Undercover In High Heels

I have no idea how many snoozes later it was that I heard the “William Tell Overture” cut through my sleep. Instinctively I banged my snooze bar, but that didn’t do much good. I popped one eye open, grasping around for my purse, and dug my cell phone out.

“What?” I croaked. Between dreams of dead squirrels and dead actresses, I was in no mood for a telemarketer this early.

“Where are you?” Dana chirped from the other end.

I blinked, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. “In bed. Like a normal person. Where are you?”

“You’re still in bed? We’re supposed to be on the set in, like, half an hour!”

I groaned. “For real? You want to go back?”

“Um, hello? Yes, of course. How are we supposed to catch the killer if we don’t go back?”

I glanced at the clock. 7:15 A.M. “Dana, the entire LAPD is looking for Veronika’s killer. You really think they need Lucy and Ethel on the case, too?”

“Who?”

“Never mind, ” I mumbled, pulling the blankets over my head.

“Listen, my agent said that they’re shooting the scene where Chad and Ashley finally find out who the father of Ashley’s baby is. Don’t tell me you’re going to miss this?”

I pulled the blankets back. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I even had to sign a disclosure thing promising not to spill the secret to anyone.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

I did a quick turn under the blow-dryer and dressed in skinny jeans, red kitten-heeled patent-leather slingbacks, and an oversize black T-shirt with the neck cut out of it. I topped it off with a big red belt and a swipe of Raspberry Perfection on my lips, and I was out the door. Though I did pause long enough to grab my can of pepper spray, because I had, after all, promised Mom. Okay, I grabbed it mostly because I had promised Mom. Partly, I was still a little creeped out by whatever punk had left roadkill on my doorstep. If I caught the little sucker near my door with a squirrel again, I was gonna spray him.

Half an hour later I had Dana in my Jeep, and we were pulling up to the studio almost on time. That is, we would have been almost on time if there hadn’t been a line to get through the back gate that wound around the entire block. Dana and I took our spots at the end, and I craned my neck to see what the holdup was. Blake, aka comatose husband, was standing two people in front of me. I reached around and tapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped as if I’d hit him with a Taser gun. Blake was five-foot-ten, and starting to thin a little on top and spread a little in the middle. There’d been rumors last season that he’d had a breakdown (and who could blame him, having to work with Mia every day?) and had checked himself into a mental hospital over the midseason break. And if today was any indication, his nerves were nearing their breaking point again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Blake licked his lips nervously. “No, no. Th-that’s okay.”

“I was just wondering if you know what’s going on.”

“New security measures. They’ve got two guards on each gate today, and they’re going to be locking down the back gate after dark. They’re even putting extra security on the main gate twenty-four/seven. They’re being very careful after yesterday’s…unpleasantness.”

Unpleasantness. Now, there was an understatement alert.

I craned again to see around him, but all I could make out was a long line of people checking their watches and tapping their feet.

Finally (half an hour later!), we got close enough to see exactly what the holdup was: a walk-through metal detector. Not only that, but they also had one of those scanner machines used in the airport to X-ray your luggage. Apparently everyone’s purses and wardrobe bags had to be scanned before they were let onto the lot.

Dana and I gave our names to the old guy in Coke-bottle glasses and wearing a name tag that read BILLY, who checked them against his list. Then Dana set her Fendi (fake from eBay) down on the conveyer belt. I set my little Kate Spade (real because I chose to live on Top Ramen-it’s all about priorities, people) down next to hers, and we watched our bags disappear into the X-ray machine. Billy’s magnified eyes roved the monitor, carefully scanning the entire contents of my purse for any knives, guns, or suspicious-looking electronic devices.

Beside him stood a bored-looking woman in security blues who was the spitting image of Queen Latifah.

“Next, ” she called, waving Blake through the plastic archway.

Blake stepped through.

The machine beeped.

Blake did a little terrier yelp and clasped his hands together until his knuckles turned white.

“Your watch, ” Latifah said, pointing at the gold Rolex on his left wrist. He took it off, setting it in a little metal dish, then stepped back through the machine again.

Beep.

Latifah rolled her eyes, popping a wad of bubble gum between her teeth as Blake proceeded to take off his class ring, a big gold-colored thing from USC, and pulled a key ring out of his pocket. And again he walked back through the plastic doorway, gingerly this time, almost wincing as he placed one loafer-clad foot over the threshold.

Beep.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, ” Dana mumbled under her breath.

Latifah shook her head, popping her gum like little firecrackers. “Come on, I gotta wand you now.”

She waved Blake through, then ran a plastic wand over his extremities. I could see sweat starting to break out on his forehead.

After he’d been thoroughly molested by her stick, the security guard let him pick up his watch, class ring, and battered shoulder bag, and Blake fairly ran in the direction of 6G.

“Finally, ” Dana said, stepping through the machine. Luckily, the plastic thingie liked her. No beeping.

Unluckily (yup, you guessed it), it didn’t feel the same way about me.

Beep.

“Shit, ” I murmured, stepping back through.

“Your belt?” Dana suggested.

Right. I unclasped my belt, setting it in one of the plastic tubs. Sorry, I mouthed over my shoulder to the line of anxious people stacking up behind me.

Okay, let’s try this again. I stepped through.

Beep.

I rolled my eyes heavenward and did a silent, why me?

“Your shoes, ” the security guard said, cocking her head at me and popping her gum. “They got them little metal buckles on them. Try taking off your shoes.”

I stared at her. Seriously?

But she didn’t strike me as the joking sort. Trying not to make any little icky sounds at the feel of the gritty pavement beneath my bare feet, I slipped my ruby slingbacks into another plastic tray, wishing them a safe trip through the scanner. Walking on tiptoes to minimize contact with the ground, I stepped over the plastic threshold. Again.

Beep.

Again.

I threw my hands up in the air. “I give up! Wand me.”

Queen Latifah rolled her eyes and motioned me over, then proceeded to run her plastic wand up and down my legs, getting way more intimate than Ramirez had in weeks.

“Arms out to the side, ” she said in a monotone, then punctuated it with another pop of her Doublemint.

I complied, feeling like those guys on COPS right before they get the handcuffs and the “watch your head” speech.

“Turn around.”

I did, trying my best to hold on to some shred of dignity as the line at the metal detector grew to include two minor sitcom actors and a pair of grips who were smirking in my direction.

And just when I thought I was topping out on the embarrassment scale, I hit whole a new high.