Spying in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries #1)

by Gemma Halliday

  I gulped, suddenly feeling like Granny Prude in my library attire.

  "Uh, hi," I said to the Double D closest to the door. "I'm looking for Bunny Hoffenmeyer."

  The Double D shifted in her seat and I resisted the urge to look away in case an implant escaped her crop top's precarious hold. "And you are?" she asked in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe sort of voice.

  "Um. Maddie."

  She looked at my prim tweed skirt and frowned. "Are you doing a scene together?"

  "No!" I said a little more loudly than I'd intended.

  "Right." She looked me up and down again. "I didn't think so."

  I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or insulted.

  "I actually wanted to talk to her about a mutual acquaintance of ours. Devon Greenway."

  Double D's face softened. "Oh. Right. That guy she was dating. I heard about him on the news. Really sad."

  "Very sad," I agreed, nodding and mimicking Perky Reporter Woman's appropriately concerned faces. "Did he ever come in here with Bunny?"

  Double D smiled, showing off a row of slightly crooked teeth. "Actually, her name's Myrtle. Bunny's just a stage thing."

  Myrtle Hoffenmeyer? I think I liked Bunny better.

  "And, sure, he was here a few times. He was really cute. And rich." Blondie sighed. "Myrtle was real lucky to meet him."

  Lucky. Right. Lucky she wasn't swimming face down right about now. Which brought me back to her current whereabouts…

  "So, is Bu—uh, Myrtle here today?"

  "Oh, sure. She's just finishing a scene in studio two." Blondie indicated a pair of doors to her right.

  I cut a look to the doors. I had an unnerving feeling that was where the orgies took place.

  "Um, do you mind if I wait here until she's done with her, um… scene?" I asked.

  "Sure, no prob." Double D grinned and indicated a pair of padded chairs along the wall. I sat down, glad that the front office seemed to be soundproofed.

  Ten minutes later the red light above the door shut off and a sound like a fire alarm blared through the building. I must have jumped as Double D reassured me, "That means they're done shooting. It should be safe to go back there now if you'd like."

  "Thanks." I stood up and pushed through the double doors, hoping Bunny had robed.

  The studios of Big Boy weren't pretending to be anything other than a Valley warehouse. Walls were covered in rusted metal (and not the chic rust of Fernando's, but the real kind caused by years of corrosion), large pipes ran along the ceiling, and the floor was a cracked concrete. The only break in the industrial look were the three-walled rooms made of painted plywood that were supposed to resembled bedrooms. At least that was my guess by the enormous beds scattered through the warehouse.

  A group of people were huddled around one. Luckily, they seemed to be dispersing, men winding up lengths of cable and women wearing silky looking bathrobes, with slightly mussed bedroom hair. I felt my cheeks growing hot as I averted my eyes.

  I recognized Bunny right away from her photographs with Greenway in the L.A. Informer. She was sitting on a stool by a plywood bedroom, cigarette between her acrylic nails as she watched the grips check the camera. She was my height, but about five pounds slimmer and filled with enough silicone that she might topple over at any second. I had a hard time picturing her hauling Greenway's body all the way downstairs and out to the Moonlight's Dumpsters. Still, no stone unturned.

  "Bunny Hoffenmeyer?" I asked.

  She looked at me with a disinterested stare. "Yeah?"

  "Hi. I'm Maddie, uh…Ramirez." Okay, why I gave her that name, I didn't know. But for some reason I didn't want her to know who I was really was. At least not until I knew if she owned a gun.

  "Hi," Bunny said, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.

  "Hi. I, uh, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Devon Greenway?"

  Her eyes clouded. "Why?"

  Why. Very good question. "Well, I uh, I'm from the L.A. Informer and, uh, we're doing a story on Greenway's death. We wanted to include some interviews from those close to him."

  Bunny still looked dubious, so I tried to sweeten the pot. "We'd love to include some pictures, too. It would be great exposure for you." No pun intended.

  Bunny straightened in her chair at the mention of pictures. "What do you want to know?"

  Did you kill him? But I figured blunt wasn't the way to go. They always finessed the suspects a little first on Law & Order. I put on my best finessing voice. "I heard you and Greenway were close."

  She smirked. "You could say that."

