“Hey, you gonna play or what?”
I turned around to find a blue-haired woman in polyester with a players card dangling from her bony wrist. She glared down at me from behind thick bifocals.
“Oh sorry. I was just, uh, kind of watching.”
“Well, then move over, honey. This machine’s giving me nothing but zeros today.”
She edged me aside and planted her butt on the vinyl stool, then promptly fed her card into the machine.
“Right. Sorry.”
I moved over to the next machine, then glanced back up at the front desk. Empty.
Shit. I’d lost him.
I tried to shake off the creepy feeling as I wondered whether I should mention to Ramirez that I had my very own stalker.
By the time I got back up to the room, Sleeping Beauty and Dana were both awake. Dana was rubbing her shin and Marco was just emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of post-shower steam.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he sang, folding his pajamas into a tiny square.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, you snore like a lumberjack.”
Marco whipped around, his mouth dropping open into a neat little “o”. “I do not!”
I turned to Dana for confirmation, but she just shrugged. Apparently years of spending nights in unfamiliar beds had trained her to be a heavy sleeper.
“You okay?” I asked, gesturing to her leg. I could see a purple bruise starting to form on her shin.
“Yeah. I think I fell off the bed. This thing’s made for midgets.”
“I’ll take the rollaway tonight,” I selflessly offered. At least it was farther from the snoring wonder.
“Well, I slept like a baby last night,” Marco said, slipping his pajamas into a drawer.
I narrowed my eyes at him again, making a mental note to check the gift shop for some of those Breathe Right strips. Or a muzzle.
Marco informed us he’d done New York to the fullest last night and today was going to do Gay Paree! (Or at least it would be once he got there.) He planned to spend the day at the Paris hotel’s La Boutique using his la credit card. Dana was up twenty bucks from a productive evening of video poker and was ready to move on to the blackjack tables this morning. And, for lack of a better plan, I decided to go try Lola’s house in Henderson again.
How Lola and the deceased Hank slash Harriet tied in to my dad, I wasn’t sure. But they were the closest thing I had to a lead at the moment.
Half an hour later I was parked in front of the house on Sand Hill Lane again. Only this time a white Ford Taurus and a beat-up green Volvo were parked in the driveway. A good sign.
I took a deep breath and willed myself out of the car and up the front pathway. I rang the bell. I waited. Then rang again. Nothing. I peeked in the windows. Same suburban living room, no sign of anyone inside. I glanced around the neighborhood. Unfortunately, there was no helpful neighbor watering the lawn today. No sign of life at all, with everyone either at work or inside watching Regis and Kelly.
I walked along the edge of the rock garden to a wooden gate at the side of the house. With a quick glance around, I tried the latch. It opened right up. Feeling just the teeny tiniest bit intrusive, I slipped through the gate and walked around the side of the house. Two more windows faced this side, both with the blinds shut tight. Staying close to the wall, I rounded the corner into the backyard. More rock gardens, a small patio and a kidney-shaped pool lay beyond. A few dog toys were scattered across the patio. Nothing that screamed suicide. Or gunshot.
The back wall of the house was rimmed in green hedges, beyond which stood a sliding glass door. There I hit the jackpot. No curtains. The back door looked into a kitchen and family room, both immaculate and filled with more typical suburban-issue furniture. Flowers, chintz and lots of honey-oak wood. I wondered again if I had the right house. It hardly looked like a showgirl and a suicidal drag queen lived here. I was just about to try the latch to see if suburbanites kept their back doors locked when a man walked into the family room. (Scaring the bejesus out of me, I’m not ashamed to add.)
I quickly ducked down behind the hedge, hoping the meager leaves gave me cover.
The man was short, with a closely clipped crown of brown hair surrounding a bald palette. He wore a turtleneck, cords, and loafers with little tassels on them. He was either gay or needed to stop allowing his mother to dress him. I was too far away to actually see his eyes, but he seemed to be crying, the backs of his hands swiping at his cheeks as his chest heaved in and out.
