Fifteen minutes later a gold minivan pulled up in front of Jasmine’s house, and I watched from the window as the occupants burst out. Mom was first (in peg-legged white pants, an oversize Day-Glo green T-shirt tied at her hip in a large knot, and penny loafers with no socks), then Molly (waddling due to her ever-growing belly encased in a huge maternity dress that looked like a tent with eyelets), all four of my cousin’s kids (in various states of sticky-mouth, sucking on leftover piñata candy as two of them wielded some sort of Nerf noodles and popped the unarmed one on the head), the Terror (blowing big, fat spit bubbles that dribbled down his chin onto his Baby Gap sweatshirt as he wailed), and, last but not least, Mrs. Rosenblatt (in a bright orange-and-red muumuu and Birkenstocks). Oh, yeah. And Pablo.
“Squawk. Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Squawk. Yeah, don’tcha?”
“What the hell is that thing?” Jasmine asked beside me, gesturing to the cage dangling from Mrs. Rosenblatt’s chubby hand.
“That is the best distraction ever.”
I peeked between the curtains as Molly’s kids ran circles around the lawn, Molly waddling after them and yelling at the munchkins to stop hitting their siblings. Connor wailed as he got whacked in the side of the head by a noodle. Mom picked up Connor, who promptly tried to wiggle out of her grip, doing the patented toddler back arch. Mrs. Rosenblatt told Pablo to stop singing or he was going back to the salon in a teeny-tiny body bag. Molly’s eldest found a pile of doggie doo on the lawn and starting singing about doggies that made “hunks of stinky chunks.” And above it all, Pablo screeched, “A freak like me!”
Officer Mustache didn’t know where to look, his gaze ping-ponging between the players straight out of a madcap British comedy.
Some days I loved my family.
“Let’s go.” I grabbed Jasmine by the sleeve, and we slipped out the side door, making a beeline for the garage. Jasmine unlocked a tiny yellow Miata and hopped behind the wheel. No wonder she existed on a diet of vitamin water and Tic Tacs. Any bigger and there was no way she would have fit in her toy car. I dove into the passenger seat and ducked down, crossing my fingers as she pulled out of the garage, backed into the street, and punched it down the road. I waited for the sound of sirens to follow us. I held my breath, counting to four-Mississippi before I peeked my head up.
“Coast clear?”
“Yep.” Jasmine nodded, her eyes shining. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was enjoying this.
I pulled out my cell and dialed Mom’s number, telling her thanks for the rescue and that I owed her one-the “one” being dinner at her house next week with her, Faux Dad, and my Irish Catholic grandmother. But considering I’d just asked her to help me escape police custody, I figured it was a fair request. (Besides, my steady diet of Chinese takeout and Hamburger Helper was, I admit, getting a little old.)
We sped down the 101 into Hollywood, making a left on Cahuenga until we reached the address Felix had given me. Jasmine killed the engine in front of a large, split-level ranch with a yard full of garden gnomes. The windows were covered in chintz curtains, and the front door was adorned with a big heart-shaped wreath made of pink silk roses. Didn’t exactly scream murderer in bright neon.
“You sure this is the right place?” Jasmine asked.
I looked down at my hand and doubled-checked the address. Granted, after my great escape, I’d sweated some of the street name off, but the number was still visible enough. “This is it.”
She shrugged. “I guess it takes all kinds.”
I followed her up the rose-flanked pathway to the front door, nerves starting to build. I admit that the idea of coming face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer did more than a little to creep me out. Not to mention the fact that I’d just done a high-heeled striptease for him. I looked down at my pumps and blushed. If he made one reference to licking anything below the ankle, I was so out of here, killer or no.
Jasmine gave the bell a ring and we waited while it echoed inside. Two beats later the door opened, and I got my first glimpse of BigBoy78.
My jaw dropped, and I stared in disbelief.
Deveroux Strong’s frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders clad in a baby blue sweater with skintight white leather pants beneath. He wore alligator-skin black ankle boots, and one diamond stud winked at me from his left earlobe.
“Hey, Maddie, ” he said, a big white smile flashing across his tanned face. Then he looked behind me and spotted Jasmine. At first his eyes went big, as if he’d seen a ghost (or a fifty-foot billboard come to life), and then his cheeks turned a red to rival Rudolph’s shiny nose as he realized why we were here. “Oh.”
