She had a point. "I know, but things are different now."
Dana scrunched up her nose. "The babies?"
"According to my husband, I'm supposed to let him solve murders while I sit home wiping butts and watching Dora the Explorer," I told her.
"I thought you liked Dora?"
"That's beside the point," I said, waving her off. "The point is, I'm still just as capable of solving this crime as I was before my uterus fulfilled its purpose."
"Only, you're going to have to do it by sneaking around behind Ramirez's back."
I nodded. "Exactly."
Dana shook her head at me. "I don't get you married people."
"Trust me. There comes a point in a marriage where the best thing you can do to keep the peace is keep your mouth shut. Now come on. I gotta get home, pronto."
With traffic, it was almost forty-minutes before we finally pulled up in front of my bungalow. And even before I exited the car, I heard the sound of baby lullabies blasting at top volume from the interior of my house.
Uh-oh.
I made a bee-line for the front door, pulling it open and covering my ears against the assaulting strains of "Hush Little Baby" being sung over the speaker system. Marco was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pair of socks held onto his ears by a sparkly pink headband. Mine, I noticed.
"What is going on?" I yelled.
"What?"
"What is going on!?"
"I can't hear you," Marco yelled back.
"What-" I shook my head, giving up, and crossed to the iPod dock in the corner, hitting the pause button. Silence immediately descended.
I took a deep breath, my ears ringing. "What was that about?" I asked.
Marco shrugged, taking the socks off of his ears. "It was the only way I could get them to stop crying. I had to drown them out."
I was about to tell him that drowning out a baby's cries was not in Babysitting 101, when I noticed both of my babies sitting in their swings, gurgling happily. Huh. What do you know, it looked like he was right. They did like the loud music.
I crossed the room and looked more closely at my kids. They were both dressed in pink.
"Um, why is my son wearing a pink dress?" I asked, turning again to the babysitting wonder.
"I had to change them," Marco said. Then he gave me a dirty look. "They pooed, Maddie. And it was eeeeeeverywhere," he said, drawing out the word as he gestured around the room.
"And?"
"And, once I finally got them clean and put diapers on, I kind of lost track of which was which. And no way was I taking those diapers off again. So I put them both in a gender neutral color."
I was about to point out that pink wasn't exactly the most gender neutral color when I looked down at Marco's hot pink ensemble and realized that rationale would be lost on him.
"Well, thanks for watching them," I said instead. Okay, so he hadn't followed the What to Expect the First Year's rules on baby care, but both babies looked clean and happy. I couldn't argue with that.
"You're welcome," Marco said, tossing the socks and headband on to my coffee table. "But next time, I'm coming with you."
I nodded in agreement, picking up the closest pink bundle and doing a diaper check. Female. I put her back in her seat and grabbed her pink-clad brother from beside her, then headed for the changing table before my husband got home and saw his son in sparkly, pink tulle.
Chapter Seven
Ramirez snuck out of bed somewhere between the twins' pre-dawn feeding and their synchronized morning battle cry, around 7am. Which normally would have left me feeling exhausted and abandoned but today fit in perfectly with my plans. At least I didn't have to lie to my husband about where I was going.
I showered, dressed, grabbed my diet breakfast bar and even had time to put on a little mascara between Livvie's and Max's crying jags by the time Dana showed up on my doorstep an hour later.
She looked as if she'd slept about as little as I had. Her hair was thrown into a messy chic bun that was far more messy than chic, her eyes were red and rimmed in dark circles, and her usual glam self was shoved into a pair of capri style sweats, a tank top with black bra straps showing beneath, and a pair of yellow Crocs on her feet.
I gasped. "Dana, what on earth are you wearing?"
She looked down at her feet. "What?"
"Those!"
"What? They're Crocs."
"Yes they are," I said, nodding vigorously. "And are you a toddler going to a play date at the park?"
She cocked her head at me. "Um, no."
"Then what are you doing wearing them?!" I paused, coming up with a better question. "Why do you even own them?"