Not two seconds later a tall redhead walked into the room. My heart sped up. Lola.
I scuttled a little closer, leaning into the hedge as the man walked into the kitchen. Lola followed, her back to me. I still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, but she was wearing the same go-go outfit from last night. And she was waving her arms around at Turtleneck Guy. He buried his head in his hands and started crying again. Then he did a few arm waves back.
It looked like they were arguing about something, and I’d be hard pressed to say who was winning. Turtleneck Guy had stopped crying and was now yelling in earnest at Lola. I inched closer to the glass door, straining to hear what they were saying. No such luck. The thick glass not only insulated from the Vegas heat, but also from snoopy long-lost daughters. All I could hear was the muffled sound of raised voices.
I moved along the back of the house, hoping to at least get a better look at Lola’s face. Only I was watching the argument so intently, I didn’t see the dog toy lying behind the hedge until my foot came down on it. The loud squeak of my heel hitting a fake squirrel echoed through the yard. Both Turtleneck and Lola froze.
Uh oh.
Turtleneck made for the back door with Lola close behind him. I turned to make a run for it…then caught my heel in a garden hose.
“Uhn.” I did a face plant into the hedge. I scrambled to stand up, but not fast enough.
“Who are you?”
I sheepishly turned around. Caught red handed.
Turtleneck’s face was all purple and blotchy, his eyes swollen and rimmed with dark circles like he hadn’t slept. Lola was still inside, though I could see her red hair hovering at the sliding door.
“Me? Oh, uh, I’m the…meter reader?” You would think that with all my years growing up in Catholic school I would have learned to lie a little better than that.
Turtleneck narrowed his bloodshot eyes at me. “Did Monaldo send you?”
“Uh…” I searched his eyes, wondering if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. “Yes?”
Ahnt. Wrong answer. Turtleneck shot a look back at Lola, which I could have sworn held something close to terror. But before I could ponder it more, the barrel of a gun was shoved in my face.
“Whoa, holy crap!” I took an involuntary step back.
“You tell Monaldo we’re through,” Turtleneck said, waving the gun. “Hank’s gone and we’ve had enough of him. We’re done, you hear me?”
“Hey, I don’t even know Monaldo,” I said, throwing my hands up in surrender. Why I had to pick that particular moment to become a convincing liar, I will never know. “I lied. I swear I have no idea who you’re talking about. I’m just here looking for Larry Springer. I, uh…” I paused, watching the gun barrel waver unsteadily at my head. “I think he might be my father.”
Turtleneck Guy blinked, obviously taken aback at this. The gun lowered. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he had a chance, Lola stepped out onto the patio.
“Maddie?”
I looked up, really seeing her face for the first time. Strong jaw, long straight nose, face that seemed just a little too wide, framed by her long red hair.
Then I felt my eyes widen as I looked at hers. Round, soft, and a distinct hazel color that could go golden brown or emerald green depending on how much purple eyeliner you applied.
Just like mine.
Chapter Six
I blinked, realization hitting me like a fat woman diving for the last pair
of half-priced mules at a Nordstrom super sale as I stared at Lola. Broad shoulders, slim hips, fleshy cheeks. Adam’s apple.
I did a couple of dry gulps.
“Maddie?” he said again, this time in a voice that was distinctly male.
I licked my lips and moved my mouth. Only no sound came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Uh, yeah.” I paused, staring at those familiar green eyes again. “Larry?”
He quirked a corner of his lips, rimmed in ruby red lipstick. “Most people just call me Lola now.”
I nodded, feeling my eyebrows pinch together in a way that screamed for Botox, as my brain searched for the appropriate emotion. I’m pretty sure shock would have worked. Or surprise. Maybe even anger. But all I felt as I stared at my dad in a mini-skirt and go-go boots was relief that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I got your message.” I couldn’t help staring down at his boots. Gucci. At least now I knew where I got my fashion sense.
