Miss Guns and Ammo dropped me off at my Santa Monica studio before heading off to class to show Rico her new “toys”. She tried to get me to come with her, saying they were going over frontal assaults tonight, but I begged off with the fact that I had to get some work done or my employer might threaten to fire me. Again. Which wasn’t a total lie. They hadn’t been too happy with the way my stabbing incident (not to mention marriage to Bigfoot!) had played across the front page, tarnishing their family-friendly image.
Ever since I was old enough to dress Barbie in her pink sparkly ball gowns, I’d dreamed of being a fashion model, strutting the runways of Paris in slinky couture and designer heels. However, by eighth grade it was painfully clear that even the highest stilettos weren’t going to help me achieve fashion model height. So, I did the next best thing, studying fashion design. Specifically shoes. Unfortunately, every failed model studies fashion and an actual paying job was harder to land than a contract with Cover Girl. Somehow I ended up at the only place that would take me. Tot Trots Children’s Shoe Designs. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly haute couture, but it paid the bills, I got to set my own hours, and my Spiderman flip-flops were the top-selling shoe at Payless last season. I was currently working on the Rainbow Brite jellies for the spring collection, complete with beaded shoe charms.
Paris, eat your heart out.
I let myself into my studio and checked my machine. The light was blinking. I dropped my pepper spray onto the counter and hit the play button.
“You have two new messages.”
Check me out. Maybe my social life was looking up.
I pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer (hey, shopping burns off a lot of calories, right?) while I listened to the first message.
“This is Felix Dunn with the Informer again. We plan to run a piece on you and we’d love to get a quote. Please call me back—”
Delete. You’d think by now the tabloids would have moved on to Jen’s newest flame or TomKat’s latest squabble. I mean, I only popped one boob!
I waited for the next message to start. There was a pause and some heavy breathing. Then, “I, uh, I’m looking for Madison Springer. I hope I have the right number. I saw your name in the paper. This is Larry.”
There was another pause.
“Your father.”
I stared at the phone, spoonful of Chunky Monkey suspended in midair as I blinked like mad at my machine. Did he just say what I thought he said?
Then I realized the message wasn’t over.
“I know it’s been a while. But I, uh, I read about you in the paper. How you helped the police last summer. And I could kind of use your help right now. I, uh…”
Another pause as I held my breath. There was the sound of movement in the background.
“Oh, god…what are you doing…no!”
I froze as a loud bang rang out from the machine, reverberating off the walls of my tiny studio apartment.
Maybe it was the evening of learning the difference between a .45 and .40 caliber weapon. Maybe it was the fact that last summer’s run-in with Miss Homicide was still just a little too fresh in my mind. Or maybe it was just my overactive imagination at work.
But my mind instantly hit on the source of the sound. A gunshot.
The machine clicked over.
Beep. “End of messages.”
Chapter Two
I stared at the phone, my breath lodged in my throat as my heart threatened to pound out of my rib cage. My body immediately remembered the last time I’d heard a gun go off—when it had been aimed at me!—and I went into panic mode. I grabbed the phone and dialed the first number I could think of. Ramirez.
It rang three times. Then I got his voice mail. Damn. I tried to calm my breathing as I waited for the beep.
“It’s Maddie. I think I’ve just been ear witness to another murder. My dad was shot. Not Faux Dad, the real dad. The hairy one. He got shot. Or he shot someone. I don’t know which. But there was definitely a gunshot and he was definitely there and he needed my help and now I think someone’s dead. Or dying. Or probably at least wounded. Call me.”
I hung up wishing I didn’t automatically go into blabber mode when crisis hit. Why couldn’t I be one of those calm, cool-headed women who could make a tourniquet out of a tampon and a gum wrapper? Instead I had to freak out like a little kid lost at the mall.
I dialed Mom’s number. It rang four times and the machine kicked on. “Hi, you’ve reached Betty…”
“…and Ralph,” my stepfather chimed in.
