I wandered over to the display of photos near the stage. Bucky and Lacey at the ballpark, at charity events, hand in hand as he received some award. The wives had been right about Lacey's designer label fetish. In every one Lacey was wearing an obvious designer piece. A Channel logo bracelet, a Gucci branded jacket. I had to admit, they might have been knock-offs, but she knew the hot labels.
I sipped at my drink, honing in on another photo of Lacey, this time cheering for Bucky from the stands at a Stars game. She had her feet up on the empty seats in front of her, doing a diva pose for the cameras with a sassy smile.
But it wasn't the playful smirk on her face that caught my eye. It was her shoes. They were black ankle straps with a gold clasp on the side fashioned into the familiar "BR" logo of one of my fave designers, Berto Raul. I knew those shoes. I knew them because I had an order in for a pair, but they weren't out yet until next month. Meaning there was no way a made-in-China knock-off could have been put into production yet. The only way Lacey could have gotten a pair of those shoes was by purchasing at a runway show directly from the designer.
My eyes quickly scanned the rest of the photos, squinting at the details of her other outfits as I realized the Baseball Wives were wrong. Lacey was not wearing knock-offs. This wardrobe was the real deal.
So where had Lacey gotten the money for it?
CHAPTER SIX
I knew something was wrong as soon as I got home. The house was quiet. And it smelled like…I paused, sniffing the air in my foyer…Windex? Alarm bells immediately went off in my head.
"Jack? You guys okay?" I called out.
Ramirez popped his head in from the kitchen, putting a finger to his lips. "Shhh. The little ones are down."
I glanced at the clock above the mantel. "Already?"
He grinned. "We had a lot of playtime. They were tuckered out."
"Huh," I said, wandering into the living room, expecting to see the toy explosion that normally accompanied playtime. Only I felt my feet freeze as I scanned the room. The play yard was spotless, the toys all tucked neatly into the toy box in the corner. The floors were crumb-free, and even the babies' blankets had been folded into tidy little squares on the sofa.
"You…cleaned?" I asked, choking out the last word.
I felt Ramirez come up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. "Well, don't sound so surprised."
I swallowed. "I'm not," I lied. "I'm just…how did you manage the time to do this?"
He turned me around and blinked at me as if not understanding the question. "I told you the twins went to sleep."
I tried to shove down a tiny feeling of suddenly being outshined in the parenting department. Most nights that Ramirez worked late, I barely survived the twin's two-pronged assault of play time, dinner time, and trying-to-get-two-crying-babies-to-sleep time. I couldn't think of a single night I'd had them down early and had energy left to fold blankets, let alone Windex.
"How was the party?" Ramirez asked, pulling my thoughts away from Mr. Mom's surprising performance as he led me to the sofa.
"Good." I sank down in the cushions, slipping my heels off one at a time.
"You talked to Blanco?"
I nodded. "I did. And the alibi is shaky." I told him what I'd learned about their trip to the gym as well as my findings about Lacey's wardrobe choices.
Ramirez frowned when I'd finished. "So, she wears nice stuff. What kind of money we talking here?"
"You're cute. Nice stuff? You want to know how much these nice shoes cost me?" I asked, gesturing to my snakeskin pumps.
"Something tells me I don't."
I grinned. "Smart man. Let's just say in those pictures at the memorial alone, Lacey was probably wearing at least two grand per outfit."
Ramirez's eyes went round, then shot down to my shoes. "Those are why we're a two income household aren't they?"
I gave him a playful punch on the arm. "My point is that Lacey was spending a lot more than people thought she was. It could be the reason she and Bucky were fighting. Maybe she was trading on his credit or his celebrity status, looking to milk him once the contract negotiations went through next year. Maybe he found out and wasn't too happy."
Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. "Wow. Look at you, all coming up with theories and stuff."
I couldn't help a small lift of pride. "Well, hey, it's not like I Windexed or anything."
Ramirez frowned as if not understanding the reference.
"Anyway," I went on, "I know one person who would know how Lacey was paying for her extravagant lifestyle."
