Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  She sniffed, nodding. “Right. Well, I’ll make sure Mr. Chesterton sets up a visitation with Richard for you. It will probably be sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  I nodded, thanking Althea even as visions of Richard in prison garb threatened morning sickness again. As I rode the elevator back down to my Jeep, I tried to feel reassured that Chesterton was doing all he could to free Richard. But all I felt was an overwhelming sense of pressure. If I didn’t find Greenway’s killer soon, Richard would stand trial for murder. I really hoped Carol Carter owned a .22. Because I was running out of options.

  * * *

  At exactly four-o-two I was circling the block between Fairfax and LaBrea on Hollywood Boulevard for a parking place that wasn’t too blister producingly far from the Platt Agency. I got lucky on my third try and parked between the Happy Time Go cleaners and Phat Chan’s Hollywood souvenir shop. After reluctantly feeding the meter I clubbed my steering wheel and walked around the corner to the small, white building that housed the Platt Agency. Blissful air conditioning greeted me as I swung through the front doors and took in the décor. The reception room was done in a vintage theme a la Doris Day meets Rock Hudson. Big plastic flowers on the wall, retro square sofa and chairs, and olive green area rugs in geometric patterns on the polished floors. The nostalgia theme was reinforced by the occupants of the room. No less than half a dozen Marilyn Monroe look-alikes. I blinked, taking in the range from Seven Year Itch Marilyn to Happy Birthday Mr. President Marilyn. Yikes. That was a lot of peroxide.

  Two folding tables were set up along one wall, stacks of headshots on one and coffee, styrofoam cups and untouched doughnuts on the other. In the center of the room was a kidney shaped reception desk. Behind it sat a dark haired woman in tortoise shell glasses and the bored expression of someone who didn’t appreciate having to work on a Sunday.

  “Excuse me?” I said, wading through the sea of blonde bombshells.

  She looked up, giving me the once over. “Are you here for the audition?” she asked in a voice with a New York edge to it.

  “Me? No. Actually, I’m here to see Carol Carter. I understand she’s a client of yours?”

  “She is,” the receptionist said. “But she’s not here.”

  “Maybe you could give me her number?”

  “Uh, hold on a sec,” the receptionist gave the one finger universal wait sign as a Marilyn in a pink sweater and pumps pushed her way to the desk.

  “I’m here for the-” the breathy blonde started.

  Bored Receptionist cut her off. “I know, I know. The Lifetime movie. Sign in on the table, the sides are next to the sign in sheet. Leave your headshot on the pile.” She shook her head as Marilyn tottered off on two-inch heels. Then mumbled something that sounded like, “I need a raise.”

  She turned back to me. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

  I took a deep breath, pulling out the speech I’d prepared in the car on the way over here. “I’m with Springer Productions. We saw Carol Carter’s headshot and think she’s perfect for our latest film. Do you think I could get her number from you?”

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist informed me. “Miss Carter is on location in Toronto. She’s there shooting a pilot for FOX.”

  “Canada? How long has she been in Canada?”

  “Since last Wednesday.”

  I tried not to let my disappointment show. If Carol Carter had been out of the country all week she couldn’t very well have put the hole in Greenway’s head. I was beginning to feel like I was on a wild goose chase.

  “Would you like me to set something up for next week?” the receptionist asked, looking past me as another Marilyn came through the door.

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. We’ll check back then.”

  “Excuse me,” the new Marilyn said, brushing up beside me in saddle shoes, a pencil skirt, and a pink polka dotted blouse that was two sizes too small. “I’m here for the Goodbye Norma Jean audition, and I…” Newbie Marilyn trailed off as she trained her eyes on me.

  It took me a second to realize why, but as I stared at those big blue eyes, then lower to those big round implants, recognition hit me like a smack in the head. Bunny.

  “You!” she breathed, pointing at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Uh-” Again with the stumped thing. Irrationally I looked to the receptionist, who seemed to have perked up. Apparently her day was becoming more interesting.

