Homicide in High Heels (8 page)

"Good." I sank down in the cushions,
slipping my heels off one at a time.

"You talked to Blanco?"

I nodded. "I did. And the alibi is shaky." I
told him what I'd learned about their trip to the gym as well as my
findings about Lacey's wardrobe choices.

Ramirez frowned when I'd finished. "So, she
wears nice stuff. What kind of money we talking here?"

"You're cute.
Nice
stuff? You want to
know how much these
nice
shoes cost me?" I asked, gesturing
to my snakeskin pumps.

"Something tells me I don't."

I grinned. "Smart man. Let's just say in
those pictures at the memorial alone, Lacey was probably wearing at
least two grand per outfit."

Ramirez's eyes went round, then shot down to
my shoes. "Those are why we're a two income household aren't
they?"

I gave him a playful punch on the arm. "My
point
is that Lacey was spending a lot more than people
thought she was. It could be the reason she and Bucky were
fighting. Maybe she was trading on his credit or his celebrity
status, looking to milk him once the contract negotiations went
through next year. Maybe he found out and wasn't too happy."

Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. "Wow. Look
at you, all coming up with theories and stuff."

I couldn't help a small lift of pride.
"Well, hey, it's not like I Windexed or anything."

Ramirez frowned as if not understanding the
reference.

"Anyway," I went on, "I know one person who
would know how Lacey was paying for her extravagant lifestyle."

"Who?"

"Faux Dad. He said she was in the salon all
the time. If she was paying on credit, he'd know about it. Who
knows, Lacey might have even confided some of her relationship woes
to him. He is her stylist after all."

The corner of Ramirez's mouth lifted. "As
long as we're not asking him to break his stylist-client
privilege."

I swatted him again. "Very funny. Hey, I
thought I did a darn good job tonight."

"You did." He pulled me closer, his arms
going around my waist again. "Now how about we take the rest of
this conversation into the bedroom?"

Now that was an offer I couldn't refuse.

* * *

The next morning I got up early, showered,
dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, hot pink ballet flats, and a
loose kimono style silk top. Then I grabbed a cup of coffee, kissed
my husband on the cheek, and wished him well with Operation Mr. Mom
as I headed out the door. Half an hour later I pushed through the
glass front doors of Fernando's. The crime scene tape was gone now,
the residue of fingerprint dust cleanly washed away. The only thing
that betrayed that any sort of tragedy had occurred here was the
fact that half of the styling stations were empty.

As soon as I walked in I noticed two people
at the reception desk standing next to Marco who were clearly not
clients. The first was a short, portly guy with a
trendy-two-years-ago soul patch on his chin and shoes that were
shined within an inch of their lives. The second was a woman with
short, dark hair wearing a utilitarian pant-suit and low-healed
loafers. Even if she hadn't been standing next to Marco—who was a
vision in a white leather jumpsuit with lilac accents today—she
would have looked drab enough to blend into any background.

"So you were the one who scheduled Lacey for
her tan?" the woman asked Marco, looking down at an electronic
tablet in her hands.

"Y-yes. I schedule everyone."

"Including the deceased?" the guy
pressed.

Marco swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes,
Officer Hardy."

"Detective," he corrected.

"Sorry," Marco mumbled.

"This scheduling book was in your possession
the entire morning?" the woman, who I deduced to be the Laurel in
the duo, asked.

"Yes."

The two detectives gave each other a
meaningful look.

"Wait—no!" Marco amended. "I mean, yes, it
was here at my desk, but anyone could have seen it."

"Did they?" Laurel asked.

"I-I don't know. Maybe. I mean, they must
have because someone killed her, and it wasn't me," Marco squeaked
out.

More meaningful looks were exchanged, then
Laurel jotted something on her tablet.

"What are you writing?" Marco asked.

"Back to the book," Hardy said. "Where did
you keep it?"

"Here," Marco said, slapping his hand on the
reception desk for emphasis.

"So you're saying anyone who came through
those doors," Hardy said, pointing to the ones I'd just entered
through, "could have seen this book."

Marco nodded vigorously.

"Okay, who came in that day?" Laurel
asked.

