Fernando’s Salon was located on the ultrachic, ultra-high rent corner of Beverly and Brighton, one block north of Rodeo and smack in the center of Beverly Hills’ Golden Triangle. It was the kind of neighbor-hood where the champagne was free and the pumps cost more than a small country. My stepfather, Ralph (or as I had affectionately dubbed him, Faux Dad), started out in a small strip mall in Chatsworth, but his mastery of the cut and color soon earned him a place in the hearts and hairdos of the rich and not-quite-famous. Only, knowing a salon called Ralph’s wouldn’t fit in with the Versaces, Blahniks, and Vuit-tons of BH, Ralph reinvented himself with a faux-Spanish ancestry and twice-weekly spray-on tans, and thus was born Fernando, European hair sculptor. When I first met him I was convinced he was gay, but considering he and Mom have been married nearly nine months now, I’m almost sure he’s not.
In addition to Faux Dad’s skills with a blow-dryer, he’s also quite the interior decorator (hey, I said I was almost sure), a fact illustrated by the metamorphosis his salon went through every few months. Today, as I walked through Fernando’s polished glass doors, I was treated to a Caribbean theme. The walls were done in watercolor-washed turquoise blue with knotted bits of rope hung like swags along the ceiling line. Bright pictures of exotic beaches, along with bits of fishing net, decorated the walls, interspersed with large, leafy green plants and bright tropical flowers in artfully chipped planters. The reception desk was paneled in white clapboard with silk flower leis glued to the sides. And, I kid you not, in the corner sat a three-foot-high birdcage holding a bright green parrot.
He squawked at me as I approached the reception desk. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”
I turned to Marco, Faux Dad’s receptionist, who was slim, Hispanic, and probably the only person in the world as addicted to Project Runway as I was. “What did he just say?” I asked.
Marco rolled his heavily lined eyes. “Oh honey, tell me about it, ” he drawled in an accent that was pure San Francisco. “The previous owner apparently had a thing for pop music. This damn bird has been singing Shakira all day.” Marco shook a finger at the bird. “You stop it, Pablo, you naughty boy.”
Pablo the Parrot tilted his head to the side. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”
“Ay-yi-yi!” Marco clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes again. “We couldn’t get a nice quiet goldfish. Nooooo, it had to be a parrot.”
“Sorry, ” I sympathized.
“So…” Marco leaned his elbows across his desk. “I heard about your big shootout last night. Ex-ciiiiii-ting!” he said, drawing out the word.
My turn to roll my eyes. “It wasn’t a shootout. It was a simple…misunderstanding.” That was my story, and I was sticking to it.
“Do tell, dahling, ” he prodded me on.
Since Marco practically lived for gossip, and the Informer had already beaten me to it anyway, I filled him in on the latest entry in my top-ten not-so-finest moments. So unfine, in fact, that as I related the story I felt worse and worse. Geez, had I really thought Ramirez was cheating on me? How paranoid was I? To be quite honest, Ramirez had every right to be mad at me. I mean, only I would turn a little thing like a canceled date into a shootout.
I mean misunderstanding.
True to his Queen of the Beverly Gossip status, Marco hung on my every word, and when I got to the part about Ramirez doing his Bad Cop face at me, Marco did an exaggerated swoon and started fanning himself. “That man is hotter than my mother’s chili con carne, honey.”
I had to agree. Unfortunately, he had a temper to match. “Yeah, well, I think he’s just a wee bit miffed with me at the moment. And speaking of miffed people…” I surveyed the room behind Marco, scanning the hairdresser stations and buzzing blow-dryers. “Are Mom and Ralph here?”
“Fernando, ” Marco chided, “is with a client. He’s doing a weave for Mrs. Banks.” He leaned in close and did a pseudo-whisper that could be heard all the way to the Valley. “Tyra’s mom.”
“Oh.” I nodded, appropriately impressed.
“But your mother’s in the back doing a pedi.” Marco gestured toward the rear of the salon, where a line of foot tubs flanked the turquoise walls.
