I hung up wishing I didn't automatically go into blabber mode when crisis hit. Why couldn't I be one of those calm, cool-headed women that could make a tourniquet out of a tampon and a gum wrapper? Instead I had to freak out like a little kid lost at the mall.
I dialed Mom's number. It rang four times and the machine kicked on. "Hi you've reached Betty…"
"…and Ralph," my stepfather chimed in.
"We're not here right now so leave a number at the beep…"
"…or try us at the salon, ciao!" Faux Dad finished.
I hung up. When Ramirez got my blabbering message he'd probably roll his eyes and make some comment about how girly I was. That I could live with. Mom, on the other hand, would likely call in the National Guard to make sure I was okay. Which, in all honesty, I was.
It was the guy on the other end of the line that was in trouble.
My dad.
I sat down on my futon, absently shoving a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as I conjured up the image of that hairy arm waving good-bye from the El Camino window.
When I was deep in my teenage-angst phase I'd badgered my Mom into talking about my father. Just once. She said they'd met at a Bob Dylan concert, that he was 6'1", allergic to strawberries, and had run off to Vegas with some showgirl named Lola. When she got to the Lola part she broke down sobbing the kind of racking tears that scared the crap out of my teenaged self. Needless to say, I hadn't broached the subject since, and she hadn't offered.
I wondered if he was still in Vegas. I grabbed the handset and scrolled down my call log. Out of area. Well, that didn't tell me much. He could have been calling from anywhere.
And what kind of help did he need? Was he sick? Did he need a kidney? It would be just like a man to waltz back into my life after twenty-six years and ask for a vital organ.
Only he hadn't sounded sick. He'd sounded…in trouble. In serious trouble if that really was a gunshot. I tried not to picture him wounded or bleeding somewhere.
Maybe I should call 911. But what would I tell them? Someone somewhere might have been shot? I had no idea where he was, or even if it was, in fact, my father calling. I'd gotten more than one crank phone call since my brush with fame. And to be honest, the more I thought about it, the less sure I was that the sound was even an actual gunshot. Maybe it was just a car backfiring?
I shoved another big scoop of Chunky Monkey into my mouth, hoping that the creamy chocolate and banana goodness might calm me down.
Maybe it was a backfiring car and maybe it was a gunshot. Either way, my dad had called me. And first thing in the morning, it was time to take the crowbar bar to Mom's memory again.
* * *
I was in the depths of a dream about being chased by a backfiring car driven by a one eyed woman when the sound of my phone ringing woke me up. I halfheartedly grasped around in the general region of the handset but came up empty. I cracked one eye open to peek at the clock beside my bed. Seven a.m. I groaned. I hated morning people. My theory: if the malls don't open until ten what's the point of being up earlier than that?
The phone rang two more times, then clicked over to the machine. I buried my head under my pillow as I listened to my own voice inform callers to leave a message. The machine beeped.
"Maddie? It's Jack."
I bolted upright in bed, flinging the pillow across the room. Ramirez.
"I got your message last night. What the hell is going on over there?"
I jumped out of bed, diving for the phone. Only the handset wasn't on the cradle. I glanced around my studio apartment. Fold out futon on one wall, drawing table against the other, piles of clothes and shoes everywhere else. Where was the phone?
"What's all this about a gunshot? Are you okay?" He paused. "Look, I may be a little hard to get a hold of for the next few days, so if you're there pick up."
I was trying to! I began digging under my clothes from the night before. I slipped my hands down in the futon cushions, checked under my drawing table, even started opening kitchen drawers. Where the hell had I put the thing?
Ramirez paused. "Well, I guess you're not there. Fine. I'll try back later."
"No!" I screamed at him. Then spied the handset peeking out of a Macy's bag by the door. "Wait, wait, wait," I chanted. I grabbed the handset and hit the 'on' button.
Dial tone.
Crap.
I quickly redialed his number but wasn't surprised to hear it go straight to voicemail again. Crap, crap, crap! I slammed the handset down in the cradle, taking all my aggression out on the poor GE appliance.
