Undercover in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “No one’s really sure yet, ” I said, watching her carefully.

  Kylie shrugged. “Well, Veronika didn’t say anything to me about someone after her, if that’s what you mean. Like I said, we just did lattes a couple of times. She wasn’t like my BFF or anything.” She turned back to her reflection. “Hey, what do you think about this top. Kitschy fun or just passé?”

  I handed her a pink tee with a polka-dotted Chihuahua on the front. “Try this.”

  She grabbed it and held it up to her chest. “Too cute!”

  “Any idea why Veronika might have been in Mia’s trailer that night?” I asked, switching gears.

  Kylie shrugged. “I dunno. That wrinkle-faced police guy asked me that, too. All I can think is that maybe she was borrowing a script or something. I know Veronika was always losing her copy. She tried to borrow mine a couple weeks ago, but I, like, totally needed it. I had, like, two whole pages to memorize!”

  “Ouch.”

  “No doubt. Hey, wanna hand me that belt? I’m gonna go try some of these on, ” Kylie said, grabbing her pile of T-shirts.

  I did. Then I hung around the dressing rooms awhile, but I figured I’d gotten all I was going to out of Miss Perky.

  Jasmine was just pulling into a spot out front as I exited the boutique. I slipped into the passenger seat of the Miata. “Perfect timing.”

  “Are you done already?” Jasmine’s face fell (well, as far as a face-lift and chin implant would let it fall).

  I nodded. “Either Kylie’s too stupid or too smart to say anything useful.”

  “Damn.” Jasmine pouted. “Okay, well, where to next, Kate?”

  I gave her a look. “Kate?”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes at me. “Well, duh, if we’re doing the Angels thing, I’m clearly Farrah, so you have to be either Jaclyn Smith or Kate Jackson. And, honey, you’re no Jaclyn.”

  I gave her a dirty look but considering she had the car, didn’t argue.

  Only, the truth was, I wasn’t really sure where to go next. The fact that Veronika may have been blackmailing someone on the set threw a whole new light on things. The only problem was that secrets ran through Magnolia Lane faster than a Malibu wildfire. Her victim-turned-killer could be any one of the cast. I wasn’t even entirely ready to cross Kylie off my list. Sure, she seemed innocent enough, but I wasn’t completely convinced that the perky-ditz thing she had going on wasn’t an act. I mean, who could really be that blonde?

  And what about Dusty? What was her connection to all of this? I had a hard time picturing her and Veronika in cahoots. Dusty loved her job too much to jeopardize it that way. The girl had lived for fashion.

  And then there were the letters. After this last one, it seemed clear they were somehow linked to the murders. But I couldn’t for the life of me think how. Either this was the most bumbling killer ever, to have gotten the wrong target twice, or there was more going on here than I could figure. It was harder to follow than last season’s love triangle between Tina Rey, the electrician, and that hooker they killed off in the supermarket after her secret love child with the neighbor burned down Tina Rey’s house and hit her dog with a diaper-delivery truck.

  “Let’s go visit Margo, ” I finally decided, remembering the orange scarf.

  “Good plan.” Jasmine nodded. “I bet she’s in this up to her eyeballs.”

  The only problem was that I had no idea where to look for her. “I don’t exactly have her address, ” I confessed.

  “No prob, ” Jasmine replied. “Easy enough to get that.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her (and, since my beauty regimen included L’Oreal night cream in lieu of botulism injections, my eyebrow actually went up). “You can?”

  “Um, duh? Just pick up any map of the stars’ homes. Margo’s compound is always on there.”

  “Compound?” Since when did TV supporting actresses make the kind of cash to live in compounds?

  Jasmine gave me a sidelong look. “Um, yeah. Margo Walton? She’s freaking swimming in dough, that girl. She used to be a B-movie actress back in the eighties. She did, like, fifty of those high-school-sluts-being-chased-by-ax-murderers flicks. She’s still huge in Japan.”

  Considering Mom would have freaked if she caught my preteen self watching those kinds of movies, I had to admit I’d never seen Margo outside of her Nurse Nan scrubs. I looked at Jasmine, wondering exactly how old she was. “You’ve seen her films?”