"Who?"
"Faux Dad. He said she was in the salon all the time. If she was paying on credit, he'd know about it. Who knows, Lacey might have even confided some of her relationship woes to him. He is her stylist after all."
The corner of Ramirez's mouth lifted. "As long as we're not asking him to break his stylist-client privilege."
I swatted him again. "Very funny. Hey, I thought I did a darn good job tonight."
"You did." He pulled me closer, his arms going around my waist again. "Now how about we take the rest of this conversation into the bedroom?"
Now that was an offer I couldn't refuse.
* * *
The next morning I got up early, showered, dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, hot pink ballet flats, and a loose kimono style silk top. Then I grabbed a cup of coffee, kissed my husband on the cheek, and wished him well with Operation Mr. Mom as I headed out the door. Half an hour later I pushed through the glass front doors of Fernando's. The crime scene tape was gone now, the residue of fingerprint dust cleanly washed away. The only thing that betrayed that any sort of tragedy had occurred here was the fact that half of the styling stations were empty.
As soon as I walked in I noticed two people at the reception desk standing next to Marco who were clearly not clients. The first was a short, portly guy with a trendy-two-years-ago soul patch on his chin and shoes that were shined within an inch of their lives. The second was a woman with short, dark hair wearing a utilitarian pant-suit and low-healed loafers. Even if she hadn't been standing next to Marco—who was a vision in a white leather jumpsuit with lilac accents today—she would have looked drab enough to blend into any background.
"So you were the one who scheduled Lacey for her tan?" the woman asked Marco, looking down at an electronic tablet in her hands.
"Y-yes. I schedule everyone."
"Including the deceased?" the guy pressed.
Marco swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes, Officer Hardy."
"Detective," he corrected.
"Sorry," Marco mumbled.
"This scheduling book was in your possession the entire morning?" the woman, who I deduced to be the Laurel in the duo, asked.
"Yes."
The two detectives gave each other a meaningful look.
"Wait—no!" Marco amended. "I mean, yes, it was here at my desk, but anyone could have seen it."
"Did they?" Laurel asked.
"I-I don't know. Maybe. I mean, they must have because someone killed her, and it wasn't me," Marco squeaked out.
More meaningful looks were exchanged, then Laurel jotted something on her tablet.
"What are you writing?" Marco asked.
"Back to the book," Hardy said. "Where did you keep it?"
"Here," Marco said, slapping his hand on the reception desk for emphasis.
"So you're saying anyone who came through those doors," Hardy said, pointing to the ones I'd just entered through, "could have seen this book."
Marco nodded vigorously.
"Okay, who came in that day?" Laurel asked.
Marco swallowed again. "I don't know. The other clients. The staff. I think I saw the UPS guy."
"You think or you did?" Hardy pressed.
"I-I don't know. I mean, I wasn't watching the doors like a hawk. I had to grab Mrs. Johnson a smock, and Jennie needed more acetone in her kit, and I did use the little boys' room a couple of times."
"Hmph," Hardy said, nodding
to Laurel, who jotted down more notes.
Marco paled. "What? What is she writing now?"
"Thank you for your time," Laurel said, slamming the cover on her tablet shut instead of answering. "We'll be in touch if we need anything more."
"And don't go anywhere," Hardy told him, stabbing a chubby finger his way as the two left the salon, Laurel's heels shuffling on the floor and Hardy leaving a wake of cheap cologne behind him.
"Ohmigod, Mads," Marco cried as soon as they left. "Did you see the way they were looking at me? They think I had something to do with Lacey's death!"
"I'm sure that's not true," I said, patting him on the shoulder. "Those were just routine questions."
"This is an absolute nightmare. We're all living under a cloud of suspicion here."
"I'm sure it will blow over soon," I said, doing more patting.
"You know we had three cancelations this morning alone?"
I glanced behind him to the nearly empty salon. Two women were getting pedis and just one lone woman sat in the styling chairs, Faux Dad hard at work coloring her long locks.
