Spying in High Heels

I faked a smile. Okay, actually it was more of a grimace than a smile, but I don’t think Mom noticed. The dress (and I use this term loosely) featured a corseted waist that flared out into a bell shape at my hips. Which totally accented the fried food diet I’d been on the last few days. Yikes.

It was cut low in the front, high on the legs and reminded me vaguely of my high school prom dress. It was a style that screamed for crimped hair and jelly bracelets.

“Her wawas are falling out,” Mrs. Rosenblatt commented.

I looked down. I did have a little cleavage.

“It’s just a little tight.” Mom stood back, scrutinizing my mid section. “Maddie, have you gained weight?”

I looked in horror from my stomach to Molly’s bulging one.

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, sucking in. “It’s just water weight. I ate a big breakfast. I haven’t been to the gym lately.” I know, it would have been more convincing if I’d picked just one excuse.

“You know what this dress needs?” Molly asked, narrowing her eyes at my reflection.

Hmmm… a Bic and a can of lighter fluid?

“Beads. All bridesmaids’ gowns need beads.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I guess fashion shock must have made me too slow.

“I love it!” Mom squealed before I could say anything. “Maddie, stay here, we’ll be right back.”

All of them scurried out of the dressing room (with the exception of Mrs. Rosenblatt, who waddled out) in search of beads.

I stared at my image. Trying not to cringe. I reminded myself how many hours of labor my mother went through. It was just one day. I only had to wear it for one day, then I could shove it into the far recesses of my closet never to be seen again. I mean, how may people were even going to see me in it anyway?

“Cute,” a deep voice said behind me.

Oh. Crap.

I spun around so fast I almost popped right out of my neckline…

And came face to face with Ramirez.

Volcanic amounts of heat hit my cheeks and I resisted the urge to cover myself and scream, “Look away!” Instead, I managed a more dignified, “Thanks.”

“Purple’s a good color on you.” The corner of his mouth quirked up.

“It matches my aura.” Oh great, that sounded intelligent.

Ramirez raised one black eyebrow at me.

“Actually, my aura’s not solid purple. Just streaked with purple flares. Which means I have stuff on my mind. At least, that’s what the psychic said. Which is good. It’s better than having an empty mind, right? Besides, I think it’s just water weight.” Oh. My. God. Shut up, Maddie!

I took a breath, stopping myself before I completely turned into a caricature of The Ditzy Blonde. Instead I asked, “So, what are you doing here?”

Ramirez looked about as out of place in a bridal salon as Faux Dad at a 49er’s Game. He was wearing those butt-hugging Levi’s again, this time coupled with a white T-shirt that contrasted with his naturally tanned skin. Though white shirt or no, he still had that dark, dangerous look that had me warring between wanting to stand a little closer and backing against the far wall.

“A few things have come up in the course of our investigation,” he said. “I need to ask you some more questions.”

“Here? Right now?”

“Why not?”

“How did you even find me?”

He smiled. “Your jeep is parked illegally outside.”

Ugh. I knew I shouldn’t have parked in that red zone. “When did L.A. become such a small town?”

The smile widened, showing off that sexy dimple. “Since I started looking in my rearview mirror for little red Jeeps.”

He had me there. I did have a tendency to follow him around. Damn, I hated how stalker that sounded.

Ramirez took a step into the room, leaning casually against the wall. Suddenly the room was way too small and I felt at a distinct disadvantage wearing The Purple People Eater. “You know, I’m not exactly dressed for an interrogation.”

“You look fine to me.” His eyes strayed down my frame… then slowly back up again.

Instinctively I covered my wawas.

“I’ve told you everything I know. Richard canceled lunch with me on Friday. I haven’t seen him since.”

“So, you haven’t been to his office recently?”

I bit my lip. “Not really.”

Ramirez narrowed his eyes at me. “Uh huh. Want to explain that answer?”

“No,” I answered truthfully.

His mouth threatened a smile again. “I didn’t think so.”

He paused, waiting for me to say something. Hoping maybe I would crack under the pressure. Which was entirely likely. His espresso brown eyes bored into me like a spotlight and I began to fidget. Instead of purple polyester I suddenly felt like I was wearing see through undies.

Finally he spoke, changing the subject. “I’ve been looking through your boyfriend’s financial records for the last few months,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s a big spender.”

“Richard’s generous.”

“He’s in debt up to his eyeballs.”

I gulped. I knew. But after saying I hadn’t been in his office, I couldn’t very well admit to having peeked at his financial records myself. So I said nothing.

“Yet,” Ramirez continued, “he just keeps spending. Platinum earrings for Christmas, a new car, a cruise for his mother’s birthday last-”

“Wait,” I interrupted, suddenly confused. “Richard hasn’t bought a new car. He’s driven the same black beamer for as long as I’ve known him.”

Ramirez put on his poker face again, his eyes steady on mine as if he could pry my every secret out with just one look.

“The car wasn’t for himself,” he said slowly. “It was for Amy. His wife.”

Chapter Seven

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re underwater and your lungs are bursting for air, but just as you make it to the surface something pushes you back down again? And you realize you may never be able to take a full breath? That’s pretty much how I felt as I stared opened-mouthed at Ramirez, gasping for air as I tried to respond.

“His… his… wife?” Richard was so not married. It couldn’t be true. It had to be wrong. They had to have the wrong Richard. There was no way my boyfriend would be married and not tell me. I knew Richard. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it was turning out I didn’t know everything about him. But I knew him well enough to know he couldn’t be married to some bimbo named Amy.

“Look, there must be some kind of mistake. Richard is not married. I’m sorry, but your information is wrong.”

Ramirez kept his poker face on, his only reaction a slight narrowing of his eyes. “You didn’t know he was married?”

I spun around, my hands flying to my hips, my voice rising several octaves into a range I’m sure my Irish Catholic grandmother would deem inappropriate for a bridal salon. “Do I look like the kind of girl who dates married men?”

Ramirez looked me up and down. He was wise enough not to answer.

“Look, I don’t know who this Amy is, but Richard isn’t married,” I protested again.