Danger in High Heels (2 page)

"Hmm. Well, tell her to say 'hi' to Lana for me," I mumbled.

Felix nodded. "Will do. But don't worry, love. Really, we've got this one. You just go home and enjoy your drooling monsters. Leave the heavy lifting to those of us not graced with the joys of motherhood."

Chapter Two

An hour later Felix had dropped me off outside the nineteen-fifties style bungalow I shared with my husband and two kids. My babysitter's, A.K.A. Mom's, car was parked in the drive, and I could already hear shouts of teeny tiny protests from beyond the front door as I walked up the slate pathway.

Even though I loved my twins with all my heart, I paused just a moment before opening the door, enjoying my last breath of freedom before I pushed inside the house. Where I was immediately assaulted with wails (from the twins), baby-talk (from mom), and a loud sigh (probably from me).

"Mommy's home," I announced from the doorway, dropping my purse on the floor and kicking off the kitten heels I'd worn to lunch.

"Perfect timing, Mads," Mom called out, emerging from the twins' bedroom with a screaming bundle swaddled in a pink blanket. With a pink body suit on. And pink booties. And a pink, wool hat. I prayed it was Livvie.

"I think they're hungry," she said.

"Mom, you do know that it's eighty-five degrees out, right?" I asked, taking the baby from her and peeking beneath the layers. Thankfully we had a female.

"But it's winter," Mom protested.

"We live in L.A. Winter means T-shirts instead of tank tops."

Mom shook her head at me. "Babies need to be kept warm," she said, picking up an almost identical blue bundle from the play mat in the corner of the living room.

"Warm, yes. Cooked, no," I protested, removing Livvie's hat to expose a soft dusting of blonde peach fuzz along her scalp.

But Mom waved me off. "I'll get the bottles, you hold," she commanded, shoving the blue bundle into my arms as well.

Luckily, both babies were fabulous eaters (I had no idea where they got that trait. Couldn't have had anything to do with the nightly tubs of Ben & Jerry's I'd ingested while pregnant.), and as soon as we'd settled them in their respective carriers with their little bottles of milk, they were both happy as clams, the roars of tiny screams ceasing. After a good six ounces a piece, a pair of burps loud enough to make their father proud, and two wet diaper changes, they both settled into blissful newborn happiness, cooing at each other on the play mat again.

"Okay, I'm off," Mom announced, wrapping a polyester scarf around her neck and grabbing her purse. "There's a sale today at Sears, and Dorothy and I both have coupons."

I cringed. As much as I loved my mother, the one thing in this world that I was most thankful for was that I had not inherited her sense of style. Somehow her fashion sense had peaked around 1989 and stayed there ever since. Today she was clad in a pair of acid washed jeans that were at least two sizes too big in the rear, white Keds that looked as if they'd been bedazzled with pink rhinestones along the top, and a bright green sweater with a kitten chasing a ball of yarn on the front of it. With matching green eye shadow that went clear up to her eyebrows. Sadly, I was not surprised she was buying clothes at a store that sold power tools.

"You know, I have a gift card for Nordstrom, Mom. I'd be happy to take you shopping there any time," I offered, trying to steer her in the right direction.

But Mom waved me off. "Nonsense. That stuff is way too overpriced. Take these jeans for instance. You know what I paid for these?"

I looked down at their pale denim glory. Whatever it was, it was way too much.

"$14.99," she said proudly. "What a steal, huh?"

I bit my lip, holding back the slew of snide remarks bubbling up in my throat. She was, after all, my mother.

"You know," Mom said, a scary light bulb look going off in her eyes. "If Dorothy has a couple of extra coupons, I could pick up a pair for you. I think they're still on sale."

"Oh, gee, wow. That would be...yeah, you know I think I'm good on jeans right now."

"It would be no trouble."

"I'm...still trying to lose baby weight. Not a good time to buy new clothes."

"But you have to wear something."

"I'm good. Honest."

"You sure?"

"I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

Mom shrugged, slipping on a leopard print jacket. "Okay, suit yourself. But if you change your mind, just send me a text," she said, pointing to her cell. Texting was Mom's latest thing. Her husband had finally convinced her to join this century and bought her a smart phone for her birthday. Fifteen times a day I got little notes telling me she was "loling @ ur stepdad" or "h8ing the new amricn idol jdg".

"Will do," I promised. And thanks for watching the kids," I added as she stepped out.

"Any time, Maddie," she called over her shoulder before shutting the door.

Whew, close one.

I left the twins to their happy babbling while I changed the laundry, put away a load of clean dishes, and checked my email. Basically doing the frantic mad-dash that had become my everyday holy-crap-no-one's-crying-quick-get-something-done routine. It lasted the average fifteen minutes before a foul smell came from Livvie's corner, and Max started protesting in shrill, ear-drum splitting cries. I'd swear the child was destined to become a lead singer of a heavy metal band.

I was just cleaning up Livvie's mess and pleading with Max to stop yelling, when a text vibrated from my pocket. I did a silent prayer that it wasn't from my Mom saying she'd found acid wash in my size. I put Livvie down, swapping her for her brother, then checked the readout. It was from my husband.

Homicide just came in. Gotta stay late. Sorry. XOXO

I sighed. (Though the sound was swallowed up by Max's howls.) My husband was detective Jack Ramirez, L.A.P.D. Homicide. And, while we had both agreed that I, and not my husband, would be the one taking a hiatus from work when the twins arrived, I hadn't realized at the time that it meant I'd basically be a single mom most nights. Not that it was his fault. A notoriously unpredictable work schedule kinda came with the territory. I mean, it was hard to convince people to get killed just between the hours of nine and five.

I looked down at the twins. "Well, I guess it's just you and me again tonight, noisemakers."