  I had a feeling I was going to regret this next question. "How close?"

  Bunny raised an eyebrow. "I fucked him occasionally, if that's what you're asking."

  At least she didn't mince words.

  "Right. So, when was the last time you, uh…saw Greenway?"

  She took a long drag from the cigarette. "Last Thursday."

  I perked up. Thursday had been the night Richard canceled dinner with me to meet Greenway. I wondered if Bunny had been there.

  "What did you do?"

  "We had dinner at Le Petite's. This totally expensive French place on Ventura. Then he had to meet his lawyer. Some Ken Doll in a suit."

  Hey! That was my Ken Doll she was talking about. But, I had to admit, now that she mentioned it, Richard did resemble Ken a little. Perfect plastic façade—hollow on the inside. Ugh.

  "Do you know what the meeting was about?"

  She tiled her head and scrutinized me. "I dunno. Some business shit. What did I care?"

  I felt my bubble of hope deflating. Even if Porn Star Barbie had been present at Richard and Greenway's meeting, I doubted any of it would penetrate her silicone filled head.

  "So, you haven't seen him since Thursday?"

  She blew out a slow stream of smoke at the ceiling. "No. I broke it off with him."

  "Really? Why?" Honestly Greenway and Bunny seemed like a perfect fit.

  "Cause I found some chick's thong in his pocket."

  "His wife's?"

  Bunny smirked again. "Honey, wives don't wear shit like this. This was a leopard print, mesh thong. He was fucking someone else."

  I'm pretty sure my eyes strayed to the bed where Bunny had just finished her scene. I had a hard time believing she was a stickler for monogamy.

  "Hey, this is just work," she defended. "I fake it at work. What Devon and I had was the real deal. And if he was sticking his real deal to some other chick, I didn't want any part of it."

  Fair enough.

  "Any idea who the thong belonged to?"

  Bunny smirked again. "Some slut. I think he was meeting her for nooners, 'cause he never answered his phone around lunchtime."

  "So, just for the record, where were you last night?" Even though Bunny was slipping down my list of suspects I figured it didn't hurt to be thorough.

  "Here. Shooting a scene for Babes in Boyland."

  Ugh. A porn pun. "Okay. Well, I, uh, don't want to take up any more of your time." I reached out to shake her hand, then thought better of it, not knowing where that hand had been. Instead I waved a little good-bye as I turned and headed for the reception area.

  "Hey wait a minute!"

  I spun around. "Yeah?"

  "What about the pictures?"

  Right, pictures. "The photographer will be out tomorrow," I lied. Gee, I was getting better at this. "Thanks again."

  Back in my Jeep, I pulled out my Suspects list again. I wasn't entirely convinced Porn Star Barbie wasn't my blondie, but I was having a hard time picturing her hacking into Greenway's accounts and transferring twenty million to unknown whereabouts. She hadn't struck me as the sharpest crayon in the box. I added, "leopard thong, nooners" under "blonde in heels." Hmmm…Bunny was right. She did sound like a slut.

  I was just merging back onto the 405, watching the sun sink into a hazy, glowing orb below the hills, when my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the number. Faux Dad. Oh crap, what did I
forget now?

  "Hello?"

  "Where are you?"

  "On the 405. Why?"

  "Good. Cause your mom's at Beefcakes already and she's starting to worry about you."

  D'oh! I slapped my forehead with my palm. Beefcakes. "Right. I was just on my way there."

  Faux Dad heaved a sigh of relief into the receiver. "Good. 'Cause for a minute there, I thought maybe you'd forgotten again."

  "Who me? Never."

  Faux Dad paused. "Mads, you seem a little distracted lately. Is there something on your mind?"

  I resisted the urge to break out in manic laughter.

  "I'm fine." Ha! "Sorry, Ralph, I gotta go. I'm going through the canyon."

  I hung up and made a quick maneuver into the right lane, merging onto the 2 East toward Beefcakes.