Lola slash Larry bit his lip, little flecks of ruby red dotting his teeth. “Right. Sorry about that. I, uh, I shouldn’t have called. It was stupid. Everything’s fine now.” Only the way his eyes darted to Turtleneck’s in a silent exchange didn’t quite jive with his words.
Now that the gun wasn’t pointed at me, I noticed how badly Turtleneck’s hands were shaking. He shifted the gun from one hand to the other, as if not really sure how to hold it. And he kept glancing around the yard like he was expecting the bogeyman to pop out from behind an azalea bush any second.
Larry didn’t look a whole lot more composed. Up close I could tell he was a lot older than I’d originally put Lola. Makeup-covered bags rested under his eyes, his chin showed a hint of gray stubble, and the distinct outline of a girdle sat beneath his stretchy white top, holding in an unflattering middle-aged spread.
But I kept going back to his eyes, so like the ones I saw in the mirror every morning that it was kind of unnerving. Okay, it was very unnerving. It was almost like seeing the fifty-year-old version of myself if I were ten inches taller and had let this mustache thing get out of control.
A million and one questions begged to be answered as Larry and I stood there silently contemplating each other. Were the mini-skirt and heels why he’d left Mom and me? Why hadn’t he so much as called for twenty-six years? Did this mean he wasn’t a rock star? Oh god. Was my dad a stripper?
And what was with the gunshot? Why had he run away from me last night? And last, but not least, who the hell was Monaldo?
Since I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to hear the answers to the other questions, I started with the latter.
“Who’s Monaldo?”
“No one,” Larry said, a little too quickly. He gave Turtleneck a warning look and the gun disappeared back into his cords.
O-kay.
“I saw what happened to Harriet last night,” I said, switching gears. “I’m sorry.”
Turtleneck heaved a dry sob and buried his face in his hands. Larry just bit his lip again.
“Was he your…” I trailed off, my gaze resting on his miniskirt.
“Roommate,” Larry supplied. And I hate to admit I was slightly relieved. I wasn’t sure I could deal with having two daddies at the moment. Especially when one of them was dead.
Instead, Larry gestured to Turtleneck. “Maurice and Harriet are—were a couple.”
Maurice nodded, tears running down his chubby cheeks again.
I gave him the most sympathetic face I could, considering he’d pointed a gun at my head just seconds ago.
“Look,” Larry continued, “I’m sorry you came all the way out here, Maddie. But, uh…” He glanced at Maurice again. “Now’s not really a good time. Sorry.” And with that Larry turned on his Gucci heels and disappeared back into the house.
“Wait!” I cried. I pushed through the sliding door. Maurice, still sobbing, followed me.
The house smelled like a combination of Clorox and my Irish Catholic grandmother’s Glade plug-ins. A bottle of Windex sat on an end table next to a rag, the only two things out of place in the entire room. The house was immaculate. I’m talking Swiffer-commercial clean. All the furniture—a chintz love seat, oak coffee table, and glass entertainment center—was symmetrically arranged, each corner lining up perfectly with the next. It was the kind of room that made me instantly want to take my shoes off for fear of leaving a muddy trail across the pristine tiled floor.
Instead, I charged up the stairs. “Larry?” I called, taking them two at a time with Maurice hot on my heels.
“What are you doing? You can’t be in here,” Maurice protested, eyeing the bottoms of my strappy sandals versus the white carpeting upstairs.
I ignored him, following the sounds of Lola’s movement.
The second floor of the house held three bedrooms and a bathroom decorated in hot pink tiles and a pink-and-white polka-dot shower curtain. (Who was their designer, Barbie?) The first two bedroom doors were closed. I caught a glimpse of Larry’s red wig moving around in the third.
