I rubbed my eyes, the sleepless nights catching up to me. “I don’t have a watering can, Mom.”
Mom paused. “What do you mean you don’t have a watering can? Everyone has a watering can. How do you water your plants without a watering can?”
“I don’t have any plants!”
“Yes, you do. You have a ficus. Never mind, I’ll go out and get you a watering can tomorrow.”
I gritted my teeth together. “Mom, I have to go.”
“Sure, honey. I understand. You don’t want to keep that man of yours waiting. I know how you young folks are. I was young once too, you know. Of course, with Ralphie, I feel like I’m twenty-three again. God bless those little blue pills.” She giggled.
My eye did a little twitch.
“Right. Okay, well, bye now, Mom, gotta go.”
I hung up, wondering how much longer I could keep up this charade. Mom may not have been the sharpest dresser in the world, but she was no dummy. Any second now I was ready for her to do the big ah-ha! and realize that not only was I not in Palm Springs with the guy I was not having sex with, but instead I was running around Sin City zapping puppies and chasing after her ex-husband, who now wore skirts. I shuddered to think what the punishment would be then. Suffice it to say, this was bad enough to make those Hot Dog on a Stick hats look like haute couture.
Once I finished my fries (and added a Hershey’s Sundae Pie for dessert. Hey, after the conversation with Mom, I needed comfort food) and Dana finished the last of her rabbit food, we hopped into the Mustang and headed back to the hotel. As we merged onto the 15 heading south toward the Strip, I pulled down the visor to check for chunks of Mad Cow stuck in my teeth and touch up my lip gloss. I was applying one last swipe of Raspberry Perfection when I caught a flash of blue in the mirror.
I whipped my head around. “Sonofabitch.” Sure enough, there in brilliant Dodge blue was my friendly neighborhood stalker, his Neon hanging back one car length in the next lane over.
Chapter Ten
“What?” Dana craned around in her seat trying to see what I was staring at.
“That blue Dodge Neon.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“I think he’s following me.”
“Oh Maddie.” Dana did a poo-pooing motion with her wrist and clucked her tongue. “You’re just being paranoid.”
“That’s what I thought, but I swear to you I have seen this same car four times in the last week. First in L.A. and now here. I’m telling you, he’s following me.”
I kept one eye on the rearview mirror as my hands did a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure which was worse, thinking someone was stalking me or actually knowing it.
Dana craned around again to get a look at the car. “So who is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, accelerating. “But he’s really starting to freak me out.”
I angled my foot down on the accelerator, surging forward. Then I yanked the wheel, veering to the right and cutting in front of a limo with tinted windows. Neon swerved out into the left lane, pulling ahead of the limo, then quickly jumped right back onto my tail.
“He’s not real concerned about being seen, is he?” Dana asked, still looking out the back window.
No, he wasn’t. Which was a little unnerving. Either he didn’t know how to tail someone, or he was confident we wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup later. Like if we were dead or maimed from being run off the road.
I could clearly see the driver now. It was the same sandy-haired guy I’d seen at the casino. He was wearing tinted aviator glasses and a rumpled polo shirt, to all the world a normal commuter. Except for the fact that his Neon was practically kissing my back bumper now.
I took a deep breath and slammed on the brakes, veering into the far right lane between a pair of semitrucks. The driver of the second one laid on his horn and made a not-so-polite hand gesture out the window. Dana braced herself against the dashboard.
“Whoa! Take it easy, Miss Earnhardt.”
But it was too late. I was in serious fight or flight mode, and considering I had trouble keeping up in Dana’s low-impact Tae Bo class, I chose the flight option, hoping like anything there weren’t any highway patrol cars in the area. (I was already on a first-name basis with three of the L.A. county traffic court judges, I didn’t need to add Nevada to the list.) Luckily, the Neon driver wasn’t dealing with the added bonus of adrenaline-fueled reflexes and didn’t hit his brakes in time. He zipped past us in the left lane. I quickly veered off the freeway at the next exit, blindly driving surface streets like they were the Pomona Speedway until I was sure my back bumper was Neonless. I pulled the Mustang into the parking lot of a Denny’s as the surge of adrenaline receded, leaving my limbs feeling like Jell-O jigglers.
