I shook my head and marveled at the fact I was schlepping through traffic and Jasmine was now famous. (Or infamous as the case may be.) In New York, you're no one until you've made Page Six. In L.A. you're no one until your face has been plastered on a twenty foot tall billboard.
By the time I got back to Santa Monica, it was nearing noon and the smog index was creeping up to that level where you could almost taste the air. The radio DJ advised school children to stay indoors and the fire marshal declared the Hollywood Hills a high hazard area. Instinctively, I cranked my air up.
As I rounded the corner, pulling off Venice, my apartment came into view.
As did the guy standing outside of it.
His tall, solid frame leaned casually against the side of his black SUV, both arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were unreadable behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, but if the tension in his stubbled jaw was any indication, they weren't twinkling with glee.
Ramirez.
I paused, warring between apprehension and total lust as I pulled into my drive. Finally lust won out and I got out of the car.
"Hey," I said tentatively.
Nothing. He didn't move, didn't nod, just kept his cop face on as he stared at me. Yep. He was definitely a little miffed.
"So, uh, have you been waiting long?"
I think I saw his shoulders shrug half an inch. Or it might have just been a smog induced illusion.
"Um… are you going to say something? Anything?" I squeaked out, my voice doing that caught-coloring-on-the-walls falsetto again.
He did a deep breath in, then out, his nostrils flaring. Then he reached up and slowly took off his sunglasses. Yikes. Nope, his dark eyes were a far cry from twinkling. Seething might be appropriate. Or searing, penetrating.
Pissed off.
"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble your stunt last night caused?" he asked, his voice low and strained, a clear undercurrent of dammit-you-really-screwed-up-this-time-Maddie running through it.
I wondered if it was too late to jump back in my car.
"Um, lots?"
He took a step forward. I instinctively took one back, coming up against the driver’s side door of my Jeep.
"Thanks to my association with, and I quote, 'that crazed shoe girl,' my captain has reassigned me."
"Reassigned?" I repeated. "Like, demoted?"
Ramirez made a low growling sound deep in his throat.
Yep. Like, demoted.
"Isabel is MIA, her boyfriend got the tip off that she's been talking to the police and now he's in the wind, and my captain has busted yours truly down to celebrity bodyguard duty."
Ramirez had been advancing on me as he spoke until his face was just inches from mine, those granite features starting to twitch as if they might crack into a full blown rage at any second. I leaned further back into my car and I think did a little whimper thing.
"I'm sorry," I squeaked out.
His eyes narrowed and he placed a hand on either side of my head, barring any ideas of escape. "Sorry?"
I gulped. "Really, really sorry."
He did that low sort of growl in the back of his throat again. I wasn't sure what it meant, but it didn't sound a whole lot like, “I forgive you.”
I gulped again. "But a bodyguard isn't all that bad, right? I mean, celebrities can be fun?"
"Oh sure. Tons of fun. Watching a bunch of pampered actresses while they open their fan mail. My idea of a good time."
"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"
There was that growl again.
"Look, I'm really, really sorry. I so didn't mean to get you in trouble. And I'll so make it up to you."
One eyebrow hitched up. "Make it up to me? I've gone from working homicide to spending 24/7 babysitting a bunch of second rate actors on the Magnolia Lane set. How the hell do you think you're going make that up to me?"
"Well, I don't know, I mean, maybe I could talk to your captain, maybe if I just explained this… Wait. Did you say, 'Magnolia Lane?’"
He nodded, giving me a “yeah so?” look.
"Ohmigod. The Magnolia Lane?"
"You've heard of it?"
"Ohmigod, are you freaking kidding? Only daily on Entertainment Tonight. It's like the hottest show on TV. These are no minor celebs. The star, Mia Carletto was up for an Emmy last year. Wow, you actually get to meet Mia Carletto. You should be thanking me!"
His eyes narrowed again. Apparently he didn't watch as much TV as I did.
