Killer in High Heels

Mr. Hardbody tonight, seriously trying to resist the fattening allure of the buffet. I looked down at my watch. I still had an hour before my appointment at the salon. Which, I decided, left me more than enough time to do another quick drive-by of Larry’s house on the off chance he was spending a quiet afternoon at home. The more I learned about him the more questions I had. And while the whole Mob angle was just this side of reality TV for me, I had to admit the question topping my list was why Larry had called me in the first place. Okay, so he’d needed help, that much was obvious. But why me? I admit, the little-girl-lost in me was still holding out hope of that perfect father-daughter reunion.

Unfortunately, as I pulled up to 319 Sand Hill Lane, it was obvious today wasn’t the day for it. The driveway was empty. No sign of Larry’s battered Volvo. I parked at the curb and rang the bell just for good measure. No answer. I peeked in the garage windows. No car. No signs of life. No big surprise, considering how my day was going so far.

Mr. Shar-pei was outside watering his cactuses again. I strolled over to the row of shrubs that served as a barrier between the two yards and waved. “Hi there,” I called.

Shar-pei didn’t look up.

I cleared my throat. “Um, hello!”

Nothing. I yelled a little louder. “Hey!”

Finally he glanced up from his hose and gave me a myopic squint. Then he turned up his hearing aid.

“Oh, hello again,” he said. “Sorry. Wife’s been watchin’ home shopping all day.” He pointed to his ear. “Had to tune out Joan Rivers.”

“Ah. Understandable. Anyway, I was just wondering if you’d seen Lar-uh, Lola around today.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. I seen her pull in here last night, though. Went inside there ’round about when Pat Sajak came on. Then after Dancing with the Stars was over, I looked out the window and saw her loading a suitcase into her trunk and off she went again.”

Suitcase. That was not good.

“I don’t suppose she mentioned where she was going?”

He shook his head again. “Nope. But she looked in a real hurry. Maybe she had a hot date.” His wrinkles squished together in an exaggerated wink.

I felt my Mad Cow burger threatening to make a repeat appearance.

“Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. Any friend of that Lola’s is a friend of mine.” He did a couple of eyebrow wiggles that had me clinging to my denial like a security blanket.

I stared up at the house. Well…if Larry was gone, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have just one tiny peek around, right?

I opened the back gate and tippy-toed around the yard to the sliding glass door again, this time careful to watch my step over the dog toy landmines. I peeked in the windows, rising up on the balls of my feet to see around the bushes. It looked a lot like it had yesterday. In fact, the Windex was even still out on the table. With a quick over-the-shoulder peek, I tried the sliding door. Locked. Well, what did I really expect?

So what now? I scanned the interior of the house as I thought. Honestly, I was out of ideas. If Larry were involved with the Mob, this was so out of my league. My league was full of children’s shoes, Rainbow Brite jellies and Spiderman slippers. My league wasn’t even playing the same game as a bunch of Italian-American family men.

On the other hand…I didn’t think Larry was really in their league either. I know, I know, I’d only met the man once. Okay, maybe twice if you count the whole ’74 El Camino incident. How could I really know for sure what he was like? Truth? I couldn’t. But what could I say? He was my dad. If I wasn’t on his side, who would be?

Telling myself I was really doing Larry a favor, I pulled out my Macy’s card and stared at the locked door, trying to remember how Veronica Mars had broken into that guy’s house last week on TV. I gingerly slid the corner of the red plastic card between the metal frame and the door. I paused, waiting for alarms to go off. Nothing. Okay, so far so good. I wriggled the card in a little deeper, until it was wedged in all the way up to the expiration date. Then I slowly slid the card downward until I came in contact with the lock. Hmmm…now what? I wriggled some more. I hated to admit it, but this didn’t seem to be doing anything. By now Veronica had been inside the perp’s house, had hacked into his computer, and was downloading evidence off his hard drive.

I moved the card up and down a couple more times, silently willing the lock to magically spring free. I gave it a hard downward thrust.

Snap.

Oh crap. I pulled out my credit card, only coming away with half of it.

“Nooooooo!” I wailed. I stared at my mangled Macy’s card. Why oh why hadn’t I used my Nordstrom card instead? At least I knew I was already over the limit on that one.

Conceding that I was no Veronica Mars, and not willing to sacrifice my Banana Republic card, I gave up on the sliding door.

Instead, I decided to explore the other side of the house. Who knows, maybe Larry had left a window open in his haste in skip town last night. I followed a neat flagstone pathway around the corner of the building. A line of terra-cotta pots and gardening tools stood beside the fence, next to the re-coiled garden hose. This time I carefully stepped over it.

There were three windows on the top floor visible from here, and two on the bottom. All five closed (and locked, I checked) and all sporting beige mini blinds pulled tightly shut. I might have been discouraged at this point, had I not spied a door leading into the garage at the end of the flagstone pathway.

What were the chances it was unlocked? Considering my luck so far, I didn’t hold out a lot of hope. So imagine my surprise when the knob in my hand turned with ease. Wadda ya know? Maybe I wasn’t a total jinx after all.

With one more quick over-the-shoulder for good measure, I quickly slipped inside and shut the door behind me. It was dark; only a pale stream of light from under the garage door illuminated the shadows. I paused a moment, letting my eyes adjust before feeling my way across the space to a door on the far side. As I did, it became clear this was no ordinary garage. This place was clean. I’m talking obsessive compulsive clean. Pristine white floor-to- ceiling storage cabinets lined the far wall, neatly stacked side by side. The floor was completely free of any telltale oil spots and I’d dare anyone to find an errant cobweb nestled in the corners. Along the back wall stood a tool bench with one of those pegboard thingies full of tools, each in its rightful place. I tried to block the mental image of Larry swinging a hammer in his frilly skirts and fake wigs as I gingerly crossed the room and opened the interior door.

I found myself in the kitchen, and blinked against the sudden onslaught of light. Yellow calico curtains hung above the apron sink and a matching calico tablecloth was draped over a small breakfast table near the windows. Corian counters, whitewashed pine cabinets, and two framed prints of roosters completed the suburban French country look. Standing in the bright, cheerful room, it was hard to imagine the owners of this house being into anything sinister.

Since I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, I decided to start in Hank’s room. He was, after all, the dead guy in all this. Besides, he was the least likely one to mind if I did a little snoop-I mean, investigating through his things.

I jogged up the stairs and entered the bedroom on the right. It was clear Maurice had used his magic touch in here as well. Light, airy fabrics mixed with thick, dark woods, and large, mall-store quality prints adorned the walls. Little lace doilies covered the dresser and nightstands, and if I hadn’t known better I’d swear my sixty-five-year-old Aunt Mildred lived here.

I did a quick scan of his closets and drawers, fighting off a slight case of the heebie-jeebies at touching things that belonged to a dead man. I mean, he hadn’t actually died in these clothes, had he? In fact, he hadn’t died in any clothes, if I remembered correctly. I made a mental note to ask Ramirez about that.

Due to Maurice’s clean-aholic tendencies, I didn’t turn up much, other than a few pieces of expensive jewelry and a drawer full of size triple XL pantyhose. With a quick glance at my watch (if I limited my snoop- investigating-to another ten minutes, I could still make my lip-waxing appointment), I moved on to Larry’s room.

I crossed the hall and opened his bedroom door. I took one step in and cringed as my eyes fell on that tube of Raspberry Perfection sitting on his dresser.

Here’s the thing: I like to consider myself as liberal minded as the next gal. I enjoy watching Queer