Marco swallowed again. "I don't know. The
other clients. The staff. I think I saw the UPS guy."

"You
think
or you
did
?" Hardy
pressed.

"I-I don't know. I mean, I wasn't watching
the doors like a hawk. I had to grab Mrs. Johnson a smock, and
Jennie needed more acetone in her kit, and I did use the little
boys' room a couple of times."

"Hmph," Hardy said, nodding to Laurel, who
jotted down more notes.

Marco paled. "What? What is she writing
now?"

"Thank you for your time," Laurel said,
slamming the cover on her tablet shut instead of answering. "We'll
be in touch if we need anything more."

"And don't go anywhere," Hardy told him,
stabbing a chubby finger his way as the two left the salon,
Laurel's heels shuffling on the floor and Hardy leaving a wake of
cheap cologne behind him.

"Ohmigod, Mads," Marco cried as soon as they
left. "Did you see the way they were looking at me? They think I
had something to do with Lacey's death!"

"I'm sure that's not true," I said, patting
him on the shoulder. "Those were just routine questions."

"This is an absolute nightmare. We're all
living under a cloud of suspicion here."

"I'm sure it will blow over soon," I said,
doing more patting.

"You know we had three cancelations this
morning alone?"

I glanced behind him to the nearly empty
salon. Two women were getting pedis and just one lone woman sat in
the styling chairs, Faux Dad hard at work coloring her long
locks.

"One of our stylists quit this morning,
Maddie," he went on. "She said she couldn't come back to the scene
of such carnage. Carnage, Maddie!" He threw his hands in the air
for emphasis, his leather outfit squeaking in protest.

I bit my lip. I had to admit, things were
not looking rosy for Fernando's at the moment.

"Listen, you think you could fix this for
me?" I asked, holding up my still chipped nail. In all that had
happened in the last two days, I'd yet to get it fixed.

Marco nodded. "Sure. It's not like we're
busy," he said glumly, leading me to a nail station in the center
of the salon. Twenty minutes later I was buffed, trimmed, and
shellacked, letting my nails dry under UV light as Faux Dad
finished with his client.

He shuffled toward me, much the same glum
look on his face that I'd seen on Marco's. Only on Faux Dad the bad
mood made everything sag from his fleshy cheeks to the bags growing
under his eyes.

"You don't look so hot," I said
honestly.

"I don't feel so hot. I was up all night
reading the
L.A. Informer
's sensational take on our
salon."

I cringed. I could just imagine the field
day the tabloid was having with the Tanning Salon Murder.

"Maybe you should close the salon for a bit
and take some time off?" I suggested.

But he shook his head violently. "No way. We
need to show the world a brave face and carry on."

While I wasn't sure just how much bravery
was involved in doing cut and colors, I nodded. "I understand."

"Is Ramirez making any headway on the case?"
he asked, sitting at the empty table next to me.

"We're, uh, working on it," I hedged. I
didn't have the heart to tell him that Ramirez was out, and I was
now his best chance at clearing the salon's image. Instead, I
changed the subject. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a couple of
questions about Lacey."

"Sure, though I'm not sure what I can tell
you that I didn't tell the police."

"Did Lacey talk about Bucky much?"

Faux Dad pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing
as he contemplated the question. "Some. I mean, everyone chats a
little while they're getting foiled and highlighted. But nothing
out of the ordinary."

"What about any arguments or disagreements
between them? Any trouble in paradise lately?"

But Faux Dad shook his head. "Nothing she
confided in me." He paused. "Why? Do you think Bucky killed
her?"

"It's possible. Someone said she saw them
fighting a few days before Lacey was killed."

Faux Dad perked up.

"But," I added, trying not to get his hopes
up too high, "Bucky may have an alibi."

"Oh." His jowls sagged back into a
frown.

"Ralph, Lacey seems to have been spending an
awful lot lately," I said, switching gears. "Can you tell me what
kind of credit she was using here?"

Faux Dad shook his head. "Marco handles
payments." He hailed the receptionist in question over, repeating
my question to him.

"Oh, Lacey didn't pay with credit," Marco
told us. "It was cash."

I paused. I'll admit, that was the last
thing I'd been expecting to hear. "Wait—she paid cash. Like, actual
greenbacks?"