  This was turning out to be quite a week for me. Hookers, and Porn Stars, and Strippers. Oh my!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beefcakes was located between La Brea and Highland in an old Hollywood speakeasy that had been turned into a Mecca for bachelorettes, divorcees, and horny housewives. The interior was done in all black with pink velvety sofas lining the walls. Down the middle of the floor was a catwalk, surrounded by purple tables and chairs where hordes of screaming, middle-aged women with dollar bills in their hands acted like teenagers at a Hillary Duff concert. I spied Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt at one of the tables near the end of the runway. Beside them was a cowgirl in Calamity Jane attire screaming out boisterous wahoo's as "Fireman Bob" took to the stage.

  "Mads!" Mom yelled above the girlish squeals. All traces of her post-cliff trauma were gone. A cosmopolitan in one hand, she bobbed her head in time with the pulsating music. Mom was dressed in her party chick clothes tonight. A black spandex halter top, minus the much needed bra, a pair of polka dotted capris, and red Converse sneakers. In honor of the special occasion, her blue eye-shadow reached all the way to her eyebrows tonight. Mrs. Rosenblatt sat at a table beside her, dressed in a purple flowered muumuu that perfectly matched the two chairs she took up.

  "Having fun?" I asked as I gave Mom a quick hug.

  "I'll say. Oh, God, Mads, isn't he a hunk?"

  I looked up at Fireman Bob, dressed in boots, suspenders and little else. I was instantly reminded how long it had been since I'd had sex, as my eyes strayed to his little red G-string.

  "Check out that package," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, as if she could read my mind. "Reminds me of my fourth husband, Lenny. Lenny was royal putz, but the Universe blessed him with a package like you wouldn't believe."

  "That's nothing. You should see my Ralphie." Mom held her two index fingers ten inches apart, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

  Ew! Mom and sex—two things I never wanted to think about in the same breath. I felt like putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, "I can't hear you."

  "Maddie, you made it!" The exuberant cowgirl turned around. I did a mental forehead smack. Dana.

  "Nice boots, cowgirl," I said.

  "I came straight from a shoot. Charmin commercial."

  "As in toilet paper?"

  "Cowboy's invoke the image of strength. No one wants weak toilet paper. So," she asked, leaning in close, "how goes the great boyfriend search?"

  I quickly filled her in on my mistress theory, punctuated by her occasional wahoo's as Fireman Bob dropped his suspenders. I finished off by recounting my visit to Big Boy studios with Porn Star Barbie.

  "Did you say Bunny Hoffenmeyer?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, coming up behind me with a fresh drink in hand.

  "Yes. Why? Do you know her?"

  "Actually, my Lenny used to work with her."

  I blinked at her. "What do you mean, 'used to work with her?' You were married to a porn star?" I could feel my nose scrunching into an icky face.

  "No, no, no. Not that Lenny couldn't have been, mind you. But he was her insurance broker. You gotta have a lot of insurance in that industry. As Big Boy's owner, Bunny brought him a whole lotta business."

  "Wait—owner?" I'd pegged Bunny as a dimwitted double D, not a savvy entrepreneur.

  "Oh yeah. Bunny was raking it in back when I was married to Lenny. But then she expanded the whole operation into soft core. You know, stuff with storylines and candlelight. Erotica for ladies."

  "And that didn't do well?"

  "She lost her shirt. No pun intended. Turns out women don't buy as much porn as men."

  Go figure.

  "Last I heard Bunny was in debt up to her implants," Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. "I heard she's even trying to get some mainstream roles now to pay the bills. Poor thing."

  Right. Poor thing. Poor enough to bump Greenway off for the money? After my interview, I'd moved Bunny to the bottom of my suspects list, thinking her IQ rivaled Jasmine's for lowest in L.A. County. But now I had a feeling Bunny was sharper than she let on. If she could fake an orgasm I guess she could fake innocence too.

  "Want a drink, Maddie?" Mom asked, signaling a shirtless waiter.

  Did I ever. "I'll have a Diet Coke."

  "Oh come on, honey. Live a little!" Mrs. Rosenblatt drained her glass and set it on the waiter's tray. "How about a Virgin Mary?" she suggested.

  Honestly, I was sick to death of Diet Coke. As long as it was virgin, I decided I could afford to live a little tonight.

  "Okay. A virgin Mary."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt ordered one for me and one for herself. Cowgirl Dana, staying in character, ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. Mom ordered another cosmo and stuck a ten in the waiter's Speedo. (Ew, ew, ew!) By the time Fireman Bob had collected his suspenders and cleared off the stage, we all had fresh drinks in hand and I had that nauseous, my-mom's-talking-about-sex feeling somewhat under control.