“Thanks.” I waved as I walked off.
“Hips don’t lie, hips don’t lie!” I heard behind me.
Then Marco mumbling another, “Ay-yi-yi…”
In keeping with the island-paradise theme, the pedicure chairs had been covered with red tropical prints sporting large, colorful hibiscus flowers. Which completely clashed with the neon green muumuu covering the woman getting the pedi. Though, to be fair, Mrs. Rosenblatt was one of those people who clashed with just about anything. She was a five-time divorcée who weighed three hundred pounds, wore her hair in a shade of Lucille Ball red, and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. (Yeah, I know: only in L.A.)
She’d met my mother when, after a particularly depressing Valentine’s Day, Mom had gone to Mrs. R for a psychic reading. When the very next day Mom had met the dark-haired stranger Mrs. R had pre-dicted, Mom was hooked. Never mind that the stranger turned out to be a chocolate Lab named Barney; Mom and Mrs. R had been firm friends ever since.
“Mads!” Mrs. Rosenblatt called as I approached. “I heard about your shootout last night. Very impressive!”
I gritted my teeth together. “It wasn’t a shootout.”
Mom looked up from Mrs. R’s toes. She dropped a bottle of green polish on the floor and immediately grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Oh my baby, I’m so glad you’re all right!”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Which actually came out sounding more like, “I fie, Ma, ” considering she was cutting off my air supply.
“I was so worried about you! My poor, poor baby.”
“Really, ” I said, extracting myself from her death grip. “I’m fine. It was just a little…misunderstanding.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. “It’s Mercury. Mercury’s in retrograde this month. Makes for a whole heap of misunderstanding.”
At least someone understood.
“So, did you have a gun during this ‘misunderstanding’? You pop anyone?” Mrs. R asked.
I rolled my eyes. “No, I did not pop anyone. No one got popped.”
“Bummer, ” Mrs. R said. “I always wanted to know what it would be like to shoot a gun. My first husband, Ollie, had all kinds of guns. He used to hunt quail with ’em. Never let me shoot one, though.”
Ollie had been a smart man.
“What did happen last night?” Mom asked, sitting down and wiping the spilled nail polish on her black skirt. I grimaced. At the nail polish stains, yes. But more at the skirt.
When I was ten, Mom was the hippest mother in my Brownie troop. Unfortunately, she hadn’t changed her fashion style since then. Today she wore a lacy black skirt that was about two inches too high for comfort, black mesh leggings, ballet flats, and three different tank tops layered together above about a billion jelly bracelets in every color of the rainbow. A little mole and she’d be the perfect postmenopausal Madonna.
Ignoring the urge to comment on her outfit, I gave Mom a much-edited version of the previous night’s events. However, by the end, her plucked eyebrows were still hunched together in concern.
“Maddie, you could have been killed!”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really, ” I tried to reassure her.
“I think you should think about carrying some protection.”
“Protection?”
“What you need is a gun, ” Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. “I think I might still have one of Ollie’s in storage.”
“No!” I said a little too loudly. “Look, I’ve got pepper spray at home. I’ll be fine.” I didn’t add that when I’d gotten it I’d been so scared of accidentally spraying myself with the mini canister of eye-scorching stuff that I’d promptly shoved it to the back of my junk drawer, and it hadn’t seen the light of day since. My idea of protection was a ribbed Trojan. Carrying actual weapons was a little too Rambo-chick for me.
“I don’t know, Maddie…” Mom said, still not convinced.
“Honest, I’m fine. Look, this was just a fluke. A misunderstanding. Isabel is probably in Mexico by now. I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Really.”
“Wait!” Mrs. Rosenblatt held up a pudgy hand, then smacked it on my forehead. “I’m getting a vision.” She rolled her eyes back into her head until she resembled a Dawn of the Dead reject. “I see a woman with long dark hair. She’s screaming. And destroying a bug.” Mrs. R opened her eyes. “You got a roach problem or something?”
Mental forehead smack.