“We’re not here right now, so leave a number at the beep…”
“…or try us at the salon. Ciao!” Faux Dad finished.
I hung up. When Ramirez got my blabbering message he’d probably roll his eyes and make some comment about how girly I was. That, I could live with. Mom, on the other hand, would likely call in the National Guard to make sure I was okay. Which, in all honesty, I was.
It was the guy on the other end of the line who was in trouble.
My dad.
I sat down on my futon, absently shoving a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as I conjured up the image of that hairy arm waving goodbye from the El Camino window.
When I was deep in my teenage-angst phase I’d badgered my mom into talking about my father. Just once. She said they’d met at a Bob Dylan concert, that he was 6′1″, allergic to strawberries, and had run off to Vegas with some showgirl named Lola. When she got to the Lola part she broke down sobbing, the kind of racking tears that scared the crap out of my teenaged self. Needless to say, I hadn’t broached the subject since, and she hadn’t offered.
I wondered if he was still in Vegas. I grabbed the handset and scrolled down my call log. Out of area. Well, that didn’t tell me much. He could have been calling from anywhere.
And what kind of help did he need? Was he sick? Did he need a kidney? It would be just like a man to waltz back into my life after twenty-six years and ask for a vital organ.
Only he hadn’t sounded sick. He’d sounded…in trouble. In serious trouble, if that really was a gunshot. I tried not to picture him wounded or bleeding somewhere.
Maybe I should call 911. But what would I tell them? Someone somewhere might have been shot? I had no idea where he was, or even if it was, in fact, my father calling. I’d gotten more than one crank phone call since my brush with fame. And to be honest, the more I thought about it, the less sure I was that the sound was even an actual gunshot. Maybe it was just a car backfiring?
I shoved another big scoop of Chunky Monkey into my mouth, hoping that the creamy chocolate and banana goodness might calm me down.
Maybe it was a backfiring car and maybe it was a gunshot. Either way, my dad had called me. And first thing in the morning, it was time to take the crowbar to Mom’s memory again.
I was in the depths of a dream about being chased by a backfiring car driven by a one-eyed woman when the sound of my phone ringing woke me up. I halfheartedly grasped around in the general region of the handset but came up empty. I cracked one eye open to peek at the clock beside my bed. Seven A.M. I groaned. I hated morning people. My theory: If the malls don’t open until ten, what’s the point of being up earlier than that?
The phone rang two more times, then clicked over to the machine. I buried my head under my pillow as I listened to my own voice inform callers to leave a message. The machine beeped.
“Maddie? It’s Jack.”
I bolted upright in bed, flinging the pillow across the room. Ramirez.
“I got your message last night. What the hell is going on over there?”
I jumped out of bed, diving for the phone. Only the handset wasn’t on the cradle. I glanced around my studio apartment. Fold-out futon on one wall, drawing table against the other, piles of clothes and shoes everywhere else. Where was the phone?
“What’s all this about a gunshot? Are you okay?” He paused. “Look, I may be a little hard to get a hold of for the next few days, so if you’re t
here, pick up.”
I was trying to! I began digging under my clothes from the night before. I slipped my hands down in the futon cushions, checked under my drawing table, even started opening kitchen drawers. Where the hell had I put the thing?
Ramirez paused. “Well, I guess you’re not there. Fine. I’ll try back later.”
“No!” I screamed at him. Then I spied the handset peeking out of a Macy’s bag by the door. “Wait, wait, wait,” I chanted. I grabbed the handset and hit the on button.
Dial tone.
Crap.
I quickly redialed his number but wasn’t surprised to hear it go straight to voice mail again. Crap, crap, crap! I slammed the handset down in the cradle, taking out all my aggression on the poor GE appliance.
Since I was up anyway, I made a pot of strong coffee and hit the shower, doing a blow-dry and mousse thing afterward. As a concession to the pint of B&J’s I had single-handedly consumed the night before, I pulled on a comfortable pair of navy blue gaucho pants, paired with a tank top, navy shrug and knee-high brown calfskin boots. Overall, a pretty decent look for a breezy October day. Breezy translating to seventy-five and sunny, instead of the summer’s eighty-five and sunny forecast. We don’t believe in weather in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.