“Yep, that’s him. That’s the guy I saw Veronika bring home, ” Jasmine said, jabbing me in the ribs.
Deveroux gave a fleeting glance at my pumps, then, if it were possible, blushed even deeper. “Uh, look, I can explain.”
“You were dating Veronika?” I sputtered, finally finding my voice. Theories tumbled one over another in my head, making me question whether we’d made a mistake after all.
Deveroux looked nervously from side to side. “Maybe you’d better come in.”
I nodded, mutely following him into a neatly decorated living room just a little on the floral side for my taste. Deveroux sat on an orange, hibiscus-printed sofa set next to a lilac-covered armchair, and gestured for Jasmine and me to take the petunia-studded love seat. (Okay, a lot floral for my taste.) The only thing breaking up the garden of furniture was a small black TV set in the corner, tuned to Inside Edition. I sank down onto the petunia seat, crossing my legs selfconsciously, as Dana’s dress rode up my thigh.
“You’re BigBoy78?” I asked.
Deveroux went red again, his blush spreading all the way to his blond roots. “Look, it’s not what you think. I’m not into that porn stuff. I just…I just have a thing for feet.”
“I noticed, ” I mumbled, tucking my heels underneath me.
“Specifically Veronika’s feet?” Jasmine prodded. She leaned forward in her seat, her heavily lifted eyes intent on Deveroux’s face. For how badly I’d had to bribe her to get here, she was really getting into this questioning-a-suspect thing. Any second now I feared she’d pull a spotlight and a billyclub from her leather clutch.
He nibbled at his lip. “Yeah. Look, not that it makes any difference now, but Veronika and I were…well, kind of an item.”
“Wait-I thought you were gay?”
Deveroux put one hand on his leather-clad hip and tilted his frosted tips at me. “What makes you think I’m gay?”
Hmmm…
“Okay. So, you’re not gay.”
“No, I’m not, ” he said emphatically. Then picked at a stray piece of lint on his sweater. “That’s just a vicious tabloid rumor.”
“And you were dating Veronika?”
He nodded. “For the last four months. We met when she started working on Magnolia Lane and began dating soon after that.”
“And soon after that started logging on to my site to watch her, ” Jasmine piped up.
The blush worked itself into an all-out five-alarm fire across his forehead. “Look, it’s perfectly normal for a man to enjoy a woman’s feet. Feet are the most beautiful part of a woman’s body. Ancient cultures have revered women’s feet for thousands of years. It’s not weird!”
Not wanting to aggravate a potential killer, not to mention relive my moments as a foot whore, I changed the subject. “How serious were things between the two of you?”
“Very. We were both going to leave the show at the end of my contract. One more season. We were…” He paused, a watery look in his eyes, and sniffed hard. “We were going to get married.”
“Married?” Jasmine spit out. “She never said anything like that to me. And she had a six-month lease!”
I shot her a look.
“Deveroux, did you know that Veronika was pregnant?” I asked.
He nodded, his eyes tearing up in earnest. “She told me just last week. I was so exited. We were going to get married and move to Oregon. My sister’s got a big place up there near the coast.”
“Oregon?” Jasmine yelled. “Why, that sneaky little…”
I gave her a quick shot to the ribs.
“Veronika was okay with leaving the show?”
Deveroux nodded. “It was her idea to move away-away from all the Hollywood types. In case you hadn’t noticed, the set can get kind of wild at times.”
Understatement alert.
“Anyway, ” he continued, “she said she was coming into some money soon and we could put a down payment on a place near my sister.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Money?” I asked, remembering how little Dana said stand-ins made. “What kind of money?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. But she said she’d been working on something and her investment was about to pay off.”
“Investment? That’s what she called it?”
He nodded.
I turned to Jasmine.
“Hey, don’t look at me, ” she said. “My girls get free room and board from me, but that’s it.”
I wondered. Veronika hadn’t struck me as the kind to put her pennies into stocks and bonds. Granted, I hadn’t known her that well, but the fact that she was playing strip Go Fish for rent didn’t speak to a bank account bursting with extra funds.
Which left one alternative.
Blackmail.
I worded my next question carefully. “Deveroux, was Veronika particularly close to anyone on the set? Anyone who might have shared, say, a secret with her?”
