Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Oh. That cliff.

  “Mom, don’t panic. We’ll think of something. Did you call the Malibu office?”

  “Yes, yes. I talked to them first thing this morning. They said they’d refund the deposit for the site, but Maddie where on earth am I going to have the wedding now? Oh God. This is your grandmother’s fault. She said we should get married in a church. She said God would never forgive me if I didn’t get married in the Catholic Church. Now look, I’ve pissed off God so badly he’s destroying Malibu.”

  My head was pounding, screaming for a double mocha espresso. “Where are you, Mom?”

  “I’m at Fernando’s.”

  “Okay, give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you there and we’ll think of something.”

  “This is it Maddie. I’ve heard about these sort of Catholic curses. I’m doomed. This marriage is doomed. Oh God. I’ve doomed Ralph too.”

  “I’m hanging up now, Mom.”

  I pressed the end button and flopped back onto my bed. I closed my eyes, hoping that maybe this was the dream and I was really going to wake up soon. I lay there for a good five minutes before I cracked one eye open. Nope. No dream. Damn.

  Somehow I dragged my exhausted body to the bathroom and managed to shower, dry my hair and throw on a little makeup without gasping in horror at the sight of my puffy eyes. After the good, long cry I’d had last night I resembled a bug-eyed cartoon character. That’s it, no more feeling sorry for myself. My eyes couldn’t take it. I quickly slipped on a pale blue sundress and a pair of low-heeled, silver mules before deciding I was fit for human eyes again.

  After checking my voice mail, just in case Ramirez left a message saying he had Richard in custody, I grabbed my keys and headed for my Jeep.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled up to Fernando’s. I parked on the near empty street (Beverly Hills doesn’t rise before ten unless it’s Oscar night.) and pushed through the glass doors.

  “Dahling, thank God you’re here!” Marco greeted me. He had his hair spiked up in crisp little points today, his eyeliner even thicker than usual. He leaned in and pseudo whispered. “I put your mom in the back. She’s pulling a Whitney Houston freak-out on us.”

  “Where’s Ralph?”

  “Fernando,” Marco emphasized, “is with a client. He’s almost done.” He motioned to the sole chair being used at this unearthly hour. Faux Dad was doing a color rinse on a small Hispanic woman.

  “Mrs. Lopez. Jen’s Mom.” He nodded solemnly. “She always comes in early to avoid the tabloids.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Come on. That psychic lady is with your mom, but I don’t think she’s actually helping things. She said she had a vision of a tornado.”

  I rolled my eyes, praying Mrs. Rosenblatt would at least refrain from comment on my aura today. Of course, the fact I hadn’t been to confessional in about five years is probably why God didn’t have time to get to my prayer by the time Marco and I crossed to the back room.

  “Your aura looks awful. Were you out in the rain last night?” Mrs. Rosenblatt narrowed her eyes at me.

  “A little.”

  She opened her mouth to warn me of the universal dangers of aura soaking, but I quickly cut her off. “I know, I know. Rain isn’t good for purples.”

  She looked me up and down the way one might a leper. “Oh bubbee, you’re way beyond purple now.”

  Trying not to get self conscious about the state of my aura, I leaned down and kissed Mom’s cheek. “I’m so sorry about the cliff.”

  Mom looked like she’d been crying harder than I had. Her nose and cheeks were red and splotchy like she’d spent the weekend at the Venice boardwalk without sunscreen. She was still wearing her nightgown underneath a gray trench coat with blue tube socks and a pair of Nike’s. The effect was sadly comic

  “Malibu was so beautiful,” Mom sniffed.

  “But it was such a long drive,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on this. “Maybe we can find somewhere closer?”

  “Maybe,” Mom squeaked out. She pulled a handful of tissues from her pocket and blew her nose.

  “At this late date? Oh honey, you are dreaming,” Marco said. I shot him a look that could wither a cactus.

  “Come on, there’s got to be something?” I glanced down at Mom. She had that Old Faithful look about her. Like any minute tears would come gushing with landmark intensity.

