Fearless in High Heels (7 page)

“Sorry,” Marco mumbled, though his nose was still scrunched up as if he wasn’t 100% convinced.

“So, what is it?” Dana asked.

I bit my lip.  “It’s, well, it’s kind of embarrassing, but… it’s the hormones.’

Dana gave me a blank look.  “Like… weepy hormones?”

I shook my head.  “Worse.  Horny hormones.”

Marco let out a blast of laughter, and Dana covered a snort with her hand.

“I’m serious!” I said.  “The hormones running through me right now are insane.  I’m like a fifteen-year-old boy or something.  All I can think about is sex,” I said, remembering my dream from last night all too vividly.

Marco giggled again, but Dana put a sympathetic hand on my arm.  “I’m sure that as soon as Alexa’s killer is caught, you can get Ramirez to set aside some alone time to… take care of your problem.”

I nodded, sincerely hoping she was right.  “Speaking of which, I got some background info on Alexa last night,” I told them, quickly filling them in on the scant few items I’d picked up from Ramirez’s reports.

When I’d finished, Dana said, “It doesn’t sound like Alexa and her sister were particularly close.”

I shook my head.  “No.  But one thing Ramirez said stuck with me last night.  He said that her sister described Alexa as the family black sheep.”

Marco nodded.  “Being a vampire will do that.”

“But Ramirez said that her sister hadn’t seen her in months.  Alexa only started the vampire gig a few weeks ago.  So what made her the black sheep before then?”

“Oooo, good question,” Dana agreed.  “Maybe she was into some bad stuff before, and it caught up to her.”

“What do you think it could have been?” Marco asked.

I shrugged.  “I don’t know.  But I bet her sister does.  Anyone up for a trip to the beach?”

*  *  *

Twenty minutes later I was showered, blow-dried, and stuffed into a pair of stretchy white pants, a flowy, oversized pink baby-doll top, and a pair of cute, suede ankle boots.  I grabbed an oversized white, leather tote and met Dana and Marco at the curb beside her Mustang.

Marco took one look at my tote and scrunched his nose up.  “What’s that?” he asked.

I looked down.  “What?  It’s a Santana.  It’s very this-season.”

“Not the
bag
, Mads.  The
arm
sticking out of it.”

I looked down again.  He was right.  One chubby, vinyl arm was peeking over the edge of the tote.  I quickly tucked it back inside.

“It’s nothing,” I mumbled.

“Maddie,” Dana said, drawing out the word.  “Should we be worried about you?”

I threw my hands up.  “Fine.  It’s Baby-So-Lifelike, okay?”

“Baby so whatnow?” Marco asked.

“My mom thinks I need practice being a good parent, so she gave me this doll to lug around.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure good parents stuff their kids into their Santana bags,” Marco informed me.

I shot him a look that could freeze his latte in two seconds flat.  “Just get into the car, Auntie Marco.”

*  *  *

Corona Del Mar, Spanish for “crown of the sea”, is about an hour south of Los Angeles and actually a pocket of Newport Beach that’s just expensive enough to get its own name.  Dana had the address I’d swiped from Ramirez’s background report last night programed into her GPS, and only two wrong turns later we pulled up to 712 Cambert Drive, home of Phoebe and Bill Blaise.  It was a single story, typical California ranch style home on a street lined with palm trees.  While we were a good two miles from the ocean, the air still had a salty tinge to it.  I inhaled deeply, the sweet scent a welcome change from the perpetual ode de smog that had hung in the air over L.A. since our last big rain. 

Dana parked the Mustang at the curb, then we walked up the front steps, where Marco gave a sharp rap on the door.

Two beats later it was opened by a tall man with a thick head of dark hair, thick glasses on his nose, and a thick, dimpled neck that looked like it was made of flesh-colored Play-Do.  “May I help you?” he asked, his voice a deep baritone.

“We’re looking for Phoebe Blaise?” I asked, trying to look past him into the home.  From what I could see of the living room, light pine and nautical navy blue dominated the color scheme, large, comfortable looking furniture filling every nook and cranny.

“And may I ask who you are?” he said, suspicion lacing his voice as he took in our threesome.

“My name is Maddie Springer,” I said, trying my best at authority.  “And these are my colleagues.  We’re looking into the death of Alexa Weston.”

