Homicide in High Heels (22 page)

The pony charged forward, trotting at full
speed toward the banquet table where the ice sculpture of two
babies posing as cherubs sat, taunting him. The pony crashed
through them, a cacophony of wings and frozen halos crashing to the
patio, accompanied by a dozen trays of raining hors d'oeuvres.

"Matilda!" cried Crocodile Dundee

"Nelly!" cried the pony-wrangler in the
cowboy outfit.

"My canapés!" cried François, running from
the kitchen.

"Awesome!" yelled the chic-geek with Google
Glass, catching every gory moment of it in digital glory.

"Marco," I threatened under my breath.

Unfortunately it seemed neither Matilda nor
Nelly were very well-trained, as they completely ignored their
owners. Matilda was slithering through the party-goers—now
screaming and lifting their legs to high step out of her way.
Ramirez's brothers chased the pony, who was charging, whinnying,
and leaving nervous little pony droppings all over my yard.

They almost had him corralled into one
corner when my cousin Molly's husband, Stan, walked through the
sliding glass door.

"I beat the high Pac-Man score!" he
announced to the yard at large.

Two seconds before a rampant pony with the
runs charged into him, knocking him to the ground, and running
straight into my living room.

"No!" I cried, making an attempt to move
toward the door.

Only it was too late. Nervous Nelly had
already let loose on my living room carpet.

* * *

It took us the better part of the evening to
clear all the guests from the party, the animals from my house, and
the pony poop from the yard…not to mention my rug. Which, as I'd
pointed out to Marco in a tirade of words I never wanted my
children to learn, was now ruined. He'd tried to cheer me up by
joking that it matched my La-Z-Boy. I told him that it was a good
thing my husband worked out, because he was the only thing holding
me back from strangling the fab party planner. Marco had wisely
made his exit at that point. By the time the party rental place had
hauled away the last helium machine, I was exhausted. Ramirez and I
both fell into bed, and I'm pretty sure I begin snoring even before
my head hit the pillow.

The next morning I woke to sunlight
streaming through my bedroom window and the faint smell of rotting
deviled eggs on my back lawn. I groaned and rolled over.

As much as the party had ended (and
started…and continued) in disaster, in the light of day, I felt the
teeny tiniest bit of guilt creeping into my peripheral about
yelling at Marco. Okay, he had turned my backyard into a pony
potty, he owed me a complete new living room, and if I never saw
another reptile again it would be too soon. But I knew Auntie
Marco's heart had been in the right place. Even if his head and my
pocketbook were not. He put his all into the party, and I knew he'd
be sulking today. So my first stop after I dropped a kiss on my
husband's cheek and wished him luck cleaning up the rest of the
canapés from the yard was Starbucks for a Venti mocha frappuccino
with extra whip, extra espresso, and lots of chocolate shavings on
top. As far as peace offerings went, I hoped this did the
trick.

Unfortunately, business didn't seem to be
any more brisk at Fernando's than the last time I'd been there.
Empty cut and color stations lined the walls, and there was just
one lone woman getting a pedicure. Probably the only woman in the
L.A. area who hadn't heard about the Tanning Salon Murder.

Marco looked up as I pushed through the
glass doors, his expectant-receptionist smile quickly morphing into
a look of pure fear.

I bit my lip. I walked up to the desk and
shoved the Starbucks out in front of me. Marco looked down at the
cup, back up to me, down at the cup. He didn't say anything, though
his expression softened a little

"And this is?" he asked.

"Peace offering."

Marco eyed me suspiciously out of the corner
of his heavily lined lids, as if it might contain poison.

"Look, the party did not end well yesterday,
but I shouldn't have yelled. And threatened to kill you. And said
you couldn't plan your way out of a paper bag."

Marco crossed his arms over his chest.

Boy, I sucked at apologizing. I cleared my
throat and made another go of it. "I know you were doing your best
to make a memorable party for the twins."

Marco raised one eyebrow. "Well, if we were
going for memorable, I think I succeeded." A hint of a smile peeked
out from behind his words. "You know how many hits we've had on
YouTube this morning alone?"

