Undercover In High Heels

“What’s that?”

“Talking to the press. Don’t suppose you could convince her, eh?”

I shot him a look.

He shrugged. “Oh well, was worth a try, right, love?” Felix stretched and shot a few more frames of the crime scene.

The idea of someone on the set leaving threatening letters in Mia’a trailer was disconcerting. The idea that one of the people milling around the scene at this very moment might be a murderer was downright chilling. I shivered despite the sunshine pelting down on us and wrapped my arms around myself.

I hung around for a few minutes more, but there honestly wasn’t much to see. Instead, I walked back through the lot to my Jeep and dialed Dana’s number on my cell.

“Yello!” she answered in a way-too-perky voice.

I jumped, pulling the receiver back from my ear. “Wow, what are you on this morning?”

“Sorry, ” she shouted. “I’m doing the treadmill thing. It’s noisy.”

Dana lived in a duplex in Studio City with a seemingly never-ending stream of other actors. Her various roommates had included No-neck Guy (with whom she’d had a brief thing until she’d caught him ogling another woman’s “pecs” at the gym), Stick-figure Girl (who’d checked herself into an eating-disorder clinic last summer), and, my all-time favorite, Asian Guy Who Always Smelled Like Peanuts. Yick. Currently Dana was living with Daisy Duke, thus named for her endless supply of short shorts. Daisy had just landed a recurring role in a string of Budweiser commercials, so instead of taking on a third roommate this month, she and Dana had turned the extra bedroom into a home gym. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, considering that Dana worked at an actual gym, but to each her own. Me, I’d have turned it into one big shoe closet.

“So, what’s up?” Dana asked, breathing heavily.

“Seen the news this morning?”

“You know I never watch that stuff. Too depressing.” She paused. “Why? What happened?”

I gave her the quickie version of the morning’s discovery, amidst her cries of, “No way!” and, “Ohmigod!” When I was finished, she was panting like a Doberman, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was the treadmill.

“Ohmigod, a real, live Hollywood murder! I can’t believe it! The one day I’m not on the set. So unfair.”

“Um, I guess.” Only I had to admit this whole Hollywood-glamour thing had worn off the second the words dead body had entered the picture. It was one thing to gawk at stars going down the red carpet, but when said stars were strangled with support hose, it was a whole different ball game. “Listen, the set’s closed today. You want to meet me for coffee?”

“Sure. I’ve got one more mile to do, and then I’ll be right over, ” Dana said, panting.

“One more mile? Don’t you have, like, a gazillion aerobics classes to teach today?” I asked.

“Yeah, ” she panted back, “but not until noon. I need to keep busy until then. Therapist Max says I have to find positive new outlets for my sexual frustrations. It was either running or macrame. And I’ve already got all the plant hangers I need.”

Twenty minutes later Dana and I were sipping lattes at a corner table at the Starbucks on Ventura and Alcove. I was going over what little I knew about Veronika’s tragic demise one more time, while Dana tried to keep her eyes on me and not the college kid in tight jeans serving biscotti behind the counter.

“Felix said they found her strangled with a pair of panty hose. How cruel is that?”

“Totally sucks.” Dana sipped at her latte (low-fat, decaf, soy milk).

I nodded, taking a big gulp of my mocha (full-fat, double shot, with extra cocoa powder). What can I say? Dead bodies made me seek comfort food.

“So, let me get this straight, ” Dana said, “Veronika looked just like Mia?”

“They could be twins.”

“She usually wore the same clothes as Mia?”

“That’s the whole point of the stand-in.”

“And she’s found in Mia’s trailer.”

I nodded again. “Yep.”

“So, maybe Mia was the target.”

I took another warm sip of my drink, inhaling the coffee aroma. “That’s what I was thinking. I mean, it would be a bit of a coincidence, the letters and now this, right?”

“So, the stalker was going after Mia and got Veronika by mistake?”

“It makes sense. It was late at night, dark. Chances are, the guy probably came at her from behind. I mean, I can’t imagine Mia or Veronika inviting him in for a chat.”

Dana nodded, her gaze straying only minimally to Biscotti Boy, who was leaning over the counter to squeegee off the bakery case. “So we’re back to the letters. Whoever has been writing them is our killer.”

“Right.” I sipped at my coffee again, wondering if Ramirez had made any headway on that front. Not that he’d tell me. Not that he was even speaking to me at this point. A thought depressing enough to tempt me into a second mocha. With whipped cream. And a chocolate-chip muffin.

“Did the guy sign them or anything?” Dana asked.

I shook my head. “No name on the one I saw. Just, ‘your adoring fan.’ ”

“Creepy.”

“No kidding.”

“Well, if there’s nothing terribly distinguishing about the letters themselves, we’ll just have to focus on the person delivering them.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Meaning?”

“Meaning find out who on the set has the biggest grudge against Mia.”

I did a mental shiver at the thought. “Speak for yourself, but I’m not particularly crazy about the idea of interrogating this guy face-to-face.”

In fact, I wasn’t even particularly crazy about the idea of going back to the set. Now that Ramirez’s assignment had been bumped up to homicide, every cop in town would be on the Sunset lot. Honestly, what could Dana and I do that they couldn’t?

“Hey, ” Dana said, cocking her head to the side as she watched Biscotti Boy bend over to pick up a stray napkin off the floor. “You think he’d go for an older woman?”

I shot her a look. “Seriously? I think he started shaving yesterday.”

“Look at those glutes, Maddie. Don’t they make you just want to sink your teeth into-”

“Down, girl. Remember your chip.”

Dana bit her lip and moaned. “I think I need to go for another run.”

After dropping Dana off at the gym for her noon Spinning to the Oldies class, I pointed my Jeep in the direction of my studio. Like a good girl, I was going home and staying the heck out of Ramirez’s way. (I made a mental note to remind him of this the next time he accused me of butting in.)

I took the 405 south until it merged into the 10 west to Santa Monica. I pulled my little red Jeep into my space just as Mrs. Alvarez from downstairs was letting her cat out. I gave her a friendly wave.

“Morning, Mrs. Alvarez.”

She nodded in my direction. “Someone left a package for you, ” she said, gesturing to the top of the stairs. I glanced up. Sure enough there was a brown box sitting on my doorstep. My heart lifted. The suede Michael Kors boots I’d ordered from Zappos.com? Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all.

“Thanks, Mrs. Alvarez, ” I called, taking the steps two at a time.

She nodded again before shutting the door and returning to The View.

I picked up the package, not even waiting until I got in my apartment before tearing off the tape and peeking inside.

“Ewwwwww!”

I did a big girlie squeal and dropped the box at my feet, doing a jogging-in-place-waving-my-hands-in-the-air dance to shake off the cooties. It was so not my suede boots. Instead, lying inside the box was a squirrel. Or, more accurately, most of a squirrel. The poor little thing looked like he’d suffered a run-in with a Ford Bronco on the 101.

I shut my eyes against the mangled image, now burned into my brain, and kicked the box down the steps with the toe of my Gucci pumps, willing myself not to vomit in Mrs. Alvarez’s azalea bush.