Since I was up anyway I made a pot of strong coffee and hit the shower, doing a blow-dry and mousse thing afterward. As a concession to the pint of B&J's I had single-handedly consumed the night before I pulled on a comfortable pair of navy blue gaucho pants, paired with a tank top, navy shrug and knee-high brown calfskin boots. Overall, a pretty decent look for a breezy October day. Breezy translating to 75 and sunny instead of the summer's 85 and sunny forecast. We don't believe in weather in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.
After a couple swipes of mascara and a touch of Raspberry Perfection on my lips I was out the door.
* * *
Fernando's salon was located on the ultra chic corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, one block north of Rodeo, smack in the middle of the Beverly Hills Golden Triangle. When Faux Dad had arrived on the west coast from Minnesota he was just plain Ralph, a slightly paunchy, pale, middle-aged hairdresser. Knowing no one in L.A. would get their hair done at a salon called 'Ralph's', he reinvented himself with a fictitious Spanish ancestry, spray on tans twice a week, a salon in a prime Beverly Hills location and voila—Fernando was born, stylist to the very rich and semi-famous.
In addition to his cut and color talents, Faux Dad also had a passion for interior decorating. (Mom swears he's not gay, though I still have my doubts.) Currently Faux Dad was going through a Tuscan phase, painting the walls with a rusty orange glaze and hanging bunches of plastic red grapes and leafy vines from the rafters. Gilt frames surrounding oil paintings of vineyards adorned the walls, and soft classical music mixed with the sounds of blow-dryers, sprayers, and juicy Beverly gossip. All in all, it was an atmosphere that screamed for a glass of pricey merlot.
"Maddie!" Marco, the receptionist, skipped out from behind his slick looking computer as I entered the salon, attacking me with air kisses. Marco was slim enough, pretty enough, and wore enough eye make-up to compete on America's Next Top Model. And probably win. "How are you, dahling?" he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.
"Suffering from a Ben and Jerry's hangover."
Marco clucked his tongue. "Awe, poor baby."
"Are Mom and Ralph in yet?"
"Fernando," Marco emphasized, chastising me with his heavily lined eyes, "is doing a body wave for Mrs. Simpson." He leaned in, gesturing to the back of the salon. "Jessica's Mom."
"Ah." I looked past the 'crumbling' palazzo walls of the reception area and spotted Ralph talking to a blonde under a beehive dryer. "What about Mom?"
"Your mother's in the back, doing a waxing for that psychic lady."
That 'psychic lady' was Mom's best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt. Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five time divorcee who favored muumuus in neon colors and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn't even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.
She and my mother met years ago when Mom went to Mrs. Rosenblatt for a psychic reading and claimed Mrs. R's predictions came true the very next day. Okay, so the dark, handsome, stranger she was supposed to meet turned out to be Barney, a chocolate lab, but that was close enough for Mom. They've been firm friends ever since, and Mom never goes more than five days without an aura cleanse from Mrs. R.
I thanked Marco and made my way through the humming dryers and chemical smells of the salon to the back room, reserved for fat wraps and facial waxing. At least, I hoped to God she was doing a facial. I'd only had one cup of coff
ee and witnessing Mrs. Rosenblatt get a bikini wax called for at least two cups. With a couple shots of whiskey.
I gave a tentative knock on the door.
"Uh, Mom? Got a sec?" I asked, slipping into the room painted with a fresco of the Italian hillside along the walls.
I was relieved to find Mom hovering over Mrs. Rosenblatt's mustache, though I cringed just a little at her outfit. I love my mother. I really do. I just wish she didn't insist on getting dressed in the dark. She was wearing electric blue stretch pants, pink legwarmers and a pink sweatshirt with the neck hole cut out over a pair of black high-topped L.A. Gear sneakers, the likes of which I hadn't seen since 1986. I think she was going for Jane Fonda chic but fell somewhere closer to Sweatin' to the Oldies.
"Hi, hon," she greeted me, waving a wax strip in my direction. "What brings you here?"
"You need a waxing?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, squinting at my upper lip. "Your mom's a whiz with the wax."
"Uh, no, I'm fine. Thanks."
"You sure?" Mrs. R squinted again. "Cause I could swear I see a little dust up there."
I self-consciously felt my upper lip.
"'Course, you know Albert says there are some cultures that prize hairy women," she continued.
Albert would know. In his earthly existence, Mrs. R claimed her spirit guide was a New York Times fact checker.