After I reassured Mom for the bazillionth time that I was not likely to encounter a bullet anytime soon, I left the salon (to the tune of Pablo still singing Shakira and Marco still threatening to have roast parrot for dinner if he didn’t shut up) and hoofed it the two blocks to my Jeep. The first thing I did when I got in was crank on the air-conditioning. Even though it was barely the end of March, we were nearing triple digits this week. One of those freak heat waves that seem to hit L.A. more and more often. I blamed global warming. Though, personally, I’d still rather break out the tank tops and flip-flops in March than give up my aerosol hair spray and gas-guzzling Jeep.
I let the air blast over me as I made my way down the bumper-to-bumper afternoon traffic on Pico, people watching the Saturday-afternoon shoppers, admiring the Lexus dealerships, taking in the latest billboards. I passed one of a man popping out of the page three-D style, carrying a cell phone and advertising something about a long-distance carrier. There was another that featured huge Dumbo ears and urged me not to let the magic of Disneyland pass me by. But it was the one on the corner of Pico and Westwood that made me sit up and stare in earnest.
A woman, lying on her stomach, spanned the length of the billboard, clad in only a teeny, tiny pair of lacy panties that would make a Playboy Bunny blush. Two big round globes of double-Ds peeked out between her strategically placed arms. She had one finger seductively touching a glossy red lip, the caption LIKE TO WATCH? underneath her with a Web address to view her twenty-four-hour Web cam. But the part that almost made me gag was the woman’s name: “Sexy Jasmine.”
Last year when I’d been involved in the murder investigation that resulted in my meeting Ramirez, Jasmine (or, as I was more fond of calling her, Miss PP-as in Plastic Parts; seriously-you think those kind of boobs grew naturally?) had, at one time, been my prime suspect. But, instead of her offing embezzlers, it turned out Jasmine’s biggest sin was moonlighting on a pay-per-play adult Web site. Apparently, after being fired from her day job as a receptionist, she’d turned her hand to full-time cyber whoring. And, by the size of that billboard, it looked like it was paying off.
I shook my head and marveled at the fact that I was schlepping through traffic and Jasmine was now famous (or infamous, as the case may be). In New York you’re no one until you’ve made Page Six. In L.A. you’re no one until your face has been plastered on a twenty-foot-tall billboard.
By the time I got back to Santa Monica, it was nearing noon and the smog index was creeping up to that level where you could almost taste the air. The radio deejay advised schoolchildren to stay indoors, and the fire marshal declared the Hollywood Hills a high-hazard area. Instinctively, I cranked my air up.
As I rounded the corner, pulling off Venice, my apartment came into view.
As did the guy standing outside of it.
His tall, solid frame leaned casually against the side of his black SUV, both arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were unreadable behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, but if the tension in his stubbled jaw was any indication, they weren’t twinkling with glee.
Ramirez.
I paused, warring between apprehension and total lust as I pulled into my drive. Finally lust won, and I got out of the car.
“Hey, ” I said tentatively.
Nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t nod, just kept his cop face on as he stared at me. Yep. He was definitely a little miffed.
“So, uh, have you been waiting long?”
I think I saw his shoulders shrug half an inch. Or it might have just been a smog-induced illusion.
“Um…are you going to say something? Anything?” I squeaked out, my voice doing that caught-coloring-on-the-walls falsetto again.
He took a deep breath in, then out, his nostrils flaring. Then he reached up and slowly took off his sunglasses. Yikes. Nope, his dark eyes were a far cry from twinkling. Seething might be appropriate. Or searing, penetrating.
Pissed off.
“Do you have any idea what kind of trouble your stunt last night caused?” he asked, his voice low and strained, a clear undercurrent of “dammit, you really screwed up this time, Maddie” running through it.
I wondered if it was too late to jump back in my car.
“Um, lots?”
He took a step forward. I instinctively took one back, coming up against the driver’s-side door of my Jeep.
“Thanks to my association with, and I quote, ‘that crazed shoe girl, ’ my captain has reassigned me.”
