"Of course you have a banquet table, silly," Marco said, giving me a sly grin. "Where else was I going to put the ice sculpture?"
That tick was coming back with full force, "Marco I think we need to talk," I started.
However, that's as far as I got before a guy in a Crocodile Dundee outfit burst through the back door. "I've lost Matilda!"
I shot Marco a look. "Do I want to know who or what Matilda is?"
Marco shrugged. We both turned questioning eyes on Dundee.
"My Amethyst."
"Amethyst…" I had a bad feeling about this.
"Python. Snake," he said, looking in the bushes near the door. "My poor baby snake."
I froze, the creepy crawlies slithering up my spine. "Uh, just how big is this 'baby?'"
"She's just a young thing," Dundee assured me.
I sighed in relief.
"Only about ten feet."
"There's a ten foot snake loose in my yard?!"
"Not for long," Dundee said, shaking his head. "Matilda prefers warm, cozy places. Small, dark." He paused. "A bit like your house."
I threw my hands up. "I get it! My house is small!" I took a couple of deep breaths, that tick starting to vibrate my entire brain, causing a headache that it would take copious amounts of alcohol to fix.
"Maddie, now, don't you stress," Marco said, putting an arm around my shoulder. "Auntie Marco will take care of everything. That's why I'm here. You just go relax. Take a bubble bath or something."
I shot him a death look. "I'd love to. But there might be a python in my bathtub."
Marco shook his head. "Nonsense. Big Red is practicing his juggling in there. I'm sure he'd see a ten foot snake if it was in the bathtub."
I ground my teeth together. "The clown is back?"
Marco blinked innocently at me. "You weren't serious about firing him, were you?"
I heard a low, menacing growl. I'm pretty sure it came from me.
I whipped out my cell, pushing past the guy in the safari outfit crawling on all fours, crooning, "Here, Matilda, baby." I pulled up Ramirez's number and quickly shot off a text.
To avoid another murder, I'm joining you at Mama's.
* * *
Ramirez's mother lived in Hacienda Heights, which was a quick half-hour drive down the 60 into the San Gabriel Valley, a sleepy little suburb of Los Angeles. The yards were generous, the houses 50's style ranches, the neighborhoods unpretentious, and the occupants lifers of the burbs. There was something I always found comforting about driving into these family neighborhoods which had sat largely unchanged for the last fifty years. Go karts might've been swapped out for Razor scooters and checker boards for iPads, but the rhythm of life was still the same: work hard, come home, eat pot roast, and mow the lawn on Sunday.
Mama's house was nestled between two others of the identical style, with minor additions of converted garages and picket fences over the years. There was a tricycle outside on her lawn, a couple of soccer balls wedged into the bushes, and a driveway filled with late-model sedans in various states of wear. Even as I parked at the curb, I could smell the heavenly scents of cinnamon, cumin, and chocolate wafting from Mama's kitchen. Instantly my blood pressure went down ten points.
I knocked twice on the door before pushing inside. "Hello?" I called.
I was greeted by the hum of a television in the corner, tuned to an old Western movie, mingled with the sounds of low snoring emanating from the older man snoozing in an easy chair under a brightly colored Afghan. The screeches and squeals of children carried in from the back yard, accompanied by someone singing a soft melody with an acoustic guitar. And above all of that was the high pitched sound of five different women speaking in rapid Spanish in the kitchen.
"Hello?" I asked, poking my head into the room.
Five heads turned my way.
"Ay, linda, so good to see you!" Mama said, enveloping me in a warm hug. Mama was a few inches shorter than I was, a few pounds heavier, and a whole lot more domestic.
"Good to see you too, Mama," I told her, meaning it.
"You came at just the right time," Mama told me.
"Oh?" I asked, looking over her head to the rest of the women assembled in the small kitchen. Three smiling, well-lined faces rimmed with salt and pepper hair—and one scowling face punctuated with heavy Goth make-up—stared back at me. Ramirez's aunts, Swoozie, Cookie, and Kiki, collectively just known as The Aunts, were the owners of the smiling faces. The scowling face belonged to Ramirez's sister, BillieJo. Then again, if I'd been saddled with a name like BillieJo, I might spend life scowling as well. As Ramirez had told it, when his parents had immigrated from Mexico, his mother had learned English watching reruns of TV Westerns and named each of her children after one of her favorite characters. He'd just been glad he hadn't been stuck with Maverick.