“The police were already here,” he hedged, his eyes going from Dana (today dressed in a black tube top, hot pink skirt, and matching hot pink wedges) to Marco (still donning his pink trench, though he’d paired it with leopard printed pants and a purple tank top today), to me and my baby-filled tote. 

“We’re not with the police,” I quickly reassured him.  “We represent the club where Alexa was killed.”

He nodded, this seemingly a little easier to believe.  “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what help we can be.”

“We were just wondering if we could ask Alexa’s sister a couple of quick questions, then we’ll be out of your hair,” I promised.

While I could see reservation still marking his face, he nodded again.  “If you make it short.  She’s very distressed by this whole thing.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“I’m her husband, Bill,” he offered, holding the door open for us.  “Please, come in.”

We did, following him through the nautical living room to the kitchen beyond, also done in a beachy theme.  Seashells of every shape and size were glue-gunned onto coasters, canisters, and even the low chandelier above the whitewashed dining table.  At the table sat a woman with short, blonde-from-a-box hair and dark eyebrows a week past a good threading.  Her hands were wrapped protectively around a coffee mug, as if it was the one thing anchoring her to the room at the moment.  I inhaled deeply the scents of fresh brewed French roast, unable to keep the wistful sigh from escaping me.

“Phoebe?” the man said softly, as we entered the room.  “We have some visitors.”

The woman looked up, and it was clear she’d been crying recently.  Red rimmed her eyes, along with dark circles beneath.  

“Yes?” she asked, looking from her husband to us.

“They’re here to ask a few questions about Alexa,” he told her.  He sank into the chair beside her, gesturing for us to sit down as well.

“I’m Dana, and this is Maddie and Marco,” Dana said.  “We represent the investors in the nightclub where your sister was killed.”

At the use of the word “killed”, the woman cringed, her lips drawing into a tight line.  The man put a hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I quickly jumped in.

She nodded, trying hard, I could tell, not to cry.  “Thank you.”

“And we’re determined to see your sister’s killer brought to justice,” Marco added.  “Which is why we were hoping we could ask you a few questions about Alexa?”

“Like we told the police, we haven’t seen Alexa in months.  I’m not sure what we can tell you about her,” the husband repeated.

“When exactly was the last time you saw her?” Dana asked.

The woman frowned.  “Summer, maybe?  She drove down with a friend.”

“Becca?” Dana asked.

Phoebe bit her lip, then shook her head.  “I’m sorry, I really don’t remember the friend’s name.”

“Can you describe her?”

“About Alexa’s age, slim.”  She shook her head again.  “They were only here for a few minutes.  I don’t think I even spoke to the women, to be honest.”

“That’s a short visit,” I observed.

“They were always short,” her husband broke in.  “Alexa only drove down here for one reason: money.”

Again, Phoebe’s face took on a pinched look.  “Alexa had some misfortune in her life.  She needed help from time to time.”

“More like all the time,” her husband countered.

“Bill-”

“You know it’s true,” he said, his tone softer.

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, but she didn’t argue this time.

Her husband turned to us and continued.  “Alexa had been chasing the Hollywood dream for years.  Once in while she’d land a small part and could pay her own rent.  Between those, she’d show up here with her hand out.”

“But she was doing better lately,” Phoebe cut in, defending her sister. 

“How so?” I asked.

“A couple of weeks ago I called to see if she needed help with the rent,” she said.  “But she said she didn’t.  She said she was doing fine for money.”

“Because she had a job?” I asked, thinking of her vampire gig.

Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together, and she shook her head.  “I don’t know.  It wasn’t the impression that I got.  She said she’d hit a windfall.  That she expected to come into some real money soon.”

Honestly?  Phoebe was right.  That didn’t sound like the language someone would use to describe steady employment.  But I still made a mental note to ask Sebastian just how well he paid his vampire hostesses.

“Did she say what sort of windfall?” I probed.

“Probably illegal,” the husband piped up.

“Bill,” his wife shushed him.

But I jumped on it, coming to the point of our being here.  “Had Alexa been involved in illegal activities in the past?”

Phoebe bit her lip, her eyes shooting to the dregs left in her coffee cup. 