  Music started to pulse from the speakers again and the crowd took to their feet, craning to see the next beefcake.

  "Look out ladies," the MC warned. "Because here comes Damien. And he's been a bad, bad boy."

  The sound of a motorcycle engine revved through the speakers as a man in all leather appeared on the stage in front of a cloud of smoke. He strutted down the catwalk, shedding his leather jacket to reveal a six pack Budweiser would be jealous of.

  "Oh my God." Mom made the sign of the cross.

  "What was that for?" asked Mr. Rosenblatt.

  "I just had the unholiest of thoughts."

  Ick. Okay, so I almost had that mom's-talking-about-sex nausea under control. I took a big gulp of my Virgin Mary in hopes it would settle my stomach. It wasn't half bad, really. Kind of like an extra spicy bloody Mary with a twist of lime. Not a martini, but definitely better than another Diet Coke.

  Damien gyrated down the catwalk, shedding leather like a snake until Mom grabbed a cocktail napkin and started fanning herself. "Whew, I think that man just gave me a hot flash."

  "That man is hung. You think he'd go for an older woman?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I tried to be kind. "He's probably gay."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt scrutinized Damien as he stripped off his leather chaps to reveal a thong with a Harley Davidson logo.

  I took a big sip of my Virgin Mary. Wow, he did have a nice package. I took another sip.

  "I just love a man in leather," Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. "I saw this documentary about how dominatrixes tame their men with leather whips. Now I don't go in for all that chains stuff, but I could go for a guy in leather."

  I drained my glass and signaled the waiter for another.

  "Ralphie doesn't like leather," Mom chimed in. "But he's nuts about lace. I bought this adorable lace teddy at the mall today. One look and we'll be spending the whole honeymoon in bed." Mom winked one heavily shadowed eye. "If you know what I mean."

  If a person could die of ickiness, I was just about flat-lining. I searched frantically for that waiter with my fresh Virgin Mary. Luckily, he appeared just as Damien gyrated his way in our direction and Mom dug into her purse for more green.

  "Take it all off!" Dana commanded, waving her cowgirl h
at in the air.

  Damien complied, doing away with the Harley thong and going full monty on us.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt nudged me in the ribs. "I told you he was hung."

  I admit. I stared. It was hard not to. Especially when I now realized how poorly Richard measured up against the Damiens of the world. Yikes. What had I been missing?

  And then out of nowhere, I thought of Ramirez. I wondered if he was a Damien or Richard. I took another sip of my drink and tried really hard not to picture Ramirez in a leather thong.

  "Over here, bad boy," my mother yelled, waving her five dollar bill in the air. Damien strutted closer and collected the cash with his teeth. Mom giggled like a sixth grader. I tried not to look.

  Dana grabbed my arm, her nails digging into me. "Oh my God, Maddie, did you see who that is?"

  I looked up at Damien, squinting through the smoke and strobing lights to get a good look at his face. (Which, I had to admit, I'd not yet really seen, being a little distracted by certain other parts of his anatomy.) He did look a little familiar. But as Damien turned our direction, it was the neck that gave it away. Or lack thereof. "Is that your roommate?"

  Dana nodded and I swore I saw drool form at the corner of her mouth. "I had no freaking idea he was this built."

  No Neck Guy winked at Dana, then gyrated his way to the other side of the stage.

  "You know that guy?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. "He's got a tuchis like granite."

  "Give it up for Biker Damien," the MC said as Damien gathered his chaps and headed off stage.

  Mom grabbed another cocktail napkin and began fanning herself.

  "Um, will you excuse me for a minute?" Dana didn't wait for an answer before disappearing toward the stage.

  I drained my second glass and signaled for another. I could easily get addicted to these things. The waiter returned with my drink just as the music started up and "Officer Dan" took the stage, wearing a cop uniform amidst flashing red lights. Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt were instantly on their feet again, waving dollar bills. Maybe it was the spicy Virgin Mary, but I was starting to get into the swing of things. I even shouted a cowgirl holler of my own when Dan tossed his blue shirt into the crowd—badge and all.