"So, what will you be doing? Will you get to hang out with the cast? Go to parties with them? Ohmigod – are you going to the Emmys?!"
Ramirez muttered a, “Jesus,” under his breath, then took a step back and rubbed a hand through his hair until it stood up in little tufts. "No, I'm not going to the Emmys. Miss Carletto has been getting threatening letters and her publicist just happens to be my captain's daughter-in-law. So, lucky me, I'm supposed to keep an eye on the set until we find out where they're coming from."
"Ohmigod, I heard about those letters on Access Hollywood. That is so cool!"
Ramirez gave me a look.
"Well, I mean, not cool that she's getting threatening letters but so cool that you'll get to meet her. Oh, oh – do you think you could get me on the set? Just to get an autograph?"
"No!" Ramirez yelled loudly enough to make my downstairs neighbor peek through her chintz curtains at us. He rubbed another hand through his hair, then spoke through gritted teeth. "No, I don’t want you anywhere near that set, do you hear me? I don't want you anywhere near my work. Ever again. Thanks to you, a cranked up felon is tooling around L.A. in a stolen car and I'm on Hollyweird detail. I want you as far away from me as possible. Got it?"
Ouch. Apparently my boyfriend – wait, friend - thought I was a total jinx. A less confident girl might start to take this personally. "I said I was sorry. I mean, really, really sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I just… I mean when I heard your message… I kind of…."
"Freaked out?" he supplied.
I nodded. "Major freak out. I'm so, so sorry," I said again. Honestly meaning it.
Ramirez must have noticed, because his face softened. He reached one hand out and lightly brushed the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. "I have to admit," he said, "the jealous thing? Kind of cute."
I sniffed. "Cute, huh?"
He nodded. "Very. And it's a damn good thing, too, 'cause you're a whole lot of trouble."
"I know. I'm amazingly sorry," I said again. Hoping that if I said it enough times maybe I could make this whole thing just go away.
"I know," he whispered, his eyes starting to do that sexy, glazed over thing as they roved my face.
His hand trailed around to the nape of my neck, his fingers lightly massaging there until I felt myself break out in goosebumps, sending a tingle straight down my spine. He leaned in close. I could smell the scent of Ivory and Tide as his lips brushed mine. The tingle turned into an all out quiver as our tongues touched.
Suddenly my insides were gooier than a Snickers bar in the hands of a first grader.
"So, does this mean I'm forgiven?" I mumbled onto his lips.
He leaned back and raised one dark eyebrow. "Forgiven is a strong word."
"Maybe I can make it up to you?" I said coyly, trailing one finger down the center of his chest.
The other eyebrow shot up. "What did you have in mind?"
"Oh, I don't know…" I slid my hand lower, toying with the top button of his jeans.
He did a small groan.
Then his pager went off.
He did a large groan.
He pulled away, glancing at the readout. "Shit. The captain. I've gotta go."
And I swear he looked so dejected that I felt myself pack for that guilt trip again. He really didn't deserve this. As cool as I might think hanging out all day on the Magnolia Lane set was, I knew it wasn't Ramirez's gig. Ramirez belonged working homicide. He was a cop who enjoyed all that gritty detective stuff and he w
as damn good at it, too.
As he got into his SUV and pulled down the street I vowed that, despite how little faith he might have in my abilities, I would make this up to him.
* * *
"Well, it seems clear to me," Dana said, popping a soynut into her mouth. "Blow job. A little attention to Mr. Winky and I'm sure he’ll forgive you."
"Know what? I think maybe you really are a sex addict." I shook my head, blonde hair whipping my cheeks. "No, that's not the kind of 'making it up to him' I mean. I mean I need to make this right. I need to get him reassigned back to homicide."
"I give up. How do you do that?"
I shrugged. "Good question."
We were sitting on my futon, watching last season's DVD of Magnolia Lane for inspiration, trying to come up with some way to get Ramirez to not only forgive me, but somehow put back the Humpty Dumpty of his career that I'd shoved off the wall the moment I'd walked into the Cabana Club.
