But she was taking a stand. "You apologize right now or else!"
Ratski scoffed, shaking his head. "You have got to be kidding. I'm outta here."
"I no kidding!" Ling shouted, bouncing on her toes to bar his way.
"Move it, chick," he warned.
I tugged on Ling's arm. But for a small girl, she had crazy lower body strength, her legs planted firmly in a stance that was not budging. I mentally made a note to try some of those pole dancing exercises later.
"You say you're sorry," Ling demanded again.
"Look," I jumped in, "I'm sure we can handle this in a rational, speedy, fashion if we just—"
But that was as far as I got before Ratski grabbed Ling's other arm, shoving her backwards. Ling let out a yip like a terrier, stumbling back against the next table and falling flat on her butt on the hard, linoleum floor.
"Hey, that was uncalled for," I said, stepping toward Ratski as Marco rushed forward to help Ling up.
Ratski turned on me. "Listen, bitch," he yelled, his voice getting louder now. "I don't know who you think you are, but no whore is gonna tell me what to do." Then he grabbed my arm, ready to do a repeat of the shove and run routine.
But before either of us could react further, a large fist went flying through my field of vision, connecting squarely with Ratski's nose, sending him reeling backward and crashing hard into the booth behind him.
I looked up.
And realized the fist was connected to my husband.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ratski stumbled backward, his head smacking against the edge of the table and bouncing off. But it only phased him for a second before he was on his feet, turning toward Ramirez. I watched as events seemed to play out in slow motion. Ramirez cocked his fist back again. Ratski lunged at Ramirez. Marco squealed and covered his eyes. Ling jumped on Ratski's back, and I put all 110 pounds of myself behind the effort of holding my husband's arm back. I might have been successful too, if I hadn't been wearing adorable slingback heels which slipped on the slick linoleum giving me the traction of a pony on an ice skating rink.
"Stop! No! Don't hit him!" I yelled in vain, appealing to both men at once.
Luckily, one thing the Glitter Galaxy did not skimp on was security. A bouncer in a black shirt appeared from nowhere, inserting himself between Ratski and Ramirez just as Ratski managed to shake Ling off.
"Take it outside," the bouncer yelled, his voice a deep rumble.
"LAPD," Ramirez spat back.
"I don't care who you are. There is no fighting in the Glitter Galaxy."
While Ramirez could have argued with him, I could see the fire dulling in his eyes, sanity returning. Clearly beating up a ball player in a strip club was not going to get him anywhere.
He turned, his eyes falling on me instead. "You," he said stabbing a finger my way.
I did a dry gulp. "Me?"
"Outside. Now."
I nodded agreement, dread building in my stomach as I made a beeline for the door. I felt Ramirez's breath hot on my neck as he followed me, but it wasn't until we were outside in the bright sunshine again that he spoke.
"What the hell were you doing in there?"
I bit my lip. "Having a drink." Which was the truth. I had thoroughly enjoyed my one cosmo.
His eyes narrowed, and a vein in his neck started to bulge. "Nice try, Springer. What were you really doing there?"
"What? I can't enjoy a strip club in the afternoon like any other L.A. housewife?"
His eyes turned into fine slits. "And Marco?"
I swallowed hard. "He was…enjoying the strip club too?"
Ramirez closed his eyes. His nostrils flared with the effort of taking deep breaths. I could feel him mentally counting to ten. When he opened them again I couldn't see much difference in his expression, but the vein in his neck had stopped pulsing.
"Please tell me why I just punched a guy for calling my wife names in the middle of a strip club?" he said, his voice treading that fine line between controlled calm and explosive anger.
"Sorry," I said.
"For?"
"Look it was Marco's idea."
He sighed. "Go on."
"I didn't even want to come. But Ling said that she knew Ratski, and that the boyfriend is always guilty, and that Bucky is best friends with Ratski, so maybe Ratski had some inside info about Lacey's death. Which, I know, seemed like a long shot but…" I trailed off as a teeny tiny light bulb went off in the back of my mind. "Hey, exactly why are you here?"