His white-blond eyebrows (perfectly waxed, I noticed-wait till I told Felix this guy was straight!) drew together. “Well, she did have coffee with Kylie a couple of times.”
My ears pricked up. Coffee? Or a confession where Kylie let slip a deep, dark secret worth killing Veronika over? I had to admit, I had a hard time putting the perky cheerleaderesque Tina Rey in the role of homicidal maniac. But stranger things had happened.
“But, ” Deveroux continued, “Veronika was really careful about keeping her personal life separate from her work. She was worried that if someone on the set found out she worked for the Web site, they’d fire her. I mean, despite the drama in the script, our core demographic is Middle American housewives. It’s one thing to have scandalous story lines, but an actual scandal like working for a porn site…well, that wouldn’t fit the studio’s image.”
He turned to Jasmine as an afterthought. “No offense.”
She shrugged. “None taken. You paid for my last two photofacials.”
Deveroux blushed again.
“No one else she was particularly close to on the set?”
He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
I hesitated to tell him my theory. But then again, I was quickly running out of suspects and at this point didn’t have much to lose. “Do you think it’s possible that Veronika may have been blackmailing someone? Maybe someone on the set?”
“No. No way!” Deveroux vehemently shook his head. Then he stopped. He gave a little sigh and slumped his shoulders forward. “Maybe.”
“And she never mentioned anything to you?” I asked again.
“No, just that she was coming into some money soon.” His eyes got that watery look to them again. “You think that’s what got her killed? I mean, we didn’t have to move to Oregon. We could have stayed here.”
I rose and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, sniffling loudly. “Excuse me, I need to find a tissue, ” he mumbled, and slipped out of the room.
I sank back onto the sofa, my mind whirling with possibilities. If Veronika had been blackmailing someone on the set, it would have given them ample reason to want her dead. How easy would it have been for a blackmailer to lure Veronika to Mia’s trailer under the guise of more money, then stage the death to look like Mia’s stalker?
But it still didn’t explain Dusty. Or Mia’s threatening letters. Was it possible that it was all a coincidence? That Veronika really had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if Veronika had been waiting to meet the blackmailer at Mia’s trailer, but the stalker had gotten to her first? I had to admit, instead of explaining anything, this new development just added one more piece to the confusing puzzle that didn’t seem to fit in anywhere.
I was flirting with that headache again when the television piped up from the corner.
“That’s right, Tom, we’ve received breaking news about the Magnolia Lane Murders.”
Jasmine and I immediately turned our attention to the screen as a slim, African-American reporter came on, holding a microphone. The backdrop of the Sunset Studios Central Park, still cordoned off with crime-scene tape, was laid out behind her.
“We go now to Marcia Blanding at the scene, ” a voice just off-camera said. “Marcia?”
The reporter sprang to life, lifting her microphone to her cherry-painted mouth. “Thank you, Peter. As you know, we’ve been following this story all morning, bringing you updates on the latest death on the set of the popular television show Magnolia Lane.”
I winced as the camera moved left, showing a group of crime-scene technicians in slick windbreakers combing the area.
“Now it seems, ” Marcia went on, “that star Mia Carletto’s poisoned penman has struck again. We learned just moments ago from Miss Carletto herself that she has received another death threat. We come to you live from the impromptu press conference just outside her trailer on the Sunset Studios lot.”
I leaned forward in my seat, my eyes glued to the television as Deveroux wandered back in the room.
“I’m sorry; I just-”
“Shhhhh, ” I commanded, waving him off as Mia’s face filled the screen.
Reporters surrounded her. To her right stood her publicist, a thin, redheaded woman in a tailored black suit. To her left, the ominous presence of Ramirez, arms crossed over his pecs, his eyes ever watchful of the crowd pressing closer to Mia. For a second I had the tiniest prickle of guilt at giving my babysitter the slip, but it was quickly shoved to the background as Mia began to speak.
“Thank you all for coming, ” she said, her voice evenly modulated and booming over the assembled crowd.
“Are you all right?” one of the reporters shouted to her, shoving a Channel Two microphone in her face.
Mia sighed loudly, her eyes downcast. “Physically, I am unharmed. Though, emotionally, the day has taken its toll on me.”
“Where did you find the latest note?” a representative from Cable Twelve asked.
