Homicide in High Heels (18 page)

"It's all over the
L.A. Informer's
website. I saw the pictures of you two at dinner last night."

Mental forehead thunk,

"Ricky, I told you it's not what you think,"
Dana started.

But neither of the guys was paying attention
to her. They were completely focused on the pissing contest going
on in the middle of the studio lot.

"What's a friendly little dinner?" Ratski
said, grinning.

Ricky growled and lunged for him. Ratski
jumped out of the way just as the security guards made it to the
center of our group, the larger of the two restraining Ricky.

"What's going on here?" one of them
barked.

"He's a two-timing jerk!" Ricky yelled
stabbing a finger Ratski's way.

Ratski was still wearing a superior smirk on
his face. He held his hands up in a surrender motion. "Me? I'm a
married man. What would I want with that floozy?"

"Hey!" Dana cried.

I stepped in just in time to save Ratski
from being punched twice in one day. While he was still smirking I
could see blood trickling from his nose, his whole face starting to
swell. He might be enjoying riling Ricky up, but I'd wager he'd be
feeling that tomorrow.

Beth must've noticed too, as she started
bawling. "Oh, my poor pooh bear! How could you do this to him? How
dare you accuse him of something like that! He would never!"

I barely restrained myself from rolling my
eyes. How one woman could be so clueless about her husband, I had
no idea.

Beth put an arm around Ratski, dabbing at
the blood on his upper lip with her thumb like the mother wiping
gook off her kindergartner.

"You stay away from her, you understand. Or
next time no one will be able to hold me back," Ricky growled,
still under the vice-like grip of the security guard.

"Are you threatening me, pretty boy?" Ratski
asked. Then he turned to the second guard. "You heard that, right?
That was a threat. I want to file charges. I want a restraining
order. Knowing these Hollywood types, he's probably hopped up on
something."

Ricky growled again, lunging forward, and
the security guard lost his grip.

Ratski jumped back behind his wife with a
terrified yip.

Good grief.

"All right, all right, enough!" the second
security guard said, inserting himself between the two. "Ratski, if
you want to press charges I'll call an officer down here and have
this guy arrested. Is that what you want?

Ratski looked from the security guard, to
Ricky, to Dana shooting daggers at him, and then to his wife, still
sobbing beside him. He must have realized that if he brought the
police in, what he'd planned that night with Dana might be called
under closer scrutiny. I didn't have great respect for Ratski's
intelligence, but at least he had the brains to know the whole
thing was better swept under the rug.

"No," he said. "You just keep this guy on a
leash," he told Dana.

The security guard turned to Ricky. "If I
find you anywhere near this set again, I will call the police."

Ricky shook the guard off and straightened
his shoulders. "Trust me, I don't want to be anywhere near this
place. Come on, Dana, let's go." He grabbed her arm and turned
away.

Dana made a motion with her hand at her ear
like she'd call me later. I nodded my agreement. I had a feeling
the two of them needed some alone time.

I wasn't much in the mood for lunch, anyway.
Truth was, I'd had enough of the Stars gang for one day. I drove my
golf cart back to the lot entrance and was just swapping it out for
my minivan when a text came in on my phone. I looked down to see
Ramirez's name on the screen
.

A pony just arrived. A live pony.

I pursed my lips, wondering if Ricky's fists
of fury were available for hire. There was one party planner I
wouldn't mind seeing decked at the moment.

Before I could even respond Ramirez shot off
another text, saying he was taking the kids and going to
Mama's.

I was tempted to join him, but I was worried
about what might arrive next at my humble abode.

I hopped into my minivan and quickly pointed
it towards home, only stopping once at a drive-through for a
Double-Double and some Animal Fries. If I was going to face the
worst, better not to do it on an empty stomach.

One precarious drive down the 101 later, I
was happy to report I did not drop any pink sauce on my pants.
However, as I pulled up to the front of my house I felt my good
luck disintegrating.

A catering truck blocked my driveway, and a
Jeep with a cheetah-print custom paint job sat at the curb. A
magnetic sign on the driver's side door read "Aaron's Exotic
Animals," and I could've sworn I recognized the bike parked by the
front door as that of one former
Spanish-soap-star-turned-clown.

