Swallowing down every dream I ever had of following in Diane Sawyer’s footsteps, I hammered out a 2 by 3 inch column on the size, shape, and possible plasticity of the actress’s chest. I was just about finished (concluding that – duh – there was no way these puppies were organic), when an IM popped up on my screen. My editor.
Where have you been?
I peeked up over the top of my cube. He was still shouting into his earpiece, but he was now seated at his computer, eyes on the 32 inch flat screen mounted on his desk.
I ducked back down.
At lunch.
Pretty long lunch.
I bit my lip.
I was hungry.
There was a pause. Then: Come into my office in three minutes.
Great. Busted.
I glanced at the time on my computer. 1:42. I finished up my article, hit save, and two minutes and forty three seconds later got up from my chair, smoothed my skirt, puckered to redistribute my lipgloss, and pushed through the glass doors of his office to face the music.
He was still on the phone, nodding at what the guy on the other end was saying. “Yes. Fine. Great.” He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs in front of his desk. I did, tugging at my hem again as I watched him pace the office.
Felix Dunn was somewhere between late-thirty and early forty, which put him at least a good ten years my senior. Old enough that fine laugh lines creased the corners of his mouth, but young enough that his sandy blonde hair was cut in the same shaggy style I’d seen high school skateboarders wear. He was tall, with the lean lines of a runner, though I’d never actually seen him jog. He was dressed today in his usual uniform of a pair of khaki pants and a white button down shirt paired with tan Sketchers. His clothes were wrinkled, looking like he’d slept in them, his hair sticking up just a little on top. I would have said he was pulling a causal chic thing, but I knew Felix well enough to know that it was more laziness than a practiced look.
Not that Felix couldn’t afford to look every bit the metro-sexual fashionator, but Felix had his own priorities. He was what you’d call a cheap rich guy. He lived in a multi-million dollar home in the Hollywood Hills, thanks to old family money, but he still opted to buy his socks on sale at Walmart. I’d heard a rumor going around the office that he was actually a British lord, some distant relation to the queen, but he always seemed to have left his wallet at home when the check came at lunch.
“Listen, I’ve got a meeting now,” Felix said into his earpiece, his British accent creating a lilting rhythm. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He hit the end button on his Bluetooth, then turned to me without skipping a beat.
“The Megan Fox bit, where are we?”
“Done. Just need to proof it, and it’ll be on your desk.”
“Conclusion?”
“They’re fake.”
“You’re sure?”
I gave him a look. “Seriously? I had more faith in your boob connoisseur status.”
He shook his head as if disappointed. “Can’t trust anything to be authentic these days.”
“If it makes you feel any better, her ass is real.”
He grinned. “I’m ecstatic. Listen, I have a new story I want you to work on.”
Even though I knew it likely involved the man vs. natural made status of a celebrity’s body parts, I still got a little surge of adrenalin in my belly. I couldn’t help it. I loved the thrill of ferreting out the truth, making sense of a chaotic series of facts. I hadn’t been lying when I told Mr. Callahan at the Times that I lived for the story.
“Shoot,” I told Felix. “I’m all ears.”
“It involves-“
But he didn’t get to finish as the door to his office flew open again, one of the other reporters bursting through. She had violet hair and wore a hot pink baby-T with a picture of Oscar the Grouch on it and black jeans with little skulls on the back pockets above a pair of shit-kicker black boots. Tina Bender.
“I got it!” she said, triumphantly, holding a photo high above her head.
Felix raised an eyebrow her way. “And what might ‘it’ be?”
“The frickin’ story of the century.” She slammed the photo down on Felix’s desk.
Felix leaned forward to get a good look. I did the same.
The photo was of the outside of a gated home, if I had to guess, I’d say a mansion somewhere nearby. Beverley Hills or Malibu if the palms lining the impressive driveway were any indication.
“Chester Barker’s estate,” Tina said, confirming my suspicions. “In Beverley Hills.”
Felix leaned in. “The dead producer?”
Tina nodded. “Murdered to be precise. This was taken just before his body was found by the maid.”
I remembered the story. Chester Barker was a reality TV show producer who had been found dead in his Beverley Hills estate two weeks ago, face down on his bathroom floor, foaming at the mouth. At first the consensus had been accidental drug overdose, but on further inspection, the police had found evidence that Barker had been drugged on purpose. The verdict of murder had sent the media - both tabloid and legit - into a virtual feeding frenzy, the Informer staff included. Personally, I’d been searching high and low for any angle on Barker for days.
Unfortunately, it appeared Tina had found it first.
“Where did you get this photo?” Felix asked.
“One of my informants.”
Tina had informants all over Hollywood, her network farther reaching than Verizon’s. Something I sorely envied. The first thing they’d taught us in journalism class was that a reporter was only as good as her informants. And, unfortunately, Tina’s outnumbered mine ten to one.
“Check out the right corner,” Tina said, pointing to the picture.
