Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed to give me a ride back to Beefcakes, where my little red Jeep had spent the night. It was dark by the time I finally drove up to my studio and I was beyond tired. I was in that state of feeling sorry for myself that comes just before the walking dead phase of exhaustion. I trudged up the stairs and unlocked the door, not even bothering to turn on the lights before I collapsed onto my futon.
I gave myself five minutes to cry. Just five. Then, I was going to be done, finished. Over that creep for good. Never mind I wasn't quite sure which creep I was talking about.
Richard, right? I mean, Richard was the one I should be getting over. He was the one I'd been dating for the past five months, all the while blind to the fact he'd been married to Cinderella on the side. Richard's betrayal was what should be eating me up inside.
Only, as I closed my eyes all I could think about was the way Ramirez's lips had tasted on mine. Like canapés and champagne.
God I was pathetic.
I rolled over and buried my head in a pillow, my only comfort knowing that tomorrow couldn't possibly be worse than today had been.
* * *
I felt sunlight hit my face the next morning, but was almost afraid to open my eyes for fear of what new disaster might await me. Tornado? Hurricane? Plague? It wouldn't surprise me. With the way my life was going my aura must be a pukey puce by now.
I summoned up all my courage and cracked one eye open.
No detectives sleeping beside me. No cell phone ringing. No screeching brides or best friends. So far so good.
Gingerly I got up and flipped on my Mr. Coffee. After two strong cups I turned on the news to see if Richard had made the morning report.
Perky Reporter Woman did a ten second snippet on the arrest of Devon Greenway's lawyer, but the whole story was losing steam and had been sandwiched between a segment on a school closure in Watts and a dog that sniffed out heroin at the airport. The press had moved on.
And, honestly, I should too. Richard probably had a whole team of lawyers surrounding him by now, pulling every rabbit out of their legal hats to get him safely back to his leather and chrome condo. What could I possibly do to help that they couldn't? More importantly, why did I even want to?
I sighed. My gaze straying to the EPT on the counter.
That's why.
I stared at the little pink box. It stared back, and I could swear it was silently mocking me. (bok, bok, bok)
"Fine, I'll take the damn test!" I yelled to the universe at large. I picked up the stupid little box and marched into the bathroom. After reading the instructions only three times (My hands were shaking just a little.), I ascertained that I was supposed to pee for five full seconds on the little cottony strip. Five seconds? This was going to take some preparation.
I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a liter of Diet Coke from the fridge. I downed half of it, only getting slightly fizzy nosed from the bubbles. I waited ten minutes, then took the Coke back into the bathroom with me. It was now or never.
I clipped my hair back, took a deep breath, and did the whole peeing thing. Which ended up being way more complicated than it sounded. When I finished, I set the test down on my bathroom counter to wait. One line negative. Two lines… I'd be asking my mother to pick up another basinet full of booties and binkies. I took a fortifying swig of Diet Coke as I watched the hands on my watch crawl by. Three minutes.
Okay, I could do this. I was a tough chick. Whatever those pink lines threw at me, I could handle this, right? Okay, so maybe I'd have to take little Ritchie Junior to visit his father behind bars, and maybe I'd never again fit into that cute Dolce crop top again, but I could do this. Of course, I'd have to get a second job. Tot Trots barely kept me in Top Ramen and pumps, there was no way I could raise a baby on that salary. I looked around my dinky studio. And I'd probably have to move back in with Mom and Faux Dad. And the Jeep would have to go. No way was a convertible Jeep safe for a baby to ride in. Oh God, would I have to get a mini van? I had a vision of myself in Mom clothes from Target, driving a beige Odyssey and living in the room above my parents' garage.
Not surprisingly, I started to hyperventilate again. I sat down hard on the tiled floor and put my head between my knees. Unfortunately, as I flipped my head down, my hair clip came undone, flying across the tiny room and knocking into the bottle of Diet Coke. Which swayed precariously on its plastic bottom, then, as I watched in slow motion horror, fell over and spilled bubbly liquid all over the EPT.
