Marco shot a look at my belly. “I’m gonna say five months?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” I mumbled. Even though he was almost right. I’d like to think it was a coincidence that the homicide rate had suddenly picked up the same time I started looking like a large water mammal, but lately I was starting to have my doubts.
“I’m just not sure I do it for him anymore, you know?”
“He’s just busy,” Dana reassured me. “You know how he is when he’s hot on a homicide. Ramirez is crazy about you. I mean, didn’t he come home early last Monday?”
I nodded. “Because we had Lamaze class.”
“Well, what about the week before. He took a whole afternoon off, didn’t he?”
“To help me pick out a jogging stroller,” I pointed out.
“Honey, your social life is making me sad,” Marco said.
I shot him a look. “Watch it, pal. I outweigh you by a good twenty pounds at the moment.”
Marco looked down at my belly again. But he shut up.
“Look, I’m sure when this case is wrapped up, Ramirez will be all over you again,” Dana said.
“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” I whined. “I mean, you have no idea what it’s like. I’m experiencing… well, some pregnancy side effects that I’m having a hard time dealing with on my own,” I hedged.
“Like what?” Dana asked, concern drawing her eyebrows together. “Nausea?”
“Not today.”
“Bloating?” Marco asked.
I shot him a look. “Do I look bloated to you?”
He was wise enough not to answer that.
“Pickle cravings?” Dana asked.
I shook my head. Even though a pickle didn’t sound half bad, now that she mentioned it.
“Is it the gas?” Marco asked, scrunching up his nose. “I heard pregnant women have excessive gas.”
“No! God, you guys are really making me feel better about myself here.”
“Sorry,” Marco mumbled, though his nose was still scrunched up as if he wasn’t 100% convinced.
“So, what is it?” Dana asked.
I bit my lip. “It’s, well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but… it’s the hormones.’
Dana gave me a blank look. “Like… weepy hormones?”
I shook my head. “Worse. Horny hormones.”
Marco let out a blast of laughter, and Dana covered a snort with her hand.
“I’m serious!” I said. “The hormones running through me right now are insane. I’m like a fifteen-year-old boy or something. All I can think about is sex,” I said, remembering my dream from last night all too vividly.
Marco giggled again, but Dana put a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I’m sure that as soon as Alexa’s killer is caught, you can get Ramirez to set aside some alone time to… take care of your problem.”
I nodded, sincerely hoping she was right. “Speaking of which, I got some background info on Alexa last night,” I told them, quickly filling them in on the scant few items I’d picked up from Ramirez’s reports.
When I’d finished, Dana said, “It doesn’t sound like Alexa and her sister were particularly close.”
I shook my head. “No. But one thing Ramirez said stuck with me last night. He said that her sister described Alexa as the family black sheep.”
Marco nodded. “Being a vampire will do that.”
“But Ramirez said that her sister hadn’t seen her in months. Alexa only started the vampire gig a few weeks ago. So what made her the black sheep before then?”
“Oooo, good question,” Dana agreed. “Maybe she was into some bad stuff before, and it caught up to her.”
“What do you think it could have been?” Marco asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I bet her sister does. Anyone up for a trip to the beach?”
Twenty minutes later I was showered, blow-dried, and stuffed into a pair of stretchy white pants, a flowy, oversized pink baby-doll top, and a pair of cute, suede ankle boots. I grabbed an oversized white, leather tote and met Dana and Marco at the curb beside her Mustang.
Marco took one look at my tote and scrunched his nose up. “What’s that?” he asked.
I looked down. “What? It’s a Santana. It’s very this-season.”
“Not the
I looked down again. He was right. One chubby, vinyl arm was peeking over the edge of the tote. I quickly tucked it back inside.
“It’s nothing,” I mumbled.
“Maddie,” Dana said, drawing out the word. “Should we be worried about you?”
I threw my hands up. “Fine. It’s Baby-So-Lifelike, okay?”
“Baby so whatnow?” Marco asked.
“My mom thinks I need practice being a good parent, so she gave me this doll to lug around.”
“Yeah, I’m not so sure good parents stuff their kids into their Santana bags,” Marco informed me.
I shot him a look that could freeze his latte in two seconds flat. “Just get into the car, Auntie Marco.”
Corona Del Mar, Spanish for “crown of the sea”, is about an hour south of Los Angeles and actually a pocket of Newport Beach that’s just expensive enough to get its own name. Dana had the address I’d swiped from Ramirez’s background report last night programed into her GPS, and only two wrong turns later we pulled up to 712 Cambert Drive, home of Phoebe and Bill Blaise. It was a single story, typical California ranch style home on a street lined with palm trees. While we were a good two miles from the ocean, the air still had a salty tinge to it. I inhaled deeply, the sweet scent a welcome change from the perpetual ode de smog that had hung in the air over L.A. since our last big rain.
Dana parked the Mustang at the curb, then we walked up the front steps, where Marco gave a sharp rap on the door.
Two beats later it was opened by a tall man with a thick head of dark hair, thick glasses on his nose, and a thick, dimpled neck that looked like it was made of flesh-colored Play-Do. “May I help you?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone.
“We’re looking for Phoebe Blaise?” I asked, trying to look past him into the home. From what I could see of the living room, light pine and nautical navy blue dominated the color scheme, large, comfortable looking furniture filling every nook and cranny.
“And may I ask who you are?” he said, suspicion lacing his voice as he took in our threesome.
“My name is Maddie Springer,” I said, trying my best at authority. “And these are my colleagues. We’re looking into the death of Alexa Weston.”
“The police were already here,” he hedged, his eyes going from Dana (today dressed in a black tube top, hot pink skirt, and matching hot pink wedges) to Marco (still donning his pink trench, though he’d paired it with leopard printed pants and a purple tank top today), to me and my baby-filled tote.
“We’re not with the police,” I quickly reassured him. “We represent the club where Alexa was killed.”
He nodded, this seemingly a little easier to believe. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what help we can be.”
“We were just wondering if we could ask Alexa’s sister a couple of quick questions, then we’ll be out of your hair,” I promised.
While I could see reservation still marking his face, he nodded again. “If you make it short. She’s very distressed by this whole thing.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“I’m her husband, Bill,” he offered, holding the door open for us. “Please, come in.”
We did, following him through the nautical living room to the kitchen beyond, also done in a beachy theme. Seashells of every shape and size were glue-gunned onto coasters, canisters, and even the low chandelier above
