Danger in High Heels (4 page)

While I'd honestly tried to breast feed at first, I'd learned very quickly that with twins, that meant ninety percent of the time I had a small person attached to my chest. Kinda made it hard to do anything but make milk. By week two I'd felt so much like a cow that the wheat grass juice Dana drank daily was starting to look appetizing. I'd made the wise decision to switch to pumping half time, and going formula half time. Honestly, the twins seemed just as content with a baby bottle in their mouths, and I was
way
more content. And less prone to grass cravings.

After a couple of suck downs and a quick burp on the back for each, we were once again settled into the carriage. I pushed the little ones out onto the set, hoping to grab Dana and go track down Lana.

But as soon as I turned the corner, I realized something much bigger than wardrobe malfunctions was going on.

The stage was abandoned, grips and PA's were running in every direction shouting into their walkie-talkies. A new addition of about half a dozen security guards was swarming the set. And dancers in sweats and tiny T-shirts were waving their arms and shouting loudly enough that even if the twins hadn't been fat and happy at the moment, they would have been totally drowned out.

I pushed the stroller down toward the hallway I'd seen before, craning for a glimpse of Dana or Ricky. A group of hair and make-up people were crowded together, talking in hushed tones, shaking their heads.

Anxiety began to rise in my gut. Something about the scene did not feel business-as-usual.

"What's going on?" I asked a girl in an apron loaded with cosmetics.

She whirled around, eyes wide. "They found Irina," she told me.

"Was she missing?" I asked, trying to play catch up. Last I'd seen, she was setting to rehearse again. How long had I been gone feeding the babies? Twenty minutes? Half hour tops?

The girl nodded, her sloppy bun bobbing up and down on top of her head. "When they went to set the music again, no one could find her. She wasn't in her dressing room, or wardrobe, or anywhere."

"But you just said they did finally find her," I reminded her, knowing there was more to the story, or else everyone would be wearing looks of relief, not the frowns of anxiety marking their faces now.

She nodded again. "They found her in Ricky Montgomery's dressing room. Naked," she added.

Oh lord. Dana was going to freak!

But what I heard next made me realize that Dana was the least of the girl's problems.

"She's…" The make-up girl paused, her face paling. "Dead."

Chapter Four

There are two things that everyone knows about me. One: I live for fashion. As a child I spent more hours than I care to count dressing my dolls for every special occasion under the sun. In fact, I spent so much time dressing my dolls that they never actually attended any special occasions. When I ran out of pre-made doll fashions, I started using whatever I had on hand to create my own. Socks, handkerchiefs, scarves - all were fair game to my pair of safety scissors and glue stick as I cut, wrapped, draped, and stuck the items to my uniquely styled dolls.

As soon as I got to high school, and my dolls went the way of the yard sale, I started experimenting with my own clothes. Very seldom did I buy an outfit off the rack and wear it as-is. Normally my scissors (sharp sewing ones this time) did their magic first, creating one-of-a-kind custom garments. After graduating, I was accepted to the Academy of Art Fashion Design School in San Francisco, where I found my true fashion passion - shoes. No matter how tall you were, how short, how fat, how thin, every woman could fit into a fabulous pair of shoes. I started designing Paris-worthy pumps then and never looked back.

That was the first thing people knew about me. The second thing? I'm ashamed to say I'm a bit of a dead body magnet.

Know how some people have all the luck when it comes to bingo or sweepstakes? I have all the murder luck. I swear I do nothing on my own to incur this sort of luck, but it seems to follow me everywhere I go. My first run-in with death was back when I met Ramirez, and we were tracking down my MIA ex-boyfriend. Since then, I'd had the fortune - or misfortune - of being involved with several of his cases. But to be fair, I'd even helped solve a few.

So while the word "dead" uttered by the make-up girl churned my stomach, I was not altogether as shocked as one might think.

Like a good friend, my first thought was of Dana. She must be hysterical that not only had a dead woman been found, but a
naked
dead woman in her
boyfriend
's dressing room.

But I'll admit that a close second thought was much more selfish and closer to home. My husband was going to be so pissed. I consoled myself with the fact that I had not
technically
been the one to find the body this time. In fact, I'd been yards away, feeding the babies at the time. So, really, I wasn't even sure you could count this as a Maddie Body at all.

At least, that was the story I was sticking with.

I quickly pointed the gargantuan stroller past the crowd of make-up people (Okay, maybe
quickly
was a slight exaggeration since a stroller that size does not move anywhere quickly.) and down the hallway, off of which were a series of closed doors. One read "Shaniqua", another "Kaylie", which I recognized as the Teen Mom on the show, and the last was labeled "Ricky Montgomery". That one, predictably, had a crowd of people standing around it, including several grips, dancers, and more hair and make-up people. They were all watching the scene with undisguised interest, while a pair of guys in white security shirts and black shorts stood at the door, barring anyone's entry.

I scanned the onlookers for a tall, strawberry blonde. But as it turned out, I heard Dana before I caught a glimpse of her.

"She was doing
what
naked in your dressing room?" Dana shouted.

Uh-oh.

"Babe, you've gotta calm down," I heard Ricky's voice in response.

"I don't gotta do anything,
babe
," Dana yelled back.

"Look, I don't know how she got there," Ricky protested.

"And why was she naked?" Dana asked.

"I don't know!"

"And where were you?" Dana countered.

I stood on tip-toe and caught a glimpse of her. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed into slits, lips pursed. Ears practically spewing steam.