  “Albert said there’s nothing in L.A. County,” Mrs. Rosenblatt argued.

  “Who’s Albert?”

  “My spirit guide.”

  Great. Just what we needed. A pessimistic spirit guide.

  Just in case Albert hadn’t done his homework, I asked Marco to pull out the L.A. County phone book. I won’t tell you what kind of I-told-you-so look Mrs. Rosenblatt gave me when half an hour later I’d gone through every conceivable site with no luck. None could accommodate a wedding of this size on such short notice.

  “Albert is never wrong.” Mrs. Rosenblatt informed me. “He was a fact checker for the New York Times in his earthly existence.”

  I ignored her with no small effort. “Okay, well, maybe there’s something in Orange County? Or Ventura?”

  Again Marco went to retrieve more phone books. Marco took Riverside County, Mrs. Rosenblatt took Orange, and I took Ventura, while Mom sat in the corner and took a Xanax.

  Just as Faux Dad joined us, saying Mrs. Lopez’s roots had never looked better, Marco hit pay dirt. It wasn’t much, but a small hotel in Riverside had a back garden they sometimes rented out for weddings. They’d had a last minute cancellation when the bride-to-be found a pair of someone else’s Victoria’s Secrets in the groom-to-be’s pick-up truck, and the garden was free for tomorrow afternoon. They said they even had the chairs and tables rented for the previously cancelled wedding, so we’d be all set. As long as it didn’t rain. Mom made the sign of the cross at that, but Mrs. Rosenblatt assured her that Albert said it wasn’t scheduled to rain again until November. I promised I’d check the weather channel, just in case.

  Wedding crisis averted, I went home. My answering machine was blinking furiously when I stepped in the door. The first message was from Tot Trots, asking why they hadn’t gotten the Strawberry Shortcake designs yet. I glanced guiltily at my drawing table as I deleted the message.

  The next was from Ramirez. I bit my lip trying not to picture the image from my dream as his voice filled my studio.

  “This is your boyfriend calling. Don’t drive so fast next time, okay?” End of message. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed by my antics with the CHP last night. I told myself it didn’t matter. As long as the word “warrant” didn’t enter into the picture, it didn’t matter what Ramirez thought of me.

  But instead of deleting it, I saved the message, skipping on to the next one.

  It was from Dana, asking if a) she was a bad person for sleeping with Liao on the first date, and b) if I’d seen anything on the news about Greenway’s arrest.

  It felt like I’d lived a lifetime since I’d left Dana at Mulligans and I wasn’t at all sure I could relay the events of the previous evening to her with any amount of coherency. At least not before coffee.

  Too tired to hoof it to Starbucks, I flipped on my Mr. Coffee, dumping in two generous scoops of French Roast as I turned on the television, hoping to get the latest Greenway update on the noon news. Two carjackings in Compton, a mudslide warning in the Hollywood Hills, and one minor celebrity arrested for drunk driving. No news of Greenway or Richard. Which I guess should have been comforting. No news meant at least my boyfriend wasn’t behind bars. But instead of relieved, the non-news made me feel antsy.

  I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t have a really great history of patience. I was one of those kids who always peeked in Mom’s closet for a preview of my Christmas and birthday presents. After a first date, I can never wait for the guy to call (even though I read The Rules twice and managed to wait three whole hours once) and even though I really, really meant to wait until w
e’d been seeing each other for a couple weeks first, I slept with Richard on our second date. So just sitting by the phone, waiting for Richard to turn up in handcuffs, was producing a bite-your-fingernails, crawl-up-a-wall feeling that was so not working for me.

  I even debated calling Cinderella to see if she’d heard anything from him. Which should tell you just how desperate I was because calling Cinderella meant acknowledging that she actually existed, and that ranked below sucking up to Jasmine on the list of things I wanted to do this lifetime.

  My internal whining was cut short as the familiar blonde news reporter piped up from the TV.

  “Last night the body of missing business mogul, Devon Greenway, was found by authorities at a North Hollywood motel.”

