Danger in High Heels (10 page)

"Another item that had already been worn," I noted.

She nodded. "But the next time it was worse. A full gown that Shaniqua was scheduled to wear that week. It was missing right before dress rehearsals."

"That was when production had to shut down for a day," I added, remembering the story Felix had told me.

"Exactly! The producers were so pissed." I could see color staining Lana's cheeks at the memory. As much as she called the thefts minor now, I could tell they had caused her to get majorly upset at the time.

"But you found the gown finally?"

"Yes. Thank God!"

"Where was it?"

"It was shoved on a rack with a couple of Ricky's old costumes that were scheduled to be recycled."

"Is it possible it was just misplaced?" I asked, trying to be as delicate as possible about asking if it had just been a simple mistake on her part.

But Lana shook her head vehemently from side to side, her black curls bouncing around her shoulders. "No. That's what the producers thought, too. But it wasn't me. I can tell you that for sure! I'm not so careless as to recycle a current costume."

"Do you have any idea who else could have moved the costume?" I asked.

Lana shrugged. "I wish I did."

"What about the other items?" Dana jumped in. "Did you ever recover them?"

Lana shook her head. "No. But, like I said, we didn't look very hard. They'd already been used on the show, so we really didn't have much use for them. They were going to be recycled in the costume department." Lana paused. "We rip old costumes apart and use the pieces for new ones on other productions. The sequins and jewels from the dresses get repurposed. The shoes get re-dyed and reused elsewhere. Pretty much everything is salvageable, and what isn't gets donated to charity."

I cringed thinking that had almost happened to a current outfit. Considering how much those gowns must cost, I could see why the producers were upset about almost losing one.

"Anything else go missing after the gown?" I asked.

Lana shook her head. "No. After the gown someone leaked the story of the set being shut down," she said, frowning deeply. "As if the producers weren't pissed enough at me, I had the press was hounding me then, too. I mean, it wasn't
my
fault someone was stealing from the set."

And that's when Felix had called me.

"Speaking of the
Informer
," I jumped in, "we passed one of their reporters leaving your shop just now."

Lana nodded. "Vultures. But at least they aren't hounding me anymore." She paused, shooting an apologetic look at Dana. "Sorry."

Dana nodded, that uncomfortable look returning.

"What did the reporter want to know?" I asked Lana.

"She wanted to know what I knew about Ricky and Irina."

Dana squared her chin. "It's okay. I can take it," she promised. "What do you know?"

Lana swallowed. "Okay. Well, she wanted to know if I'd seen them together. Seen them talking or hanging out together outside of rehearsals. That sort of thing."

"And had you?" Dana squeaked out.

Lana suddenly found a piece of lint on her skirt fascinating. "I'm afraid so," she said softly.

I felt Dana's heart hit the floor beside me. "What did you see?" she asked.

Lana licked her lips, shooting a gaze at Dana. "Well... there have been a couple of times where I saw Irina going into Ricky's dressing room," she started.

Dana paled a shade beneath her hastily applied foundation.

"But that wasn't unusual, right?" I quickly asked. "I mean, I'm sure the stars on the show were hanging out in each others' rooms all the time, right?"

Lana nodded slowly. "Sure." She paused. And from the way her eyes were shooting from me to Dana and down to that non-existent piece of lint again, I had a bad feeling that there was more she wasn't saying.

"But?" Dana asked.

Lana sucked in her cheek, eyes darting between us at a rapid speed. "Look, I didn't want to say anything to that reporter, because Ricky's a nice guy, and I really want to give him the benefit of the doubt here."

That bad feeling multiplied. "What did you not say to the reporter?" I asked.

I felt Dana steeling herself for the worst.

Lana sighed. She looked up at Dana again. "I'm so sorry. But the last time I saw Irina and Ricky going into his dressing room together was the day she died."

I felt my stomach clench, dread pooling into a puddle there. "When was this?"

Lana licked her lips, as if she didn't want to say it any more than Dana wanted to hear it. "Just a few minutes before they found her."

Chapter Eight

It took a trip to Pizza Hut for a large pepperoni and sausage, a drive through McDonald's for a bag of greasy fries, and a detour to Baskin Robbins before Dana stopped hyperventilating and looked somewhat like a normal person again.

"You gonna be okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she reassured me, around a bite of banana split that leaked out the corners of her mouth.

Not exactly convincing, but at least she wasn't breathing into a paper bag anymore.

"Lana just must have been mistaken," Dana said, forking another spoonful of chocolate and banana heaven into her mouth. I watched, my taste buds yearning with all their might for the sweet caress of ice cream.

"It's possible," I hedged.

"I mean, there is no way Ricky could have hurt Irina."

I noticed she didn't speak to the issue of him sleeping with her.

"I agree," I said, also avoiding the other issue. "Ricky did not kill Irina." I paused. "But I don't think Lana's a liar either."

Dana paused, spoonful of ice cream midway to her mouth, dripping little dots of dessert onto the Formica countertop. God, they looked good.

She took a deep breath. "Okay. Fine. Ricky was… with Irina before she died." She shoved the ice cream into her mouth, as if it might cleanse away the taste of what she'd just said.

"Right."

"But," she added, "I know he didn't kill her. He must have left her alive."

"I think, maybe you should talk to Ricky," I said slowly. "We have a witness who puts him with Irina. That really doesn't look good."

Dana looked pained. "Can you do it?"

"Me?" I squeaked out. "Why me? He's
your
boyfriend."

"Maddie, I just can't face him right now. I mean, what if he says…" she paused, tears forming behind her eye. "What if he admits it? I mean, not the killing, but, you know. The other thing. I just can't take it. Please. You have to do this for me?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but luckily was saved by my cell ringing in my pocket. I whipped it out to see Marco's name on my caller ID.

