Undercover In High Heels

my furniture.

Mom paused, considering this. Luckily, I knew how much she hated to drive the 405. “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay…”

“Right as rain!” I said, doing my best perky-cheerleader impression.

“All right. Why don’t you meet me at Fernando’s after lunch and you can tell me all about it. Okay?”

I did a silent sigh of relief. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

I hit the end button and flopped back down on my pillows. 6:20 A.M. and already one crisis averted. My day was off to a smashing start.

Chapter 3

Fernando’s Salon was located on the ultrachic, ultra-high rent corner of Beverly and Brighton, one block north of Rodeo and smack in the center of Beverly Hills’ Golden Triangle. It was the kind of neighbor-hood where the champagne was free and the pumps cost more than a small country. My stepfather, Ralph (or as I had affectionately dubbed him, Faux Dad), started out in a small strip mall in Chatsworth, but his mastery of the cut and color soon earned him a place in the hearts and hairdos of the rich and not-quite-famous. Only, knowing a salon called Ralph’s wouldn’t fit in with the Versaces, Blahniks, and Vuit-tons of BH, Ralph reinvented himself with a faux-Spanish ancestry and twice-weekly spray-on tans, and thus was born Fernando, European hair sculptor. When I first met him I was convinced he was gay, but considering he and Mom have been married nearly nine months now, I’m almost sure he’s not.

In addition to Faux Dad’s skills with a blow-dryer, he’s also quite the interior decorator (hey, I said I was almost sure), a fact illustrated by the metamorphosis his salon went through every few months. Today, as I walked through Fernando’s polished glass doors, I was treated to a Caribbean theme. The walls were done in watercolor-washed turquoise blue with knotted bits of rope hung like swags along the ceiling line. Bright pictures of exotic beaches, along with bits of fishing net, decorated the walls, interspersed with large, leafy green plants and bright tropical flowers in artfully chipped planters. The reception desk was paneled in white clapboard with silk flower leis glued to the sides. And, I kid you not, in the corner sat a three-foot-high birdcage holding a bright green parrot.

He squawked at me as I approached the reception desk. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”

I turned to Marco, Faux Dad’s receptionist, who was slim, Hispanic, and probably the only person in the world as addicted to Project Runway as I was. “What did he just say?” I asked.

Marco rolled his heavily lined eyes. “Oh honey, tell me about it, ” he drawled in an accent that was pure San Francisco. “The previous owner apparently had a thing for pop music. This damn bird has been singing Shakira all day.” Marco shook a finger at the bird. “You stop it, Pablo, you naughty boy.”

Pablo the Parrot tilted his head to the side. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”

“Ay-yi-yi!” Marco clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes again. “We couldn’t get a nice quiet goldfish. Nooooo, it had to be a parrot.”

“Sorry, ” I sympathized.

“So…” Marco leaned his elbows across his desk. “I heard about your big shootout last night. Ex- ciiiiii-ting!” he said, drawing out the word.

My turn to roll my eyes. “It wasn’t a shootout. It was a simple…misunderstanding.” That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

“Do tell, dahling, ” he prodded me on.

Since Marco practically lived for gossip, and the Informer had already beaten me to it anyway, I filled him in on the latest entry in my top-ten not-so-finest moments. So unfine, in fact, that as I related the story I felt worse and worse. Geez, had I really thought Ramirez was cheating on me? How paranoid was I? To be quite honest, Ramirez had every right to be mad at me. I mean, only I would turn a little thing like a canceled date into a shootout.

I mean misunderstanding.

True to his Queen of the Beverly Gossip status, Marco hung on my every word, and when I got to the part about Ramirez doing his Bad Cop face at me, Marco did an exaggerated swoon and started fanning himself. “That man is hotter than my mother’s chili con carne, honey.”

I had to agree. Unfortunately, he had a temper to match. “Yeah, well, I think he’s just a wee bit miffed with me at the moment. And speaking of miffed people…” I surveyed the room behind Marco, scanning the hairdresser stations and buzzing blow-dryers. “Are Mom and Ralph here?”

“Fernando, ” Marco chided, “is with a client. He’s doing a weave for Mrs. Banks.” He leaned in close and did a pseudo-whisper that could be heard all the way to the Valley. “Tyra’s mom.”

“Oh.” I nodded, appropriately impressed.

“But your mother’s in the back doing a pedi.” Marco gestured toward the rear of the salon, where a line of foot tubs flanked the turquoise walls.

“Thanks.” I waved as I walked off.

“Hips don’t lie, hips don’t lie!” I heard behind me.

Then Marco mumbling another, “Ay-yi-yi…”

In keeping with the island-paradise theme, the pedicure chairs had been covered with red tropical prints sporting large, colorful hibiscus flowers. Which completely clashed with the neon green muumuu covering the woman getting the pedi. Though, to be fair, Mrs. Rosenblatt was one of those people who clashed with just about anything. She was a five-time divorcee who weighed three hundred pounds, wore her hair in a shade of Lucille Ball red, and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. (Yeah, I know: only in L.A.)

She’d met my mother when, after a particularly depressing Valentine’s Day, Mom had gone to Mrs. R for a psychic reading. When the very next day Mom had met the dark-haired stranger Mrs. R had pre-dicted, Mom was hooked. Never mind that the stranger turned out to be a chocolate Lab named Barney; Mom and Mrs. R had been firm friends ever since.

“Mads!” Mrs. Rosenblatt called as I approached. “I heard about your shootout last night. Very impressive!”

I gritted my teeth together. “It wasn’t a shootout.”

Mom looked up from Mrs. R’s toes. She dropped a bottle of green polish on the floor and immediately grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Oh my baby, I’m so glad you’re all right!”

“I’m fine, Mom.” Which actually came out sounding more like, “I fie, Ma, ” considering she was cutting off my air supply.

“I was so worried about you! My poor, poor baby.”

“Really, ” I said, extracting myself from her death grip. “I’m fine. It was just a little…misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. “It’s Mercury. Mercury’s in retrograde this month. Makes for a whole heap of misunderstanding.”

At least someone understood.

“So, did you have a gun during this ‘misunderstanding’? You pop anyone?” Mrs. R asked.

I rolled my eyes. “No, I did not pop anyone. No one got popped.”

“Bummer, ” Mrs. R said. “I always wanted to know what it would be like to shoot a gun. My first husband, Ollie, had all kinds of guns. He used to hunt quail with ’em. Never let me shoot one, though.”

Ollie had been a smart man.

“What did happen last night?” Mom asked, sitting down and wiping the spilled nail polish on her black skirt. I grimaced. At the nail polish stains, yes. But more at the skirt.

When I was ten, Mom was the hippest mother in my Brownie troop. Unfortunately, she hadn’t changed her fashion style since then. Today she wore a lacy black skirt that was about two inches too high for comfort, black mesh leggings, ballet flats, and three different tank tops layered together above about a billion jelly bracelets in every color of the rainbow. A little mole and she’d be the perfect postmenopausal Madonna.

Ignoring the urge to comment on her outfit, I gave Mom a much-edited version of the previous night’s events. However, by the end, her plucked eyebrows were still hunched together in concern.