Ramirez sighed again. "Turns out there were rumors that Bucky and Lacey were having some issues."
"Shut the front door! Ling was right? Bucky killed his girlfriend?"
Ramirez held up a hand. "I wouldn't go that far. But they'd been heard arguing lately. Bucky said he was with Ratski and another player when Lacey was killed, so I was checking up on his alibi."
I glanced at the door of the club. "I don't suppose Ratski's gonna be in the mood to talk to you now."
Ramirez sighed again, expelling the last of his air, and ran a hand through his dark hair, making it stand up in little tufts. "No. He's not."
"Sorry," I said, as much for my part in the scuffle as his. "But, if it makes you feel any better, that whole defending my honor thing? Kinda sexy."
The ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "A little better."
"Tell you what," I said, taking a step toward him, "the kids are at my mom's for another hour, and I just picked up this move in there where you hang upside down from the pole and arch your back, and…" I trailed off seductively.
A full-fledged grin took hold of his features. "Now that might make me feel a lot better."
* * *
Ramirez was up before the sun again, muttering about doing some "damage control" in a sleep-filled voice as he rolled out of bed. I vaguely registered the shower turning on, smelled fresh aftershave and coffee, then heard the front door slam shut. I rolled over and went back to sleep until Max let out a cry over the baby monitor.
Two bottles, one shower, and three diaper changes later, I was in my kitchen contemplating my breakfast options when Dana walked in, a Starbucks cup in each hand.
"Location shoots are ridiculous. You know how much easier it would have been to pop a poster of the Golden Gate behind me and shoot here in L.A. than trying to wait for the sun to peek through the frickin' permanent fog layer at the actual Golden Gate?"
"Hi," I said. "Good to see you."
"It would have been so much easier," she continued, answering her own question. "I swear they were just looking for excuses to blow their budget." She paused and handed me a cup. "Hi. Good to see you too."
I grinned, taking a sip. Mocha latte with extra whip. She knew me so well.
"So the shoot was a total bust?" I asked.
Dana shook her head, downing her own drink. "No, we got the shots. I just nearly got pneumonia in the process. I mean, it's spring for heaven's sake. Doesn't San Francisco know that?"
"Maybe it didn't get the memo?"
She shot me a look that said it was too soon for levity about her ordeal. "Anyway, I'm so glad to be home. And…you owe me some deets. How did the interrogation go yesterday?" she asked, taking another long sip from her cup. Filled with a non-fat, soy, decaf latte, if I knew her as well as she knew me.
I groaned. "Worse than your shoot," I said, filling her in on all of the gory details, including my husband decking a sports celebrity.
"Ouch," she said when I was done. "Sounds like that lead is a dead end now."
I nodded. "No kidding. I feel terrible."
She took another sip. "Hey, it's not like you punched the guy."
I nodded. "I know. But I didn't help the situation any. And now Ratski is about as hostile a witness as they come. I think the words 'sue' and 'your ass' were even shouted as the bouncers dragged Ramirez off of him."
"Sucks," Dana agreed. She paused to sip. "Well, maybe we can help him get the dirt on Bucky another way."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, Ramirez said there were rumors that Lacey and Bucky were having problems. I happen to know where all good baseball rumors start."
"I'll bite. Where?" I asked
"Baseball Wives!"
I cocked my head to the side. "Right. The show is gossip central. And…?"
"And maybe we can get the 411 on the rocky relationship for Ramirez. The show airs on the same network as Lady Justice, and I did a promotional spot with some of the ladies in the cast a couple of months ago." Dana pulled out her cell and started scrolling through her contacts. "I think I still have Kendra's number."
"That would be Kendra Blanco?" I asked, recalling from the show a tall blonde with a serious shopping addiction.
Dana nodded. "Her husband is Gabriel Blanco. The pitcher. Ah! Got it." She held up her phone, displaying a local number.
"You think Kendra can help?" I asked.