"Yes," Mama told me. "We need you to settle a dispute."
Uh-oh. A "dispute" was never good, and the one who settled it was never popular with everyone. "Uh, what kind of dispute?"
"Well," Cookie said, gesturing toward a tray with circles of fried dough, sitting on the counter. "Clearly we should sprinkle these buñuelos with cinnamon and sugar now."
"And I say," Mama piped up loudly, "you drizzle with honey."
"Nonsense," Kiki argued. "Cinnamon and sugar is the traditional way to do it."
"Abuelita always used honey and cinnamon," Swoozie countered.
"Abuelita was ninety years old and half blind," Cookie said. "She mixed Bengay in her pozole."
Mama sucked in a quick breath. "Don't you disparage Abuelita's cooking. Abuelita made the best pozole in all of Mexico."
Kiki leaned in close, whispering to me. "Well, it loosened up the joints at least." She gave me a wink.
"I say we stick with tradition," BillieJo piped up. "Our Hispanic heritage is very important for us to pass down to the younger generation. Don't you think, Maddie?" She gave me a pointed look.
"Uh…yes?"
BillieJo narrowed her eyes at me.
"You loco," Mama said, rolling her eyes. "What is tradition if it tastes bland?"
"Maddie, you are the deciding vote," Kiki told me. "How do you make your buñuelos?"
"Uh…my buñuelos?" The truth was, I made all of my Mexican cookies by going to the bakery three blocks down from our house. "Well, you know, I really think there's no wrong way to top a cookie."
Five voices gasped in unison. Mama put a hand to her heart. BillieJo's eyes narrowed into fine slits. Kiki grasped onto the counter to keep herself upright.
"Maddie," Mama whispered reverently, "buñuelos are fritters. Not cookies."
Oh boy.
"Is that Margaritas?" I asked pointing to a pitcher of lime colored deliciousness sitting on the well-worn kitchen table. Before anyone could answer, I quickly poured myself a glass and made for the back door.
Luckily, I spied my husband across the yard, sitting at a long wooden picnic table under a tree strung with twinkling white lights. The twins were sitting happily on a blanket on the grass nearby, surrounded by an army of cousins who tickled their cheeks and spoke in rapid Spanish. The babies giggled back.
I sank down beside my husband and took a long sip of my drink, ending in a contented sigh. Tequila had never tasted so good.
"This was a good idea," I told him.
He nodded and held up his own Margarita glass in a cheers motion. "How's the house look?" he asked.
I shook my head. "You don't want to know."
"He's not going to do this every year, is he?"
"I can't make a promise like that," I told him.
He grinned and sighed, tossing an arm around my shoulders. "I'm sure it'll be a wonderful party."
I raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay why are you in such a good mood?"
Ramirez gave me a lopsided grin, holding up his glass again. "You got a little catching up to do, kid. This isn't my first round."
I laughed, taking a sip from my own glass.
"
So how was your day?" Ramirez asked.
I quickly filled him in on what I'd learned at the boutique about Lacey being fired, the "unaccounted for" money, and her dinner out with Ratski. I was just about to tell him about Kendra's interesting phone call when my cell buzzed with the text. I looked down to see Dana's face on my screen and swiped it, bringing up her message.
Check LA informer website.
Uh-oh.
I quickly pulled up the site on my phone, fearing I'd find more photos of Dana and Ratski pasted all over the internet. I had to stifle a giggle when I saw what actually came up. Apparently one of the extras on the Sunset Studios lot must've had a phone handy when Ricky went after Ratski, because there, in bold living color, was a picture of one of the Stars players being laid out by a "pretty boy" movie star. He'd gotten Ratski just as he'd gone to the ground, blood trickling from his nose, a look of complete surprise on his face. Ricky towered over him, looking every bit the action star.
I quickly shot a text back to Dana.
Ricky okay?
Couple seconds later, her response buzzed in.
He's great. He's totally trending. his agent says he should punch more celebrities
I stifled another giggle. (Wow, the margarita was working its magic!)