  Jasmine nodded emphatically, doing a U-turn and heading back toward the 2. “Love ’em. I used to get this guy logging into the Web site from Japan, BigWu22. Dude was totally into that stuff. Wanted me to put on the leg warmers and tease my hair and everything. I totally channeled early Margo.”

  I looked up at the giant dyed-red mass of hair moussed within an inch of its life atop Jasmine’s head, wondering how on earth she could tease it any higher. Or balance on her chicken legs if she did.

  Fifteen minutes later we were on Hollywood Boulevard, cruising past the Mann Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame. “This guy looks good, ” Jasmine said, pulling the Miata up to a curb where an Indian guy in a lawn chair sat next to Groucho Marx’s star, holding up a sign that read, STAR MAPS, $10. She jumped out and, after exchanging a few words and a few dollars with the guy, hopped back in the car.

  “Bingo, ” she said, unfolding a photocopied map. Since we were sitting in a Miata, the smallest car they made outside of the circus, the unfolded map filled the entire interior. I scanned the road lines for little red stars indicating the houses of Hollywood’s most famous residents. I resisted the urge to suggest a detour when I saw Orlando Bloom lived only a few blocks away.

  “Right there!” Jasmine shouted, pointing a red nail at a spot in Bel Air. Two inches north of Sunset were the printed words MARGO WALTON.

  I loathed admitting it, but Jasmine had done good.

  She put the car in gear and shot out into traffic, weaving in and out of the lanes as she took Sunset west to the 405. Unfortunately, the traffic gods were not with us today and, as soon as we hit the freeway, we were stuck in a virtual parking lot.

  “Shit, ” Jasmine swore, and flipped on the radio, cruising through stations until she found one promising a traffic report. Apparently a high-speed chase had gone through earlier and police were still cleaning up the tack strips and mangled cop cars that had resulted.

  I slunk down in my seat, watching the smog layer hover over the city as we inched forward. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t filled it since that cup of coffee this morning.

  “Got anything to eat in here?” I asked, opening the glove box. “A Snickers bar, candy, anything?”

  Jasmine gave me a look like I’d suggested she was smuggling dead bodies in the trunk. “Candy? You think I got this body harboring candy bars in my glove box?”

  “Oh puh-lease. We both know you got that body from Dr. 90210.”

  Jasmine gasped. “I did not!”

  I gave her a “get real” look.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay, fine. I’ve had a little work done.”

  I snorted, but refrained from comment as my stomach did another unholy moan. “Look, this traffic isn’t letting up. Let’s pull off somewhere and wait it out. Preferably somewhere with a drive-through. I’m starving.”

  Jasmine shoved her purse at me. “I think there’s a couple of Tic Tacs in there.”

  I opened her red leather clutch and rummaged through a collection of lipstick, compacts, and concealer that rivaled even mine, until my fingers wrapped around a case of green Tic Tacs. I ate one. Then another. I popped a handful of them in my mouth and crunched loudly.

  “I’m still hungry.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll pull off at the next exit.” I swore she shot my midsection a look that said I could do with a little work, too, but I ignored her, downing another handful of Tic Tacs instead.

  Ten minutes later we inched our way onto the off-ramp. One thing that can’t be beat about L.A. l
iving: you’re never more than two blocks away from a Big Mac and fries. My stomach did one more groan (this one I’m pretty sure was of glee) as Jasmine parked next to the Dumpster behind the Golden Arches. I led the way inside and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from the pimply kid behind the counter. Oh, and a strawberry shake. And an apple pie.

  Jasmine looked down her sculpted nose at me and ordered bottled water and a side salad—no dressing. Apparently she wasn’t scheduled for another lipo round for another six months.

  We ate in silence, mostly because I was scarfing down my food with an appreciation that would have made Ronald McDonald proud. It took only ten minutes and we were back out in the parking lot, me rubbing my full belly with the kind of satisfaction that only an apple-pie chaser can provide. Personally, though, I still thought Jasmine looked a little hungry.