"But then again, here in Lala-land hairy just means you ain't been to the salon in a while. If I wanna get a date with that fox on the senior bowling league, I gotta loose the mustache." Mrs. R winked at me. "The Fox is Italian. They got them big hands and big noses and big…"
"Okay, hold still now."
I'll say this for my mother, she has excellent timing.
Mom pressed a strip onto Mrs. R's upper lip, thankfully ceasing the flow of too-much-information before she could describe The Fox's other attributes.
"So, what does bring you down here today?" Mom asked, smoothing hot wax down in all directions.
"Well, I, I, uh…" I paused, not sure how best to drop the bombshell that my paternal half had not only contacted me, but might be dead in a ditch somewhere. "See I got this phone call, and…"
Mom looked up, waiting for me to finish, a small frown settling between her thickly penciled eyebrows. "What is it Mads?"
I decided the least cruel way to do it was quick and painless, like ripping off a Band Aid. Or a waxy bit of upper lip hair.
"Larry called me."
Mom froze, her face going a shade of pale Nicole Kidman would be jealous of. Her mouth did an empty open and shut thing like a goldfish, then clamped into a thin tight line. "I see."
She grabbed a corner of the wax strip and yanked with a force that made me cringe.
Mrs. Rosenblatt howled like a coyote.
So much for painless.
"Mom, are you okay?" I asked as she attacked the left side of Mrs. R's face.
"Fine." Mom's lips were starting to turn white from being clamped together so tightly.
I rushed on, afraid she might attack my 'dust' next. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you, but he called last night and left a message on my machine. Only he didn't say where he was calling from or leave a number or anything. He said he saw my name in the papers and…he needed my help."
Mom's lips remained clamped as she ripped the second strip. Tears welled in Mrs. Rosenblatt's eyes.
"Oy, I hope that Fox is worth this," Mrs. R wailed, rubbing her lip.
Mom took a deep breath, closing her eyes in a little mini meditation. "What kind of help?" she finally asked.
"I don't know. He…the machine cut him off before he could say." No sense in mentioning the gun shot until I knew for sure that it was one. Besides, Mom was proving to be dangerous with a wax kit in her hands, and despite the reasonable person in me, I was beginning to fear her.
"I see," she said, clamping her lips together again.
I cleared my throat, wishing I didn't have to do this. "Look, I know you two…" I trailed off, her eyes boring into me beneath her 1984 powder blue eye-shadow. "I know he ditched us for a showgirl, which makes him maybe not your favorite person."
Mom made a sound like a snort.
"But despite all that, he is still my dad. And, well, I need to know. Do you know where he might be—"
But Mom cut me off, advancing on me with a fresh wax strip. "Madison Louise Springer, I refuse to discuss the man."
I took one giant step back. When she used my full name, I knew she was serious. Generally my very Irish, very Catholic grandmother was the only person who called me Madison. Mom had only used my full name twice that I can remember. Once in seventh grade when I'd been caught under the bleachers with a high school Sophomore, prompting Mom to explain in exhausting detail about the birds, the bees, and why I should wait until I was thirty to have any contact with the opposite sex again. And the second time was when I'd accidentally maxed out her credit card in a bout of post-breakup shopping when I was eighteen. That had earned me an entire summer working at Hot Dog on a Stick to pay her back. (I still have nightmares about those hats.)
"He left," Mom said. "End of story."
I opened my mouth to protest, but was stopped by Mrs. Rosenblatt laying a thick palm on my forehead.
"Hold on, bubbee, I'm getting a vision." Mrs. Rosenblatt rolled her eyes back in her head until she looked like an extra from Michael Jackson's Thriller video. "I see feathers and lipstick. Lots of red lipstick." She paused. "Did your father ever work in cosmetics testing?"
Mom and I did a simultaneous eye roll and Mom threw her hands up in the air in surrender. "Maddie, I honestly don't know where he is," she said.
I watched her for a second, trying to decide if I believed her. "But even if you did, you wouldn't tell me, would you?"
She set her mouth in that thin line again and shook her head.
