fairly ran in the direction of 6G.

  “Finally, ” Dana said, stepping through the machine. Luckily, the plastic thingie liked her. No beeping.

  Unluckily (yup, you guessed it), it didn’t feel the same way about me.

  Beep.

  “Shit, ” I murmured, stepping back through.

  “Your belt?” Dana suggested.

  Right. I unclasped my belt, setting it in one of the plastic tubs. Sorry, I mouthed over my shoulder to the line of anxious people stacking up behind me.

  Okay, let’s try this again. I stepped through.

  Beep.

  I rolled my eyes heavenward and did a silent, why me?

  “Your shoes, ” the security guard said, cocking her head at me and popping her gum. “They got them little metal buckles on them. Try taking off your shoes.”

  I stared at her. Seriously?

  But she didn’t strike me as the joking sort. Trying not to make any little icky sounds at the feel of the gritty pavement beneath my bare feet, I slipped my ruby slingbacks into another plastic tray, wishing them a safe trip through the scanner. Walking on tiptoes to minimize contact with the ground, I stepped over the plastic threshold. Again.

  Beep.

  Again.

  I threw my hands up in the air. “I give up! Wand me.”

  Queen Latifah rolled her eyes and motioned me over, then proceeded to run her plastic wand up and down my legs, getting way more intimate than Ramirez had in weeks.

  “Arms out to the side, ” she said in a monotone, then punctuated it with another pop of her Doublemint.