"What's up?" I answered.

"You haven't seen the
Informer
website have you?"

Uh-oh. "Not lately... why?"

"Because Dana is plastered across the front page. In a pair of Crocs!"

I closed my eyes and thought a really dirty word.

"How could you let her go outside in those?" Marco chastised me.

"She's having a bad day."

"Yeah, well it's about to get worse. The whole salon is talking about it! Everyone is speculating that she's off the deep end, losing her marbles, pulling a Britney!"

"We'll be right there."

*  *  *

Half an hour later I'd pulled Dana away from her comfort food, and we were in the famous golden triangle of Beverly Hills, pushing through the front doors of Fernando's salon.

Fernando was my step-father, or as I'd affectionately dubbed him, Faux Dad. The nickname was not only because he was a step, but also because just about everything about him was faux. His real name was Ralph, and he'd enjoyed a very modest upbringing in the Midwest before reinventing himself Cali style. "Fernando" had a Spanish ancestry that could be traced back to Isabella, a year-round spray tan, and an accent that teetered on the border between Spain, Italy, and San Francisco. (Before he married Mom, I'd been at least fifty-percent sure he was gay.) If he was going to make it in this town, Faux Dad was smart enough to know it was all about image. And make it he had, boasting one of the most successful salons in the city, playing host not only to countless real housewives of Beverly Hills but also a couple of the ones from TV.

In keeping with the current trend of the moment, Fernando's was decorated in a sixties mod style, complete with big, plastic pod chairs in reception, large, orange paisley flocked wallpaper, and portraits of Jackie O in big, black frames amidst hand painted daisies and retro polka dots. The main reception desk was a clear, plastic thing with a slab of polished wood on top and Marco sitting behind it.

As soon as we pushed through the glass front doors, he pounced. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, it's true!" he shouted, sucking in a breath as he got a look at Dana's footwear.

Her cheeks went pink. "I've had a bad day," she protested in defense.

Marco clucked his tongue. "Honey, no one's day is that bad."

"Show me the website," I insisted, coming around the reception desk to his computer.

Marco did, pulling up the
Informer
's site as we looked over his shoulder. Splashed across the homepage beneath the "Fashion Victim of the Day" tagline was an image of Dana on the sidewalk outside The Sunshine State: sweats hanging limply on her hips, tank stretched out on one side, hair frizzing in the humidity as it escaped from her messy bun, feet stuck into the finest in plastics.

I thought some more dirty words aimed at one perky tabloid reporter. Allie hadn't been holding her phone up
just
to check the time on it. She'd also snapped the most unflattering photo of Dana that I had ever seen. That sneaky little...

My friend must have agreed as I heard her gasp beside me, hands flying to her mouth.

"Ohmigod, do I really look like that?"

I bit my lip trying to come up with a kind response. "It's been a bad day," I settled on again.

"My image is ruined," Dana wailed, thunking her head on Marco's desk. "My career is ruined. What am I going to do?"

"Well, for starters, we're gonna do something about this," Marco said, lifting a lock of frizzy strawberry blonde hair off his keyboard. "Honey, you need a hot oil treatment, stat!"

Dana nodded dumbly. "Okay."

"Then we'll talk about those Crocs once you've had some fashion sense pedicured back into you."

*  *  *

While Dana was in the very capable hands of Marco, I sat in reception and made a couple of calls. The first was to Felix, which went straight to voicemail.

"Call off your perky little pit-bull," I told him. "Dana's going through enough. She doesn't need to be a front page crime of fashion." I paused. While I knew Felix lived for the story - and this was definitely a juicy one - I tried to appeal to his human side. I was 90% sure he had one. "Please," I added. Then hung up.

The second call was to Ricky, which also went straight to voicemail. If I didn't know better, I would say people were screening me.

"Hey, it's Maddie. Listen, we need to talk. Dana's a wreck." I paused. "Just check the
Informer
site for proof of that. Anyway, I'm driving up to see you. I'll be there in..." I looked down at my watch. It was nearing 3:00pm, the witching hour where L.A. freeways magically turned from travel routes to parking lots. "...forty-five minutes," I finished, optimistically.

I hung up, checked in on Dana (who was encased in hot oil for her hair, paraffin treatments for both hands and feet, and a soothing cucumber face mask while awaiting a full body salt rub), texted Mom to see how the twins were doing (who promptly texted back that everyone was "just ducky"), and headed toward the PCH before traffic became tragic.

Malibu was about thirty miles north of L.A. proper, accessible by the Pacific Coast Highway, which snaked scenically along the coast, playing host to miles of white sand, funky seafood restaurants, and surf shacks. While the city was virtually inaccessible during rush hour, you weren't anyone in Hollywood until you had a beach house getaway on a cliff overlooking the ocean in Malibu. And Ricky was certainly someone. Which, as it turned out, was a good thing, because if there was ever a time he needed to get away, this was it.

Predictably, the winding drive to Ricky's place was packed with paparazzi. News vans mingled with the beat up Hyundai's of freelancers, all of them pointing wide-angle lenses at the house on the off chance that Ricky made an appearance. I had to drive half a block away just to find a spot to park, then I mentally crossed my fingers that Ricky would even see me as I trudged back to his front gates and hit the intercom. I felt curious paparazzi closing in, snapping photos as the system buzzed to life.

"No interviews," came the response through the speaker.

"Maddie Springer," I said. "I'm a friend of Ricky's. Can you please tell him I'm here?" I asked the unseen security guard.