"What's so funny?" Ramirez asked, leaning over my shoulder to take a look at the phone. I showed him the picture as I relayed the entire scene between the two men. When I finished, Ramirez chuckled softly, the rumbling sound warm and vibrating through his chest. "I knew there was something I liked about that Ricky. I'm assuming Ratski didn't press charges?"
I shook my head. "No. He thought better of it." I paused. Something about the scene was niggling at the back of my head. Something that just wasn't right. I took another sip of my margarita. "His wife, Beth, was beside herself. I feel sorry for her," I said, meaning it not for the first time.
Ramirez nodded. "I feel sorry for anyone forced to spend time with that pendejo."
I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but I had a feeling it wasn't a warm-fuzzy.
"Hey, any luck getting that warrant on Bucky's place?" I asked, sipping my drink again.
He nodded. "Yep. Turns out Bucky had a whole bottle of his cousin's ADD meds."
I perked up.
"Unfortunately, the crime lab confirmed that these meds were not the same chemical composition as the stuff that killed Lacey. Close, but not exact."
"Damn. Did they find anything else?"
Ramirez shook his head. "They did a pretty thorough search of his place, but didn't find anything to indicate Bucky pulled the trigger, so to speak."
"Great, so we're back to square one with the murder weapon."
"Sorry, babe," Ramirez said, nuzzling his lips into my hair.
And as my husband used his term of endearment to comfort me, it suddenly dawned on me what had been wrong with the scene I'd witnessed today.
"She called him pooh bear!" I said, sitting up straight in my seat.
Ramirez looked over at me. "What?"
"Ratski's love letters. They weren't addressed 'pooh bear.' They all called him 'shmoopy.'"
"So his wife used a different term of endearment in her letters?"
I shook my head. "I don't think so. I think those letters were from someone else."
"Lacey?"
"Possibly." I bit my lip. "But, you know, everything I've learned about Lacey doesn't suggest that she was the sentimental type. I have a hard time picturing her writing schmaltzy letters. Going out to dinner with him, shaking him down for money, maybe even sleeping with him and threatening to tell his wife. But those letters were more like love letters than sexting, you know?"
"Okay, how about scenario number two," Ramirez offered. "Ratski was seeing someone else and Lacey found out about it. Then she blackmailed him, threatening to tell his wife."
I chewed my lip some more. "I like that theory."
Ramirez took another sip from his glass. "All right. So who do we think Ratski was seeing? One of the other wives?"
I shrugged. Honestly, I really wish I knew. I didn't see either Kendra or Liz being the type to go for Ratski. Then again, who was the type to go for Ratski, I had no clue.
Fortunately I knew one person who apparently had the 411 on all the celebrity gossip. I looked down at the website displayed on my phone's screen. While Felix Dunn and I hadn't always seen eye-to-eye, my friendship with the L.A. Informer's editor had, at times, proven useful. I hoped this was going to be another one of those times.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I woke up with a hell of a hangover, surrounded by pink sheets covered in Hello Kitty designs. I blinked, sitting up, and almost knocked over my husband who was crammed into the twin bed beside me.
"Unh," he grunted, grabbing me around the middle to keep from hitting the orange shag carpeting beneath him.
That's when I remembered. After telling Mama about the disaster at my house, she'd insisted that we spend the night in BillieJo's old room. BillieJo had given me more of the eye, which, considering her current Goth craze was almost disconcerting enough to have me scheduling a hex cleansing with Mrs. Rosenblatt. But when I weighed her evil eye versus my snake and clown infested house the evil eye had won, hands down.
"Don't get up. Babies still sleeping," Ramirez grunted out, caveman style. His hand strayed from my middle to cup my panty-clad booty.
I swatted it away. "Not here," I hissed. Besides the dozen or so eyes of BillieJo's discarded Cabbage Patch dolls staring at me from the pink dresser by the door, the babies were slumbering softly in a pack-n-play in the corner.
Ramirez paused, opening one sleepy eye. "You got somewhere else in mind?"
I swatted him again. "You have a one track mind," I whispered.
"Yeah, but you love it." He nuzzled his lips into the crook of my neck.
He had me there. I did love it.