“Holy crap,” Dana said in the seat next to me as she dug her nails out of Marco’s Naugahyde dash. “What the hell was that about?”
I would have answered, but it was taking all my concentration just remembering to breathe. In, out, in, out…
“Who the hell was that freak?”
“I”—in—“don’t”—out—“know.”
Dana turned to face me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m”—in, out, in, out—“fine.” Sure, once I stopped panting and my heart returned to a pace slightly less spastic than a ten-year-old on Ritalin.
Dana dug around in the backseat and found a discarded Taco Bell bag, which she instructed me to breathe into. The odor of week-old Beefy Gordita Supreme was slighting nauseating, but after a few inhale-exhales, the urge to hyperventilate slowly dissipated. As I rhythmically inflated and deflated the fastfood bag, I racked my brain to think of who cared enough about my movements to not only follow me all the way across the desert, but ride my butt all over Las Vegas as well. Ramirez? Larry? Monaldo? Not likely, since I’d never even met two of them until yesterday. And I couldn’t see Ramirez paying some guy in a Neon to keep tabs on his girlfriend. So who was he? Not surprisingly, I drew a total blank.
Dana offered to drive back to the hotel (probably because she was afraid to ride shotgun with Miss Earnhardt again), and by the time we pulled up to the casino, I’m happy to report that my breathing was once again back to normal. (Though I was totally jonesing for a taco.) Dana got out at the casino entrance, but I declined her invitation to an afternoon at the roulette wheel. With the kind of luck I was having lately, I didn’t think it was wise to put money on the line.
I was too keyed up to go sit in the room, not feeling lucky enough for slots, and, considering I had a date with Mr. Hardbody tonight, seriously trying to resist the fattening allure of the buffet. I looked down at my watch. I still had an hour before my appointment at the salon. Which, I decided, left me more than enough time to do another quick drive-by of Larry’s house on the off chance he was spending a quiet afternoon at home. The more I learned about him the more questions I had. And while the whole Mob angle was just this side of reality TV for me, I had to admit the question topping my list was why Larry had called me in the first place. Okay, so he’d needed help, that much was obvious. But why me? I admit, the little-girl-lost in me was still holding out hope of that perfect father-daughter reunion.
Unfortunately, as I pulled up to 319 Sand Hill Lane, it was obvious today wasn’t the day for it. The driveway was empty. No sign of Larry’s battered Volvo. I parked at the curb and rang the bell just for good measure. No answer. I peeked in the garage windows. No car. No signs of life. No big surprise, considering how my day was going so far.
Mr. Shar-pei was outside watering his cactuses again. I strolled over to the row of shrubs that served as a barrier between the two yards and waved. “Hi there,” I called.
Shar-pei didn’t look up.
I cleared my throat. “Um, hello!”
Nothing. I yelled a little louder. “Hey!”
Finally he glanced up from his hose and gave me a myopic squint. Then he turned up his hearing aid.
“Oh,
hello again,” he said. “Sorry. Wife’s been watchin’ home shopping all day.” He pointed to his ear. “Had to tune out Joan Rivers.”
“Ah. Understandable. Anyway, I was just wondering if you’d seen Lar—uh, Lola around today.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. I seen her pull in here last night, though. Went inside there ’round about when Pat Sajak came on. Then after Dancing with the Stars was over, I looked out the window and saw her loading a suitcase into her trunk and off she went again.”
Suitcase. That was not good.
“I don’t suppose she mentioned where she was going?”
He shook his head again. “Nope. But she looked in a real hurry. Maybe she had a hot date.” His wrinkles squished together in an exaggerated wink.
I felt my Mad Cow burger threatening to make a repeat appearance.
“Thanks anyway.”