"I... I... I don't know. It was busy, there was a lot going on. You know how it is on set. Everything crazy..." Ricky's voice trailed off unconvincingly.

"Oh my God," Dana yelled, throwing her hands up. "I leave you alone for one minute, and the next thing I know you're screwing your co-star behind my back!"

"I was not!" Ricky protested. "I was just... I mean we were..."

"You were what?" Dana asked, leaning in close and poking him in the chest with one manicured finger. "You were doing what with a
naked
dancer in your dressing room?"

"Look, this isn't really the place to do this," Ricky said, eyes shifting to the growing crowd, no doubt hearing the entire conversation played back in his head through the reporting of paparazzi.

But clearly Dana didn't care. Dana was freaking, and she was not backing down for anything.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tear you limb from limb right now, pal," she said, her voice low, menacing, and filled with the kind of threat that a woman who engages in cardio kickboxing six out of seven days a week can carry through with.

As I leaned in closer, waiting for Ricky's reply, I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"Fight," I said without turning around. "Ricky's so busted."

"Busted for what?" came the reply.

"Cheating on Dana with a dead girl and-" I froze mid-sentence as I turned around to see the speaker.

And came face to face with a tall, dark-haired, broad chested guy. My husband, Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD Homicide.

I gulped.

Ramirez raised one dark eyebrow at me. "Dead girl?" he asked.

I nodded. Reluctantly. "But I swear I was nowhere near the dressing room when they found her. I was feeding the babies. Waaaaaaay over there," I said, drawing out the word as I pointed back toward the lounge.

Ramirez stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "'Way' over there, huh?"

"Did you hear the part about how I did not find her?" I emphasized.

"You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Springer?" he asked, the use of my last name giving me some relief that he wasn't in the livid-pissed range, but more exasperated-pissed.

"I'm guessing this is your case now?" I asked.

He nodded, glancing at the dressing room door. "I presume she's in there?"

"I think so. But," I added, "like I said, I haven't actually even seen the dead body. I'm so out of the loop this time." I held both hands up in an innocent gesture to bring home my point.

He shot me a look. "
This
time."

"Exactly."

He took a deep breath. "Okay." He paused, looked down at the babies gurgling with happy, full stomachs in the stroller. "I'd ask you to go home, but that's not gonna happen, is it?"

I gave him an apologetic look. "Well, I can't just leave Dana here..."

"All right, all right. Tell you what: wait with Dana. But once we get her statement you both go right home.
Capice
?"

I nodded and did a mock salute. "Scout's honor."

Ramirez shot me a look that said he didn't really believe I'd been a scout, let alone was going to keep clear of the murder scene. But he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling out his badge and pushing his way toward Ricky's dressing room.

Fifteen minutes later, Ramirez's entire crew of backup arrived, including CSU in black jackets carrying rolls of crime scene tape, a coroner with a stretcher, and a bunch of guys in uniforms who spread out to question people like a well-organized army.

Dana and I sat on the bleachers, watching the scene unfold almost as if we were the audience witnessing a crime drama play out. Only as we watched two guys in plainclothes question Ricky, it hit home how very real this all was.

Ricky gestured wildly with his arms as the first guy tried to calm him down (obviously Good Cop) and the second gave him a hard stare (clearly Bad Cop).

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and pulled it out to see a text from my mom.

omg. dead grl in rm's dressin room?

I cringed. "Looks like the media has already gotten hold of this story." I showed Dana the text.

She did a mirror image of my cringe. "Fab."

true
, I texted back to Mom.
Where did u c the story?

informer website,
she typed back.

I whipped my head around, half expecting to see the perky blonde head of Allie Quick bobbing through the crowd. It took me a second to remember, duh, no press were allowed on set. Which meant Allie must have an informant on the set. I scanned the assembled grips, PA's, dancers, celebrities and various other scattered crew, wondering just which one of them was feeding her info.

"I missed the end of your fight," I told Dana, as I tucked my phone back in my pocket. "I'm guessing Ricky had no explanation for Irina being in his dressing room."

"
Nude
in his dressing room," she added. Then shook her head, her face a blank as she watched Ricky. "And, no. Three years. You spend that kind of time with someone, and you think you know them."

"You really think he was cheating on you?" I asked.

Dana blew out a big breath. "I don't know what to believe."

"How long did you leave him alone?" I asked.

"Just a few minutes," Dana said. "Or, I don't know. Maybe a little longer, I guess. I got a call form my agent about the Lover Girl shoot next week. I stepped outside to take it, and when I came back in, everyone was looking for Irina. It wasn't until they found her that I saw Ricky again."

"I hate to be the one to point this out," I said, watching as Bad Cop took his turn grilling Ricky, "but it really doesn't look good that she was found in Ricky's dressing room."

"I know. I know. I mean, what else would she be doing there au naturel, right?"

I shifted uncomfortably on the bleachers. "No, I mean... well... I didn't exactly hear an iron clad alibi back there when you asked where he was earlier?"

Her eyes went big and round. "Oh, no. No way. Ricky did
not
kill that girl. I mean, there's a big difference between cheating and killing."

I nodded. "I know. But I'm just saying it doesn't look good. To the cops. Or the press," I added, gesturing to my phone. "Or anyone else."

Dana turned to watch Ricky again. "He needs a lawyer, doesn't he?" she asked.

I nodded. "If I were in his shoes? I'd want one."

"This is such a nightmare."