Spying in High Heels

“Have you gone to the police with this yet?”

I cringed, remembering Ramirez’s mocking tone. “As far as they’re concerned the investigation is closed.”

“Poor Mr. Howe.” Althea’s eyes dropped to the maroon carpeting and I swear they looked misty behind her coke bottle lenses. I had a feeling Althea might be the only other person on the planet who didn’t think Richard was capable of shooting someone. I made a mental note to take her for a cut and color at Fernando’s when this was all over.

“Don’t worry,” I said, surprising even myself. “I know he didn’t do this. And one way or another, we’ll prove it.” I gave Althea a reassuring smile.

She sniffed, nodding. “Right. Well, I’ll make sure Mr. Chesterton sets up a visitation with Richard for you. It will probably be sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?”

I nodded, thanking Althea even as visions of Richard in prison garb threatened morning sickness again. As I rode the elevator back down to my Jeep, I tried to feel reassured that Chesterton was doing all he could to free Richard. But all I felt was an overwhelming sense of pressure. If I didn’t find Greenway’s killer soon, Richard would stand trial for murder. I really hoped Carol Carter owned a.22. Because I was running out of options.

* * *

At exactly four-o-two I was circling the block between Fairfax and LaBrea on Hollywood Boulevard for a parking place that wasn’t too blister producingly far from the Platt Agency. I got lucky on my third try and parked between the Happy Time Go cleaners and Phat Chan’s Hollywood souvenir shop. After reluctantly feeding the meter I clubbed my steering wheel and walked around the corner to the small, white building that housed the Platt Agency. Blissful air conditioning greeted me as I swung through the front doors and took in the decor. The reception room was done in a vintage theme a la Doris Day meets Rock Hudson. Big plastic flowers on the wall, retro square sofa and chairs, and olive green area rugs in geometric patterns on the polished floors. The nostalgia theme was reinforced by the occupants of the room. No less than half a dozen Marilyn Monroe look-alikes. I blinked, taking in the range from Seven Year Itch Marilyn to Happy Birthday Mr. President Marilyn. Yikes. That was a lot of peroxide.

Two folding tables were set up along one wall, stacks of headshots on one and coffee, styrofoam cups and untouched doughnuts on the other. In the center of the room was a kidney shaped reception desk. Behind it sat a dark haired woman in tortoise shell glasses and the bored expression of someone who didn’t appreciate having to work on a Sunday.

“Excuse me?” I said, wading through the sea of blonde bombshells.

She looked up, giving me the once over. “Are you here for the audition?” she asked in a voice with a New York edge to it.

“Me? No. Actually, I’m here to see Carol Carter. I understand she’s a client of yours?”

“She is,” the receptionist said. “But she’s not here.”

“Maybe you could give me her number?”

“Uh, hold on a sec,” the receptionist gave the one finger universal wait sign as a Marilyn in a pink sweater and pumps pushed her way to the desk.

“I’m here for the-” the breathy blonde started.

Bored Receptionist cut her off. “I know, I know. The Lifetime movie. Sign in on the table, the sides are next to the sign in sheet. Leave your headshot on the pile.” She shook her head as Marilyn tottered off on two-inch heels. Then mumbled something that sounded like, “I need a raise.”

She turned back to me. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”

I took a deep breath, pulling out the speech I’d prepared in the car on the way over here. “I’m with Springer Productions. We saw Carol Carter’s headshot and think she’s perfect for our latest film. Do you think I could get her number from you?”

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist informed me. “Miss Carter is on location in Toronto. She’s there shooting a pilot for FOX.”

“Canada? How long has she been in Canada?”

“Since last Wednesday.”

I tried not to let my disappointment show. If Carol Carter had been out of the country all week she couldn’t very well have put the hole in Greenway’s head. I was beginning to feel like I was on a wild goose chase.

“Would you like me to set something up for next week?” the receptionist asked, looking past me as another Marilyn came through the door.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. We’ll check back then.”

“Excuse me,” the new Marilyn said, brushing up beside me in saddle shoes, a pencil skirt, and a pink polka dotted blouse that was two sizes too small. “I’m here for the Goodbye Norma Jean audition, and I…” Newbie Marilyn trailed off as she trained her eyes on me.

It took me a second to realize why, but as I stared at those big blue eyes, then lower to those big round implants, recognition hit me like a smack in the head. Bunny.

“You!” she breathed, pointing at me. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh-” Again with the stumped thing. Irrationally I looked to the receptionist, who seemed to have perked up. Apparently her day was becoming more interesting.

Bunny planted her hands on her hips. “I hung around the studio all day yesterday and your photographer never showed up.”

“Huh. Go figure.” I tried to edge toward the door, but Bunny and her double D’s were suddenly blocking my way.

“You know what I think?” she said.

I shook my head, glancing around the sea of blond bombshells for an escape route.

“I think you’re not even a real reporter.”

“Reporter?” Slightly Less Bored Receptionist narrowed her eyes at me behind her frames. “I thought you said you were with Springer Productions?”

“Uh…” I looked from Marilyn to the receptionist. Wondering why my cell phone never rang at times like this? Now would be an excellent time for Mom to call with a wedding emergency or for Dana to need break-up therapy. I looked down at my purse. Silent. Damn.

“Look, here’s the truth,” I said, breaking under the pressure of two pairs of glaring eyes, “I’m looking into the murder of Devon Greenway. And, from what I understand, both you,” I gestured to Bunny, “and Carol Carter dated Greenway.”

“So?” Bunny challenged. “Devon dated lots of women.”

“Which makes for lots of people with reasons to want him dead.”

Bunny narrowed her eyes at me. “You think I killed Devon?”

I shrugged.

“This is better than Desperate Housewives!” Our receptionist was practically beaming out of her seat now. Two more Marilyns walked in, but she just waved them toward the coffee table, her eyes brighter than the Hollywood sign.

“Look, Devon may have been an ass,” Bunny conceded. “But there’s no way you’re pinning his murder on me. Besides, didn’t they arrest his lawyer?”

I cringed. “Sort of. But the police are still investigating.”

Bunny put her hands on her hips, her implants jutting towards me, the buttons on her blouse straining against the pressure. “Are you the police?”

I bit my lip. “No.”

“Then I don’t have to answer anything.”

“She’s right,” the receptionist said. “I saw it on Law & Order. She doesn’t have to answer you.”

“In fact,” Bunny went on, advancing on me, “I think maybe it’s time you answered some questions. Who are you, anyway?”

“Me? I’m, uh…” I’m cornered.

Thinking fast, I reached into my purse and flipped my Motorola open. “Sorry I have to take this.” I pretended to push the “on” button and held it to my ear. “Hello?” I said into the silence.