Spying in High Heels

I rolled my eyes, praying Mrs. Rosenblatt would at least refrain from comment on my aura today. Of course, the fact I hadn’t been to confessional in about five years is probably why God didn’t have time to get to my prayer by the time Marco and I crossed to the back room.

“Your aura looks awful. Were you out in the rain last night?” Mrs. Rosenblatt narrowed her eyes at me.

“A little.”

She opened her mouth to warn me of the universal dangers of aura soaking, but I quickly cut her off. “I know, I know. Rain isn’t good for purples.”

She looked me up and down the way one might a leper. “Oh bubbee, you’re way beyond purple now.”

Trying not to get self conscious about the state of my aura, I leaned down and kissed Mom’s cheek. “I’m so sorry about the cliff.”

Mom looked like she’d been crying harder than I had. Her nose and cheeks were red and splotchy like she’d spent the weekend at the Venice boardwalk without sunscreen. She was still wearing her nightgown underneath a gray trench coat with blue tube socks and a pair of Nike’s. The effect was sadly comic

“Malibu was so beautiful,” Mom sniffed.

“But it was such a long drive,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on this. “Maybe we can find somewhere closer?”

“Maybe,” Mom squeaked out. She pulled a handful of tissues from her pocket and blew her nose.

“At this late date? Oh honey, you are dreaming,” Marco said. I shot him a look that could wither a cactus.

“Come on, there’s got to be something?” I glanced down at Mom. She had that Old Faithful look about her. Like any minute tears would come gushing with landmark intensity.

“Albert said there’s nothing in L.A. County,” Mrs. Rosenblatt argued.

“Who’s Albert?”

“My spirit guide.”

Great. Just what we needed. A pessimistic spirit guide.

Just in case Albert hadn’t done his homework, I asked Marco to pull out the L.A. County phone book. I won’t tell you what kind of I-told-you-so look Mrs. Rosenblatt gave me when half an hour later I’d gone through every conceivable site with no luck. None could accommodate a wedding of this size on such short notice.

“Albert is never wrong.” Mrs. Rosenblatt informed me. “He was a fact checker for the New York Times in his earthly existence.”

I ignored her with no small effort. “Okay, well, maybe there’s something in Orange County? Or Ventura?”

Again Marco went to retrieve more phone books. Marco took Riverside County, Mrs. Rosenblatt took Orange, and I took Ventura, while Mom sat in the corner and took a Xanax.

Just as Faux Dad joined us, saying Mrs. Lopez’s roots had never looked better, Marco hit pay dirt. It wasn’t much, but a small hotel in Riverside had a back garden they sometimes rented out for weddings. They’d had a last minute cancellation when the bride-to-be found a pair of someone else’s Victoria’s Secrets in the groom-to-be’s pick-up truck, and the garden was free for tomorrow afternoon. They said they even had the chairs and tables rented for the previously cancelled wedding, so we’d be all set. As long as it didn’t rain. Mom made the sign of the cross at that, but Mrs. Rosenblatt assured her that Albert said it wasn’t scheduled to rain again until November. I promised I’d check the weather channel, just in case.

Wedding crisis averted, I went home. My answering machine was blinking furiously when I stepped in the door. The first message was from Tot Trots, asking why they hadn’t gotten the Strawberry Shortcake designs yet. I glanced guiltily at my drawing table as I deleted the message.

The next was from Ramirez. I bit my lip trying not to picture the image from my dream as his voice filled my studio.

“This is your boyfriend calling. Don’t drive so fast next time, okay?” End of message. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed by my antics with the CHP last night. I told myself it didn’t matter. As long as the word “warrant” didn’t enter into the picture, it didn’t matter what Ramirez thought of me.

But instead of deleting it, I saved the message, skipping on to the next one.

It was from Dana, asking if a) she was a bad person for sleeping with Liao on the first date, and b) if I’d seen anything on the news about Greenway’s arrest.

It felt like I’d lived a lifetime since I’d left Dana at Mulligans and I wasn’t at all sure I could relay the events of the previous evening to her with any amount of coherency. At least not before coffee.

Too tired to hoof it to Starbucks, I flipped on my Mr. Coffee, dumping in two generous scoops of French Roast as I turned on the television, hoping to get the latest Greenway update on the noon news. Two carjackings in Compton, a mudslide warning in the Hollywood Hills, and one minor celebrity arrested for drunk driving. No news of Greenway or Richard. Which I guess should have been comforting. No news meant at least my boyfriend wasn’t behind bars. But instead of relieved, the non-news made me feel antsy.

I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t have a really great history of patience. I was one of those kids who always peeked in Mom’s closet for a preview of my Christmas and birthday presents. After a first date, I can never wait for the guy to call (even though I read The Rules twice and managed to wait three whole hours once) and even though I really, really meant to wait until we’d been seeing each other for a couple weeks first, I slept with Richard on our second date. So just sitting by the phone, waiting for Richard to turn up in handcuffs, was producing a bite-your-fingernails, crawl-up-a-wall feeling that was so not working for me.

I even debated calling Cinderella to see if she’d heard anything from him. Which should tell you just how desperate I was because calling Cinderella meant acknowledging that she actually existed, and that ranked below sucking up to Jasmine on the list of things I wanted to do this lifetime.

My internal whining was cut short as the familiar blonde news reporter piped up from the TV.

“Last night the body of missing business mogul, Devon Greenway, was found by authorities at a North Hollywood motel.”

I grabbed the remote and turned it up, watching images of the Moonlight Inn flicker across the screen. It was daylight now but the parking lot was still littered with police cars and yellow crime scene tape. I grimaced as Metallica’s greasy face filled the screen.

“There were two of them. These chicks. And they were like really buff, like pro wrestlers or something. I tried to fight them off, but they were like totally strong. I think they were on steroids.”

I rolled my eyes.

The cameraman cut away to an image of a green dumpster. The coffee churned in my empty stomach as I listened to the reporter remind the viewing public this was the same Greenway whose wife was found dead earlier this week.

Then Ramirez’s face filled the screen. My stomach rolled for a whole different reason. He seemed tired, like he hadn’t slept, but I hated how sexy the five o-clock shadow dusting his jaw looked.

A reporter from another station shoved a microphone at Ramirez, yelling questions from the mob of press. “Do you have a murder weapon?”

Ramirez answered with a standard, “We’re still in the process of recovering a weapon.”

“Do you have any suspects?” another reporter demanded.

The mob went quiet as Ramirez answered. “We do.”

“Detective Ramirez,” the first reporter shouted, “Are you prepared to name them at this time?”

Ramirez looked squarely at the camera and I could swear he was talking directly to me. “Based on our current evidence, we’ve issued a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Greenway’s attorney. Richard Howe.”

Chapter Twelve

I stared at the television, my brain half listening and half screaming that this was some mistake. Richard wanted for murder? This couldn’t be happening.

A picture of Richard from the office Christmas party flashed across the screen. I’d bet anything Jasmine had furnished it to the press. They were probably descending on Dewy, Cheatum and Howe like vultures right about now. I had a mental image of Jasmine’s Elvis smirk preening for the cameras on the six o’clock news. I think I was