Spying in High Heels

My cell started ringing as I got back in my Jeep. I flipped it open as I pulled back onto Vanowen.

“Hello?”

“Mads, it’s Ralph.”

“Hi Ralph. How’s Mom doing?”

“Better. She’s still trying to get a Catholic priest to go bless the hotel gardens before the ceremony, but at least she’s stopped eyeing her rosary.”

That was a start.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I was just calling to remind you about the bachelorette party tonight. Not that I thought you’d forget, but, well, I just thought I’d remind you.”

“I wasn’t going to forget.”

“Right. Of course not.” Faux Dad cleared his throat. “I knew you’d be there. I just… wanted to make sure.”

Okay, I had forgotten. What was it with this wedding that I seemed to be blocking it out of my memory?

“Don’t worry, Ralph. I’ll be there. Cross my heart.”

I hung up with Faux Dad, ignoring the icky feeling that washed over me at the combination of Mom and male strippers, and dialed in my number to check my messages again. Only Dana, saying she was back from hot tubbing. Nothing from Ramirez. Nothing from Richard.

I called Dana back as I swung into an In-N-Out Burger, and filled her in on the latest developments over a double-double and fries. I also made her promise to go with me to Beefcakes tomorrow. I didn’t think I could stomach it alone.

As I hung up with Dana and dabbed at a spot of mustard on my skirt with a paper napkin (the burger was messy, but oh-so-worth it) I pulled out my Suspects list again. So, who was this blonde? The problem was I didn’t know anything about Greenway, aside from the cliff notes version Ramirez had given me. What I needed was more dirt on Greenway’s personal life. Like nosey neighbor or National Enquirer type dirt. Since I didn’t see Greenway’s neighbors gossiping with prime suspect number two (a.k.a. me! Ugh!) I figured a trip to the library was my best bet at ferreting out the gory details of Greenway’s social exploits. If there was dirt to be gotten, I felt confident that back issues of the L.A. Informer were the place to find it.

I hopped back on the 405, making a quick stop back at home to change out of my mustard spotted clothes and into my version of library wear – tweed skirt, white silk blouse, and low heeled loafers – before heading to the Santa Monica library. I was on a mission to view every bit of microfilm they had on Devon Greenway.

Which turned out to be a lot. Apparently Greenway was not only a frequent story in the gossip columns, but also in the business section, due to the new micro chip innovations of his company, Newtone Technologies. I scanned through page after blurry page of microfilm, the constant hum of the machine my only companion. This was the side of detective work they didn’t show on HBO. The no-frills-and-even-less-glamour side. It made the kiddie shoes look tempting again.

If I’d hoped for a headline that read “Greenway Spotted with Blonde, Homicidal Mistress at Charity Gala” I was sorely disappointed. What I found instead was page after page of ribbon cuttings, IPO filings, and company prospects analysis.

Two hours later my eyes were permanently stuck in squint mode and my nose was itchy with dust, but I knew every detail of Greenway’s life, business or social. And unfortunately, a lack of blondes hadn’t been one of Greenway’s problems. In fact, through the course of the press’s two year infatuation with all things Greenway, it was speculated he’d had no less than three mistresses. Andi Jameson, Carol Carter, and, get this, Bunny Hoffenmeyer. All blonde. (My money was on Bunny. Who could grow up with a name like that and not be homicidal?)

I wrote all three names down on my suspects list, ignoring the fact that they didn’t get me a whole lot closer to earning Richard that get-out-of-jail-free card. Sure I had the names of Greenway’s known mistresses, but who knew how many had slipped by the press? Greenway struck me as the slick type.

But, just to be thorough, I looked up all three blondies in the library’s yellow pages before heading home. Andi Jameson was easy enough to find, listed in a condo in Encino. Otherwise known as Silicone Valley. I called her number, but she wasn’t home. So I left a message saying I was a friend of Greenway’s and wanted to ask her a few questions.

There were about fifty Carol Carters, so I reluctantly wrote her address down as “unknown.”

Bunny Hoffenmeyer, as it turned out, was an adult film star, number unlisted. I did, however, find the production company she worked for. Big Boy Films in Sherman Oaks. Great. Back to the Valley.

It was late afternoon and hitting that day’s high of 96 degrees according to the bank on the corner of Westwood and National. I cranked my air conditioner as far as it would go as I hopped on the 405 and reluctantly made the trip back over the hills. A thick layer of smog held tight to the curves of the mountains, covering the Valley with a sickly gray color that made me wonder why anyone would live here by choice. On the other hand, it did strengthen Bunny’s motive. Twenty million dollars would go a long way toward buying her way into the Beverly set.

Another ten minutes of fighting freeway traffic and I was cruising down Sepulveda, a street lined with warehouses that passed themselves off as production studios for rent. Large, gray and rusty, they didn’t resemble Universal Studios in the least. And, I ventured to guess, neither did their films. Most were straight to video or foreign market pictures. Or, in the case of Big Boy Productions, tailored for a more mature audience. (Read: kinky.) Big Boy was located in a gunmetal gray building covered in corrugated metal siding. I parked in the lot beside a lunch wagon and stared at the building.

K – here’s the thing. I’m not really a porn kind of girl. I mean, I’ve seen porn. Once. When my college boyfriend tried to convince me it was hot to see close-ups of strangers’ privates while we made love. (Needless to say I broke up with Voyeur Boy soon after.) But honestly the closest I’d ever come to knowing the insides of the adult film industry was Marky Mark’s performances as Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. And that was as close as I wanted to come.

Damn Richard. This was all his fault.

I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car and across the two yards of parking lot to the unmarked door of Big Boy Productions. I almost covered my eyes as I walked in.

If I’d been expecting a lava lamp induced orgy, I was disappointed. The room I stepped into looked like just about every office reception area I’d ever been in. In fact, with the exception of a bright red light bulb flashing over the door, it bore an unnerving resemblance to Dewy, Cheatum, and Howe’s front office. Only instead of one Jasmine, there were three. Three women behind expensive looking desks, all blonde Anna Nicole Smith look-alikes, all Double D’s barely concealed by itty, bitty pink crop tops with the words “Big Boy” stretched across their implants, and all three staring up at me.

I gulped, suddenly feeling like Granny Prude in my library attire.

“Uh, hi,” I said to the Double D closest to the door. “I’m looking for Bunny Hoffenmeyer.”

The Double D shifted in her seat and I resisted the urge to look away in case an implant escaped her crop top’s precarious hold. “And you are?” she asked in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe sort of voice.

“Um. Maddie.”

She looked at my prim tweed skirt and frowned. “Are you doing a scene together?”

“No!” I said a little more loudly than I’d intended.

“Right.” She looked me up and down again. “I didn’t think so.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or insulted.

“I actually wanted to talk to her about a mutual acquaintance of ours. Devon Greenway.”

Double D’s face softened. “Oh. Right. That guy she was dating. I heard about him on the news. Really sad.”

“Very sad,” I agreed, nodding and mimicking Perky Reporter Woman’s appropriately concerned faces. “Did he ever come in here with Bunny?”

Double D smiled, showing off a row of slightly crooked teeth. “Actually, her name’s Myrtle. Bunny’s just a stage thing.”

Myrtle Hoffenmeyer? I think I liked Bunny better.

“And, sure, he was here a few times. He was really cute. And rich.” Blondie sighed. “Myrtle was real lucky to