"One of our stylists quit this morning, Maddie," he went on. "She said she couldn't come back to the scene of such carnage. Carnage, Maddie!" He threw his hands in the air for emphasis, his leather outfit squeaking in protest.
I bit my lip. I had to admit, things were not looking rosy for Fernando's at the moment.
"Listen, you think you could fix this for me?" I asked, holding up my still chipped nail. In all that had happened in the last two days, I'd yet to get it fixed.
Marco nodded. "Sure. It's not like we're busy," he said glumly, leading me to a nail station in the center of the salon. Twenty minutes later I was buffed, trimmed, and shellacked, letting my nails dry under UV light as Faux Dad finished with his client.
He shuffled toward me, much the same glum look on his face that I'd seen on Marco's. Only on Faux Dad the bad mood made everything sag from his fleshy cheeks to the bags growing under his eyes.
"You don't look so hot," I said honestly.
"I don't feel so hot. I was up all night reading the L.A. Informer's sensational take on our salon."
I cringed. I could just imagine the field day the tabloid was having with the Tanning Salon Murder.
"Maybe you should close the salon for a bit and take some time off?" I suggested.
But he shook his head violently. "No way. We need to show the world a brave face and carry on."
While I wasn't sure just how much bravery was involved in doing cut and colors, I nodded. "I understand."
"Is Ramirez making any headway on the case?" he asked, sitting at the empty table next to me.
"We're, uh, working on it," I hedged. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Ramirez was out, and I was now his best chance at clearing the salon's image. Instead, I changed the subject. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Lacey."
"Sure, though I'm not sure what I can tell you that I didn't tell the police."
"Did Lacey talk about Bucky much?"
Faux Dad pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the question. "Some. I mean, everyone chats a little while they're getting foiled and highlighted. But nothing out of the ordinary."
"What about any arguments or disagreements between them? Any trouble in paradise lately?"
But Faux Dad shook his head. "Nothing she confided in me." He paused. "Why? Do you think Bucky killed her?"
"It's possible. Someone said she saw them fighting a few days before Lacey was killed."
Faux Dad perked up.
"But," I added, trying not to get his hopes up too high, "Bucky may have an alibi."
"Oh." His jowls sagged back into a frown.
"Ralph, Lacey seems to have been spending an awful lot lately," I said, switching gears. "Can you tell me what kind of credit she was using here?"
Faux Dad shook his head. "Marco handles payments." He hailed the receptionist in question over, repeating my question to him.
"Oh, Lacey didn't pay with credit," Marco told us. "It was cash."
I paused. I'll admit, that was the last thing I'd been expecting to hear. "Wait—she paid cash. Like, actual greenbacks?"
He nodded. "I know. No one does that anymore, right?"
"Exactly how much cash was she throwing around here?" I asked them.
Faux Dad shrugged. "A lot."
"I guess I just assumed it was Bucky's," Marco added.
I bit my lip. I could see shop owners all over Beverly Hills assuming the same thing. Only, they'd all be wrong.
"Bucky didn't have that kind of money yet. Did she give any indication of where else she might have gotten it?" I grasped.
"I didn't ask," Marco admitted.
"I know she did work at a clothing boutique," Faux Dad piped up.
"Right. Liz DeCicco's place, Bellissima." I bit my lip. But I knew from my brunch with the Baseball Wives that Lacey hadn't been making bank at the boutique as a mere employee. So where had she gotten the money?
"Who has that much cash?" I mused out loud. I'd be hard pressed to find more than a twenty in my own wallet. Anything above-board and legal was all credit, debit, or direct deposit these days.
Marco raised his hand in the air like a kid in the back of the classroom. "Ooo, ooo, I know! A stripper! Ling always has stacks of twenties."
I pause. "Stacks of twenties?" I was seriously in the wrong profession.
"Maybe Lacey was working the pole, Bucky found out about it, and killed her," Marco said, running with his theory.