I parked my car. I closed my eyes and
counted to ten. I tried to get the tick twitching over my left eye
under control before grabbing my purse and making my way into the
house.

I had to look at the number on my mailbox
twice just to make sure it really
was
my house as I walked
through the door.

My furniture had been moved out to God knows
where, replaced with a pinball machine, a vintage Pac-Man arcade
game, and a foosball table. Huge decals sporting balloons and
rainbows had been stuck on one wall, elephants and hippos with
party blowers in their mouths on the other side. People in various
company uniforms filtered in and out through the sliding glass
doors, carrying folding chairs, flowers, dishes, and plastic
novelty blowups of various circus animals.

And in the center of it all stood Marco,
waving his arms in the chaos like some sort of mad conductor while
chatting into his Bluetooth.

"…well, of course we can't have a pony
without a Wild West gunslinger. What did you say you charge by the
hour?" Pause. "
That
much? Wow. Well, what if the pony's
handler just puts on a cowboy hat?"

"Ahem." I cleared my throat loudly.

Marco turned around, a bright smile lighting
up his features. "Dahling, I'll have to call you back," he said
into his Bluetooth before enveloping me with air kisses.

Which I did not return.

"What's going on here, Marco?"

"Don't you just love it?" he asked,
spreading his arms wide. "I'll admit the decals might've been a bit
much. But we have to have
some
décor in here. I mean, not to
say there's anything
wrong
with your décor, darling, but it
is a bit…well…" He scrunched up his nose, "…on the pedestrian side.
Drab. Ish. For a
children's
party, mind you."

"Did you just call my décor too pedestrian
for children?"

"Well, once the belly dancers arrive,
they're going totally stick out like sore thumbs without a pop of
color somewhere in the room."

I blinked at him. "The what?"

Marco took a deep breath to launch himself
into another monologue but was interrupted as a guy in a chef's hat
crashed through my kitchen door.

"I simply cannot work in zat kitchen. It eez
much too small."

"And you are?" I asked.

"
Oh, Maddie,
meet François LeRue.
He's classically trained. In
Paaaaaaris," Marco said, drawing out the words.

I stared at Marco. "You realize my
children's palates runs from mashed bananas to mashed sweet
potatoes?"

Marco waved me off, addressing the chef.
"François I'm sure you can find some way to work around the
size."

"Impossible! There eez no counter space. I
cannot even find room to lay out zee crepe station."

I rolled my eyes. "It's not
that
small."

"Dahling, I'm sure we can work something
out," Marco addressed the chef. "I know! You can use the banquet
table on the patio."

"We have a banquet table?" I asked, craning
to see around him out the sliding glass doors to our yard.

"Of course you have a banquet table, silly,"
Marco said, giving me a sly grin. "Where else was I going to put
the ice sculpture?"

That tick was coming back with full force,
"Marco I think we need to talk," I started.

However, that's as far as I got before a guy
in a Crocodile Dundee outfit burst through the back door. "I've
lost Matilda!"

I shot Marco a look. "Do I want to know who
or what Matilda is?"

Marco shrugged. We both turned questioning
eyes on Dundee.

"My Amethyst."

"Amethyst…" I had a bad feeling about
this.

"Python. Snake," he said, looking in the
bushes near the door. "My poor baby snake."

I froze, the creepy crawlies slithering up
my spine. "Uh, just how big is this 'baby?'"

"She's just a young thing," Dundee assured
me.

I sighed in relief.

"Only about ten feet."

"There's a ten foot snake loose in my
yard?!"

"Not for long," Dundee said, shaking his
head. "Matilda prefers warm, cozy places. Small, dark." He paused.
"A bit like your house."

I threw my hands up. "I get it! My house is
small!" I took a couple of deep breaths, that tick starting to
vibrate my entire brain, causing a headache that it would take
copious amounts of alcohol to fix.

"Maddie, now, don't you stress," Marco said,
putting an arm around my shoulder. "Auntie Marco will take care of
everything. That's why I'm here. You just go relax. Take a bubble
bath or something."