“Reassigned?” I repeated. “Like, demoted?”
Ramirez made a low growling sound deep in his throat.
Yep. Like, demoted.
“Isabel is MIA, her boyfriend got the tip-off that she’s been talking to the police and now he’s in the wind, and my captain has busted yours truly down to celebrity bodyguard duty.”
Ramirez had been advancing on me as he spoke, until his face was just inches from mine, those granite features starting to twitch as if they might crack into a full-blown rage at any second. I leaned farther back into my car, and I think I may have whimpered.
“I’m sorry, ” I squeaked out.
His eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand on either side of my head, barring any ideas of escape. “Sorry?”
I gulped. “Really, really sorry.”
He did that low growl in the back of his throat again. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it didn’t sound a whole lot like, “I forgive you.”
I gulped again. “But being a bodyguard isn’t all that bad, right? I mean, celebrities can be fun.”
“Oh sure. Tons of fun. Watching a bunch of pampered actresses while they open their fan mail. My idea of a good time.”
“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?”
There was that growl again.
“Look, I’m really, really sorry. I so didn’t mean to get you in trouble. And I’ll so make it up to you.”
One eyebrow hitched up. “Make it up to me? I’ve gone from working homicide to spending twenty-four/seven babysitting a bunch of second-rate actors on the Magnolia Lane set. How the hell do you think you’re going to make that up to me?”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, maybe I could talk to your captain, maybe if I just explained this-Wait. Did you say Magnolia Lane?”
He nodded, giving me a “yeah, so?” look.
“Ohmigod. The Magnolia Lane?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Ohmigod, are you freaking kidding?Only daily on Entertainment Tonight. It’s, like, the hottest show on TV. These are no minor celebs. The star, Mia Carletto, was up for an Emmy last year. Wow, you actually get to meet Mia Carletto. You should be thanking me!”
His eyes narrowed again. Apparently he didn’t watch as much TV as I did.
“So, what will you be doing? Will you get to hang out with the cast? Go to parties with them? Ohmigod-are you going to the Emmys?”
Ramirez muttered, “Jesus, ” under his breath, then took a step back and rubbed a hand through his hair until it stood up in little tufts. “No, I’m not going to the Emmys. Miss Carletto has been getting threatening letters and her publicist just happens to be my captain’s daughter-in-law. So, lucky me, I’m supposed to keep an eye on the set until we find out where they’re coming from.”
“Ohmigod, I heard about those letters on Access Hollywood. That is so cool!”
Ramirez gave me a look.
“Well, I mean, not cool that she’s getting threatening letters, but so cool that you’ll get to meet her. Oh, oh-do you think you could get me on the set? Just to get an autograph?”
“No!” Ramirez yelled loudly enough to make my downstairs neighbor peek through her chintz curtains at us. He rubbed another hand through his hair, then spoke through gritted teeth. “No, I don’t want you anywhere near that set, do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near my work. Ever again. Thanks to you, a cranked-up felon is tooling around L.A. in a stolen car and I’m on Hollyweird detail. I want you as far away from me as possible. Got it?”
Ouch. Apparently my boyfriend-wait, friend-thought I was a total jinx. A less confident girl might start to take this personally. “I said I was sorry. I mean, really, really sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I just…I mean, when I heard your message…I kind of…”
“Freaked out?” he supplied.
I nodded. “Major freakout. I’m so, so sorry, ” I said again, honestly meaning it.
Ramirez must have noticed, because his face softened. He reached one hand out and lightly brushed the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. “I have to admit, ” he said, “the jealous thing? Kind of cute.”
I sniffed. “Cute, huh?”
He nodded. “Very. And it’s a damn good thing, too, ’cause you’re a whole lot of trouble.”
“I know. I’m amazingly sorry, ” I said again, hoping that if I said it enough times maybe I could make this whole thing just go away.
“I know, ” he whispered, his eyes starting to do that sexy, glazed-over thing as they roved my face.