She sighed. "What does it matter? Who cares how I look? My life is over anyway," she said, flopping onto my sofa. "Ricky didn't come home last night."
"Oh, honey." I grabbed her in a hug, ignoring the funky scent telling me she'd skipped the shower this morning, too.
"He texted," she told me. "Said he was staying at his Malibu house hiding out from the press."
I nodded. "I can understand that."
"But I think he was really hiding out from me." Her voice cracked on the last word.
I shook my head violently from side to side. "No. I'm sure that's not true."
Dana sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't know what to do, Maddie. I miss him. But I don't want to miss him. I shouldn't miss him. He cheated on me. At least, I think he cheated on me. I'm pretty sure he cheated on me."
"I think," I said, handing her a tissue, "that Ricky will have a perfectly good explanation for everything."
She shot me a look.
"Okay, fine. That was a lie. I was trying to be comforting."
She sniffed again. "Thanks. I appreciate it. But you know what would be more comforting?" she asked.
"What?"
"Ice cream."
I froze. Dana craving ice cream was like me craving wheat grass – a sign that something was seriously wrong. "You mean like, soy frozen yogurt, right?" I clarified.
Dana went into my kitchen and opened the freezer inspecting the contents. "Actually, where do you keep your Haagen-Dazs?" she asked.
"I don't have any Haagen-Dazs. I'm on a diet."
Dana grabbed a Weight Watchers fat-free, dairy-free, low-carb popsicle. She scrunched up her nose. "I think we're gonna need a Dairy Queen run."
"Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?"
She ignored me, digging into the deep recesses of my freezer for any pre-diet items I might have forgotten. Best of luck to her. I'd already beaten her to anything even remotely resembling chocolate or sugar.
I poured myself a cup of coffee in a to-go mug and texted Mom.
free 2 watch twins 2day?
Two minutes later her response came through. of course!! got pressies 4 them on sale yesterday. brt
While I was relieved to have a babysitter, I was a little nervous at the "pressies". As much as I refused to fall fashion victim to my mom's coupon craze, I was determined not to let her stunt my babies' fashion growth either.
Twenty minutes later my fear was realized as Mom showed up on my doorstep with a brown paper shopping bag. "Lookie what Grandma has…" she sing-songed to my diapered duo. Then she pulled out a yellow sweater with a huge orange duck embroidered across the front.
"Oh… that's…" I trailed off as she pulled out matching yellow pants. Complete with webbed duck feet. And a yellow hat with a knitted beak attached.
"What do you think, Mads?" she asked.
"I think it's time for me to go." Hey, that was the kindest response I could come up with.
"Isn't it adorable?" Mom asked.
"It's… something."
But Mom didn't take the hint, pulling out another matching outfit in yellow. "I got one for each of them. They can be little duckie twins!"
"Don't you think the webbed feet might be a bit, um, uncomfortable?" I asked, doing my best to save my children.
"Nonsense. They're adorable," Mom said, grabbing the nearest baby, pulling off his blue onesie, and duckifying him.
I swear he gave me a pitiful "save me" look as she stuck the duck-beak hat on him.
I leaned down and kissed Max's cheek. "Sorry, buddy. I tried," I whispered, feeling twice as guilty now for leaving him. I did a repeat with Livvie, promising her that I'd take her to Bloomingdales this weekend and make it up to her.
Once we left my kids to fend for themselves against the duck transformation, our first stop on our quest to find Irina's mysterious Russian visitor (after Dairy Queen, of course) was at the UBN studios.
As we well knew, everyone who entered the network studios set had to check in with the guards up front. Which meant so had our mystery man with the voting scheme.
We pulled up to the guardhouse at the front gates to the UBN complex, checking out the guards on duty. There were two: one monitoring cars coming in, the other monitoring those exiting the studios. The first guy was in his forties, wore a military buzz cut, and a pot belly that looked like he was due in about two months. His mouth was set in a tight line, his eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored glasses, his uniform straining against his chest as he crossed his arms in front of him. The second guy was the complete opposite, looking like he was straight out of a Disney movie – big ears, big nose, and a big grin that he flashed at every leaving car. He waved to a couple in a Mercedes as they passed by. "Have a wonderful day!" he shouted after them, as Sergeant Buzz Cut approached our car.
