Killer in High Heels

Maurice nodded, tears running down his chubby cheeks again.

I gave him the most sympathetic face I could, considering he’d pointed a gun at my head just seconds ago.

“Look,” Larry continued, “I’m sorry you came all the way out here, Maddie. But, uh…” He glanced at Maurice again. “Now’s not really a good time. Sorry.” And with that Larry turned on his Gucci heels and disappeared back into the house.

“Wait!” I cried. I pushed through the sliding door. Maurice, still sobbing, followed me.

The house smelled like a combination of Clorox and my Irish Catholic grandmother’s Glade plug-ins. A bottle of Windex sat on an end table next to a rag, the only two things out of place in the entire room. The house was immaculate. I’m talking Swiffer-commercial clean. All the furniture-a chintz love seat, oak coffee table, and glass entertainment center-was symmetrically arranged, each corner lining up perfectly with the next. It was the kind of room that made me instantly want to take my shoes off for fear of leaving a muddy trail across the pristine tiled floor.

Instead, I charged up the stairs. “Larry?” I called, taking them two at a time with Maurice hot on my heels.

“What are you doing? You can’t be in here,” Maurice protested, eyeing the bottoms of my strappy sandals versus the white carpeting upstairs.

I ignored him, following the sounds of Lola’s movement.

The second floor of the house held three bedrooms and a bathroom decorated in hot pink tiles and a pink- and-white polka-dot shower curtain. (Who was their designer, Barbie?) The first two bedroom doors were closed. I caught a glimpse of Larry’s red wig moving around in the third.

As I entered the room, it was instantly clear that Larry was not the resident housekeeper. Larry’s room looked like the pictures I’d seen of the Beverly Bloomingdale’s right after the Northridge quake hit. Dresses, skirts, blouses, and shoes mingled in disarray on every surface. A handful of long wigs on Styrofoam heads lined the dresser amidst eyeliner, mascara, and-I cringed-the same Raspberry Perfection lip gloss I put on every morning. I averted my gaze, feeling my face scrunch into those Botox-worthy lines again.

Instead I focused on Larry, standing in the center of the room zipping closed a black duffel bag as a little yapper dog circled his ankles.

“I need to talk to you, Larry,” I said, as Maurice huffed up behind me.

Larry looked up, only mildly surprised I’d followed him in. “I can’t. I have to go.” He picked up a beaded purse from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.

“So, so…you’re just going to leave again?” My voice cracked, images of that hairy arm disappearing from my life overwhelming me. Granted, this was not exactly how I’d always fantasized our father-daughter reunion playing out, but the fact that he was walking away again had me going into a panic.

He must have noticed because he paused again.

“Look, I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I know how you must be feeling and I’m sorry this is such a shock to you.”

Understatement alert. But shock was good. Shock was one step away from denial and if I could just tell my mind to make that next leap over the fence, I planned to camp out in denial for a long time. I looked down at his Gucci boots again. A long, long time.

“What about the gunshot Friday night?” I asked, dragging my gaze back up to Larry’s face.

He found a piece of lint on his skirt suddenly fascinating. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I heard a gunshot on the message you left me.”

Larry and Maurice did that silent exchange thing again. “Must have been a car backfiring.”

Apparently being a terrible liar ran in the family.

“Look, you said on the phone that you needed help. What kind of help? Does this have to do with Monaldo?”

Larry gave me a blank stare. “No. I don’t need any help. Everything’s fine.”

Right. I narrowed my eyes at him. So fine that his roommate had just taken a header off a roof. Not to mention the sobbing gay guy with the gun shoved into his Old Navy cords.

“Larry, if you’re in trouble-”

But he cut me off. “Really, I’m fine, Maddie. Everything here is fine.” He grabbed his duffel bag and pushed past me, back down the stairs.

“Wait!” I followed, my heels click clacking on the tiles as Larry headed out the front door. I followed him down the flagstone pathway and out to the Volvo in the drive. Turtleneck grabbed the small dog, and with a backwards glance at Larry, hopped in the Taurus and roared down the street.

But my whole attention was focused on Larry as he threw his duffel bag in the Volvo and walked around to the driver’s side.

“Wait,” I said again, that panic rising in my throat. “Can I…maybe call you or something?”

Larry paused, his eyes softening. “It was good to see you, Maddie. Tell your mom I said hi.”

And before I could protest being blown off again, he had the car in gear and was driving out of my life for the second time. Only this time instead of a hairy arm, all I saw was his long red wig, flapping in the breeze out the car window.

I stood there in the empty driveway, trying to process what had just happened.

My father hadn’t been shot. He was okay. He wasn’t dead, wounded, or bleeding. I should be relived he was okay, right?

And I was.

Kinda.

Only he hadn’t seemed all that okay. And I still had more questions than answers. Not even considering his taste in clothing, there was something really weird going on here.

I looked back at the house. Just for good measure I tried the front door. Locked.

For lack of any other bright ideas, I got in the Mustang and drove back to the hotel.

The first thing I did when I got back to the room was check my messages. Imagine my surprise when I had seven. All seven from Ramirez.

Under any other circumstances, seven messages from an LAPD officer yelling at you to get your butt back to his jurisdiction might not be a good thing. But as I sat there listening to each one, I couldn’t help feeling just the teeniest bit of triumph. Who’s not returning calls now, huh?

I hit the erase button and all seven disappeared. Then I flopped back on the bed and stared up at the textured ceiling.

Okay, so my dad preferred lipstick to dipsticks. So he happened to like Gucci boots. (Couldn’t really blame him there.) So instead of running off to Vegas with a showgirl he had apparently become a showgirl.

The fact still remained, he was my dad. And despite his protests, he was in trouble. How much trouble and what kind, I wasn’t quite sure. In fact, I wasn’t even quite sure I wanted to know. Larry had, after all, just run out on me for the second time in my life. He hadn’t exactly exhibited the classic signs of a father happy to see his daughter.

I rubbed my eyes, pushing the fatherless little girl in me to the back of my mind, and tried to focus on the practical adult woman. (I knew she was in there somewhere.)

Let’s assume that I had, in fact, heard a gunshot in Larry’s message last Friday. He’d been asking for help and someone had taken a shot at him. Three days later Larry’s roommate swan dived off a roof. And Larry went mum. I didn’t like the pattern here.

So what kind of help had he needed? Did it have something to do with this Monaldo guy? Maurice had said they were done. Done with what? Had that been what he and Larry were arguing about in the kitchen? The way they had been waving their arms at each other, I couldn’t imagine it was over what kind of casket to bury poor Hank in.

I closed my eyes. So, the question was, did I walk away like Larry had so many years ago? Or did I stay and try to help him out of whatever mess he and Turtleneck had gotten themselves into? I wish I could say a brilliant answer came to me, but instead I think I drifted off to sleep.

The next thing I knew, Dana burst into the room with a loud whoop and started jumping on the bed.

“Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Maddie, wake up!”