Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

“And apparently you don’t read my column either.”

“Not until now,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “So, you think Katie could be your mystery caller?”

“Anything’s possible. Any one of them could. Though, I gotta say, the whole macho threat thing feels more like Blain’s style.” I paused. “Please tell me you know who Blain Hall is.”

Cal nodded. “I listen to the radio. Okay, so any one of them could have done it. Let’s start at the top and work our way down. This Katie chick, how can we get hold of her?”

“Well, most people,” I started, opening up my address book, “would have to call her publicist and either wait for a comment or promise their firstborn for an interview between shoots.”

“I have a feeling you’re not most people.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look, Cal.”

“Ouch.”

Instantly, I regretted the comment. Okay, so it was awkward, annoying, and painfully limiting having a brawny babysitter following my every move. But he was just doing his job. To be fair, the situation wasn’t Cal’s fault any more than it was mine.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I quickly said. “Sorry.”

“Wow,” he answered.

“ ‘Wow’?”

“‘Sorry.’ I have a hunch that’s not a word you utter very often. I’m feeling kinda special right now.” He grinned. And his eyes were definitely laughing again.

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, back to Katie. It just so happens that I have a close, personal friend at her hairdresser’s.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “Close personal friend?”

“Not that kind of personal. He’s gay.”

“Ah.”

“And chatty.”

“Let me guess, that’s where you got all this dirt on Katie’s love life?”

“Hey, people will tell their hairdressers just about anything. It’s crazy.”

He glanced at my own purple locks.

“Some people,” I quickly added.

He nodded. “Uh huh. So, this hairdresser guy, he can get us access to Katie?”

I nodded. “No sweat. Her new movie comes out next month, and she’s in the salon daily for touch-ups during promo. All I have to do is find out what time her appointment today is and-” I paused, narrowing my eyes at the hulk of man sitting on the edge of my desk. “Wait, what do you mean ‘us’?”

“Us. From the German Gothic uns. Plural form of I. I’m sure you’re familiar with the word.”

“There is no plural ‘I.’”

“There is now.”

I gritted my teeth together. Though I had to be just a little impressed by anyone who could rattle off word origins like that. “This is exactly why I didn’t want Felix calling the police. These people trust me. I start bringing the National Guard with me, and there goes my lifeline to Hollywood.”

“I’m hardly the National Guard.”

I looked down to where the butt of his gun peeked out from the waistband of his jeans. “You’re carrying a.32. You don’t exactly scream ‘friendly.’”

He pulled the hem of his T-shirt down to cover it. But instead of arguing the point, his voice took on a firm tone. “Let me help you.”

I stood, meeting him almost at eye level. Give or take a foot. I lifted my chin, crossed my arms over my chest.

“I don’t need your help.”

He gave me a slow, assessing stare. “No, I don’t think you do. But,” he added, “if you’re smart, you’ll take it anyway.”

I took a deep breath, biting back the refusal on the tip of my tongue. Mostly because he had a point. The smart move here was to take the assistance of the guy with the gun. No doubt he had a lot more experience tracking down bad guys than I did. And the sooner I found this creep, the sooner my life could go back to normal. And the sooner I could dismiss my musclebound shadow.

“Okay,” I finally said.

“Good.” It irked me just a little that he didn’t seem the least surprised at getting his way. “So, Katie Briggs?”

I nodded. “Katie Briggs.”

We were in luck. My friend at the salon said Katie had an appointment on the books for ten that morning. The bad news? It was nine thirty-five. And we were across town. I told my friend to stall her at all costs, then grabbed Cal by the sleeve and made for his ozonekilling machine.

Exactly forty minutes later, we pulled to the curb in front of the opulent glass doors of Fernando’s salon in Beverly Hills.

Fernando was a famed hairdresser to the stars, an incredibly tanned, incredibly flamboyant, and incredibly talented man who’d burst onto the Beverly Hills radar about five years ago. While he claimed some sort of Spanish nobility in his ancestry, his actual past was a little hazy. But as long as his extensions kept winning oohhs and ahhs on the red carpet, no one really cared.

I pushed through the doors and into the reception area, this month decorated in a medieval castle theme. Plush red sofas lined the windows, and a large crystal chandelier hung over an intricate parquet floor. Beyond reception, cut-and-color stations outfitted with huge gilded mirrors lined the room, while lengths of thick tapestries hung from the walls, depicting scenes of men out for the hunt, while maidens wearing shockingly little for the cold English countryside fawned over fairhaired boys. A reception desk complete with turrets took up one corner of the room, and behind it stood a slim, Hispanic guy wearing more eyeliner than I even owned. As soon as he spotted me, he skipped (yes, actually skipped) toward me.

“Tina, dahling, where have you been hiding yourself?” he called, descending upon me with air kisses.

“Hi, Marco.” I returned his quick shoulder hug and stepped back. “Marco, this is Cal, my…” I trailed off, not really sure what to call him. Bodyguard seemed so melodramatic. And rent-a-goon just seemed rude.

But Marco didn’t seem to notice, grabbing Cal’s hand in both of his. “Well, hell-o, Cal.” He pumped vigorously, holding on just a little too long as his eyes rested on Cal’s biceps. “Always a pleasure to meet one of Tina’s friends.”

Oh, brother.

“So, is Katie here?” I asked, lowering my voice as my eyes scanned the salon.

Marco nodded. “Getting a touch-up. In the back.”

I looked over his shoulder to a discreet station near the rear. A brunette with big pouty lips was scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror while the master Fernando spun around her with a straight razor like he was Edward Scissorhands.

“Perfect. You think you could distract Fernando for a sec so I can talk to her?”

Marco clucked his tongue. “Aye, girl. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Pretty please, Marco?” I batted my eyelashes at him. “With Brad Pitt on top?”

Marco grinned. “You know I can’t deny you, doll. Give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and that A-lister is yours.” He threw me a wink as he made his way through the buzzing hair dryers and pungent chemical rinses to Katie’s chair.

“Is that guy for real?” Cal asked, watching him skip (yes, skip) through the salon.

“Shhh,” I said, batting him on the arm. “Just let me do the talking.”

I waited two beats, then followed Marco’s path, my shadow a step behind me. I caught up just in time to hear him say, “So sorry to interrupt, Fernando. But something has come up at the front. Can I steal you away for the teeny tiniest moment?”

“I’ll be right back,” I heard Fernando promise Katie, then watched out of the corner of my eye as the pair made their way to the front.