His hand trailed around to the nape of my neck, his fingers lightly massaging there until I felt myself break out in goose bumps, sending a tingle straight down my spine. He leaned in close. I could smell the scent of Ivory and Tide as his lips brushed mine. The tingle turned into an all-out quiver as our tongues touched.
Suddenly my insides were gooier than a Snickers bar in the hands of a first-grader.
“So, does this mean I’m forgiven?” I mumbled onto his lips.
He leaned back and raised one dark eyebrow. “Forgiven is a strong word.”
“Maybe I can make it up to you?” I said coyly, trailing one finger down the center of his chest.
The other eyebrow shot up. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I slid my hand lower, toying with the top button of his jeans.
He gave a small groan.
Then his pager went off.
He gave a large groan.
He pulled away, glancing at the readout. “Shit. The captain. I’ve gotta go.”
And I swear he looked so dejected that I felt myself pack for that guilt trip again. He really didn’t deserve this. As cool as I might think hanging out all day on the Magnolia Lane set was, I knew it wasn’t Ramirez’s gig. Ramirez belonged working homicide. He was a cop who enjoyed all that gritty detective stuff, and he was damn good at it, too.
As he got into his SUV and pulled down the street, I vowed that, despite how little faith he might have in my abilities, I would make this up to him.
“Well, it seems clear to me, ” Dana said, popping a soy nut into her mouth. “Blow job. A little attention to Mr. Winky and I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”
“Know what? I think maybe you really are a sex addict.” I shook my head, blonde hair whipping my cheeks. “No, that’s not the kind of ‘making it up to him’ I mean. I mean I need to make this right. I need to get him reassigned back to homicide.”
“I give up. How do you do that?”
I shrugged. “Good question.”
We were sitting on my futon, watching last season’s DVD of Magnolia Lane for inspiration, trying to come up with some way to get Ramirez not only to forgive me, but somehow to put back the Humpty Dumpty of his career that I’d shoved off the wall the moment I’d walked into the Cabana Club.
I watched the screen, digging a hand into my own bag of snacks, Keebler fudge cookies. (As far as I was concerned, anything with the word soy in its name didn’t qualify as a comfort food. And after my encounter with Ramirez, I needed all the chocolate-covered comfort I could get.)
“Ashley, your husband will be home any minute.”
“Oh, he has no idea about us, the fool. Kiss me, Chad!”
“No, Ashley, it’s not right. What if he sees?”
“He’s blind to our love, Chad.”
“Oh, Ashley, you know I want to. I’ve wanted to since the moment I saw you. It’s just…”
“What, Chad? What’s wrong?”
“Oh come on, just kiss her!” Dana yelled at the TV. Then she crunched down hard on a salted soy nut. “Chad is gorgeous. She’s absolutely insane if she doesn’t kiss him. Who wouldn’t want to kiss him? I’d kiss him. In fact, I’d do more than kiss him…”Dana trailed off, mumbling to herself.
“Chad, I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Me either, Ashley. I swear, I’ve cut every woman’s lawn on Magnolia Lane, but yours-yours is special.”
“Oh, Chad!”
“Oh, Ashley!”
“Oh for the love of God, kiss him already!” Dana threw a soy nut at the TV.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Fine. Great. Why?” She crunched down on another nut.
“Um, no reason, ” I mumbled.
“Kiss me, Chad. Kiss me like you mean it.”
Dana leaned forward in her seat.
“I can’t wait another second to do just that, Ashley. Come here…”
“Wait-what’s that?”
“It sounds like a car door.”
“My husband. He’s home!”
“Argh!” Dana threw the bag of soy nuts down on the carpet as Chad and Ashley broke apart. Ashley stuffed her would-be lover in the closet as her husband came up the stairs and Dana mumbled, “Lousy timing, ” under her breath.
“Um, so did Therapist Max mention anything about the side effects of abstinence?”
Dana paused. “Sorry. I’m a little tense lately.”
“You know, maybe celibacy just isn’t for you.”