"Name?" he asked, his eyes on the clipboard in his hands.
"Dana Dashel," Dana responded, leaning over the console to be heard from my passenger seat.
He paused a moment, scanning the page. Finally he found her name. "Go ahead," he motioned.
"Uh, actually, we were wondering if we could have moment of your time?" I asked, glancing in my rearview mirror to make sure we weren't holding up a line of impatient starlets.
Sergeant Buzz Cut looked up from his clipboard and gave me a long stare. "Why?"
"You keep track of who goes in and out, right?" I asked, gesturing to the gates.
"Of course. All visitors to the UBN studios must pass clearance," he said as if reciting a page from the UBN Security Guard Handbook.
"We're interested in someone who visited the studio last week. We were wondering if maybe you could give us his name?" I asked, flashing him my best "pretty please" smile.
But his lips stayed set into the same tight line. "All information regarding visitors to the UBN studios is at level one security."
I just barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The guy was protecting sitcom scripts, not government nukes.
"He was foreign?" Dana put in. "Russian possibly?"
"All information regarding visitors-" Buzz Cut started to repeat.
But his cartoon character counterpart on the other side of the guardhouse cut in, approaching us. "Russian, you said?" he asked.
I nodded vigorously.
"What day did he come in?" Cartoon asked, consulting his own clipboard.
Buzz Cut scowled at him, clearly wishing his colleague took security more seriously.
"We're not exactly sure. Last week," I said.
"But it would have been after Wednesday," Dana added, noting the last air date of DWC.
Cartoon's eyebrows furrowed, a frown settling between them in an exaggerated motion as he stared down at his board, scanning entries. "Let's see… Thursday… I'm not seeing any unfamiliar names…"
I mentally crossed my fingers as he flipped to the next page.
"Friday… nothing that stands out…"
"It's possible," I said, having a light bulb moment, "that he might have come in with Irina Sokolov."
Cartoon flipped back a page again. "Okay, yes. I have Irina and passenger on Friday afternoon."
"Just passenger?" I asked, feeling my heart sink.
Cartoon shrugged. "Sorry."
Buzz Cut grunted, his lips turning up into a small I-told-you-so smile.
"You didn't happen to see the passenger, did you?" Dana asked, leaning over my lap again.
"Sorry. That would have been my lunch break. Bill, here, was the only one on duty then." Cartoon gestured to his military friend.
We all turned to Buzz Cut.
His mouth turned down into that straight line again.
"Please?" I pleaded. "Surely it's not against any rules to describe what a visitor to the UBN studios just looks like?"
He paused a moment as if mentally reviewing the handbook.
We all held our breath in silence, waiting for his reply.
"Fine," he finally said. "Though I don't remember much about the guy."
"Anything you can remember is helpful," I assured him, leaning forward in my seat, too.
"Dark hair, pale complexion, average features."
He was right. That wasn't much help.
"Anything distinct about him at all?" Dana grasped. "A scar? A tattoo?"
The guy gave her a look. "What do you think this is, a Scorsese movie?"
She bit her lip.
"Look, he just looked like a normal guy," Buzz Cut told us.
"What was he wearing?" I grasped.
He took a deep breath, as if reaching into the recesses of his memory. "I didn't notice his clothes. But he was wearing a big diamond stud in his right ear. I noticed because my wife is always going on about how she wants a few more carats in her ring," he explained.
Well, it wasn't much to go on, but at least it was something.
As we'd worked on Sergeant Buzz Cut a line had begun to form behind us, so we thanked him for his time and did a U-turn, pulling back out of the studios on Cartoon's side and exiting to the tune of his, "Have a wonderful day!"
"So, now what?" Dana asked as we pulled away from the lot.