  Bunny planted her hands on her hips. “I hung around the studio all day yesterday and your photographer never showed up.”

  “Huh. Go figure.” I tried to edge toward the door, but Bunny and her double D’s were suddenly blocking my way.

  “You know what I think?” she said.

  I shook my head, glancing around the sea of blond bombshells for an escape route.

  “I think you’re not even a real reporter.”

  “Reporter?” Slightly Less Bored Receptionist narrowed her eyes at me behind her frames. “I thought you said you were with Springer Productions?”

  “Uh…” I looked from Marilyn to the receptionist. Wondering why my cell phone never rang at times like this? Now would be an excellent time for Mom to call with a wedding emergency or for Dana to need break–up therapy. I looked down at my purse. Silent. Damn.

  “Look, here’s the truth,” I said, breaking under the pressure of two pairs of glaring eyes, “I’m looking into the murder of Devon Greenway. And, from what I understand, both you,” I gestured to Bunny, “and Carol Carter dated Greenway.”

  “So?” Bunny challenged. “Devon dated lots of women.”

  “Which makes for lots of people with reasons to want him dead.”

  Bunny narrowed her eyes at me. “You think I killed Devon?”

  I shrugged.

  “This is better than Desperate Housewives!” Our receptionist was practically beaming out of her seat now. Two more Marilyns walked in, but she just waved them toward the coffee table, her eyes brighter than the Hollywood sign.

  “Look, Devon may have been an ass,” Bunny conceded. “But there’s no way you’re pinning his murder on me. Besides, didn’t they arrest his lawyer?”

  I cringed. “Sort of. But the police are still investigating.”

  Bunny put her hands on her hips, her implants jutting towards me, the buttons on her blouse straining against the pressure. “Are you the police?”

  I bit my lip. “No.”

  “Then I don’t have to answer anything.”

  “She’s right,” the receptionist said. “I saw it on Law & Order. She doesn’t have to answer you.”

  “In fact,” Bunny went on, advancing on me, “I think maybe it’s time you answered some questions. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Me? I’m, uh…” I’m cornered.

  Thinking fast, I reached into my purse and flipped my Motorola open. “Sorry I have to take this.” I pretended to push the “on” button and held it to my ear. “Hello?” I said into the silence.

  “I didn’t hear it ring,” Helpful Receptionist said.

  Bunny crossed her arms over her chest. “Me neither.”

  “Vibrate,” I mouthed to them as I nodded and made appropriate listening noises. “Uh huh… sure… right…”

  I’d like to think my acting skills would have been pretty convincing if my phone hadn’t picked that moment to start ringing the William Tell overture.

  Bunny smirked. “I think your phone is ringing.”

  Damn. Note to self: I sucked at undercover work. “Uh, I gotta go.” I made a break for it, through the front doors and down the street. All the while being serenaded by the William Tell Overture still trilling from the cell in my hand. I rounded the corner and made it to my Jeep, quickly locking the doors against any killer Marilyn Monroes before I picked up my call.

  “Hello?” I breathed into the phone, the unexpected sprint causing me to pant like a golden retriever.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Dana’s voice came through. “Listen, I just rememb
ered something else about Carol Carter.”

  “What?”

  “She’s on location in Canada right now.”

  Does my friend have timing or what? “Yeah, I just found that out.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Well, listen, I got a call for an audition tomorrow and I was wondering if I could come over in the morning and borrow something to wear. It’s a campy sixties thing, kinda modern Mod Squad and none of my clothes are right for the part.”

  “Sure. Mi closet es su closet.”

  “Thank, hon. Oh, Sasha’s calling me, gotta go.” And Dana hung up.