"Shit!" I jumped up and grabbed a bath towel, dabbing at the test. I looked down. It was soaked, the cottony swap at the end quickly swelling up like a sponge as the little windows turned a murky caramel color. I squinted, trying to make out any faint lines. Preferably just one of them.
Nothing.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
I sank back down to the floor. Great. Now what?
I stared at the ruined EPT. The way I saw it, I had two options. One, go back to the drug store, pick up a new test, and go through his whole thing again. Or, two, hop back on the denial train (Because it was probably just stress anyway. I mean, sometimes stress messed up your hormones, right? And I had been under a tad bit of stress lately.), and go back to ticking off blonde murder suspects to earn my boyfriend that get-out-of-jail-free card.
Which was scarier, murderers or a pregnancy test? After my mini van vision, that was a no-brainer.
I tossed the Coke-stained test in the trash and threw on a pair of butt hugging jeans with my favorite red mules, mentally picking up my suspects list again. The only one I had left was Carol Carter. And the only thing the L.A. Informer had mentioned about her was that she was an aspiring actress. If she was anything like Dana, she probably spent her Sundays at the gym, toning and shaping for the coming week of auditions. It was a long shot, but I hopped in my Jeep and pointed it in the direction of the Sunset Gym.
Twenty minutes later I was showing my membership card to the steroid gatekeeper and trying hard not to inhale the stale eau d' perspiration as I scanned the crowded workout room for Dana's perky blonde ponytail. The place was packed with film execs trying to sweat off their weekly diet of doughnuts and wanna-be starlets shaking every silicon body part imaginable in hopes of being discovered as the next Baywatch babe. I finally spotted Dana coaching a dark-haired man covered in veiny muscles on the leg lift machine in the corner.
Feeling conspicuously out of place in my heels, I picked my way over the medicine balls and stretch mats to the leg lifter.
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… and rest. Okay, check your pulse, Sasha. You shouldn't let it get over one-sixty."
Sasha nodded, sweat trickling off his forehead as he applied two fingers to his neck.
"Dana?" I made a little one finger, come-here sign.
She saw me and waved. "Hey, what's up?" Dana looked down at my heels and frowned. "You can't work out in those."
I rolled my eyes. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
"Shoot."
I glanced at Sasha.
"Oh, sorry," Dana said. "Maddie, this is Sasha. I told you about him, he's the pyramid bottom for the Cirqué Fantastique. Sasha, my best friend, Maddie."
"I have been pleased to met you," Sasha said in a heavy accent.
"Me too. Uh, Dana, can I talk to you?"
"Sure. Sasha, do two more sets and we'll move on to something else."
Sasha nodded and went back to his leg lifts as Dana followed me out of earshot.
"What's with the Russian?" I asked.
"Isn't he hot?"
I glanced over at him, veins popping out on his neck as he lifted a stack of metal weights. "I guess, in a steroid-happy kind of way. But what about your roommate?"
"Who, Mr. Asshole the Stripper?"
Uh oh. Trouble in the Actor's Duplex.
"What happened? You two were all over each other last night."
Dana snorted. "That's what I thought too. Only when we got back home I put the bridal bouquet in the freezer and he freaked out
. He said he couldn't understand why I'd want to keep it. And I said, 'Well duh, I caught the bouquet.' And he said, 'Well, what's so special about that?' And I said, 'Well duh! It means I'm the next to get married.' And he totally freaked out. I mean, I didn't say I wanted to get married to him, right now. But he flipped. He said that he was suffocating. That he wasn't ready for a ball and chain. Do I look like a ball and chain?"
"Typical man." I really was beginning to hate the whole gender.
"No shit. Anyway, I was like totally crying and Sasha called and he took me out for a cocktail, and, well, we ended up back at his place."
Dana has got to be the only woman I know who can start a story out getting dumped by one guy and end it in some other guy's bed.
"Anyway, what's up with you?" she asked. "How goes the Charlie's Angels search?"