And on any other day, I might have suggested an early-morning jaunt to the shower. But as it was, the long day ahead was looming over me. On my to-do list: 1) get a tabloid editor's help to catch a killer, 2) attend my kids' 1st birthday party, 3) not kill my party planner. All three seemed equally daunting at the moment.
I slipped from beneath the sheets, awkwardly trying to climb over my husband.
"Where you going?" he asked, sleepily cocking one eye at me.
"I have a couple of things I need to follow up on," I said, hoping he wouldn't question me more. While I viewed Felix Dunn as an old friend, Ramirez might have had a slightly different opinion of the tabloid editor.
My history with Felix had more ups-and-downs than a Six Flags rollercoaster. I'd first met him after he'd reported on one of my run-ins with a dead body. Since then, Felix's and my paths had crossed several times—some of them good, some bad, but all unforgettable. Felix had been the thorn in my side, my partner in crime, and I'd even viewed him once or twice as my road not taken.
There'd been a point before our marriage when Ramirez and I had almost ended things over my complicated relationship with Felix. While I had no regrets about the direction of my life, I knew my husband and Felix were not destined to be the best of buddies. Which is why, while I wasn't exactly lying to my husband, I was going to spare him the details of my morning's plans.
"I promise I'll be back in time for the party," I reassured him as I scootched to the end of the bed.
Ramirez groaned. "Do we really have to go to that?"
"Probably." Even though I'd been wondering the same thing myself.
He grunted and rolled over again, causing the sheets to fall down his torso. Even after years of marriage, I couldn't help a warm little flutter in my stomach at the sight of his bared pecs and six-pack that would make Budweiser jealous. I briefly contemplated that shower again…
* * *
I'm woman enough to admit it had been a while since I'd braved the morning L.A. traffic. I twiddled my thumbs along the 60. I did a little drumming on my steering wheel to the radio as we crossed to the 101. And I
did a little cursing at the other drivers as I crawled along the 170 into Hollywood behind an SUV with a stick figure family in the window.
I stopped off at home just long enough to grab a fresh change of clothes—a pale peach wrap dress that was soft, summery, and appropriate for both morning snooping and an afternoon party for tiny tots—and an hour and fifteen minutes later I was finally pulling into the lot behind the big gray building that housed the L.A. Informer offices. I rode the elevator up to the second floor, and as the doors slid open I was immediately assaulted by the sound of computer keyboards clacking and conversations via speaker phone about everything from Miley Cyrus's tongue acrobatics to Madonna's latest grill.
I gave myself a moment to overcome the sensory overload before crossing the crowded newsroom floor to Felix's glass-walled office in the center. The doors were closed, but I could see him inside, shouting and waving his arms wildly as he talked into his earpiece. I did a short rap on the door, causing him to spin around midsentence. He raised one eyebrow in question but motioned me in with a wave.
"No, that is absolutely not what I said we were printing," came Felix's voice, his British accent more pronounced than usual as he shouted at the person on the other end of the line. "I said we would be going with the swimsuit pictures, not the yacht photos." He paused, listening to someone on the other end of his tirade. "I don't care what her manager said. If she's going to go traipsing around Belize in a thong, her cellulite is fair game for our photographers."
Felix motioned me to a chair in front of his desk as he paused for the unfortunate soul's response again. I sat self-consciously, crossing one leg over the other as I smoothed down the skirt of my dress.
"Damn right we are. And you can tell her manager that, too!" he yelled, hitting a button on his earpiece to end the call.
Then he turned to me. "And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Maddie?" His voice was suddenly all charm, no sign of the previous tirade in it.
Felix was old enough that fine laugh lines creased his eyes but young enough that he could still pull off a look of boyish charm when his mouth curved into a lopsided grin. His sandy hair was slightly tussled, his blue eyes always sharp and assessing, and since getting the upgrade in occupation from tabloid reporter to editor-in-chief, Felix's wardrobe had undergone a slight upgrade as well, morphing from khakis and sketchers to wool slacks and Oxfords. Though he still sported his white button-down shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and in need of a good ironing. His look was casual and somehow polished all at the same time. It fit considering the L.A. Informer was slowly becoming one of Hollywood's premier entertainment news sources…yet they still ran the occasional story on Bigfoot's alleged love child with one of the Honey Boo-boo girls.
Homicide in High Heels Page 14