After a couple swipes of mascara and a touch of Raspberry Perfection on my lips, I was out the door.
Fernando’s salon was located on the ultra chic corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, one block north of Rodeo, smack in the middle of the Beverly Hills Golden Triangle. When Faux Dad had arrived on the west coast from Minnesota, he was just plain Ralph, a slightly paunchy, pale, middle-aged hairdresser. Knowing no one in L.A. would get their hair done at a salon called Ralph’s, he reinvented himself with a fictitious Spanish ancestry, spray-on tans twice a week, a salon in a prime Beverly Hills location and voila—Fernando was born, stylist to the very rich and semi-famous.
In addition to his cut and color talents, Faux Dad also had a passion for interior decorating. (Mom swears he’s not gay, though I still have my doubts.) Currently Faux Dad was going through a Tuscan phase, painting the walls with a rusty orange glaze and hanging bunches of plastic red grapes and leafy vines from the rafters. Gilt frames surrounding oil paintings of vineyards adorned the walls, and soft classical music mixed with the sounds of blow-dryers, sprayers, and juicy Beverly gossip. All in all, it was an atmosphere that screamed for a glass of pricey merlot.
“Maddie!” Marco, the receptionist, skipped out from behind his slick-looking computer as I entered the salon, attacking me with air kisses. Marco was slim enough, pretty enough, and wore enough eye makeup to compete on America’s Next Top Model, and probably win. “How are you, dahling?” he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.
“Suffering from a Ben & Jerry’s hangover.”
Marco clucked his tongue. “Aw, poor baby.”
“Are Mom and Ralph in yet?”
“Fernando,” Marco emphasized, chastising me with his heavily lined eyes, “is doing a body wave for Mrs. Simpson.” He leaned in, gesturing to the back of the salon. “Jessica’s Mom.”
“Ah.” I looked past the “crumbling” palazzo walls of the reception area and spotted Ralph talking to a blonde under a beehive dryer. “What about Mom?”
“Your mother’s in the back, doing a waxing for that psychic lady.”
That “psychic lady” was Mom’s best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt. Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred-pound, five-time divorcee who favored muumuus in neon colors and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn’t even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.
She and my mother met years ago when Mom went to Mrs. Rosenblatt for a psychic reading and claimed Mrs. R’s predictions came true the very next day. Okay, so the dark, handsome stranger she was supposed to meet turned out to be Barney, a chocolate Lab, but that was close enough for Mom. They’ve been firm friends ever since and Mom never goes more than five days without an aura cleanse from Mrs. R.
I thanked Marco and made my way through the humming dryers and chemical smells of the salon to the back room, reserved for fat wraps and facial waxing. At least, I hoped to god she was doing a facial. I’d only had one cup of coffee and witnessing Mrs. Rosenblatt get a bikini wax called for at least two cups. With a couple shots of whiskey.
I gave a tentative knock on the door.
“Uh, Mom? Got a sec?” I asked, slipping into the room painted with a fresco of the Italian hillside along the walls.
I was relieved to find Mom hovering over Mrs. Rosenblatt’s mustache, though I cringed just a little at her outfit. I love my mother. I really do. I just wish she didn’t insist on getting dressed in the dark. She was wearing electric blue stretch pants, pink leg warmers and a pink sweatshirt with the neck hole cut out, along with a pair of black high-top L.A. Gear sneakers, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since 1986. I think she was going for Jane Fonda chic but fell somewhere closer to Sweatin’ to the Oldies.
“Hi, hon,” she greeted me, waving a wax strip in my direction. “What brings you here?”
“You need a waxing?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, squinting at my upper lip. “Your mom’s a whiz with the wax.”
“Uh, no, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“You sure?” Mrs. R squinted again. “’Cause I could swear I see a little dust up there.”