  I grabbed the remote and turned it up, watching images of the Moonlight Inn flicker across the screen. It was daylight now but the parking lot was still littered with police cars and yellow crime scene tape. I grimaced as Metallica’s greasy face filled the screen.

  “There were two of them. These chicks. And they were like really buff, like pro wrestlers or something. I tried to fight them off, but they were like totally strong. I think they were on steroids.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  The cameraman cut away to an image of a green dumpster. The coffee churned in my empty stomach as I listened to the reporter remind the viewing public this was the same Greenway whose wife was found dead earlier this week.

  Then Ramirez’s face filled the screen. My stomach rolled for a whole different reason. He seemed tired, like he hadn’t slept, but I hated how sexy the five o-clock shadow dusting his jaw looked.

  A reporter from another station shoved a microphone at Ramirez, yelling questions from the mob of press. “Do you have a murder weapon?”

  Ramirez answered with a standard, “We’re still in the process of recovering a weapon.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” another reporter demanded.

  The mob went quiet as Ramirez answered. “We do.”

  “Detective Ramirez,” the first reporter shouted, “Are you prepared to name them at this time?”

  Ramirez looked squarely at the camera and I could swear he was talking directly to me. “Based on our current evidence, we’ve issued a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Greenway’s attorney. Richard Howe.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I stared at the television, my brain half listening and half screaming that this was some mistake. Richard wanted for murder? This couldn’t be happening.

  A picture of Richard from the office Christmas party flashed across the screen. I’d bet anything Jasmine had furnished it to the press. They were probably descending on Dewy, Cheatum and Howe like vultures right about now. I had a mental image of Jasmine’s Elvis smirk preening for the cameras on the six o’clock news. I think I was going to be sick. I sat down hard on my futon as the reporter made appropriately concerned faces, then cut to a Doritos commercial.

  Ramirez was going to arrest Richard. I knew Ramirez well enough to know that there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to stop that. Sure I could put on my Bond Girl outfit again and search Richard’s office for the umpteenth time, but what good would it really do? I had no idea what I was doing. I was the worst Nancy Drew ever. Every time I tried to help, another dead body showed up. I’d like to think it was coincidence but I made a mental note to go to mass on Sunday with my grandmother just in case.

  On the other hand, the search to find Richard was an all out manhunt now. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. And not for whoever really killed Greenway. Because I was still relatively confident that Richard wasn’t capable of killing anyone.

  Which is why even though I knew I should take Ramirez’s advice and leave this to the professionals, I grabbed a lined notepad and began scribbling.

  I wrote the word “Suspects” at the top of the page in big bold letters. My pen hovered in the air, poised to write Richard’s name down on the list. But even though I was pretty pissed off at the cheating bastard, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, instead I made a compromise. I amended the “Suspects” with an “other than Richard.” There, that was a better starting place.

  Only my mind was a blank when I tried to list them. I didn’t have any suspects. All I had to go on was a blonde hair and a stiletto impression. Which I was pretty sure Ramirez still thought were mine. I wrote “blonde in heels” on the list. Gee. That narrowed the field to 95% of L.A.’s population.

  Obviously I needed more to go on. And it was equally as obvious that following Ramirez around town wasn’t a good idea anymore. Besides the fact that he’d be on the lookout for a red Jeep now, I had a feeling he’d been this close to hauling me downtown last night. And I didn’t want to tempt the man. Especially if he hadn’t slept. Lord only knew how grouchy Bad Cop got with no sleep.

  So that meant Sherlock Fashion was on her own. I stared down at the notepad again. It was a pretty pathetic list. If I was going to convince Ramirez that Mystery Blonde was a suspect at all I needed more. Which meant going back to the Moonlight.

  I picked up my cell and dialed Dana’s number, hoping she was up for playing Cagney to my Lacey again. (Never mind that the reality was more like an Ethel to my Lucy.) Unfortunately, No Neck Guy answered the phone at the Actor’s Duplex and informed me (through a serious of cave-man worthy grunts) Dana hadn’t come home yet. Still out hot tubbing with Liao no doubt. I said to have her call me when she got in and hung up.