  I was about to offer her the last Tic Tac when a loud pinging sound erupted from the Dumpster next to us.

  I jumped, Jasmine and I both doing mirrored “what the…?” looks.

  “What was that?” she asked, her red hair whipping around her face as she scanned the parking lot.

  “I dunno.”

  Then I heard it again, closer to me this time, and accompanied by a little spark as something whizzed off the metal side of the Dumpster.

  A voice yelled from across the parking lot, “You bitch!”

  I looked up.

  And froze.

  Oh. Shit.

  Running toward me, long black hair flapping behind her like a cape, silver gun straight-armed in her right hand, was Isabel.

  Chapter 16

  “You stupid bitch!” she screamed. Another bullet ricocheted off the Dumpster. Jasmine and I instinctively ducked, trying to make ourselves as tiny as possible behind the Miata. Which, since it was designed for midgets, wasn’t nearly tiny enough.

  “You are so mine now, ” Isabel screamed, her voice growing closer.

  “Holy shit, ” Jasmine yelled. She scuttled around the car and dove behind the Dumpster.

  Second good idea Jasmine had had that day.

  I joined her, my knees scraping against the ketchup-stained asphalt as as another shot blasted off the metal side.

  “You ruined everything, you dumb bitch! Snake won’t even talk to me because of you. I’m going to kill you!”

  “Gee, you’re popular, ” Jasmine hissed, covering her head with both of her skinny arms.

  “I’m not good with relationships. So sue me.”

  Ping, ping. Two more bullets bounced off the Dumpster, adrenaline shooting through me with each one, as I heard Isabel pause to reload.

  I ripped my purse off my shoulder, digging for my cell to call in the cavalry. But of course, with my hands shaking worse than the Northridge quake, that was easier said than done.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  “Jesus Christ, call nine-one-one, ” Jasmine shouted, rolling into a tight ball beside me. “This chick is crazy.”

  No kidding. I dumped my purse upside down, spilling the contents onto the ground just as I heard the door of the McDonald’s open.

  “Hey, what’s going on out here?” I heard the pimply kid ask, his voice cracking.

  “None of your goddamned business, Pizza Face!”

  Two more shots rang out, one of them followed by the sound of shattering glass and a car alarm wailing pitifully.

  “My car!” Jasmine moaned beside me.

  “Holly crap, call the cops!” the pimply kid screamed, ducking back into the restaurant.

  I finally spied my cell phone. But considering the nearest cop car was probably a good twelve blocks away and Isabel was twelve feet away, I had a sinking feeling I knew which one would get here first. I’d already been held at gunpoint once by Isabel. Quite honestly, not an experience I was dying to repeat.

  So, instead of reaching for my cell, I wrapped my fingers around the little silver canister sitting on the asphalt next to my tampons and lip gloss. Mrs. Rosenblatt’s special stash of pepper spray.

  I pulled the top off, stuck my finger over the trigger, and took a deep, fortifying breath that smelled a little of stale French fries, then jumped out from behind the Dumpster.

  Isabel was standing over Jasmine’s car, systematically shooting out all the windows. What was it with this chick and cars?

  “Hey, Isabel!” I shouted.

  She turned to face me, her eyes big, pupils the size of silver dollars. The girl seriously needed a double dose of Xanax.

  I straight-armed the pepper spray in front of me, aiming it right at Isabel’s face, and pressed the button.

  Which, I realized, would have been totally effective if I’d been standing the suggested four to six feet from my target. Unfortunately, Isabel was a good ten feet away. A fine stream of liquid shot out from my canister…and dribbled harmlessly down the Miata’s tires.

  Uh-oh.

  Isabel pointed the gun at me. “You stupid bitch, now you’re going to pay!”

  I looked down at the useless canister in my hand. On pure instinct, I threw it in her direction.

  If I’d actually tried out for the softball team in high school instead of just telling my mother I was going to tryouts and actually sneaking underneath the bleachers with Jason Pratt, I might have had something resembling aim, maybe even enough to pull a cool Lucy Liu move and knock the gun out of her hand. But considering Jason Pratt was the best kisser in all of ninth grade, not to mention the spitting image of Luke Perry circa 1991, my aim sucked.