“No problem. Any friend of that Lola’s is a friend of mine.” He did a couple of eyebrow wiggles that had me clinging to my denial like a security blanket.
I stared up at the house. Well…if Larry was gone, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have just one tiny peek around, right?
I opened the back gate and tippy-toed around the yard to the sliding glass door again, this time careful to watch my step over the dog toy landmines. I peeked in the windows, rising up on the balls of my feet to see around the bushes. It looked a lot like it had yesterday. In fact, the Windex was even still out on the table. With a quick over-the-shoulder peek, I tried the sliding door. Locked. Well, what did I really expect?
So what now? I scanned the interior of the house as I thought. Honestly, I was out of ideas. If Larry were involved with the Mob, this was so out of my league. My league was full of children’s shoes, Rainbow Brite jellies and Spiderman slippers. My league wasn’t even playing the same game as a bunch of Italian-American family men.
On the other hand…I didn’t think Larry was really in their league either. I know, I know, I’d only met the man once. Okay, maybe twice if you count the whole ’74 El Camino incident. How could I really know for sure what he was like? Truth? I couldn’t. But what could I say? He was my dad. If I wasn’t on his side, who would be?
Telling myself I was really doing Larry a favor, I pulled out my Macy’s card and stared at the locked door, trying to remember how Veronica Mars had broken into that guy’s house last week on TV. I gingerly slid the corner of the red plastic card between the metal frame and the door. I paused, waiting for alarms to go off. Nothing. Okay, so far so good. I wriggled the card in a little deeper, until it was wedged in all the way up to the expiration date. Then I slowly slid the card downward until I came in contact with the lock. Hmmm…now what? I wriggled some more. I hated to admit it, but this didn’t seem to be doing anything. By now Veronica had been inside the perp’s house, had hacked into his computer, and was downloading evidence off his hard drive.
I moved the card up and down a couple more times, silently willing the lock to magically spring free. I gave it a hard downward thrust.
Snap.
Oh crap. I pulled out my credit card, only coming away with half of it.
“Nooooooo!” I wailed. I stared at my mangled Macy’s card. Why oh why hadn’t I used my Nordstrom card instead? At least I knew I was already over the limit on that one.
Conceding that I was no Veronica Mars, and not willing to sacrifice my Banana Republic card, I gave up on the sliding door.
Instead, I decided to explore the other side of the house. Who knows, maybe Larry had left a window open in his haste in skip town last night. I followed a neat flagstone pathway around the corner of the building. A line of terra-cotta pots and gardening tools stood beside the fence, next to the re-coiled garden hose. This time I carefully stepped over it.
There were three windows on the top floor visible from here, and two on the bottom. All five closed (and locked, I checked) and all sporting beige mini blinds pulled tightly shut. I might have been discouraged at this point, had I not spied a door leading into the garage at the end of the flagstone pathway.
What were the chances it was unlocked? Considering my luck so far, I didn’t hold out a lot of hope. So imagine my surprise when the knob in my hand turned with ease. Wadda ya know? Maybe I wasn’t a total jinx after all.
With one more quick over-the-shoulder for good measure, I quickly slipped inside and shut the door behind me. It was dark; only a pale stream of light from under the garage door illuminated the shadows. I paused a moment, letting my eyes adjust before feeling my way across the space to a door on the far side. As I did, it became clear this was no ordinary garage. This place was clean. I’m talking obsessive compulsive clean. Pristine white floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets lined the far wall, neatly stacked side by side. The floor was completely free of any telltale oil spots and I’d dare anyone to find an errant cobweb nestled in the corners. Along the back wall stood a tool bench with one of those pegboard thingies full of tools, each in its rightful place. I tried to block the mental image of Larry swinging a hammer in his frilly skirts and fake wigs as I gingerly crossed the room and opened the interior door.
I found myself in the kitchen, and blinked against the sudden onslaught of light. Yellow calico curtains hung above the apron sink and a matching calico tablecloth was draped over a small breakfast table near the windows. Corian counters, whitewashed pine cabinets, and two framed prints of roosters completed the suburban French country look. Standing in the bright, cheerful room, it was hard to imagine the owners of this house being into anything sinister.
