Goldstein shrugged. “She didn’t say. But she was shaken up enough that I agreed to drive her home.”
“So, you went back to her place?” Dana asked.
Goldstein paused again, licking his lips. I could tell he wasn’t the kind of person who said a single thing without first deliberating. A great courtroom skill, but it made for an annoying interview process.
“Not exactly,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
“Well, she was antsy. Kept looking out the back window, like she thought someone was following her.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t say.”
“So, what happened?”
“As soon as we turned onto Victory, she said she’d walk the rest of the way and got out of the car.”
“Victory?” I asked, hearing the confusion in my own voice. That was a good ten miles from Becca’s place off Sunset. “Did you see where she went?”
Goldstein slowly shook his head. “She headed east, toward Lankershim. I figured she lived nearby.”
Only we knew for a fact that she didn’t.
Meaning, once again, Becca was in the wind.
Chapter Thirteen
I tried dialing Becca’s number again, but there was, predictably, no answer. Just for kicks, Dana and I drove by her building again, but there was no sign of her. And after Dana climbed the four flights of stairs (thankfully she let me hang in the lobby as backup), there was no sign that Becca had been back to her trashed place, either.
After circling the block a couple of times for any sign of a redhead in a black wig, Dana dropped me off back at home. Where I was surprised to find not only Ramirez’s black SUV in the drive (before 5 PM even!), but also a shiny, silver mini-van with an “I heart my hairdresser” sticker on the bumper.
Uh oh. Mom was here.
I cautiously walked through the door, only to find Ramirez being held captive in the kitchen by my mom and her best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt. He was holding a hot water bottle in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. Mom had Baby-So-Lifelike in her arms, and Mrs. Rosenblatt was holding a stopwatch.
“Do I even want to know?” I asked, already knowing the answer to that question.
“Madison Louise Springer,” my mother said, immediately turning on me. “Do you know where I found my grandbaby this afternoon?”
I blinked. “Uh… hi. Nice to see you, too.”
“He was on the floor. Face down. Under a pile of shoes!” She held Baby-So-Lifelike to her chest. “The poor dear could have suffocated.”
“He’s plastic.”
“He’s a practice baby, and so far you are indicating that you need a whole lot more practice before you can be trusted with a real baby. Maddie, you left him alone in the house all day. You can’t leave a baby alone! This is the ficus all over again.”
Oh, brother.
I looked to Ramirez for help, but found him edging himself slowly out of the room.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Mom asked, turning on him.
Ramirez froze like a deer in the headlights of a GMC barreling down the 15. “Uh… I thought we were done?”
“Done with what?” I asked, my gaze pinging between the tennis ball and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s stopwatch.
“Timing your exit strategy to the hospital,” Mrs. R explained.
Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five-time divorcee who talked to the dead. She did a weekly astrology column for a local tabloid and ran a psychic reading booth down on the Venice boardwalk on the weekends. She spent weekdays alternating between a booth at Ira’s Deli on Highland and my mom’s living room, sipping coffee and gossiping about the neighbors. Her wardrobe consisted of a never-ending supply of brightly colored muumuus and Crocks. Today’s offering was a hot pink tent with neon yellow daisies printed all over it. Which perfectly matched the neon yellow eye shadow extending clear to her painted-on eyebrows. To say Mrs. Rosenblatt was a bit eccentric was like saying Lindsey Lohan was a bit of an alcoholic. However this was Hollywood, so honestly, she didn’t stick out all that much.
“So far,” she informed me, looking down at the stopwatch, “your husband is at just under twenty minutes. Though we took off ten minutes because he had to go looking for the tennis ball in the garage.”
“I’m confused. Tennis ball?”
“In case you have back labor,” Mom said. “It’s very common in our family.”
“We’re aiming for fifteen minutes flat to get you out of here,” Mrs. R said, resetting the stopwatch. “So the big guy here’s gotta pick up the pace.”
“And even fifteen isn’t that much time when you take into consideration travel time,” Mom added. She paused. “You do have your travel route to the hospital planned out, right?”
I blinked. “Uh…”
“Good lord, Maddie! You don’t know how to get to the hospital?” My mom’s face went white. “My first grandson is going to be born in traffic on the 405. I just know it.”
“Mom,
“Babies come early, you know,” Mom said, wagging a manicured fingernail at me.
“Like Kyle Morganthwait,” Mrs. Rosenblatt agreed, nodding sagely.
“Who?” I asked.
“My third husband’s cousin’s daughter’s kid,” Mrs. R explained. “Little Kyle was born three months early. Only weighed a single pound.”
I looked down at my belly. Could it really be that The Bump only weighed a pound? Good lord, where had the other fifteen I’d gained gone?
“Don’t panic,” Mom said, putting up a hand. “I’ll find a route to the hospital.”
“You’re the only one panicking, Mom,” I pointed out. “And I really think Ramirez and I are capable of finding the hospital.”
But she completely ignored me, making for the spare room and Ramirez’s laptop.
I followed a reluctant step behind, watching her navigate around the diapers, jiggle the mouse to life and pull up Google Maps.
“Okay, so if you take the 405 to Santa Monica to Beverly, it should only take you twenty minutes.”
“If there’s no traffic,” Mrs. Rosenblatt interjected, coming into the room behind us. “If it’s past 3 PM, you’re gonna want to take surface streets all the way.”
“But not Santa Monica,” Mom added. “In that case, you’ll want to take the canyon, coming out on Sunset and cutting through town.”
“Unless you get car sick,” Mrs. R amended. “Then you should go the 101 route, taking Melrose to La Cienega. And in that case, you’d better have your tennis balls ready to go, because that could be a full forty minute ride.”
“She can put them in her overnight bag, right Maddie?” Mom said.
I blinked.
“Oh, God, Maddie, please tell me you have an overnight bag ready to go?”
I shook my head. “Honestly, I’m not planning to stay overnight.”
“What?” Mom froze at the keyboard.
“The hospital only requires a twelve hour stay,” I explained. “If we go in the morning, we’ll be home by dinner.”
“And what if the baby comes in the middle of the night?” Mom asked.
“Well, I’m sure that could happen, but-”
“Or what if you end up needing a C-section,” Mrs. Rosenblatt added.
