Undercover In High Heels

I stared at my cell, my heart racing, my stomach churning. Probably Dana would be fine. Probably I was overreacting. Probably the police presence on set was huge, and whoever the killer was, he wouldn’t be able to get within ten feet of Dana.

Probably.

“So, I’m your mother now?” Felix asked, folding his paper.

“What? Oh, sorry. I had to tell her something.”

“And you didn’t want to tell her you came begging at my doorstep in the dead of night?”

“I wasn’t begging.” Much. “And ten o’clock is hardly the dead of night.”

Felix shrugged. “Hey, that’s okay. If you want to keep our torrid affair a secret from your friends, be my guest.”

I opened my mouth to protest (it was an accident!), when I saw the teasing twinkle in Felix’s blue eyes.

“Jerk.”

“Sticks and stones, love. Sticks and stones.”

Felix downed the rest of his coffee. “I’ve got to go check in with my editor. There are clean towels in the guest bath, ” he called over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the room.

I swirled the dregs of coffee in my cup, that ball of dread still sitting like a lead weight in my stomach. By taking the stand-in job, my best friend had just effectively labeled herself killer bait. If someone was really intent on going after Mia, that meant anyone close to her was in harm’s way. It wasn’t like this guy was picky; he’d already gotten rid of two innocent victims. I paused. Well, okay, maybe if Veronika had been blackmailing someone, she wasn’t entirely innocent, but I was pretty sure she didn’t deserve death by control tops.

Any way you looked at it, Dana was throwing herself right into the thick of it.

Alone.

I set my cup down on the counter. Right next to Felix’s keys and wallet. The wallet was leather and looked expensive. The keys were attached to a ring that had a ninety-nine-cent plastic fish dangling from it. Total Felix.

I reached out and slid one finger down the soft leather siding of the wallet. Hmm…I wondered…

With a quick glance over my shoulder, I flicked it open. Yep, right there, stuck into the billfold, was Felix’s press pass. His golden ticket that could get him in just about anywhere.

Even the Magnolia Lane set.

I bit my lip. I glanced over my shoulder again. I could faintly hear Felix on the phone with his editor, arguing about word count and column placement.

I took a deep breath, then hopped off the stool, grabbing my purse with one hand and Felix’s wallet and keys with the other.

That was it. He was so never letting me sleep over again.

My hands were shaking as I stuck the keys in Felix’s battered Dodge Neon. I turned the ignition, wincing at the loud sound erupting though the quiet morning. I glanced at the front door, expecting to see an irate Felix come running from it any second. Nothing. I quickly backed out and pulled down the street, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Nothing. I did a small sigh of relief. Maddie: 1. Tabloid Boy: 0.

I know, I was a terrible person for stealing Felix’s car, especially after he made me cappuccino and let me stay over. I consoled my guilty conscience by telling myself I’d make it up to him, that I’d feed him the exclusive of the century once I made sure Dana was safe.

And, by the time I came down out of the Hills, I had formed the beginnings of a plan to do just that. To not only get Dana out of harm’s way, but to get a killer behind bars, as well. Step number one was to get inside the studios.

While I hadn’t officially been fired as wardrobe assistant, I had a feeling that after the whole carrying-a-gun- onto-studio-property thing, my name was on Bug-eyed Billy’s “do not allow entry” list. (Not to mention the fact that if Ramirez caught me on set he’d likely throw me in the back of a squad car faster than you could say “purple Prada pumps”.) Luckily, I knew for a fact that Felix’s name was on Billy’s list. All I had to do was convince Bug-eyed Billy and Queen Latifah that I was not the crazy blonde with the habit of setting off their metal detector, but a crack tabloid journalist with the L.A. Informer. Which meant I needed to change my look, and I needed it quick.

There was only one person I knew who carried a virtual wardrobe around in his trunk, not to mention a fully stocked makeup kit. I floored the accelerator as I pointed my stolen car in the direction of Fernando’s.

“Maddie, dahling!” Marco dropped the fishing net he was draping over the reception desk and attacked me with air kisses as I walked through the doors of the salon.

Followed closely by Pablo’s greeting. “Squawk! Oops, I did it again. Squawk!”

Marco shot the bird a dirty look. “No Britney. That’s the rule. I told you, no Britney.”

I’m not sure, but I thought I saw the bird spit in Marco’s direction.

I tippy-toed over to his desk, doing a pseudo-whisper. “Is Mom here?”

Marco shook his head. “Nope. Your mama isn’t due until three, when she has a bikini wax scheduled for Mrs. R.”

I shuddered. “And Ralph?”

“Fernando, ” Marco chided, “is doing a cut and color for Mrs. Lohan.” He leaned in close. “Lind-say’s mom.”

I nodded, looking to the back of the salon, where I saw Faux Dad running his scissors through the wet locks of a slim, forty-something blonde.

“Good. Because I need a favor.”

Marco clapped his hands together. “Are we on a case?” His eyes twinkled with that same Charlie’s Angels look I was coming to know and dread. But considering it was Dana’s tush on the line, I plowed ahead, explaining my need for anonymity.

“Oh, dahling, I’ve got just the thing! Follow me!”

Marco skipped out from behind the whitewashed desk, motioning to one of the nail girls to cover for him. I followed him into the back, giving Faux Dad a cursory wave as I passed his station.

As I made my way through the rich and not-so-famous clients, I could have sworn I saw a woman point at my shoes and whisper behind her hand to the lady in the next beehive dryer over. I couldn’t help a little swell of pride. The first Maddie originals and already people were talking.

I followed Marco into one of the back rooms, where he pulled out a black duffel bag. “I’m going clubbing later with this adorable boy I met in NoHo last weekend. Lucky for you, I brought a couple of outfits to choose from.”

And, lucky for me, Marco and I were approximately the same size. Unluckily, his taste tended toward leather, leather, and more leather (studded with gold, of course). He held up a pair of black leather pants and a red leather jacket to match. I cringed.

“Um, don’t you have anything a little less conspicuous?”

Marco looked pained. “Dahling, I don’t dress to blend!”

As well I knew. “Okay, okay. What else do you have?”

He rummaged around and pulled out a see-through mesh shirt in hot pink and a pair of white stretch pants.

“I’ll take the leather.”

I stuffed myself into the extremely nonbreathable leather outfit, topping it off with a white T-shirt that read, FERNANDO’S BEVERLY HILLS, a pair of big black sunglasses and, thanks to a quick rinse, brown hair.

And my pink heels. (There was no way I was fitting into Marco’s size-twelve loafers.)

I looked in the full-length mirror hanging at the front of the salon.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked.

“Exquisite, ” Marco said, clasping his hands together.

“Not bad, ” the nail girl agreed.

“Squawk! Hit me, baby, one more time!”