Apparently Dana hadn't seen the news yet, her attention being consumed by a limber Russian all night. I quickly filled her in on last night's disaster as she gestured Sasha through two more rounds of Cybex torture. It took longer than I thought because the sight of Sasha's muscles straining proved to be a little distracting for Dana, but as we moved on to the rowing machine, I produced the printout from the library, showing her Carol Carter's picture.
"Do you recognize her?" I asked. "She's an actress and I thought maybe she worked out here."
Dana and Sasha both leaned in to look.
Sasha let out a low whistle. "She is having the boob that are big like cantaloupe."
"They're fake," I pointed out.
Dana squinted at the photo. "What did you say her name was?"
"Carol Carter."
"I never see boob like this. Boob back home, flat. Like pancake food. Like biting of bug." Sasha looked up at me. "Like you."
Yep. I hated all men.
"The name sounds familiar," Dana said, still staring at the photo. "Oh! You know what? We were both up for the role of Bikini Girl in that teen movie last month."
"You be very good Bikini Girl." Sasha looked Dana up and down. "Very good."
"Thank you! I thought so too. But I never got a call back."
"Those director blind. You are very good body. You have the curvy boob."
"Oh, you're so sweet!" Dana leaned down and kissed Sasha. I looked away before I got a glimpse of Russian tongue.
"Back to Carol Carter," I interrupted. "You don't happen to have her number, do you?" I asked.
"No, sorry. But I do know who her agent is. Charlie Platt. He's in that big building on the corner of Le Brea and Hollywood."
"Dana, you're a goddess." I could have hugged her if she wasn't covered in gym sweat.
"You sure boob is fake?" Sasha was still staring at the photo of Carol Carter. "Is very bouncy looking."
"Trust me, nature does not come in those sizes," I said.
He nodded. "Yes. Maybe true. Not so curvy, like Dana."
Dana giggled and kissed Sasha again. This time I definitely saw tongue. Ew.
"Well, I'll, uh, leave you two to your workout…" I trailed off as I backed away, but I was pretty sure no one was listening to me anymore.
I ran back to my Jeep and called information for the number of the Platt Agency. Unfortunately I got a recording saying they would be closed until four. I glanced down at my dash clock. Noon. I decided Mc Donald's was as good a place as any to wait it out and put my Jeep into gear, hitting the drive through. Fifteen minutes later I was making my way through a Big Mac, large fries, and a strawberry milkshake. Which unfortunately reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake. And my ever more tenuous employment with Tot Trots. I still hadn't called them back and I had a feeling if I didn't get those high top designs done soon, unemployment would be edging its way closer to the top of my list of problems.
With a sigh, I finished off my fries and pointed my Jeep toward home. If I put in a good hour of drawing before going to find Carol Carter, at least I could call Tot Trots back with a clear conscience. I even made myself stop by Rite Aid on the way home and bought a new pregnancy test. This time I got the deluxe digital version, which the pharmacists assured me was virtually indestructible.
Only as I pulled up to my studio, there stood the one thing in the world I wanted to see even less right now than two baby pink lines. Ramirez.
Chapter Seventeen
His arms were crossed over his chest and his hair was wet, like he'd just showered, as he lounged against my front door. I had a bad feeling that if I got too close I'd smell that fresh Ivory and aftershave mix that had me sniffing my futon cushions like a bloodhound last night.
I told myself not to breathe any of it in as I got out of my Jeep. I'd pretend that he had no effect on me. He didn't. So what if he'd seduced me, met my family, and then used me to get to Richard. I was not going to lose it. I was not an emotional girly girl. I was tough. I was Demi Moore in G.I. Jane. I was Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. I was cool. Calm. In control.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi? Hi!? Don't you dare 'hi' me. You arrested my boyfriend! After feeling me up. And you have the nerve to make my grandmother like you. You know how long I'm going to have to hear her ask about that nice Catholic boy now? So don't you dare 'hi' me, you…you…pig!" Cool, in control Maddie. Yep, that's me. Ugh.