I scrunched up my nose. "I don't know. I doubt that she'd be so public about being Bucky's girlfriend if she had some secret life like that. I mean, it would take all of five seconds for someone at the tabloids to follow her around for a day and figure out she was a dancer, right?"
Marco's shoulders slumped. "Good point."
"Okay, so she wasn't stripping. What was she doing?"
"Do you think the Baseball Wives show gave her an advance?" Faux Dad asked. "I mean, she talked about the show all the time. She said the producers were thinking about putting her on next season. Maybe they fronted her some money?"
I nodded. While the other wives had made it sound like the show was far from a sure thing, it was certainly possible that Lacey had made some quiet deal with the producers behind their backs.
Unfortunately, finding out the details of her contract was beyond my snooping scope. I pulled my cell out, dialing home.
"Hey," Ramirez answered on the first ring. I could hear the sounds of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, two crying kids, and some toy that played the "Farmer in the Dell" in the background.
"Hey. You guys doing okay?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure. Great. Why wouldn't we be?"
"I don't know, it sounds a little—" I started.
But Ramirez cut me off by yelling, "Livvie, don't touch that! That is not food!"
"Um, what's not food?" I asked.
"Nothing. It's fine. What were you saying?"
"You sure you don't need me to come home and—"
"Nope," he said, quickly cutting me off again. "I'm fine. I got this." Then I heard him cover the mouthpiece, yelling again. "Do not put that in your mouth, Livvie."
"Uh, okay. Look, I was just wondering if you could do something for me, but I can call back later."
"Nope, we're fine. Shoot," he said. I had to admit, for how chaotic it sounded there, his voice was perfectly calm.
"I need some financial info on Lacey."
"You find something?" he asked.
"Maybe. She seems to have had more cash than we can account for," I said, filling him in on what Marco and Faux Dad had told me. "We're wondering if the show paid her an advance or something. Any way you can get that info?"
I heard him nodding on the other end. "I'm sure I can get someone at the station to float it to me. I'll call you as soon as I have something—Livvie, spit it out. Spit!"
"You sure you don't need me to—"
&nb
sp; "Hey, I gotta go, babe. Call if you find out anything new."
And before I could stop him, he hung up. My hands itched to hit redial. But if Ramirez said he had it under control, I had to trust him. Hey, he was trusting me with the investigation. It was a two way street, right? Besides, I was sure Livvie couldn't have put anything too bad in her mouth.
I hoped.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With Lacey's mysterious cash in Ramirez's capable hands, I decided to focus on the argument Beth had said she overheard between Lacey and Bucky. Let's face it, CNN was sometimes right—it usually was the boyfriend whodunit. Bucky was still my number one suspect, and the truth was I'd yet to talk to him.
As I left the salon, I pulled out my phone, dialing the number for Kendra's cell.
Four rings in, it was answered with a sing-song, "He-llo?"
"Hi Kendra, it's Maddie Springer. We met the other day?"
"Of course. Dana's friend."
"Yes. Listen, I was wondering if you know where I could find Bucky Davis today?"
She paused, and I could hear mental wheels turning. "May I ask why?" she asked.
"I, uh, never got to give him my condolences at the memorial yesterday," I said lamely.
But it must have been good enough for her, because she answered, "Well, he's at practice today. The whole team is."
"Oh." I was surprised to hear he was back at work so soon, and it must have shown in my voice.
"He says he needs to keep busy," Kendra explained. "Hitting a ball, getting testosterone out. You know, that's how guys do grief."
I guessed I could understand. Hey, if retail therapy helped me through hard times, who was I to judge someone using baseball therapy?
"I'm actually headed to the ballpark today to speak with the management about the charity fund in Lacey's name. Would you like me to put your name on the security list?" Kendra asked.
"Please!" I agreed, quickly jumping on the invite.
Kendra gave me direction to the player's entrance and told me she'd leave my name with the guard.
I detoured only long enough to hit a drive-through Starbucks for a mid-morning pick-me-up before jumping on the 2 and heading toward the stadium.
Homicide in High Heels Page 6