As I entered the room, it was instantly clear that Larry was not the resident housekeeper. Larry’s room looked like the pictures I’d seen of the Beverly Bloomingdale’s right after the Northridge quake hit. Dresses, skirts, blouses, and shoes mingled in disarray on every surface. A handful of long wigs on Styrofoam heads lined the dresser amidst eyeliner, mascara, and—I cringed—the same Raspberry Perfection lip gloss I put on every morning. I averted my gaze, feeling my face scrunch into those Botox-worthy lines again.
Instead I focused on Larry, standing in the center of the room zipping closed a black duffel bag as a little yapper dog circled his ankles.
“I need to talk to you, Larry,” I said, as Maurice huffed up behind me.
Larry looked up, only mildly surprised I’d followed him in. “I can’t. I have to go.” He picked up a beaded purse from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.
“So, so…you’re just going to leave again?” My voice cracked, images of that hairy arm disappearing from my life overwhelming me. Granted, this was not exactly how I’d always fantasized our father-daughter reunion playing out, but the fact that he was walking away again had me going into a panic.
He must have noticed because he paused again.
“Look, I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I know how you must be feeling and I’m sorry this is such a shock to you.”
Understatement alert. But shock was good. Shock was one step away from denial and if I could just tell my mind to make that next leap over the fence, I planned to camp out in denial for a long time. I looked down at his Gucci boots again. A long, long time.
“What about the gunshot Friday night?” I asked, dragging my gaze back up to Larry’s face.
He found a piece of lint on his skirt suddenly fascinating. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I heard a gunshot on the message you left me.”
Larry and Maurice did that silent exchange thing again. “Must have been a car backfiring.”
Apparently being a terrible liar ran in the family.
“Look, you said on the phone that you needed help. What kind of help? Does this have to do with Monaldo?”
Larry gave me a blank stare. “No. I don’t need any help. Everything’s fine.”
Right. I narrowed my eyes at him. So fine that his roommate had just taken a header off a roof. Not to mention the sobbing gay guy with the gun shoved into his Old Navy cords.
“Larry, if you’re in trouble—”
But he cut me off. “Really, I’m fine, Maddie. Everything here is fine.” He grabbed his duffel bag and pushed past me, back down the stairs.
“Wait!” I followed, my heels click clacking on the tiles as Larry headed out the front door. I followed him down the flagstone pathway and out to the Volvo in the drive. Turtleneck grabbed the small dog, and with a backwards glance at Larry, hopped in the Taurus and roared down the street.
B
ut my whole attention was focused on Larry as he threw his duffel bag in the Volvo and walked around to the driver’s side.
“Wait,” I said again, that panic rising in my throat. “Can I…maybe call you or something?”
Larry paused, his eyes softening. “It was good to see you, Maddie. Tell your mom I said hi.”
And before I could protest being blown off again, he had the car in gear and was driving out of my life for the second time. Only this time instead of a hairy arm, all I saw was his long red wig, flapping in the breeze out the car window.
I stood there in the empty driveway, trying to process what had just happened.
My father hadn’t been shot. He was okay. He wasn’t dead, wounded, or bleeding. I should be relived he was okay, right?
And I was.
Kinda.
Only he hadn’t seemed all that okay. And I still had more questions than answers. Not even considering his taste in clothing, there was something really weird going on here.
I looked back at the house. Just for good measure I tried the front door. Locked.
For lack of any other bright ideas, I got in the Mustang and drove back to the hotel.
The first thing I did when I got back to the room was check my messages. Imagine my surprise when I had seven. All seven from Ramirez.
Under any other circumstances, seven messages from an LAPD officer yelling at you to get your butt back to his jurisdiction might not be a good thing. But as I sat there listening to each one, I couldn’t help feeling just the teeniest bit of triumph. Who’s not returning calls now, huh?
I hit the erase button and all seven disappeared. Then I flopped back on the bed and stared up at the textured ceiling.
Okay, so my dad preferred lipstick to dipsticks. So he happened to like Gucci boots. (Couldn’t really blame him there.) So instead of running off to Vegas with a showgirl he had apparently become a showgirl.
Killer in High Heels Page 7