Felix and I did, both leaning in. In the corner of the picture, near the iron gates, was a figure, his back to the camera, a baseball cap with a squiggly red snake on the brim of it pulled low on his head.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Though Tina ignored me. As always. For some reason, Tina and I had gotten off on the wrong foot when I’d first come on board here. Probably because Felix had given me her biggest story right off the bat. While I’d felt kinda bad for her, my bank account had been hovering low enough that my Visa was rejected at the dollar store. I needed the job, and I’d needed that story to prove to Felix I deserved a paycheck despite my minuscule portfolio. So, despite feeling sorry for Tina’s loss, I’d taken the story and ran with it. Luckily, I’d delivered, Felix had kept me on, and my bank account now afforded me the luxury of shopping at Walmart’s clearance bin.
I know, decadent.
But Tina had never forgiven me, and a hard and fast rivalry between the two of us had been born.
“Who’s that?” Felix asked, repeating my query.
Predictably, Tina did not ignore him.
“That, my dear editor, is Chester Barker’s killer.”
Felix raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged. “Or at least it could be. A shadowy figure seen outside the mansion at the time of the death. Pretty suspicious, huh?”
Felix nodded, eyes still on the photo. “Any idea who our suspicious character is?”
She shook her head. “But I am so on this story. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll have his name, address and credit score.”
Felix bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking over the proposition. Finally he said, “Okay. Run with it. The Barker story is all yours, Tina.”
Her grin was twice the size of her face. “Ay, ay, chief!” She gave him a mock salute before fairly skipping out the door.
Felix pulled out a magnifying glass, training it on the photo. I waited while he silently scrutinized the shadowy figure, trying to make out any identifying marks.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I cleared my throat.
Felix’s eyes jolted upward, as if surprised to still find me there.
“Uh,
you said you had a story for me?”
“Oh. Right. Allie. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, setting the photo of the would-be killer aside. “I got a tip this morning that Pippi Mississippi has changed her hair color. I want you to go talk to her hairdresser and either confirm or deny.”
Tina got a murder, and I got a dye job. Figures. Even at a tabloid no one took my journalism skills seriously.
Chapter Two
Jennifer Wood was the teen actress who played the title character Pippi Mississippi on the hit tween cable show, which had launched not only the teen’s acting career, but also a singing contract, a line of clothing for eight year olds, and a fragrance called “Totally Pippi” sold at finer department stores everywhere. Last year Jennifer had starred in her big screen debut, Pippi Mississippi: The Movie, which had opened to the highest box office take since James Cameron’s latest, launching Pippi into the realm of mega-celebrities. I think it was safe to say that Pippi watching had officially passed up baseball as America’s favorite pastime.
Sadly, a picture of Pippi’s new ‘do in the Informer would probably outsell copies of Time with the president’s picture on it.
According to the Hollywood grapevine, Pippi got her hair done at Fernando’s salon, a Beverly Hills staple nestled smack in the center of the BH golden triangle, where real estate was worth an arm and a leg, and noses were changed as often as the seasons.
I pushed through the glass front doors of Fernando’s, immediately assaulted by the scents of hair dye, frying perms, and botanical conditioners with French names. The interior of the salon was done in a minimalist chic style – plain white walls, white sofa in the waiting area, white marble tiles on the floor, and white plastic chairs at every station lining the middle of the salon floor. Two large red paintings were an unexpected splash of color along the back wall, providing one bold focal point.
The guy behind the reception desk provided the other bold focal point.
“Allie, love of my life, how are you dahling!” he shouted, coming at me with air-kisses.
“Great, Marco.” I air-smooched him back, doing a little shoulders-only hug to go with.
Marco was a slim, Hispanic guy with eyeliner thicker than Tammy Faye’s, outfits louder than Lady Gaga’s, and a valley girl accent straight out of the movie Clueless. He was currently holding a bottle of sparkly silver glitter in one hand, a glue stick in the other. I almost hesitated to ask…
“What’s with the glitter?”
Marco looked down at the bottle in his hand. “We’re having a sale on conditioner. I’m sprucing up the sign a little.”
I looked over at his desk. A generic “sale” sign now had a glittery silver “20%” drawn across it in scrolling script.
“Very… sparkly.”
“Thank you!” Marco beamed like a proud papa. “So, what can I do for you, dahling?” he asked. “We’re on a tight schedule today, but for you, I could bump someone.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Marco, but I’m actually here for…” I leaned in and whispered. “… a little information.”
He closed his heavily lined eyes and shook his head in the negative. “Sorry, dahling, no can do. You know my lips are sealed. What would happen if I tongue wagged about every celebutant that came through here? I’d be out on my hot little fanny, that’s what.”
I grinned. “You know that would never happen. Fernando couldn’t function without you.”
Marco pursed his lips. Then nodded. “Well, that’s true.”
“Listen I just need a confirm or deny over a new hair color.”
He shook his head again. “Sorry. I have taken the celebrity hairdresser’s oath. ‘What happens in the salon stays in the salon.’”
“Hmmm.” I narrowed my eyes. “What if I made it worth your while?”
He raised one drawn-in eyebrow at me. “Worth my while?”
“I happen to have an informant that happens to follow the club scene very closely. And happens to know where one very desirable celebrity is planning on partying this very evening.”
Marco leaned in. “I’m intrigued. A-lister?”