“This morning I arrived on the set to find this note in my trailer, pinned to my pillow, ” Mia said, holding up a piece of plain white stationary.
“What does it say?” shouted Channel Two again.
Mia’s bottom lip quivered momentarily. Then she cleared her throat, lifted her head, and began to read from the paper. “ ‘Veronika and Dusty were only the beginning.’ ” Her voice faltered, fear clearly evident on her pinched features as she continued. “ ‘You’ve eluded me thus far, but no more. I will have you, Mia Carletto. Make no mistake about it, ’ ” she said, looking directly into the camera. “ ‘You’re next.’ ”
A frenzy of flashbulbs went off, the reporters practically peeing their pants over this kind of news. I could see Ramirez’s posture tense in the background as the clamoring mob of newshounds surged forward. Mia’s publicist put an arm around her, ushering her back into the trailer as questions flew through the air one after another, ranging from “Are you hiring a bodyguard?” to “Who does your hair?”
“Mia knows how to work a crowd, doesn’t she?” Deveroux asked, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a tissue.
I had to agree, the moment had been played for maximum effect. On the other hand, death threats did tend to be dramatic all on their own.
“I think she’s had work done, ” Jasmine said, picking at a long, red fingernail. “Did you see her eyes? Wider than the aisles at Barneys.”
I refrained from pointing out that Jasmine’s own eyes weren’t exactly a product of nature. Instead, I thanked Deveroux for his time (carefully making my feet as inconspicuous as possible), and left, taking the rose-lined pathway back to Jasmine’s Miata.
“Well, so much for Veronika’s mystery man, ” Jasmine said, shifting the sports car into gear. “So, do we track down Kylie next, or what?”
I turned to her. “We?”
“What?” She gave me an innocent look and shrugged. “This Charlie’s Angels thing is kind of fun.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She did, after all, have the car.
“Okay, fine. Let’s go question Kylie.”
Luckily, I had it on good authority (Star magazine) that Kylie spent every Monday morning at the Kitson Boutique on the trendy Robertson Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, Jasmine was circling the block to find parking and I was scanning the racks for Kylie’s perky blonde head. I spotted her holding a vintage style T-shirt up to her ample chest in the mirror.
“Hi, Kylie! Wow, what a coincidence. You shop here too?” I grabbed a studded belt, trying to look like a casual shopper as she spun around.
It took a second for recognition to dawn in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. You’re the new wardrobe girl, right?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. Maddie.”
“Riiiight. Sorry, I totally forgot your name. When I’m on the set, I tune stuff like that out. I have to be in a total concentration zone. You know they expect me to have all my lines memorized? Like, every week.” She turned back to her reflection. “What do you think of this shirt?”
“Very cute.”
She wrinkled her ski-jump nose. “You think? I don’t know; is it too young?”
Considering Kylie still looked like she should be shopping in the kids’ section, I decided that question was rhetorical. Instead, I got right to the point.
“I guess you heard about Dusty this morning?”
Kylie dropped the shirt and spun around. “Ohmigod, like, too totally sad, you know? I can’t even believe someone could do that. Way random.”
I hesitated to tell her just how un-random this was shaping up to be.
“I heard that you and Veronika were close. All of this must be so hard on you.”
Again Kylie did the nose-scrunching thing. “Um, sorta, I guess. We did lattes a couple of times. But she was kinda weird, you know?”
I cocked my head to the side, fingering a fur-trimmed jacket. “Weird how?”
“Well, she just kept talking about this guy she was dating and how they were gonna get married and move to Oregon. Oregon, of all places! I mean, I so did not get that fascination. There’s, like, not even any cool malls there. And it’s, like, totally rainy ’n’ stuff. Way FUBAR, if you ask me.”
I watched as she picked up another T-shirt: LITTLE MISS GIGGLES.
“So, um, was that all you and Veronika talked about?”
Kylie gave me a sidelong glance in the mirror. “I guess. Why?”
I picked up the belt again, trying to feign casual. “No reason. Just wondering if she might have confided something in you. Something that might help find who killed her.”
Something sparked in the back of Kylie’s eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of intelligence cross her face beyond her Tina Rey character. “Don’t the police think Mia was the real target?”
“No one’s really sure yet, ” I said, watching her carefully.
