So, I was looking for a blonde mistress in heels. All right, it wasn’t a Colombo moment, but at least it was something.
“Thanks a ton,” I said to Metallica.
“Thanks for what?”
“For not seeing anything.”
“Dude, I not see shit all the time.”
I didn’t doubt it.
* * *
My cell started ringing as I got back in my Jeep. I flipped it open as I pulled back onto Vanowen.
“Hello?”
“Mads, it’s Ralph.”
“Hi Ralph. How’s Mom doing?”
“Better. She’s still trying to get a Catholic priest to go bless the hotel gardens before the ceremony, but at least she’s stopped eyeing her rosary.”
That was a start.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I was just calling to remind you about the bachelorette party tonight. Not that I thought you’d forget, but, well, I just thought I’d remind you.”
“I wasn’t going to forget.”
“Right. Of course not.” Faux Dad cleared his throat. “I knew you’d be there. I just… wanted to make sure.”
Okay, I had forgotten. What was it with this wedding that I seemed to be blocking it out of my memory?
“Don’t worry, Ralph. I’ll be there. Cross my heart.”
I hung up with Faux Dad, ignoring the icky feeling that washed over me at the combination of Mom and male strippers, and dialed in my number to check my messages again. Only Dana, saying she was back from hot tubbing. Nothing from Ramirez. Nothing from Richard.
I called Dana back as I swung into an In-N-Out Burger, and filled her in on the latest developments over a double-double and fries. I also made her promise to go with me to Beefcakes tomorrow. I didn’t think I could stomach it alone.
As I hung up with Dana and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my skirt with a paper napkin (the burger was messy, but oh-so-worth it) I pulled out my Suspects list again. So, who was this blonde? The problem was I didn’t know anything about Greenway, aside from the cliff notes version Ramirez had given me. What I needed was more dirt on Greenway’s personal life. Like nosey neighbor or National Enquirer type dirt. Since I didn’t see Greenway’s neighbors gossiping with prime suspect number two (a.k.a. me! Ugh!) I figured a trip to the library was my best bet at ferreting out the gory details of Greenway’s social exploits. If there was dirt to be gotten, I felt confident that back issues of the L.A. Informer were the place to find it.
I hopped back on the 405, making a quick stop back at home to change out of my mustard spotted clothes and into my version of library wear – tweed skirt, white silk blouse, and low heeled loafers - before heading to the Santa Monica library. I was on a mission to view every bit of microfilm they had on Devon Greenway.
Which turned out to be a lot. Apparently Greenway was not only a frequent story in the gossip columns, but also in the business section, due to the new micro chip innovations of his company, Newtone Technologies. I scanned through page after blurry page of microfilm, the constant hum of the machine my only companion. This was the side of detective work they didn’t show on HBO. The no-frills-and-even-less-glamour side. It made the kiddie shoes look tempting again.
If I’d hoped for a headline that read “Greenway Spotted with Blonde, Homicidal Mistress at Charity Gala” I was sorely disappointed. What I found instead was page after page of ribbon cuttings, IPO filings, and company prospects analysis.
Two hours later my eyes were permanently stuck in squint mode and my nose was itchy with dust, but I knew every detail of Greenway’s life, business or social. And unfortunately, a lack of blondes hadn’t been one of Greenway’s problems. In fact, through the course of the press’s two year infatuation with all things Greenway, it was speculated he’d had no less than three mistresses. Andi Jameson, Carol Carter, and, get this, Bunny Hoffenmeyer. All blonde. (My money was on Bunny. Who could grow up with a name like that and not be homicidal?)
I wrote all three names down on my suspects list, ignoring the fact that they didn’t get me a whole lot closer to earning Richard that get-out-of-jail-free card. Sure I had the names of Greenway’s known mistresses, but who knew how many had slipped by the press? Greenway struck me as the slick type.
But, just to be thorough, I looked up all three blondies in the library’s yellow pages before heading home. Andi Jameson was easy enough to find, listed in a condo in Encino. Otherwise known as Silicone Valley. I called her number, but she wasn’t home. So I left a message saying I was a friend of Greenway’s and wanted to ask her a few questions.
There were about fifty Carol Carters, so I reluctantly wrote her address down as “unknown.”
Bunny Hoffenmeyer, as it turned out, was an adult film star, number unlisted. I did, however, find the production company she worked for. Big Boy Films in Sherman Oaks. Great. Back to the Valley.
It was late afternoon and hitting that day’s high of 96 degrees according to the bank on the corner of Westwood and National. I cranked my air conditioner as far as it would go as I hopped on the 405 and reluctantly made the trip back over the hills. A thick layer of smog held tight to the curves of the mountains, covering the Valley with a sickly gray color that made me wonder why anyone would live here by choice. On the other hand, it did strengthen Bunny’s motive. Twenty million dollars would go a long way toward buying her way into the Beverly set.
Another ten minutes of fighting freeway traffic and I was cruising down Sepulveda, a street lined with warehouses that passed themselves off as production studios for rent. Large, gray and rusty, they didn’t resemble Universal Studios in the least. And, I ventured to guess, neither did their films. Most were straight to video or foreign market pictures. Or, in the case of Big Boy Productions, tailored for a more mature audience. (Read: kinky.) Big Boy was located in a gunmetal gray building covered in corrugated metal siding. I parked in the lot beside a lunch wagon and stared at the building.
K – here’s the thing. I’m not really a porn kind of girl. I mean, I’ve seen porn. Once. When my college boyfriend tried to convince me it was hot to see close-ups of strangers’ privates while we made love. (Needless to say I broke up with Voyeur Boy soon after.) But honestly the closest I’d ever come to knowing the insides of the adult film industry was Marky Mark’s performances as Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. And that was as close as I wanted to come.
Damn Richard. This was all his fault.
I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car and across the two yards of parking lot to the unmarked door of Big Boy Productions. I almost covered my eyes as I walked in.
If I’d been expecting a lava lamp induced orgy, I was disappointed. The room I stepped into looked like just about every office reception area I’d ever been in. In fact, with the exception of a bright red light bulb flashing over the door, it bore an unnerving resemblance to Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe’s front office. Only instead of one Jasmine, there were three. Three women behind expensive looking desks, all blonde Anna Nicole Smith look-alikes, all Double D’s barely concealed by itty, bitty pink crop tops with the words “Big Boy” stretched across their implants, and all three staring up at me.
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 mumu 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.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 15