I shot him a death look. "I'd love to. But
there might be a
python
in my
bathtub
."

Marco shook his head. "Nonsense. Big Red is
practicing his juggling in there. I'm sure he'd see a ten foot
snake if it was in the bathtub."

I ground my teeth together. "The clown is
back?"

Marco blinked innocently at me. "You weren't
serious about firing him, were you?"

I heard a low, menacing growl. I'm pretty
sure it came from me.

I whipped out my cell, pushing past the guy
in the safari outfit crawling on all fours, crooning, "Here,
Matilda, baby." I pulled up Ramirez's number and quickly shot off a
text.

To avoid another murder, I'm joining you at
Mama's.

* * *

Ramirez's mother lived in Hacienda Heights,
which was a quick half-hour drive down the 60 into the San Gabriel
Valley, a sleepy little suburb of Los Angeles. The yards were
generous, the houses 50's style ranches, the neighborhoods
unpretentious, and the occupants lifers of the burbs. There was
something I always found comforting about driving into these family
neighborhoods which had sat largely unchanged for the last fifty
years. Go karts might've been swapped out for Razor scooters and
checker boards for iPads, but the rhythm of life was still the
same: work hard, come home, eat pot roast, and mow the lawn on
Sunday.

Mama's house was nestled between two others
of the identical style, with minor additions of converted garages
and picket fences over the years. There was a tricycle outside on
her lawn, a couple of soccer balls wedged into the bushes, and a
driveway filled with late-model sedans in various states of wear.
Even as I parked at the curb, I could smell the heavenly scents of
cinnamon, cumin, and chocolate wafting from Mama's kitchen.
Instantly my blood pressure went down ten points.

I knocked twice on the door before pushing
inside. "Hello?" I called.

I was greeted by the hum of a television in
the corner, tuned to an old Western movie, mingled with the sounds
of low snoring emanating from the older man snoozing in an easy
chair under a brightly colored Afghan. The screeches and squeals of
children carried in from the back yard, accompanied by someone
singing a soft melody with an acoustic guitar. And above all of
that was the high pitched sound of five different women speaking in
rapid Spanish in the kitchen.

"Hello?" I asked, poking my head into the
room.

Five heads turned my way.

"Ay,
linda
, so good to see you!" Mama
said, enveloping me in a warm hug. Mama was a few inches shorter
than I was, a few pounds heavier, and a whole lot more
domestic.

"Good to see you too, Mama," I told her,
meaning it.

"You came at just the right time," Mama told
me.

"Oh?" I asked, looking over her head to the
rest of the women assembled in the small kitchen. Three smiling,
well-lined faces rimmed with salt and pepper hair—and one scowling
face punctuated with heavy Goth make-up—stared back at me.
Ramirez's aunts, Swoozie, Cookie, and Kiki, collectively just known
as The Aunts, were the owners of the smiling faces. The scowling
face belonged to Ramirez's sister, BillieJo. Then again, if I'd
been saddled with a name like BillieJo, I might spend life scowling
as well. As Ramirez had told it, when his parents had immigrated
from Mexico, his mother had learned English watching reruns of TV
Westerns and named each of her children after one of her favorite
characters. He'd just been glad he hadn't been stuck with
Maverick.

"Yes," Mama told me. "We need you to settle
a dispute."

Uh-oh. A "dispute" was never good, and the
one who settled it was never popular with everyone. "Uh, what kind
of dispute?"

"Well," Cookie said, gesturing toward a tray
with circles of fried dough, sitting on the counter. "Clearly we
should sprinkle these
buñuelos
with cinnamon and sugar
now."

"And I say," Mama piped up loudly, "you
drizzle with honey."

"Nonsense," Kiki argued. "Cinnamon and sugar
is the traditional way to do it."

"
Abuelita
always used honey and
cinnamon," Swoozie countered.

"
Abuelita
was ninety years old and
half blind," Cookie said. "She mixed Bengay in her
pozole
."

Mama sucked in a quick breath. "Don't you
disparage
Abuelita
's cooking.
Abuelita
made the best
pozole
in all of Mexico."