But her husband bobbed his head up and down, vigorously.  “You name it, Alexa got mixed up in it.  When she was younger it was vandalism and loitering.  Then it was drinking, shoplifting.  No matter how many times we bailed her out of something, she’d fall right back in with the wrong kind of people, doing all the wrong things.” 

I suddenly wondered if one of those wrong people had killed her. 

“But Alexa didn’t have a record,” I argued, remembering the clean slate Ramirez had told me about.

He nodded.  “And we worked hard to make sure of that.  In most cases, we paid restitution, and no one pressed charges.”  He glanced at Phoebe, drawing his lips into a tight line.  “Look, for my wife’s sake, I’m sorry that Alexa is gone.  But honestly, I’m not surprised.  It was only a matter of time before one of those people she hung out with turned on her.”

But the question was, which one?

Chapter Nine

“I think it was Becca,” Dana said as we munched on sandwiches at a shop two blocks from the sister’s place.  Mine a BLT with extra mayo and extra bacon on the softest sourdough I’d ever tasted.  Marco’s a lean turkey breast wrap with lettuce.  And Dana’s sprouts and egg white salad on a whole wheat roll that looked hard enough to make my nausea come back.

“Why Becca?” I asked, sipping at my soda.

“Well, it’s a little suspicious that she’s gone, no?” Marco added.

I nodded.  “Yes.”  I paused.  “Okay, what about this?  Let’s say that this windfall that Alexa came into was from something shady.  You think Becca knew about it?”

Dana shrugged.  “They were friends.  I know I’d tell you about any windfall I got.”

“Awe.  Ditto, bestie,” I said, doing a warm-fuzzy moment.  “Okay, so let’s say Alexa tells Becca about it.”

“Or, better yet, let’s say they were in on it together,” Marco said, nodding as he munched.

“But maybe Becca gets greedy and wants it all for herself,” I added.

“So she kills Alexa, grabs the cash, and takes off!” Dana finished.

I nodded.  “We really need to find Becca.  She’s the key to all of this.”

Dana paused, taking another bite of her health on a bun.  “You know, I remember when I was just starting out in the acting business.  No matter where I went or what I did, I always made sure that my agent could always get hold of me in case a role came up.”

I raised an eyebrow her way.  “You think Becca’s agent knows where she is?”

“It’s worth a try.”

“And you can find out who that agent is?”

Dana grinned, showing off a sprout stuck between her molars.  “Piece of cake.  Give me ten minutes, and I’ll have all her deets.”  She pulled her cell from her purse and began furiously texting. 

Only
seven
minutes later we’d finished our sandwiches (plus a couple of cookies on my part), and Dana’s phone buzzed to life with the answer we’d been looking for.  According to Dana’s former co-star’s husband’s best friend’s manager, both Alexa and Becca were signed with the Bowman Agency in Encino. 

One hour and two pee stops (I knew I shouldn’t have ordered the large soda.) later, we pulled up to The Bowman Agency’s offices located just off Ventura.  It was a small storefront in a strip mall, sandwiched between a Mexican bakery and a nail salon advertising $20 acrylics.  Not the most prestigious of addresses by a long shot.

And the inside wasn’t much better, I noted as we pushed through a pair of glass doors.  The furnishings were pure Craigslist – mismatched chairs, a coffee table in eighties black laminate, and a magazine rack that tilted slightly to the left.  As the door shut behind us, a bell on a piece of orange yarn jangled above us, and a moment later a short, paunchy guy emerged from the back room.  He had a full head of jet black hair, with just the hint of grey roots growing near the hairline, and his face was a weathered tan like he’d either spent too many hours at the pool or too many session under a tanning bed. He was dressed in a pair of pants that were tight enough to show off the shape of his wallet, ending in a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.  He’d kill it at a Johnny Cash look-alike competition. 

“May I help you?” he asked, an eager light in his eyes as he took in Dana’s short skirt, long legs, and obvious It quality.

“We’re looking for Herbert Bowman?” Dana asked.

The man smiled, showing off a row of white veneers that were at least two sizes too big.  “That’s me!  What can I do for you lovely ladies,” he said, kind enough to make the compliment a plural even though I noticed his gaze had barely flickered to Marco or me.

“We’re looking for Becca Diamond,” Dana said.

“Oh.”  His smile faltered for a half a second.  “Uh, are you interested in booking her?  I can check on her availability.”