I watched the screen, digging a hand into my own bag of snacks, Keebler fudge cookies. (As far as I was concerned, anything with the word “soy” in its name didn't qualify as a comfort food. And after my encounter with Ramirez, I needed all the chocolate covered comfort I could get.)
"Ashley, your husband will be home any minute."
"Oh, he has no idea about us, the fool. Kiss me, Chad!"
"No, Ashley, it’s not right. What if he sees?"
"He's blind to our love, Chad."
"Oh, Ashley, you know I want to. I've wanted to since the moment I saw you. It's just…"
"What, Chad? What's wrong?"
"Oh come on, just kiss her!" Dana yelled at the TV. Then crunched down hard on a salted soynut. "Chad is gorgeous. She's absolutely insane if she doesn't kiss him. Who wouldn’t want to kiss him? I'd kiss him. In fact, I'd do more than kiss him…" Dana trailed off mumbling to herself.
"Chad, I've never felt this way before."
"Me neither, Ashley. I swear I've cut every woman's lawn on Magnolia Lane, but yours – yours is special."
"Oh, Chad!"
"Oh, Ashley!"
"Oh for the love of God, kiss him already!" Dana threw a soynut at the TV.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Fine. Great. Why?" She crunched down on another nut.
"Um, no reason," I mumbled.
"Kiss me, Chad. Kiss me like you mean it."
Dana leaned forward in her seat.
"I can't wait another second to do just that, Ashley. Come here…"
"Wait – what's that?"
"It sounds like a car door."
"My husband. He's home!"
"Argh!" Dana threw the bag of soynuts down on the carpet as Chad and Ashley broke apart. Ashley stuffed her would-be lover in the closet as her husband came up the stairs and Dana mumbled a, "lousy timing," under her breath.
"Um, so did Therapist Max mention anything about the side effects of abstinence?"
Dana paused. "Sorry. I'm a little tense lately."
"You know, maybe celibacy just isn't for you."
Dana shook her head. "No way. Two more days and I get a chip. I can do this. I am experiencing the joy of positive being as a single, non-physically dependant entity." She picked the bag up and crunched down hard on another nut.
"Oh, yeah. I can feel the joy from here."
Dana ignored me. "So, what are you going to do about Ramirez?"
I blew out a long breath. "I don't know." I watched Mia Carletto, a.k.a. Ashley try to convince her husband that the gardener's boxers really belonged to her. "Maybe I could make it up to him by helping him with his new assignment. He said something about those letters that Mia's been getting. Threatening fan mail."
"Oh, I totally read about that in People last week. She's, like, got a stalker or something. Ohmigod – light bulb moment!" Dana popped up off the futon, jostling the soynuts onto the floor as she started hopping up and down. "We could totally find the stalker for Ramirez! He'd totally forgive you then."
"Dana, Ramirez is a cop. What makes you think we could find a stalker any easier than he could?"
"Uh, hello?" Dana rolled her eyes. "Ramirez doesn’t even watch Magnolia Lane. We totally know Mia way better than he does. I mean, come on, you watch Access Hollywood daily."
She had a point there. I'll admit it, I was a celebrity gossip junkie. I religiously watched every single Barbara Walters interview, I never left the house on the night of the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG awards, and I bought copies of Star and People on the sly every week. I was even known – on a very rare occasion – to use words like Bennifer, Brangelina, and Tomkat. I know. It's a disease.
Still, I wasn't convinced our knowledge of Mia’s latest boy-toy fling could really outweigh a badge and a gun.
"How much could we possibly do without even being on the set of the show?" I reasoned.
Dana waved me off, switching from the hops to a little footwork-in-place thing. "So, we get on the set. How hard can that be? Look, I'll call my agent in the morning and see if he can get me on as an extra or something. And maybe you could see if they need a costume designer or a wardrobe assistant? I'm sure you've got some connections, right?"
I bit my lip. "Well, my college roommate did do wardrobe for that cop drama on FX."