I clenched my teeth together, remembering I
was here to restore our friendship. "Goody for us."

Marco reached for the coffee. "But you were
right, Maddie. I'm starting to think maybe I did go just a bit
overboard."

I couldn't help myself. "Ya think?"

"I know, I know," Marco said, taking a sip
of his peace offering and waving his hands. His black and gold
crackle manicure sparkled in the air as he emoted. "But I just
wanted everything to be perfect. I've had other clients before,
even some big celebrity clients," Marco added. "But, I've never
done a big party for a friend-ebrity before."

I couldn't help but get a little emotional,
my hand going to my chest. "I'm a friend-ebrity? I'm not a
celebrity. I just design shoes. Dana's the celebrity."

But Marco shook his head from side to side
so violently that even his gelled spikes seemed to wobble in the
air. "Honey, you are both dazzling stars in my book. And little ol'
me is just manning the phones here while you two superstars are
into the stratosphere with your careers." Marco paused, a frown
taking over his features. "I was just trying to keep up with you
ladies. I'm sorry for going a little overboard."

I moved around the reception desk and
grabbed him in a big hug. "Honey, you
are
one of us ladies.
You're a party planner to the stars. And I'm sure after everyone
hears what a…memorable party you threw for my twins, they'll be
clamoring to book you for theirs."

"Really?" Marco said, the same sort of
disbelief on his face that I'm sure I'd displayed when I saw the
pony in my backyard.

"Really," I promised. Just as my cell buzzed
to life in my pocket. I pulled it out to see Ramirez's name with an
incoming text.

Laurel and Hardy calling press conference.
11:15 Stars Stadium.

Oh boy. Whatever they had to say couldn't be
good.

After a quick text exchange with Ramirez, we
both decided that I was much more likely to get into the press
conference than Ramirez was. Not to mention I was a lot less likely
to piss off his captain, who was most certainly planning to be in
attendance. Especially if Laurel and Hardy had good news he could
take credit for.

So, forty-five minutes later I was pulling
into the Stars Stadium parking lot. Once again it was still
freakishly empty compared to game day. However, at the far end of
the lot near the players' entrance there sat a smattering of cars,
mostly of the beat-up or news van variety, signaling that members
of the press had gathered. I parked my car next to a Channel 4 van
with a huge satellite dish stuck on its roof and made my way
inside. Unfortunately I only got as far as the front entrance as
the bodybuilder/gatekeeper was in attendance today as well. He took
one look at me and shook his head.

"Press pass?"

"I'm a friend of Kendra Blanco," I said,
hoping he remembered me from previous visits.

No such luck. He just gave me a steely stare
and repeated the words. "Press pass?"

I shrugged. Unfortunately, there would be no
sneaking around him today.

I was about to give up and go queue up the
Twitter app on my phone to get the breaking news secondhand when I
heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Well, if he doesn't want his picture on the
front page he shouldn't go around inciting celebrities."

I spun around to see Felix, Bluetooth firmly
in one ear, waving his hands and yelling as he stalked across the
parking lot toward the stadium entrance.

"Oh, please. Slander? This picture has
Ratski trending higher than any mere homerun ever will." Felix
paused, shook his head, and threw his hands up in the air. "Listen,
I've got a press conference. I've got to go. You want to talk
slander, you can call the paper's legal department." He hung up,
then lifted his eyes and spotted me.

I gave him a little one finger wave as he
approached.

"I take it Ratski's lawyer isn't a fan of
your recent headlines?" I asked, referencing the conversation I'd
just overheard. In my defense, it was hardly eavesdropping if the
person you overheard was yelling at the top of their lungs in a
crowded parking lot.

Felix shrugged. "Par for the course. He has
to say something or he's not earning his retainer now is he?" He
paused, looking over my shoulder. "I don't suppose that your
husband has any inside information on what's about to break in
there?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, this time he and I
are as out of the loop as anyone."

Felix raised one eyebrow.