  The canister bounced on the ground, landing at Is-abel’s feet.

  She laughed. “You are so girlie.”

  Crap. Damn you and your magical tongue, Jason!

  Only my curse at the French-kissing god of ninth grade was cut short as a hissing sound erupted from the canister. Both Isabel and I looked at each other. Then down. Just in time to see the canister explode, covering Isabel head to toe in cayenne-pepper water.

  “Ahhh!” she screamed, dropping the gun and clawing at her eyes. “I’m on fire!”

  Thank you, Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  Sirens erupted in the background, the signal that Pimple Boy had, indeed, called the cops. Isabel pulled her hands away from her swollen eyes just long enough to scoop up her gun before bolting in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t think I’m through with you, bitch!” she yelled, slipping into another no-doubt-stolen SUV at the end of the lot, this one a red MDX with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. I watched her wild hair flying out the window as she turned the corner, disappearing behind the Tip Top Dry Cleaners.

  “Come on.” I grabbed Jasmine by the arm, hauling her skinny butt off the ground. “We have to go.”

  Jasmine was shaking, and I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t see a wet stain peeking through her Brazilians. “Is she gone?”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh. And we have to be, too.” The only thing worse than being shot at by Isabel would be the wrath of Ramirez if he caught me here, sans babysitter.

  I shoved Jasmine into the passenger seat, hopped behind the wheel, hastily brushing broken glass off the seat, and put the Miata into reverse, squealing out of the parking lot just as two cop cars, lights blazing, rounded the corner.

  Jasmine looked pale in the seat beside me. So pale that her foundation stood out on her cheeks like poster paint. I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t about to hurl.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Jasmine turned and did her best Evil Barbie, squinting her eyes and hissing through her teeth. “Okay? Okay! No, I’m not okay. I just got shot at!”

  “Yeah, I know. I hate it when that happens.”

  “I changed my mind, ” she said, pink slowly seeping back into her skin. “I so don’t want to be an Angel.”

  We rode the rest of the way into Bel Air in silence, Jasmine periodically wincing and re-paling as wind ripped through her shot-out windows, me periodically looking in the rearview for SUVs driven by crack heads.

  Luckily none appea
red, and twenty minutes later we were sitting outside the gated home of Margo Walton.

  I hit the intercom button and waited as a man’s deep voice buzzed over the speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m Maddie Springer. I work with Margo.”

  Nothing.

  “I, uh, wanted to see if I could talk with her?”

  I waited as he did the strong, silent routine again.

  “Please?”

  Finally: “Hang on a minute.”

  He clicked off and I let the Miata idle, hoping Margo was in a chatty mood. I tried to peek around the wrought-iron gates, but all I could see from here was a winding, gravel-lined drive leading into a grove of strategically placed oak trees, planted, no doubt, specifically to keep nosy people like me guessing.

  “How much do you think a place like this costs?” I asked.

  Jasmine shrugged. “I dunno. Ten mil?”

  I shook my head, marveling at the thought that a woman worth ten million dollars in prime California real estate would show up to work wearing plastic Crocs. I guess money can’t buy fashion sense.

  Just when I was beginning to think the gatekeeper had forgotten about us, the intercom buzzed to life again. “All right, you can go on through.”

  As if by magic the heavy iron gates in front of us slid back, allowing entry. I put the car in gear, tires crunching as we wound toward the center of the property. The drive was flanked by long expanses of green lawn, punctuated here and there by blooming flower beds and the occasional fountain with a naked Greek god spurting water from completely inappropriate body parts.

  Finally the drive ended in a roundabout in front of an enormous plantation-style home. Immediately I thought of Gone With the Wind, but to my knowledge Bel Air wasn’t known for its historic cotton roots. Large white columns flanked the brick steps leading to an oversize wooden door. Ornate moldings covered the cornices, and a long white balcony stretched the entire length of the upper floors.

  It was official: I lived in the crappiest place in all of L.A.