  I flipped my phone shut and took a moment to get my breathing under control again before hopping back on the 10 toward Santa Monica. Unfortunately, my day had been a bust and I was no closer to knowing who killed Greenway than Ramirez was. All I’d accomplished was alienate a pissy porn star and discover that Richard’s lawyer was an old-school chauvinist. I wasn’t even fully prepared to cross Carol Carter off my list of evil girlfriends. Sure she had an alibi, but what if she’d hired someone to bump Greenway off? I know, I was grasping now, but I was desperate.

  I stopped at Von’s on the way home to pick up a frozen pizza and another liter of Diet Coke. Then somehow a dozen Krispy Kremes jumped into my cart, along with another pint of Chunk Monkey. I didn’t fight it. I figured my dismal encounter at the Platt Agency called for major calorie comfort.

  It was dark before I pulled up to my studio. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed not to see Ramirez’s SUV gracing my driveway again. As much as I hated the fact we fought over everything I did, at least it beat the silence I knew was waiting for me inside.

  I opened my door and flipped on the lights. Then tripped over something on the floor.

  “What the-?” I looked down. It was the crushed EPT.

  God I hated that thing. That thing had started this whole mess. I had a married ex(ish)-boyfriend sitting in jail, a sexy cop showing up at my apartment at all hours, a killer Barbie running around shooting people, and I had to deal with a freaking pregnancy test!

  And the worst part was, I still didn’t even know how I felt about it. A baby. I mean, I guess I wanted a baby someday. Who didn’t like babies, right? Babies were cute, soft, cuddly. I mean, I’d be a monster not to want a baby, right?

  The awful thing was, I kind of did want a baby. I got this warm Florence Henderson feeling when I thought about it that scared the crap out of me. But Florence had had a loving husband, a house in the suburbs, and Alice. I didn’t have any of those things. I wasn’t sure I could do family right now. At least, not alone.

  For some odd reason, the image of Ramirez’s family popped into my head. The big backyard filled with laughing children. Mama’s soft, smiling face. The battered piñata hanging from a tree limb. Ramirez, holding his little niece on his lap, his pants sticky with lollipop fingerprints. The air thick with the scent of empanadas and sugar cookies. Then music. And dancing. And the feel of Ramirez’s body against mine as we close danced…

  I groaned. I picked up the EPT and threw it in the trash can under my sink. There. One less thing to think about.

  I was just contemplating whether or not I should take the can out to the dumpster in the back of the building, when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  There was a pause on the other end, but I heard breathing.

  “Hello?” I tried again, envisioning Richard trying to make a call while rapists and murderers breathed down his neck.

  Only the voice I heard wasn’t Richard’s. It was a woman's.

  “Greenway deserved what he got. Leave it alone. Or the next bullet’s for you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I froze, the receiver still glued to my ear as the line went dead. Ohmigod. Had it been Bunny? Andi? Thong woman? I couldn’t tell. The voice had been kind of muffled. It was a woman, that much I knew. And she was pissed.

  I shivered and quickly replaced the receiver as if she could reach through the phone and shoot me as easily as she’d done Greenway. If ever I needed confirmation that Richard was innocent, that was it.

  How had she gotten my number? How did she even know who I was? Did she know where I lived too?

  I ran to the front door and checked the lock. Still in place. I unlocked and relocked it again just in case. Then I checked all the windows and shut the blinds. I had the irrational urge to hide under my futon. Instead, remembering my own stint crouching in Richard's closet, I quickly scanned mine. I was relieved to find no one hiding in my seasonal sweaters.

  After checking the lock on the front door one more time I sat down on my futon and turned the television on really loud. Trying to fill the now menacing silence with Seinfeld reruns. Only I wasn’t paying attention to Jerry. I was listening for sounds outside. Like the sounds of a crazed thong wearing, stiletto walking, blonde, homicidal maniac. I turned Seinfeld down so I could hear better.

  I was truly getting freaked out.

  What I needed was a weapon. Something in case Homicidal Barbie tried to break in during the night. Like a sharp knife or a heavy wrench. Unfortunately, since I didn’t cook or do carburetors, I didn’t have either. My eyes scanned the room for anything heavy enough to conk a Barbie on the head. I grabbed my dusty thighmaster from the closet and jumped back onto my futon.