Oops. I'd forgotten that I hadn't told him
about Ramirez's suspension. "Anyway," I glossed over it, "it seems
I need a press pass to get past the gatekeeper." I blinked my
lashes and did my best innocent little smile at Felix.

Felix raised the other eyebrow. "Are you
asking for
another
favor, Maddie?"

"Yes, I'm asking you for another favor. A
small one," I clarified.

Felix grinned again. "And in return I
get…?"

"The warm fuzzy feeling of helping out a
friend?"

"Hmm." He pursed his lips together and shook
his head in the negative.

"The satisfaction of helping to bring a
killer to justice?"

More head shaking.

I sighed. "An exclusive interview with an
eyewitness to the Ricky versus Ratski's altercation?"

Felix's face broke into a wide grin. "Now
we're talking." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a
rectangular laminated pass on a lanyard emblazoned with the
L.A.
Informer
's logo, identical to the one I noticed he was wearing
around his own neck.

I quickly snatched it from his hand before
he had second thoughts and slipped it over my head, making tracks
toward the gatekeeper. I triumphantly held it up and couldn't help
feeling just a little gratification as he stepped aside and let us
past him.

Felix and I followed a thin but steady
stream of reporters, anchor persons, various freelancers, and
bloggers down a short corridor to the Stars press room. As soon as
I stepped inside, I recognized the podium and back drop as having
graced my living room TV screen on many an occasion as Ramirez
either celebrated or grumbled about the night's game. The back wall
was papered with the team's logo—a bright red star with the letters
L and A in scrolling calligraphy—and in front of the wall sat a
simple, long wooden table, outfitted today with several microphones
and scattered pitchers of water.

Right away I noticed Laurel and Hardy,
sitting behind the table. Hardy was checking his teeth in the
reflection of his microphone stand while Laurel guzzled water like
it was going out of style, her deer-in-the-headlights eyes bouncing
around the quickly filling room.

Behind them, I could see several guys in
suits, whispering to each other and shuffling papers back and
forth. Whether they were publicists for the LAPD or the Stars, I
wasn't sure. What I was sure of was that they were about to deliver
some news that would cast both in a favorable light…though I had a
sinking feeling that light would not extend to Fernando's.

"Any chance they arrested a suspect?" Felix
whispered to me, as we found two seats near the back of the
room.

"Unlikely," I mumbled back, ignoring the
nervous flutter in my stomach.

"Unlikely because?" Felix pressed.

"Those two investigate a murder about as
well as I catch a foul ball."

Felix had barely covered his snicker when
the owner of the Stars stood up behind the microphone, raising his
hands to the room to signal quiet.

"I want to thank the members of our esteemed
local journalistic outlets for attending our conference today," he
started.

I barely concealed
my
snicker as I
glanced around. Esteemed was probably the last word I would use to
describe the assembled group. "Tabloids," "yellow journalists,"
"hacks," maybe.

"I'll make this quick," the owner said. "And
I'd like to turn the microphone over to detectives Laurel McMartin
and Jonathan Hardy with the LAPD to give you a brief update on
their investigation into the tragic death of a member of the Stars
family, Lacey Desta."

At the mention of Lacey's name there was a
pall of simultaneous silence and eager anticipation that hit the
crowd. I found myself jiggling my knee up and down and biting my
lip as Hardy stood up, clearing his throat and squaring his
shoulders as he preened for the cameras.

"Thank you, Mr. Shwartzheimer," Hardy began.
"And thank you to the esteemed members of the press."

Oh, brother. My eyes rolled so far up in my
skull I could almost see my brain.

"After an exhaustive investigation where my
partner, Laurel McMartin," he said pointing to his apoplectic deer,
"and I have explored many avenues of inquiry, gathered ample
evidence, and done exhaustive analysis, we are happy to come to the
conclusion that none of the players of the L.A. Stars baseball team
have any connection whatsoever to the death of Lacey Desta."

The room immediately erupted into quiet
murmurs, tapping keyboards, and rustling coats as members of the
press tweeted, typed, and emailed this development to their
respective editors.