Dana shook her head. “No way. Two more days and I get a chip. I can do this. I am experiencing the joy of positive being as a single, non-physically dependent entity.” She picked the bag up and crunched down hard on another nut.
“Oh, yeah. I can feel the joy from here.”
Dana ignored me. “What are you going to do about Ramirez?”
I blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.” I watched Mia Carletto, aka Ashley, try to convince her husband that the gardener’s boxers really belonged to her. “Maybe I could make it up to him by helping him with his new assignment. He said something about those letters that Mia’s been getting. Threatening fan mail.”
“Oh, I totally read about that in People last week. She’s, like, got a stalker or something. Ohmigod-lightbulb moment!” Dana popped up off the futon, jostling the soy nuts onto the floor as she started hopping up and down. “We could find the stalker for Ramirez! He’d totally forgive you then.”
“Dana, Ramirez is a cop. What makes you think we could find a stalker any easier than he could?”
“Uh, hello?” Dana rolled her eyes. “Ramirez doesn’t even watch Magnolia Lane. We know Mia way better than he does. I mean, come on, you watch Access Hollywood daily.”
She had a point there. I’ll admit it: I was a celebrity gossip junkie. I religiously watched every single Barbara Walters interview, I never left the house on the night of the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG Awards, and I bought copies of Star and People on the sly every week. I was even known-on very rare occasions-to use words like Bennifer, Brangelina, and TomKat. I know. It’s a disease.
Still, I wasn’t convinced our knowledge of Mia’s latest boy-toy fling could really outweigh a badge and a gun.
“How much could we possibly do without even being on the set of the show?” I reasoned.
Dana waved me off, switching from the hops to a little footwork-in-place thing. “So, we get on the set. How hard can that be? Look, I’ll call my agent in the morning and see if he can get me on as an extra or something. And maybe you could see if they need a costume designer or a wardrobe assistant? I’m sure you’ve got some connections, right?”
I bit my lip. “Well, my college roommate did do wardrobe for that cop drama on FX.”
“Perfect! I bet she totally knows someone. Ohmigod, this is going to be so fun. We’ll, like, totally be undercover again!”
Dana was referring, of course, to last year, when, against my better judgment, I’d let her dress me as a hooker in order to suss out a murder. Unfortunately, that evening had ended in a dead body. Not an experience I was eager to repeat.
“I don’t know…” I trailed off, picturing Ramirez’s face that afternoon. I had a feeling that if I showed up within ten feet of his assignment he’d likely pop a blood vessel. The words as far away from me as possible echoed in my head.
Dana started jogging in place, bobbing her knees up and down like little pistons. “Come on, Maddie! We could so do this. You’ve got a good track record, girl!”
I hesitated to mention that both times I’d ferreted out a killer in the past it was more by accident than sheer brilliance.
On the other hand, this whole “reassignment” thing was all my fault. And sitting on my futon watching Magnolia Lane reruns wasn’t doing anything to improve my rapidly crumbling love life. If I were going to make it up to Ramirez, I had to do something. “All right, I’ll call my college roomie.”
Dana let out a high-pitched squeal and clapped her hands.
“I said I’d call. No guarantees, ” I hedged, grabbing my address book. I wasn’t sure if I’d put her number under L for Lana, P for Paulson, or R for roommate.
“I think we should start by talking to her costars, ” Dana said, ticking items off on her fingers. “See if anyone has seen a suspicious character around. Second, maybe we should question Mia herself. Maybe the stalker is someone from her past, and he’s coming back to seek revenge. Oooh-or maybe she had a secret love child who’s coming back to haunt her now.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Suspicious characters? Revenge? Secret love child? What was this, Montel?
Fortunately, before I could change my mind, I found Lana’s number (under C for college) and dialed. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lana. It’s Maddie, ” I said, with a backward glance at Dana. She was still ticking off possible stalker suspects. I think I heard her mumble something about a political plot to rig the Emmys. I scrunched my eyes shut, hoping I wouldn’t live to regret this.
“Say, I was wondering if you know anyone at Sunset Studios?”