*  *  *

The next morning found the twins in a much better mood, my husband gone again before dawn, and me sipping a cup of very strong coffee across the living room floor from my best friend, Dana.

"You didn't sleep again last night, did you?" Dana asked, stealing a glance at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Organic with soy milk and Stevia sweetener.

"Does it show?" I responded, checking my eyes for lower lid bags in the fun-house style mirror attached to the twins' playmat.

"Just a little," Dana said. "But I have some concealer samples that will do wonders."

I sipped at my coffee (non-fat, no-calorie sweetener, sugar-free vanilla syrup) while I watched Dana dig into her purse.

I first met Dana Dashel when we'd both attended John Adams Middle School in Reseda. She'd been the only other girl in seventh grade who understood the power of tasteful eye make-up. Her hair was a light strawberry blonde, her eyes a bright blue, and she was at least five inches taller than I was, bringing her within a breath of supermodel height. And her addiction to the gym was almost as strong as my addiction to junk food. (Or maybe I should say my pre-baby-weight addiction to junk food. I was currently at three months sugar-free and hating every minute of my glucose sobriety.)

Dana was an actress who, in addition to landing several hot supporting roles lately, was the face of the Lover Girl cosmetics commercials. Which meant she always had free samples.

I gratefully took the proffered concealer, applying a generous helping in the baby mirror.

"Last night wasn't as bad as some," I told her. "I did get a solid three hour stretch at one point."

"You should get out of the house," Dana told me. "Maybe some fresh air would wear them out."

"Fresh air like at the mall?" I asked, warming to the idea.

"Actually, I was thinking of visiting Ricky on set."

Ricky Montgomery was Dana's boyfriend, a movie star, and had abs you could do laundry on. He and Dana were rivaling George Clooney and whatshername as the top celebrity couple in TMZ's latest polls. Ricky's current gig was on a reality show called
Dancing with Celebrities
. Ten celebrities from various walks of Hollywood life paired up with professional ballroom dancers to compete for the ultimate title of Celebrity Dance Champion. Each week they engaged in tricky tangos and wild waltzes for the viewing public, who then voted off their least favorite dancer/celebrity combo. They were only in week three of live competitions, but so far Ricky and his partner, Irina Sokolov, had been fan favorites. Not surprising since the show's demographic was mostly female, and Ricky was currently being touted as "Hollywood's most eligible bachelor" (according to
People
). Possibly one reason Dana was a frequent visitor on the set.

"I wish I could," I said, sincerely meaning it. The costumes looked to die for on TV; I could only imagine the fabulosity in person. "But I'm not sure they'd be welcome," I added, gesturing to the pudgy pair of babies currently blowing raspberries at each other.

"Are you kidding? They're so cute, I'm sure no one would mind them."

"Right, no one would mind me bringing a pair of screaming infants to a closed set. And their huge diaper bag. And their milk, their changing pads, their playmobiles, their-"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," Dana said holding her hands up.

"Sorry, but I'm kinda homebound at the moment," I said, sipping my coffee again.

Dana sighed, letting Max grab her finger with his chubby fist. "I want one of these."

I raised an eyebrow at her. "I'll sell you one cheap."

She grinned, elbowing me in the ribs. "No, I'm serious. I mean, I've always thought of myself as the motherly type."

I raised the other eyebrow. "Really?" Honestly this was the first I'd heard of it. Dana had always been more of the film-opening type than the diaper-genie type.

"Well, okay, maybe not
always
," she admitted, "but I can feel it ticking, you know. The 'biological clock,'" she said, rolling her eyes and doing air quotes. "I have a bad feeling its alarm may go off soon."

I shook my head. "Honey, you have plenty of time." Dana was my age. I refused to think of any clock running out on either of us anytime soon.

But Dana shook her head. "No. I don't. Not really. I mean, even if Ricky were to pop the question today, we'd need at least eighteen months to plan the wedding, then we'd want to go on an extended honeymoon, and we always said we'd like to travel a little before bringing kids into the picture, so we're looking at three years down the line before I even get pregnant. Then another nine months on top of that, and if we want him to have a sibling that could be another two years before baby number two comes along and then... boom! Too late. Hot flash city and I'm all barren."

I blinked at her. "Wow. You've really thought this through."

Dana sighed. "Well, I've had a lot of time to think about it. You realize that Ricky and I have been dating for almost three years now, and he's not so much as breathed a whisper of a ring."

"I'm sorry," I said, laying a hand on her arm. "I didn't realize it's been that long."

"It has." She tickled Max under his chin, resulting in a smile full of spit bubbles. "At this rate, I may never get one of these."

"Well, listen, you are free to borrow mine any time you like."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Hey, doesn't
Dancing with Celebrities
air on UBN?" I asked Dana, trying to steer the conversation back to more comfortable subjects than barrenness and blaring biological alarm clocks.

Dana nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

"Well, I just saw Felix yesterday..."

Dana raised an eyebrow at me. "Tabloid Boy? What's he up to?"

"The usual. He wanted to know about a schoolmate of mine who is working wardrobe for the network. He has a source who says someone is stealing clothes."

"Ooooo, naughty. So, what did he want you to do? Go undercover? Investigate?" She asked.

I frowned. "No. That's just it. He just wanted to know about her character. He didn't want me to
do
anything."

Dana scrunched up her nose. "Why not? You're like totally good at finding things out."

"I know, right?" I agreed. "He's got Allie Quick on it instead."

Dana scrunched her forehead up to match her nose, making a face that would produce Botox-proof wrinkles if she wasn't careful. "You're way better at investigating than Allie."

I shot her a grateful look. "Thanks."

"Hey, you know what?" she said.

I bit. "What?"

"I bet Ricky could get us into wardrobe at UBN with no problem."