  Nope. Still didn’t feel safe.

  Reluctantly, I pulled Ramirez’s number out of my purse. I stared at it. The right thing to do was call the cops, right? I mean, I’d just received a death threat. This was the sort of thing cops did. Respond to calls like this.

  Only, after the way we’d verbally sparred this morning, I didn’t really want to be the one to make first contact. I mean, I didn’t want Ramirez to think this was just some excuse to call him. If I called him first, that made me the loser right?

  I bit my lip, deciding which was worse, being a loser or being Barbie prey. I grabbed my cordless and dialed the number. It rang once. And then I chickened out and hung up. Shit. I was a loser.

  The phone rang in my hand and I jumped about three feet in the air. My hands shook as I pressed the on button.

  “Hello?” Oh God, please let it be a telemarketer.

  “Maddie?”

  No such luck. It was Ramirez.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Did you just call me? Your number came up on my caller ID.”

  I cursed modern invention.

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Fine. I called and hung up. Happy?”

  There was a pause on the other end. I expected laughter but instead his voice held a note of concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  Damn. I hated that I was acting like a teenager and he was being all concerned and touching. Maddie, you are seriously screwed up girl.

  “Yes. I’m okay. I just got a disturbing phone call.”

  A pause again. “Tell me about it.”

  So I did. It didn’t take very long. It was a short call, but the chill in the caller’s voice was leaving a long impact. When I finished there was a silence on the other end again.

  “Do you want me to come over?” he asked.

  Boy, did I. And I wasn’t even thinking about sex. Much. Just the thought of Bad Cop with his big bad gun guarding my door made me feel a lot less like hiding under my futon. On the other hand, calling and hanging up had been pretty girly of me. And asking him to come spend the night just because some woman was crank calling me would be really girly. So, despite the fact that my insides were screaming, “Yes, come over, bring your gun and let’s get naked,” I managed to muster up some pride.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got my thighmaster. I’m fine. Really.”

  I could hear him sighing on the other end. I don’t think he believed that any more than I did.

  Finally he said, “You have my number, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it on speed dial.” Then he hung up.

  I turned off the ringer and compli
ed, adding Ramirez’s number to my speed dial. Then I clutched my thighmaster in one hand as my pride and I hunkered down for a long night. Punctuated by dreams of killer Mattel dolls and naked Ramirez. Was my subconscious screwed up or what?

  * * *

  The next morning I woke up early and checked to make sure all the doors and windows were still locked. They were. Which should have made me feel better, but only served to heighten my paranoia. I skipped the shower – visions of Janet Leigh’s psycho scene playing through my head – and downed two cups of coffee instead as I quickly got dressed.

  I checked my messages and found one from Althea saying that visiting hours at the prison were from two to four, and she’d put me on the list to see Richard. I said a silent thank you that at least someone was on my side.

  The second message was from Dana. She’d changed her mind about borrowing an outfit, but now she needed a new pair of boots. So, did I want to shoe shop with her?

  On the one hand, it seemed kind of frivolous to be shopping while my boyfriend was in jail and my life was quickly crumbling around me. On the other, a new pair of shoes always helped me think more clearly…

  I quickly called Dana back and told her I’d meet her at Neiman’s in half an hour.

  * * *

  Neiman Marcus was located in Beverly Hills just three block from Wilshire’s famous Miracle Mile, teeming with museums, restaurants, and most importantly, store after designer store filled with fashion temptation for the visa challenged such as myself. I rounded the block, parking in the garage, and found Dana sitting in Neiman’s shoe department, a pile of boots on the seat beside her.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  What was with people continually pointing this out?

  “Sorry. I had a long night.”

  “Ooo… with your detective?”

  “No!” Thanks to my stupid pride. “And he’s not my detective. He’s just a detective.” Who kept showing up in my dreams naked. Ugh.