"I had a warrant." His voice was infuriatingly calm. Which of course made mine rise that much more.
"You used me!"
"Me? Maddie I'm not the one who got you pregnant then ditched you for a flea trap in Riverside."
"Look, I know you think Richard did this, but I've been looking into Greenway's past—"
Ramirez rolled his eyes. "Jesus, didn't I tell you to leave this alone?"
I gritted my teeth and ignored him. "Do you want to know what I found out or not?"
"Fine. Can we go inside first?"
I gave him the evil eye, but had to agree that Richard's status as a felon was not high on the list of things I wanted to share with my neighbors. I unlocked the door to my apartment, marching in ahead of him and laying my new EPT on the kitchen counter. Ramirez didn't wait for an invitation before following me in. He leaned against the door frame counter, arms still crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.
"So? Let's hear it," he said with a this-oughta-be-good expression on his face.
I ignored the look, instead sharing my brilliant mistress theory and filling him in on my chats with Greenway's string of big breasted girlfriends. "And all three are blonde and might own stilettos," I finished. "I'm not sure. I haven't gotten access to their closets yet."
Ramirez rolled his eyes again. "Wonderful. The great shoe detective."
"Hey, you were the one who told me about the shoe clue." Okay, put like that it did sound like it belonged in a Scooby-Doo episode. But I stood my ground, putting my hands on my hips and doing my best don't-mess-with-me face.
"So, you want me to believe there's some mysterious thong wearing woman going around killing people?"
"Not people, just Greenway. And maybe his wife."
Ramirez shook his head. "This is ridiculous. The investigation is closed."
"How can it be closed? You don't even have a murder weapon yet."
Ramirez went silent.
I felt that lead weight settle in my belly again. "Do you have a murder weapon?"
"The report came back from ballistics. Greenway was shot with a .22, the same caliber weapon Richard bought for his wife last year. She says he asked to borrow it before he left town and now it's missing."
I bit my lip. "That doesn't mean Richard pulled the trigger."
Ramirez threw his hands up. "I don't understand how you can possibly think this guy's innocent."
"What makes you so sure he's not?" I countered, my voice starting to rise again.
"Because he's an asshole! He lied to you, Maddie. He lied to the police, he lied to his wife. He's a criminal."
"But he's not a murderer."
"What, because some porn star found a thong?"
"Hey, if you'd get your head
out of your macho man ass for two seconds, you'd see that there were other people with plenty of motive to want Greenway dead. You were the one who said there was a stiletto impression and blonde hairs in the room."
"For God's sakes, Greenway probably had a hooker in his room."
"Metallica said we were the only hookers he saw."
"Great, so your witnesses are a porn star and a stoner. Gee, you're really building a case, Nancy Drew."
"Hey, I don't appreciate your tone of voice."
"I don't appreciate you sticking your nose into my investigation."
"I thought you said your investigation was closed."
"It is!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
We paused for a breath, both our nostrils flaring, glaring like two prize fighters about to start round three.
Then Ramirez glanced down at the kitchen counter. "Taken that test yet?"
"Get out!" I pointed a straight arm at the front door. "Get out, get out, get out!" Okay, so I'd become a scene out of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. But he was hitting below the belt now.
"Fine," he yelled one more time before Bad Cop turned and slammed the door behind him.
I picked up the new EPT and threw it across the room at the closed front door. It bounced on the floor with a little plop. Which wasn't nearly satisfying enough. So, I picked it up and jumped up and down on it a few times. My heel hit the little plastic window with a satisfying crunch. Apparently "virtually indestructible" didn't take into consideration a pissed off woman with spiky heels.
I stared at the ruined pile of plastic. Damn. What was wrong with me that I couldn't take a simple pregnancy test without becoming Calamity Jane? Did everything I touched have to fall to pieces? That's it. I seriously needed therapy.
Ice cream therapy.
I got back in my Jeep, drove straight to the nearest Ben & Jerry's shop and ordered a pint of Chunky Monkey. I sat in the parking lot and ate the entire thing.
Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1) Page 19