Kylie shrugged. “Well, Veronika didn’t say anything to me about someone after her, if that’s what you mean. Like I said, we just did lattes a couple of times. She wasn’t like my BFF or anything.” She turned back to her reflection. “Hey, what do you think about this top. Kitschy fun or just passé?”
I handed her a pink tee with a polka-dotted Chihuahua on the front. “Try this.”
She grabbed it and held it up to her chest. “Too cute!”
“Any idea why Veronika might have been in Mia’s trailer that night?” I asked, switching gears.
Kylie shrugged. “I dunno. That wrinkle-faced police guy asked me that, too. All I can think is that maybe she was borrowing a script or something. I know Veronika was always losing her copy. She tried to borrow mine a couple weeks ago, but I, like, totally needed it. I had, like, two whole pages to memorize!”
“Ouch.”
“No doubt. Hey, wanna hand me that belt? I’m gonna go try some of these on, ” Kylie said, grabbing her pile of T-shirts.
I did. Then I hung around the dressing rooms awhile, but I figured I’d gotten all I was going to out of Miss Perky.
Jasmine was just pulling into a spot out front as I exited the boutique. I slipped into the passenger seat of the Miata. “Perfect timing.”
“Are you done already?” Jasmine’s face fell (well, as far as a face-lift and chin implant would let it fall).
I nodded. “Either Kylie’s too stupid or too smart to say anything useful.”
“Damn.” Jasmine pouted. “Okay, well, where to next, Kate?”
I gave her a look. “Kate?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes at me. “Well, duh, if we’re doing the Angels thing, I’m clearly Farrah, so you have to be either Jaclyn Smith or Kate Jackson. And, honey, you’re no Jaclyn.”
I gave her a dirty look but considering she had the car, didn’t argue.
Only, the truth was, I wasn’t really sure where to go next. The fact that Veronika may have been blackmailing someone on the set threw a whole new light on things. The only problem was that secrets ran through Magnolia Lane faster than a Malibu wildfire. Her victim-turned-killer could be any one of the cast. I wasn’t even entirely ready to cross Kylie off my list. Sure, she seemed innocent enough, but I wasn’t completely convinced that the perky-ditz thing she had going on wasn’t an act. I mean, who could really be that blonde?
And what about Dusty? What was her connection to all of this? I had a hard time picturing her and Veronika in cahoots. Dusty loved her job too much to jeopardize it that way. The girl had lived for fashion.
And then there were the letters. After this last one, it seemed clear they were somehow linked to the murders. But I couldn’t for the life of me think how. Either this was the most bumbling killer ever, to have gotten the wrong target twice, or there was more going on here than I could figure. It was harder to follow than last season’s love triangle between Tina Rey, the electrician, and that hooker they killed off in the supermarket after her secret love child with the neighbor burned down Tina Rey’s house and hit her dog with a diaper-delivery truck.
“Let’s go visit Margo, ” I finally decided, remembering the orange scarf.
“Good plan.” Jasmine nodded. “I bet she’s in this up to her eyeballs.”
The only problem was that I had no idea where to look for her. “I don’t exactly have her address, ” I confessed.
“No prob, ” Jasmine replied. “Easy enough to get that.”
I raised an eyebrow at her (and, since my beauty regimen included L’Oreal night cream in lieu of botulism injections, my eyebrow actually went up). “You can?”
“Um, duh? Just pick up any map of the stars’ homes. Margo’s compound is always on there.”
“Compound?” Since when did TV supporting actresses make the kind of cash to live in compounds?
Jasmine gave me a sidelong look. “Um, yeah. Margo Walton? She’s freaking swimming in dough, that girl. She used to be a B-movie actress back in the eighties. She did, like, fifty of those high-school-sluts-being-chased-by-ax-murderers flicks. She’s still huge in Japan.”
Considering Mom would have freaked if she caught my preteen self watching those kinds of movies, I had to admit I’d never seen Margo outside of her Nurse Nan scrubs. I looked at Jasmine, wondering exactly how old she was. “You’ve seen her films?”
Jasmine nodded emphatically, doing a U-turn and heading back toward the 2. “Love ’em. I used to get this guy logging into the Web site from Japan, BigWu22. Dude was totally into that stuff. Wanted me to put on the leg warmers and tease my hair and everything. I totally channeled early Margo.”