Since I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, I decided to start in Hank’s room. He was, after all, the dead guy in all this. Besides, he was the least likely one to mind if I did a little snoop—I mean, investigating through his things.
I jogged up the stairs and entered the bedroom on the right. It was clear Maurice had used his magic touch in here as well. Light, airy fabrics mixed with thick, dark woods, and large, mall-store quality prints adorned the walls. Little lace doilies covered the dresser and nightstands, and if I hadn’t known better I’d swear my sixty-five-year-old Aunt Mildred lived here.
I did a quick scan of his closets and drawers, fighting off a slight case of the heebie-jeebies at touching things that belonged to a dead man. I mean, he hadn’t actually died in these clothes, had he? In fact, he hadn’t died in any clothes, if I remembered correctly. I made a mental note to ask Ramirez about that.
Due to Maurice’s clean-aholic tendencies, I didn’t turn up much, other than a few pieces of expensive jewelry and a drawer full of size triple XL pantyhose. With a quick glance at my watch (if I limited my snoop—investigating—to another ten minutes, I could still make my lip-waxing appointment), I moved on to Larry’s room.
I crossed the hall and opened his bedroom door. I took one step in and cringed as my eyes fell on that tube of Raspberry Perfection sitting on his dresser.
Here’s the thing: I like to consider myself as liberal minded as the next gal. I enjoy watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and mourned the loss of Will & Grace just like anyone else. I don’t begrudge anyone’s right to be different, and if a guy wants to wear a wig and pantyhose, more power to him, right? But just why did it have to be my dad in the wig, huh?
It was so much easier to be open-minded when it wasn’t happening to me.
Taking a deep breath (and clutching denial in a two-fisted death grip), I crossed the room and shoved the lip gloss under a long blond wig. There. That was better.
I decided to start with Larry’s nightstand, reasoning that that was where the contents of my pockets ended up every night. Maybe Larry had left a receipt or matchbook—anything that might tell me where he was now or what he was running from.
I started with the top of the nightstand, unfolding one small piece of paper after another. Mostly receipts from the grocery, drug store, some fast food restaurants. Nothing terribly telling except that he should be eating a lower-fat diet. I made a mental note to tell Dana
my junk food cravings were genetic.
Coming up zero on the nightstand, I moved on to the closet—not sure my denial cocoon was strong enough yet to withstand the sight of the “intimates” that might be lurking in Larry’s dresser drawers.
I opened the closet door and gasped. Shoes. Dozens of beautiful, shiny, designer shoes. It was like looking in a boutique store window. I knelt down to examine a pair. Michael Kors’ last season black satin wedges with rhinestone detail and ballerina straps. If they hadn’t been five sizes too big, I would have been in heaven. I turned them over in my hands, letting the long silky straps run through my fingers as I took in every little detail. If these were fakes, I was a rugby player. Whatever Larry’s connection to the containers of counterfeit shoes, this wasn’t it. These were the genuine six-hundred-dollar-a-pair article. I did a little sigh and set them back in the shoe rack with all the reverence they deserved.
I stifled a little squeak as I spied the next pair. Jimmy Choo Mary Janes in fire-engine red with three-inch heels and gold-plated buckles. I had to hand it to Larry, he did drag with style. I pulled the Mary Janes out of the closet and held them up to the mirror. The light from the window shone off the patent leather like glass. I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of my kitten heels and treated my toes to a moment in Choos. I’m pretty sure I moaned out loud. Okay, so I was a small seven and these were a big ten, but I didn’t care. They looked fabulous. Beyond fabulous. These were Sarah Jessica Parker-tastic! I did a couple of foot model poses, checking them out from all angles. I was just contemplating how many cotton balls I’d have to stuff in the toes to wear them on my date with Ramirez tonight, when I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs.
I froze.
“Hello?” a voice called out. “Larry? You here?”
Killer in High Heels Page 12