"Perfect! I bet she totally knows someone. Ohmigod, this is going to be so fun. We'll, like, totally be undercover again!"
Dana was referring, of course, to last year when, against my better judgment, I'd let her dress me as a hooker in order to suss out a murder. Unfortunately, that evening had ended in a dead body. Not an experience I was dying to repeat. (Yes, pun intended.)
"I don't know…" I trailed off, picturing Ramirez's face that afternoon. I had a feeling that if I showed up within ten feet of his assignment he'd likely pop a blood vessel. The words “as far away from me as possible” echoed in my head.
Dana started jogging in place, bobbing her knees up and down like little pistons. "Come on, Maddie! We could so do this. You've got a good track record, girl!"
I hesitated to mention that both times I'd ferreted out a killer in the past it was more by accident than sheer brilliance.
On the other hand, this whole “reassignment” thing was all my fault. And sitting on my futon watching Magnolia Lane reruns wasn't doing anything to improve my rapidly crumbling love life. If I was going to make it up to Ramirez, I had to do something. "All right, I'll call my college roomie."
Dana let out a high pitched squeal and clapped her hands together.
"I said I'd call. No guarantees," I hedged, grabbing my address book. I wasn't sure if I'd put her number under “L” for Lana, “P” for Paulson or “R” for roommate.
"I think we should start by talking to her costars," Dana said, ticking items off on her fingers. "See if anyone has seen a suspicious character around. Second, maybe we should question Mia herself, maybe the stalker is someone from her past, and he's coming back to seek revenge. Ooo – or maybe she had a secret love child that's coming back to haunt her now."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Suspicious characters? Revenge? Secret love child? What was this, Montel?
Thankfully, before I could change my mind, I found Lana's number (under “C” for college) and dialed. She picked up on the first ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Lana. It's Maddie," I said, with a backward glance at Dana. She was still ticking off possible stalker suspects. I think I heard her mumble something about a political plot to rig the Emmys. I scrunched my eyes shut, hoping I wouldn't live to regret this.
"Say, I was wondering if you know anyone at Sunset Studios?"
Chapter Four
"This is where we keep Kylie's clothes," Dusty said, gesturing toward a long wardrobe rack of designer suits and blouses.
Dusty was a fresh-faced twenty-two year old, just out of design school, with short purple hair and pierced studs in her nose, eyebrow, and lip. Last season when the head wardrobe consultant for Magnolia Lane quit over a SAG award snub, Dusty lan
ded the job because her best friend's ex-boyfriend's mother played canasta with the producer's aunt. Hollywood was the original who-you-know town. Luckily, thanks to my college roomie, I now knew Dusty.
"Kylie plays Tina Rey on the show," Dusty continued. "Blake, Ricky, and Deveroux have their stuff over there." She gestured to the far end of the room where men’s wear hung on two rows of clothing racks. "And Mia's are here." She ended by pointing to a row of clothes stuck on dry cleaning hangers and swathed in plastic. "Mia has her own wardrobe person, so you'll mostly just be making sure the others have the right outfits for their scenes and doing a little damage control. You know how to hand sew, right?"
I nodded.
"Great!" Dusty said, tucking a purple lock behind her ear. "Any questions?"
Only about a million. The second Dana and I had walked onto the Sunset Studios lot that morning it had been like entering some alternate reality, and I was still trying to get my bearings.
We'd parked my Jeep off-site in the designated parking garage behind the lot, then hoofed it along with the other cast and crew not-quite-somebody-enough to have their own parking places, to one of the studio's three entrances at the rear of the gated lot. We'd stood in line with women toting wardrobe bags, and a seemingly endless supply of guys with tool belts and little walkie talkie headsets while the two hundred year old security guard (give or take a year) in coke bottle glasses checked our names against his list. Wonder of wonders, when I got to the front of the line mine was actually there. The guard even gave me a, "Good day, Miss Springer," before passing me through the gates onto the sacred grounds of the Sunset Studios.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 56