He nodded. "I know. No one does that
anymore, right?"

"Exactly how much cash was she throwing
around here?" I asked them.

Faux Dad shrugged. "A lot."

"I guess I just assumed it was Bucky's,"
Marco added.

I bit my lip. I could see shop owners all
over Beverly Hills assuming the same thing. Only, they'd all be
wrong.

"Bucky didn't have that kind of money yet.
Did she give any indication of where else she might have gotten
it?" I grasped.

"I didn't ask," Marco admitted.

"I know she did work at a clothing
boutique," Faux Dad piped up.

"Right. Liz DeCicco's place, Bellissima." I
bit my lip. But I knew from my brunch with the Baseball Wives that
Lacey hadn't been making bank at the boutique as a mere
employee
. So where had she gotten the money?

"Who has that much
cash
?" I mused out
loud. I'd be hard pressed to find more than a twenty in my own
wallet. Anything above-board and legal was all credit, debit, or
direct deposit these days.

Marco raised his hand in the air like a kid
in the back of the classroom. "Ooo, ooo, I know! A stripper! Ling
always has stacks of twenties."

I pause. "
Stacks
of twenties?" I was
seriously in the wrong profession.

"Maybe Lacey was working the pole, Bucky
found out about it, and killed her," Marco said, running with his
theory.

I scrunched up my nose. "I don't know. I
doubt that she'd be so public about being Bucky's girlfriend if she
had some secret life like that. I mean, it would take all of five
seconds for someone at the tabloids to follow her around for a day
and figure out she was a dancer, right?"

Marco's shoulders slumped. "Good point."

"Okay, so she wasn't stripping. What was she
doing?"

"Do you think the
Baseball Wives
show
gave her an advance?" Faux Dad asked. "I mean, she talked about the
show all the time. She said the producers were thinking about
putting her on next season. Maybe they fronted her some money?"

I nodded. While the other wives had made it
sound like the show was far from a sure thing, it was certainly
possible that Lacey had made some quiet deal with the producers
behind their backs.

Unfortunately, finding out the details of
her contract was beyond my snooping scope. I pulled my cell out,
dialing home.

"Hey," Ramirez answered on the first ring. I
could hear the sounds of
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse
, two crying
kids, and some toy that played the "Farmer in the Dell" in the
background.

"Hey. You guys doing okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. Great. Why wouldn't we be?"

"I don't know, it sounds a little—" I
started.

But Ramirez cut me off by yelling, "Livvie,
don't touch that! That is not food!"

"Um, what's not food?" I asked.

"Nothing. It's fine. What were you
saying?"

"You sure you don't need me to come home
and—"

"Nope," he said, quickly cutting me off
again. "I'm fine. I got this." Then I heard him cover the
mouthpiece, yelling again. "
Do not
put that in your mouth,
Livvie."

"Uh, okay. Look, I was just wondering if you
could do something for me, but I can call back later."

"Nope, we're fine. Shoot," he said. I had to
admit, for how chaotic it sounded there, his voice was perfectly
calm.

"I need some financial info on Lacey."

"You find something?" he asked.

"Maybe. She seems to have had more cash than
we can account for," I said, filling him in on what Marco and Faux
Dad had told me. "We're wondering if the show paid her an advance
or something. Any way you can get that info?"

I heard him nodding on the other end. "I'm
sure I can get someone at the station to float it to me. I'll call
you as soon as I have something—Livvie, spit it out. Spit!"

"You sure you don't need me to—"

"Hey, I gotta go, babe. Call if you find out
anything new."

And before I could stop him, he hung up. My
hands itched to hit redial. But if Ramirez said he had it under
control, I had to trust him. Hey, he was trusting me with the
investigation. It was a two way street, right? Besides, I was sure
Livvie couldn't have put anything
too
bad in her mouth.

I hoped.

With Lacey's mysterious cash in Ramirez's
capable hands, I decided to focus on the argument Beth had said she
overheard between Lacey and Bucky. Let's face it, CNN was sometimes
right—it usually was the boyfriend whodunit. Bucky was still my
number one suspect, and the truth was I'd yet to talk to him.