  As much as I dreaded going back into the bowels of the Valley alone, it was either that or draw kiddie shoes. And I was so not in a kiddie shoes place right now.

  I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out to my Jeep, braving the afternoon traffic into North Hollywood.

  There was an overturned big rig on the 405 and a police chase on the 101, so by the time I reached Vanowen again the Moonlight Inn was clear of reporters and CSI teams. In fact, save for the bright yellow crime tape still gracing the door of room two-twelve, it looked like business as usual. Radios blared, spandex clad women bade good-bye to their “gentleman callers,” and the parking lot pharmaceutical trade had resumed in full force. North Hollywood was quick to bounce back from one little shooting.

  I parked the Jeep and avoided glancing in the direction of the green dumpsters as I made my way to the _ront O__ice.

  I pulled open the smudged, glass doors and saw Metallica was on duty again. He’d changed into an AC/DC shirt, but his greasy hair betrayed that he hadn’t taken time to shower before coming back to work. He stared for a moment before recognition kicked in.

  “Oh shit. It’s you!” He ducked down below the counter. “Please don’t shoot.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I’m carrying a gun?”

  Metallica peeked his head up over the Formica. He did an up and down thing with his eyes, his gaze resting on my breasts. A grin broke out on his face. “Nope. You look niiiiice.” He nodded, drawing out the word.

  Hmmm… maybe I should start carrying a gun.

  “Get a grip. They’re just mammary glands.”

  “Dude, I think the cops are looking for you. You chicks like totally messed that guy up.”

  “We didn’t kill him.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “‘Cause I wouldn’t tell no one. I mean, when you think of it, it’s actually kind of hot. Chicks with guns. Like a Laura Croft thing. Laura Croft is hot.”

  I had a feeling any woman with a pulse was hot in Metallica’s world.

  “Sorry to interrupt your wet dream, but we didn’t kill him. In fact, the police think my boyfriend killed him.”

  “Dude!”

  “I know!”

  Metallica leaned in. I tried not to grimace at the scent of stale weed and breakfast burrito. “Did your boyfriend kill him cause he was your john?”

  “No! God, no. I’m not really a hooker.”

  Metallica looked me up and down again. “You sure?”

  �
��Yes, I’m sure.”

  He grinned, showing off a mouth in serious need of some Crest White Strips. “You could be one. You’d make a really hot hooker.”

  I felt my left eye begin to twitch. This was getting nowhere.

  “Did you see anyone else go up to room two-twelve last night?”

  “Nope. Just you, your friend, and that dude they found in the dumpster.”

  Damn. But, on the bright side, at least he didn’t say he saw a lawyer in tailored slacks.

  “Could anyone have gone up when you weren’t looking? Like maybe you went ‘out back?’” I put my thumb and index finger up to my mouth in a smoking motion.

  He giggled. “Hey, anything’s possible, babe.”

  “How about the parking lot. See anyone suspicious hanging around?”

  Metallica grinned. Right. Stupid question.

  “Anyone who didn’t look like they belonged here? Anyone… with money?” Or the vaguest notion of hygiene.

  Metallica chewed on his chapped lips, squinting off into space. “Nope.”

  I was beginning to feel like I’d wasted a trip to the Valley for nothing. I tried one last angle. “How about this. Did you see any blondes last night? Wearing high heels?”

  “Dude, that would have been hot.”

  Great. He was like Beavis and Butthead all rolled into one. Well, what did I expect? The man’s brain probably looked like Swiss cheese.

  Then a thought struck me. Dana and I had had to weasel Greenway’s room number out of Metallica. If Metallica hadn’t seen the blonde, that meant she already knew where Greenway was staying. Either she followed him, which I didn’t think was likely considering Greenway would be pretty careful about who he led to his hideout, or else Greenway trusted her enough to give her the room number. I mentally added another item to the Suspects list. Blonde in heels, Greenway’s trusted confidant. Maybe a mistress? I wouldn’t put it past him. During our short phone conversation, Greenway hadn’t seemed like the type to balk at extra-marital affairs.