I looked up at the giant dyed-red mass of hair moussed within an inch of its life atop Jasmine’s head, wondering how on earth she could tease it any higher. Or balance on her chicken legs if she did.
Fifteen minutes later we were on Hollywood Boulevard, cruising past the Mann Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame. “This guy looks good, ” Jasmine said, pulling the Miata up to a curb where an Indian guy in a lawn chair sat next to Groucho Marx’s star, holding up a sign that read, STAR MAPS, $10. She jumped out and, after exchanging a few words and a few dollars with the guy, hopped back in the car.
“Bingo, ” she said, unfolding a photocopied map. Since we were sitting in a Miata, the smallest car they made outside of the circus, the unfolded map filled the entire interior. I scanned the road lines for little red stars indicating the houses of Hollywood’s most famous residents. I resisted the urge to suggest a detour when I saw Orlando Bloom lived only a few blocks away.
“Right there!” Jasmine shouted, pointing a red nail at a spot in Bel Air. Two inches north of Sunset were the printed words MARGO WALTON.
I loathed admitting it, but Jasmine had done good.
She put the car in gear and shot out into traffic, weaving in and out of the lanes as she took Sunset west to the 405. Unfortunately, the traffic gods were not with us today and, as soon as we hit the freeway, we were stuck in a virtual parking lot.
“Shit, ” Jasmine swore, and flipped on the radio, cruising through stations until she found one promising a traffic report. Apparently a high-speed chase had gone through earlier and police were still cleaning up the tack strips and mangled cop cars that had resulted.
I slunk down in my seat, watching the smog layer hover over the city as we inched forward. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t filled it since that cup of coffee this morning.
“Got anything to eat in here?” I asked, opening the glove box. “A Snickers bar, candy, anything?”
Jasmine gave me a look like I’d suggested she was smuggling dead bodies in the trunk. “Candy? You think I got this body harboring candy bars in my glove box?”
“Oh puh-lease. We both know you got that body from Dr. 90210.”
Jasmine gasped. “I did not!”
I gave her a “get real” look.
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay, fine. I’ve had a little work done.”
I snorted, but refrained from comment as my stomach did another unholy moan. “Look, this traffic isn’t letting up. Let’s pull off somewhere and wait it out. Preferably somewhere with a drive-through. I’m starving.”
Jasmine shoved her purse at me. “I think there’s a couple of Tic Tacs in there.”
I opened her red leather clutch and rummaged through a collection of lipstick, compacts, and concealer that rivaled even mine, until my fingers wrapped around a case of green Tic Tacs. I ate one. Then another. I popped a handful of them in my mouth and crunched loudly.
“I’m still hungry.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll pull off at the next exit.” I swore she shot my midsection a look that said I could do with a little work, too, but I ignored her, downing another handful of Tic Tacs instead.
Ten minutes later we inched our way onto the off-ramp. One thing that can’t be beat about L.A. living: you’re never more than two blocks away from a Big Mac and fries. My stomach did one more groan (this one I’m pretty sure was of glee) as Jasmine parked next to the Dumpster behind the Golden Arches. I led the way inside and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from the pimply kid behind the counter. Oh, and a strawberry shake. And an apple pie.
Jasmine looked down her sculpted nose at me and ordered bottled water and a side salad-no dressing. Apparently she wasn’t scheduled for another lipo round for another six months.
We ate in silence, mostly because I was scarfing down my food with an appreciation that would have made Ronald McDonald proud. It took only ten minutes and we were back out in the parking lot, me rubbing my full belly with the kind of satisfaction that only an apple-pie chaser can provide. Personally, though, I still thought Jasmine looked a little hungry.
I was about to offer her the last Tic Tac when a loud pinging sound erupted from the Dumpster next to us.
I jumped, Jasmine and I both doing mirrored “what the…?” looks.
“What was that?” she asked, her red hair whipping around her face as she scanned the parking lot.
“I dunno.”
Then I heard it again, closer to me this time, and accompanied by a little spark as something whizzed off the metal side of the Dumpster.
A voice yelled from across the parking lot, “You bitch!”
I looked up.
And froze.
Oh. Shit.
Running toward me, long black hair flapping behind her like a cape, silver gun straight-armed in her right hand, was Isabel.