I self-consciously felt my upper lip.
“’Course, you know Albert says there are some cultures that prize hairy women,” she continued.
Albert would know. In his earthly existence, Mrs. R claimed her spirit guide had been a New York Times fact checker.
“But then again, here in La-La-land hairy just means you ain’t been to the salon in a while. If I wanna get a date with that fox on the senior bowling league, I gotta lose the mustache.” Mrs. R winked at me. “The fox is Italian. They got them big hands and big noses and big…”
“Okay, hold still now.”
I’ll say this for my mother: She has excellent timing.
Mom pressed a strip onto Mrs. R’s upper lip, thankfully ceasing the flow of too-much-information before she could describe the fox’s other attributes.
“So, what does bring you down here today?” Mom asked, smoothing hot wax down in all directions.
“Well, I, I, uh…” I paused, not sure how best to drop the bombshell that my paternal half had not only contacted me, but might be dead in a ditch somewhere. “See I got this phone call, and…”
Mom looked up, waiting for me to finish, a small frown settling between her thickly penciled eyebrows. “What is it, Mads?”
I decided the least cruel way to do it was quick and painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Or a waxy bit of upper lip hair.
“Larry called me.”
Mom froze, her face going a shade of pale Nicole Kidman would be jealous of. Her mouth did an empty open and shut thing like a goldfish, then clamped into a thin tight line. “I see.”
She grabbed a corner of the wax strip and yanked with a force that made me cringe.
Mrs. Rosenblatt howled like a coyote.
So much for painless.
“Mom, are you okay?” I asked as she attacked the left side of Mrs. R’s face.
“Fine.” Mom’s lips were starting to turn white from being clamped together so tightly.
I rushed on, afraid she might attack my dust next. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, but he called last night and left a message on my machine. Only he didn’t say where he was calling from or leave a number or anything. He said he saw my name in the papers and…he needed my help.”
Mom’s lips remained clamped as she ripped the second strip. Tears welled in Mrs. Rosenblatt’s eyes.
“Oy, I hope that fox is worth this,” Mrs. R wailed, rubbing her lip.
Mom took a deep breath, closing her eyes in a little mini meditation. “What kind of help?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know. He…the machine cut him off befor
e he could say.” No sense in mentioning the gunshot until I knew for sure that it was one. Besides, Mom was proving to be dangerous with a wax kit in her hands, and despite the reasonable person in me, I was beginning to fear her.
“I see,” she said, clamping her lips together again.
I cleared my throat, wishing I didn’t have to do this. “Look, I know you two…” I trailed off, her eyes boring into me beneath her 1984 powder-blue eye shadow. “I know he ditched us for a showgirl, which makes him maybe not your favorite person.”
Mom made a sound like a snort.
“But despite all that, he is still my dad. And, well, I need to know. Do you know where he might be—”
But Mom cut me off, advancing on me with a fresh wax strip. “Madison Louise Springer, I refuse to discuss the man.”
I took one giant step back. When she used my full name, I knew she was serious. Generally my very Irish, very Catholic grandmother was the only person who called me Madison. Mom had only used my full name twice that I can remember. Once was in seventh grade, when I’d been caught under the bleachers with a high school sophomore, prompting Mom to explain in exhausting detail about the birds, the bees, and why I should wait until I was thirty to have any contact with the opposite sex again. And the second time was when I’d accidentally maxed out her credit card in a bout of post-breakup shopping when I was eighteen. That had earned me an entire summer working at Hot Dog on a Stick to pay her back. (I still have nightmares about those hats.)
“He left,” Mom said. “End of story.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but was stopped by Mrs. Rosenblatt laying a thick palm on my forehead.
“Hold on, bubbee, I’m getting a vision.” Mrs. Rosenblatt rolled her eyes back in her head until she looked like an extra from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. “I see feathers and lipstick. Lots of red lipstick.” She paused. “Did your father ever work in cosmetics testing?”
Killer in High Heels Page 2