Undercover In High Heels

I hesitated to tell him my theory. But then again, I was quickly running out of suspects and at this point didn’t have much to lose. “Do you think it’s possible that Veronika may have been blackmailing someone? Maybe someone on the set?”

“No. No way!” Deveroux vehemently shook his head. Then he stopped. He gave a little sigh and slumped his shoulders forward. “Maybe.”

“And she never mentioned anything to you?” I asked again.

“No, just that she was coming into some money soon.” His eyes got that watery look to them again. “You think that’s what got her killed? I mean, we didn’t have to move to Oregon. We could have stayed here.”

I rose and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, sniffling loudly. “Excuse me, I need to find a tissue, ” he mumbled, and slipped out of the room.

I sank back onto the sofa, my mind whirling with possibilities. If Veronika had been blackmailing someone on the set, it would have given them ample reason to want her dead. How easy would it have been for a blackmailer to lure Veronika to Mia’s trailer under the guise of more money, then stage the death to look like Mia’s stalker?

But it still didn’t explain Dusty. Or Mia’s threatening letters. Was it possible that it was all a coincidence? That Veronika really had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if Veronika had been waiting to meet the blackmailer at Mia’s trailer, but the stalker had gotten to her first? I had to admit, instead of explaining anything, this new development just added one more piece to the confusing puzzle that didn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

I was flirting with that headache again when the television piped up from the corner.

“That’s right, Tom, we’ve received breaking news about the Magnolia Lane Murders.”

Jasmine and I immediately turned our attention to the screen as a slim, African-American reporter came on, holding a microphone. The backdrop of the Sunset Studios Central Park, still cordoned off with crime-scene tape, was laid out behind her.

“We go now to Marcia Blanding at the scene, ” a voice just off-camera said. “Marcia?”

The reporter sprang to life, lifting her microphone to her cherry-painted mouth. “Thank you, Peter. As you know, we’ve been following this story all morning, bringing you updates on the latest death on the set of the popular television show Magnolia Lane.”

I winced as the camera moved left, showing a group of crime-scene technicians in slick windbreakers combing the area.

“Now it seems, ” Marcia went on, “that star Mia Carletto’s poisoned penman has struck again. We learned just moments ago from Miss Carletto herself that she has received another death threat. We come to you live from the impromptu press conference just outside her trailer on the Sunset Studios lot.”

I leaned forward in my seat, my eyes glued to the television as Deveroux wandered back in the room.

“I’m sorry; I just-”

“Shhhhh, ” I commanded, waving him off as Mia’s face filled the screen.

Reporters surrounded her. To her right stood her publicist, a thin, redheaded woman in a tailored black suit. To her left, the ominous presence of Ramirez, arms crossed over his pecs, his eyes ever watchful of the crowd pressing closer to Mia. For a second I had the tiniest prickle of guilt at giving my babysitter the slip, but it was quickly shoved to the background as Mia began to speak.

“Thank you all for coming, ” she said, her voice evenly modulated and booming over the assembled crowd.

“Are you all right?” one of the reporters shouted to her, shoving a Channel Two microphone in her face.

Mia sighed loudly, her eyes downcast. “Physically, I am unharmed. Though, emotionally, the day has taken its toll on me.”

“Where did you find the latest note?” a representative from Cable Twelve asked.

“This morning I arrived on the set to find this note in my trailer, pinned to my pillow, ” Mia said, holding up a piece of plain white stationary.

“What does it say?” shouted Channel Two again.

Mia’s bottom lip quivered momentarily. Then she cleared her throat, lifted her head, and began to read from the paper. “ ‘Veronika and Dusty were only the beginning.’ ” Her voice faltered, fear clearly evident on her pinched features as she continued. “ ‘You’ve eluded me thus far, but no more. I will have you, Mia Carletto. Make no mistake about it, ’ ” she said, looking directly into the camera. “ ‘You’re next.’ ”

A frenzy of flashbulbs went off, the reporters practically peeing their pants over this kind of news. I could see Ramirez’s posture tense in the background as the clamoring mob of newshounds surged forward. Mia’s publicist put an arm around her, ushering her back into the trailer as questions flew through the air one after another, ranging from “Are you hiring a bodyguard?” to “Who does your hair?”

“Mia knows how to work a crowd, doesn’t she?” Deveroux asked, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a tissue.

I had to agree, the moment had been played for maximum effect. On the other hand, death threats did tend to be dramatic all on their own.

“I think she’s had work done, ” Jasmine said, picking at a long, red fingernail. “Did you see her eyes? Wider than the aisles at Barneys.”

I refrained from pointing out that Jasmine’s own eyes weren’t exactly a product of nature. Instead, I thanked Deveroux for his time (carefully making my feet as inconspicuous as possible), and left, taking the rose-lined pathway back to Jasmine’s Miata.

“Well, so much for Veronika’s mystery man, ” Jasmine said, shifting the sports car into gear. “So, do we track down Kylie next, or what?”

I turned to her. “We?”

“What?” She gave me an innocent look and shrugged. “This Charlie’s Angels thing is kind of fun.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She did, after all, have the car.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go question Kylie.”

Luckily, I had it on good authority (Star magazine) that Kylie spent every Monday morning at the Kitson Boutique on the trendy Robertson Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, Jasmine was circling the block to find parking and I was scanning the racks for Kylie’s perky blonde head. I spotted her holding a vintage style T-shirt up to her ample chest in the mirror.

“Hi, Kylie! Wow, what a coincidence. You shop here too?” I grabbed a studded belt, trying to look like a casual shopper as she spun around.

It took a second for recognition to dawn in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. You’re the new wardrobe girl, right?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. Maddie.”

“Riiiight. Sorry, I totally forgot your name. When I’m on the set, I tune stuff like that out. I have to be in a total concentration zone. You know they expect me to have all my lines memorized? Like, every week.” She turned back to her reflection. “What do you think of this shirt?”

“Very cute.”

She wrinkled her ski-jump nose. “You think? I don’t know; is it too young?”

Considering Kylie still looked like she should be shopping in the kids’ section, I decided that question was rhetorical. Instead, I got right to the point.

“I guess you heard about Dusty this morning?”

Kylie dropped the shirt and spun around. “Ohmigod, like, too totally sad, you know? I can’t even believe someone could do that. Way random.”

I hesitated to tell her just how un-random this was shaping up to be.

“I heard that you and Veronika were close. All of this must be so hard on you.”

Again Kylie did the nose-scrunching thing. “Um, sorta, I guess. We did lattes a couple of times. But she was kinda weird, you know?”

I cocked my head to the side, fingering a fur-trimmed jacket. “Weird how?”

“Well, she just kept talking about this guy she was dating and how they were gonna get married and move to Oregon. Oregon, of all places! I mean, I so did not get that fascination. There’s, like, not even any cool malls there. And it’s, like, totally rainy ’n’ stuff. Way FUBAR, if you ask me.”

I watched as she picked up another T-shirt: LITTLE MISS GIGGLES.