Part of me understood her anger. I mean, the man had left her alone with a young child to raise on her own. And I could only imagine the sting of being left for a five foot gazillion inch showgirl. That had to hurt. I tried to picture how I'd feel if I found out Ramirez had been shacked up with some topless dancer. Not too happy. And we were only dating! (Sort of. If you called one half naked encounter six weeks ago dating. Which, for lack of any other action, I did.) But I honestly couldn't imagine what he might have done that was so bad she didn't want me to even meet him. Just once.
Unfortunately it was clear by the grim set of her mouth that I'd gotten all I was going to get out of Mom.
"Fine," I said, doing a mirror image of Mom's thin lip routine. The two of us did a little stare down thing, which I'm pretty sure neither of us won, and I left.
Fine, if Mom wouldn't help me find my Dad, I'd find someone else who would.
Marco was showing a woman with enormous Lucille Ball red hair a new moisturizing mist product as I made my way back through the salon. I waited for him to finish then approached his desk.
"Can you get online with that thing?" I asked, gesturing to his sleek, black computer.
Marco shot me a look. "What do you think this is, the Stone Age? This is an 800 MHz FSB Pentium Processor with 4 GB of DRAM. With this baby I can download naked pictures of Brad Pitt before you could even say yummilicious."
Tempting…
"Actually, I was wondering if you could google someone for me?"
"But of course." Marco sat down behind the computer, and pulled up the screen. "What's the name?"
I glanced nervously over my shoulder at the wax room, expecting Mom to appear any minute. "Larry Springer."
Marco typed the name in. "Twelve thousand hits."
Gee, that narrowed it down.
"What exactly are you looking for?" he asked, clicking on the first couple of links on the screen. A web page for a Washington state senator and a link to a memorial page for a clergyman who died in 1842. Neither one particularly helpful.
"I'm not sure," I sighed. "An address or a phone number maybe? Any way to contact him."
"Ah!" M
arco danced his fingers over the keyboard with practiced speed, pulling up a white pages directory. He keyed in the name. "Do you know what city?"
I bit my lip, glancing over my shoulder again. "Try Las Vegas."
"Oooo, Sin City. My favorite town, honey." Marco did an eyebrow waggle, adding the city to the search. A page of names and numbers came up. "Okay, we've got phone numbers for three Larry Springers, twelve L. Springers and a couple of Lawrences. No addresses. Who is this guy anyway?" Marco asked. "New boyfriend?"
I heard the door to the wax room open, and Mrs. R emerged, rubbing at an upper lip that looked like she'd been French kissing sandpaper.
"Uh, no. He's…someone I'm looking for," I hedged. Marco was a sweetheart, but he lived for gossip. Telling Marco a secret is like taking out an ad in Cosmo. Every fashionable woman and gay man in the country would know about it.
"Ooo, is this one of Ramir—" he paused, slapping a palm over his mouth as he remembered The Oath. "Uh, I mean, um, that hottie cop's cases? Oh baby, would I like to work with him." Marco began fanning himself.
"No, it's…personal." I watched as Mom handed Mrs. R a bottle of lotion, motioning to her red upper lip.
"Hey, can you print this page out for me?" I asked, ducking behind the monitor, hoping Mom didn't see me.
"Sure thing, honey," Marco said, as the printer hummed to life.
"Great. Thanks." My attention was still absorbed by Mom and Mrs. R. They were walking toward the reception area, Mrs. R rubbing at her lip, Mom making apologetic motions.
"Here you go, dahling," Marco handed me a sheet of paper, fresh out of the printer.
"Thanks! Gotta go," I said as I made a mad crouching dash for the front doors. "I owe you, Marco!"
"Ciao, bella! Tell Mr. Hottie Pants I said 'hi!'" I heard him yell as I passed through the glass front doors, doing the fastest run in two inch heels that I could.
Despite Dana's best efforts at replacing my Ho Hos with dumbbells, I was out of breath by the time I jogged the block and a half back to my Jeep. Once inside I flipped on the AC and scanned down the list, trying to get up the nerve to whip out my cell phone and begin dialing. At the other end of one of these numbers was my Dad. What would I say to him? Got your message, hope you're not shot, why the hell did you leave before I could make any cool memories of us at the zoo together? I didn't know. All I knew was that until I actually talked to him, visions of that dead in a ditch thing were going to haunt me. I took a deep breath and punched in the first number.
Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1) Page 27