Dana shrugged. "It's worth a try. If the couple was having issues, maybe Bucky talked to Kendra's husband or one of the other players. Kendra is in the know for anything that happens on that team."
"I don't know…" I hedged.
"Come on, Maddie. You know you want to help. Besides, you really think that Kendra, or anyone associated with that team, is going to gossip to a cop the way she would over a mimosa with us at lunch?" Dana reasoned.
She had a good point. "I could really use a mimosa," I agreed.
* * *
Kendra Blanco was as beautiful in person as she was on the show. Tall, blonde, and slim, with skin that had been exfoliated, waxed, and Botoxed within an inch of its life. She was dressed in a white, linen pant suit that on anyone else would have shown off every teeny ripple of cellulite. Of course, cellulite didn't dare deposit itself on Kendra's thighs, so she didn't have to worry. She'd paired the suit with a hot pink cami and a pair of pink, pointy-toed, leather pumps that somehow screamed kick-ass and total girly-girl all at the same time.
She was seated at a table on the patio of Bando Café on Sunset, a pitcher of the promised mimosas already in front of her. To her right sat a shorter, more curly-haired version of her blonde fabulousness, and to the left a brunette with her hair sleeked back into a tight ponytail. I easily recognized both from the TV show. Elizabeth Ratski and Elizabeth DeCicco—the two "E"s.
"Dana!" Kendra called, hailing us from her table as we approached. I noticed that her manicure matched her heels in a beyond put-together look. I was suddenly glad I'd opted to change into a slim, a-line skirt and loose blouse before dropping the kids at my mom's again. I prayed both items of clothing were still baby food free.
"Kendra, it's so good to see you again," Dana said, doing an air-kiss greeting before introducing me. "This is my good friend, Maddie Springer, the shoe designer."
Kendra nodded my way and introduced the two E's.
"Beth Ratski," the curly-haired blonde said, sticking her hand out. "My husband plays first base."
I shook her hand, glossing over the fact that I knew very well who her husband was and how he'd gotten a black eye yesterday afternoon, quickly moving on to the brunette who did a repeat of the hand shake.
"Liz," she told me. "Right field."
"I know," I admitted this time. "I watch the show."
Turns out I could not have come in with a better intro as all three beamed at me as if the cameras were on them right then.
"Oh, I'm so embarrassed," Kendra said. "They completely take things out of context in the editing room, don't they?" she asked the two E's.
Both women nodded in vigorous agreement. "Completely," they said in unison.
"I mean, they make it look as if we're 24/7 drama queens," Kendra went on.
"Speaking of drama," Dana said, lowering her voice. "I couldn't believe it when I heard about Bucky's girlfriend."
An instant pall came over the wives, their expressions shifting to appropriately morose. "A terrible tragedy," Kendra agreed, sipping her drink.
The E's did a repeat of their nodding routine. "Terrible," they said in freaky unison again.
"Did you ladies know her well?" I asked.
Liz snorted, then quickly tried to cover it in a cough.
"We knew her," Kendra said, carefully. "But she was not one of us."
"Meaning?" Dana asked.
"She wasn't on the show," Beth said. She paused. "At least not yet."
Kendra shot Beth a look that clearly said to keep her commentary to nods.
"Yet? Was she joining the show?" I asked.
"With Bucky's batting average so high, the producers were talking about including her next season," Kendra conceded. "But I doubt it would have actually happened."
"Why is that?" Dana asked, pouring a mimosa for each of us.
"Well, for one thing, she wasn't a baseball wife now was she?" Kendra said, smirking at the exclusivity of her club.
"Plus, she didn't fit in," Liz offered.
"How so?" I asked.
Liz cleared her throat, then shot a glance Kendra's way as if asking for permission to continue. "Well, Lacey worked for me. At my clothing boutique, Bellissima?" she said, her voice going up in a question at the end.
I nodded my encouragement. "I've heard of it." And I had. While it wasn't rivaling Kitson, thanks to the TV show, it had gained some popularity among the celebrity shopping set.