I shrugged. I'll admit, a dark-haired guy wearing an oversized earring wasn't a whole lot to go on.
"Maybe we should go to talk to Lana," I decided, "my friend in wardrobe." What with the murder, I never had gotten a chance to ask her about the alleged thefts on the set. I had no idea if one thing had anything to do with the other, but it was a bit of a coincidence both of them happening at the same time.
Dana nodded in the seat next to me. "Fine. But then let's get some lunch. I'm starving. I want pizza."
I glanced over at her. "Are you sure you're okay?" I asked.
She gave me a blank look. "What? A girl can't have a pizza craving every now and then?"
In the almost twenty years I had known Dana, I had never seen her have a pizza craving.
* * *
With the Dancing with Celebrities set still shut down, I took a chance that we might be able to find Lana at her boutique on Melrose. After circling a parking garage off Fairfax a dizzying number of times, we finally found a spot on the third level.
One elevator ride and three blocks of kitschy boutiques later, we spotted The Sunshine State, a bohemian shop whose windows were filled with imported saris, African inspired maxi skirts, and cute little white bodices with Eastern European flair.
As we approached, I watched the doors open and a woman emerge, tossing her platinum blonde Barbie hair over one shoulder as she tugged the hem of her mini skirt down over a pair of perfectly tanned thighs.
I felt my eyes narrow in recognition.
Allie Quick.
She must have felt my stare, as her gaze turned my way. It took her a moment for recognition to set in, but when it did, her eyes went round, her cherry red lips doing a mirror image in a perfect little "O".
"Ohmigod, Maddie! Is that yoooooou?" she asked, practically squealing the last part in dog whistle levels.
"Hi, Allie," I answered, as she attacked me with air kisses.
"Wow, it's been like forever, right?" she asked, her bimbo accent tinting her voice.
Here was the thing about Allie: she wasn't a bad kid. But she was a kid. She was like an exaggerated, twenty-five year old version of me - only cutesie
r, bubblier, and blonder. Words like "whatevs", "deets" and "totes" flowed freely from her lips, her nails were long and embellished with rhinestones, and ninety-percent of her wardrobe was some shade of pink. Her skirts were short, her necklines low, and her boobs a very healthy D cup. She looked like the ultimate dumb blonde, an act she played to the fullest to work male informants all over L.A. She'd graduated top of her class from UCLA journalism school, a position that I had thought would land her a gig on the Times staff. Instead, for some reason she'd decided to write for the L.A. Informer. I had a feeling it had less to do with a love of gossip and more to do with her feelings toward the managing editor, Felix. A fact I wasn't quiet sure how I felt about. There was a time when I would have thought Felix had feelings for me. Not that we'd ever indulged in those feelings (much), but I never quite got what Felix saw in her. (Beyond the D cups, that is.)
While Allie and I had crossed paths a handful of times, the years and managing editors between us had kept the term "friends" at a distance. It was more like we had a healthy tolerance for each other.
"How are you, Allie?" I asked.
"I'm totally great. Got this new story I'm working on. Very good stuff," she added, nodding and grinning in a knowing way.
"Hmm..." I mused. "That wouldn't happen to be the one where a dancer was killed on the set of Dancing with Celebrities, would it?"
Allie blinked, playing innocent. "Whatever would give you that idea?"
"You called my boyfriend 'Dancing Death,'" Dana said.
Allie beamed. "Cool alliteration, right?"
Dana narrowed her eyes.
"Speaking of Ricky," Allie said, completely ignoring the steam about to burst from Dana's ears. "How is he taking all of this? I assume he's maintaining his innocence? Rumor has it he's holed up in his Malibu estate. That true?"
I shook my head at her. "Uh-uh. No way. You're not getting a story out of us."
She shrugged. "Can't blame a girl for trying, right?"
That was debatable.
"What were you doing in Lana's store?" I asked, gesturing to the boutique behind her.
"Oh, you know. Just following up on a story."
"About the thefts on the DWC set?" I asked.
Danger in High Heels Page 6