I shrugged. “At least a B+”
“Who?”
I looked over both shoulders, trying to match his level of drama as I leaned in a whispered, “Adam Lambert.”
“Shut the front door! Where?”
“I’ll tell you. If you can tell me a little something.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Ooo, you are wicked, girl. Fine. You cracked me.” He paused, looked over both shoulders for prying ears, then nodded, setting finger to the side of his nose. “Come into my office, dahling,” he said.
He turned and led the way through the salon. I followed him past buzzing drying stations and flying straight razors until we hit a door at the back. He opened it, doing an exaggerated over the shoulder again, then led the way inside.
I followed, trying not to smirk as I saw we were in a supply closet.
“So, what do you want to know?” he asked in a low whisper.
“Jennifer Wood. Is it true that Pippi Mississippi has a new hair color?”
“Ah.” He steepled his fingers. “She was in here the other day.”
“And?”
“And America’s favorite blonde teeny bopper?”
“Yes?”
“Now a readhead.”
Bingo. “I don’t suppose you got any pictures of her?”
He looked offended. “I don’t suppose I did! What do you think I am, some sort of gossip?”
Heaven forbid.
“But,” he said.
“But?”
“Fernando did take a snapshot for his wall of fame.”
Double bingo.
“I’ll throw in Adam’s home address if you get me a copy.”
Marco squealed like a second grader. “Done!”
Then he scuttled off to find the picture in question.
I exited his “office” and sat down in the all white lobby to wait. While I did, I browsed through Fernando’s magazine selection. Three out of four had Chester Barker’s picture plastered on the front.
God, I wanted that story.
And not just because Tina had it, though, I’ll admit, after the way she’d gloated this afternoon, the thought of besting her did give me warm fuzzies. But Barker’s death was the kind of serious story that serious journalists covered. L.A. Times serious, even. If I had that kind of story under my belt maybe I wouldn’t be automatically relegated to the fluff pages.
I grabbed the magazine on top, this week’s People, and began flipping through their take on Barker’s death, complete with lots of glossy photos. I was about a page and a half in when the glass front doors beside me opened and a tall woman walked in. She had blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and was dressed in black, form-fitting yoga pants, a tight little T-shirt, and a ball cap pulled down low over her face. A black ball cap. With a red, squiggly snake on the brim.
No. Way.
I blinked back surprise as I watched her cross the salon and greet one of the stylists, who quickly ushered her into a room in the back.
I jumped up from the sofa to follow her, just as Marco re-emerged from the back with a framed photo of Pippi Mississippi in hand.
“Okay, here’s your picky! Just do not under any circumstance reveal where you got it, because if Fernando found out-“
I grabbed him by the shoulders mid sentence. “The woman that just came in here. In the ballcap. Do you know who she is?”
“Ay, easy on the shirt, chica. It’s an Armani.”
My grasp tightened. “The woman, Marco. It’s important.”
“Okay, okay. Geeze, girl. It’s Dana Hendersen.”
I gave him a blank look. “Who?”
“You know, from that HBO series, Lady Justice? She plays the porn lawyer.”
“Riiiiiight…” I knew the show. It was this season’s naughty breakout hit about a mild-mannered woman who inadvertently became the go-to-attorney for porn stars. Lots
of stars, lots of scandal, very little clothing. A no-brainer to top the ratings.
“Listen, I have to talk to her,” I told Marco, still grasping his shoulders.
He shook his head. “No can do, honey. She’s an exclusive client. Photos are one thing, but I cannot have a tabloid reporter conducting interviews in here. Unless you’re her bikini waxer, there is no way you are getting into that room.”
I wrinkled my nose. I looked from Marco to the closed door.
“Fine,” I said. “Look, email me a copy of Pippi’s photo, and I’ll send back the deets on Adam’s party tonight, cool?”
Marco looked immeasurably relieved. “That I can do.”
“Thanks,” I said, then turned to go. I slipped out the glass doors, watching over my shoulder as Marco took the photo out of its frame and to his desk, fussed a little with his scanner, then popped the photo back into its frame. A minute later he picked it up and headed back to the back of the salon to re-hang it.
The second his back was turned, I pushed through the front doors again and half walked, half jogged past the cut and color stations to the storeroom Marco had used as his “office”. Once inside I grabbed a white coat from the shelf. I slipped it on, then peeked out of the door. Marco was back at the reception desk, his back to me. I quickly slipped out of the storeroom then crossed the three big steps to the waxing room Dana occupied. I opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it behind me with a soft click.
The blonde lay on a table in the center of the sterile room, a white sheet covering her body. Her eyes were closed, a tiny lavender scented pillow draped across them. On a chair beside her sat her yoga clothes, and on top of them the ball cap. No doubt about it, it was the same one the shadowy figure outside Barker’s had been seen wearing.
Maybe my luck today was turning.
Standing over Dana was a woman wearing a coat identical to mine and an expression that said she clearly had not expected to be interrupted.
“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that clearly said, “What the hell are you doing in my waxing room?”
“Uh… yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m… here to wax Dana.”
She raised an eyebrow my way. “You are?”
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