"Anyway, that's how Bucky met her. He and my husband came in the boutique to take me to lunch one day, Lacey was there, and, well…trust me, I never thought Bucky'd get involved with an employee."
I tried not to roll my eyes. I was pretty sure these three women weren't born with silver baseball mitts on their hands, but they were clearly drawing social lines in the sand now.
"I tried to discourage him from getting serious with Lacey," Liz continued.
"We all did," Beth jumped in, nodding.
"I take it you weren't friends?" Dana asked.
"God, no. She was such a gold digger and a total poser," Beth blurted out. Then she yipped, and I could have sworn Kendra kicked her under the table.
"Posing how?" I prodded, turning my attention to the brunette at the table.
"Well," Liz answered, shooting a glance at Kendra again. "We called her the 'knock-off' queen. Once she stopped working for me, she'd come to the ballpark in a Juicy cap, with Dolce jeans, a Michael Kors top, and a Coach bag. Everything was label with her."
"But it was all fake," Beth added.
"Cheap knock-offs," Kendra clarified. "I mean, I don't know who she thought she was fooling. We all knew she didn't have the kind of money for that stuff."
"She couldn't have gotten it from Bucky?" I asked.
Liz snorted again. "Honey, Bucky doesn't have any money."
"Wait, isn't he looking at MVP this year?" I asked, sure that celebrity ball players made some money.
"Possible MVP. My husband is doing very well this year, too," Kendra clarified.
"Bucky was a rookie last year," Liz explained. "He signed a five year contract at league minimum. If he keeps playing the way he is, he might be able to renegotiate next year, but as it stands, he's making about as much as my son's kindergarten teacher."
"Ouch. He must not be too thrilled about that," I said.
But Kendra shrugged. "It's the way things work. All of us went through it with our husbands when they were rookies, too. Of course, not all of us resorted to garish knock-offs like Lacey did…" she said, trailing off as if that sin was reason enough for her demise.
"I felt so sorry for Bucky," Beth said. "He deserved someone with some class, you know."
"We heard they were having problems?" Dana jumped in. "Lacey and Bucky?"
"Bucky is all Midwestern charm, but the kid's naïve," Kendra told us. "He fell for her façade."
"But he's no idiot," Beth piped up. "I mean, she was only dati
ng him for the status, you know? And he caught onto Lacey's celebrity seeking."
Liz shot her a look.
"What? He did," she said. Clearly Beth didn't catch the subtle undercurrent of guilt she was casting on Bucky.
"How do you know he caught on?" I pressed before Kendra could kick her into silence again.
"I heard them arguing. It was after a game last week."
"What were they arguing about?"
Beth's eyes cut to Kendra and Liz, both giving her hard stares. She licked her lips. "Well, I don't know for sure. I mean, they were arguing, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. Bucky just looked…upset. Sorta…" she trailed off, grabbing her mimosa to cover the heat creeping into her cheeks.
While these women had no problem airing the dirtiest of their laundry on TV, it seemed they were reluctant to let it out in person. I wondered if it was because they were saving the drama for the camera or if they had something to hide.
Either way, it was looking more and more like Ling and Marco's CNN-fueled theory might be right. The boyfriend really was the most likely suspect.
* * *
I swung by Mom's place to pick up the twins before heading home, and when I pulled into my driveway, I was surprised to see Ramirez's black SUV already there. A foreboding hit the pit of my stomach. Ramirez home in the middle of the day was a rare occurrence even when he didn't have a celebrity murder on his hands. And the foreboding only grew as soon as I opened the front door and heard banging in the kitchen.
"Jack?" I asked tentatively, setting the twins down in their play yard in the living room.
No answer. Just more banging.
I poked my head around the doorframe into the kitchen. Ramirez had a jar of pickles, a can of olives, and a sliced ham on the counter. He grabbed mustard from the fridge and squirted it on a hunk of ham, which he then stuffed into his mouth.
"Hey?" I asked. "Home for lunch?"
He grunted, shoved more ham into his mouth, then chewed violently.
Homicide in High Heels Page 4