Spying in High Heels (17 page)

The poor officer looked about as uncomfortable as I felt and, had I not been in the throes of my own hysteria, I might have felt sorry for him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm going to need to see your license and registration."

I retrieved my license from my purse and the registration from the glove box, still sobbing uncontrollably as I handed them over.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the officer said uncomfortably. "But I'm going to have to write you a ticket."

I tried to be brave. "No," (sniff, sniff) "it's okay. How fast was I going?"

"Seventy-five."

"I'm so, so, so, sorry." I started sniveling again. "It's just… I'm dressed like a hooker. And I really, really hate spandex. And Ramirez's mother saw me in this. And she's right, I've always liked my legs. But if I'm having Richard's baby they're going to be all shot to hell. And then it started raining. Rain is very bad for purples."

The officer just stared at me. "Have you been drinking tonight, ma'am?"

"No. No, I have not been drinking. I only had a Diet Coke at the bar. But then Ramirez showed up and I really wanted a martini. But I couldn't have one because of the Muppet. And, oh my aura is just ruined now. Can you believe it? It never rains in L.A."

"I'm going to need to give you a breathalyzer test, ma'am."

"Oh god. I can't go to jail. Look at me. I'm a hooker!"

"Ma'am, please step out of the car." All sympathy had gone out of CHP Guy's eyes, his hands hovering near the cuffs on his utility belt. Nothing highway patrol loves less than a drunk driver. Except maybe a drunk hooker driver.

"Please, I'm not drunk. I'm just… I'm just…" I searched for words to describe the night I'd had. I came up with nil. "I'm… I'm Detective Ramirez's girlfriend!"

Oh god. Why did I say that?

CHP Guy looked dubious, but his hand was off his cuffs. "Detective Ramirez?"

I decided to go with it. "Yes, he works in homicide. You can look him up."

"Do you have his badge number?"

Crap. Badge number. Then I remembered the business card still tucked in my purse. "Uh, just a minute." I grabbed my purse and dumped the contents onto the passenger seat, spilling my cell phone, a tampon, tube of lipstick, a breath mint, a handful of change, and Ramirez's business card. I read off the numbers.

"2374." I handed the card to the officer.

He took it, going back to his squad car. I watched in the rearview mirror, praying he didn't call Ramirez to ask he if was dating a hysterical hooker. Luckily, I only saw him punch a few keys on his keyboard before returning, apparently satisfied.

"All right," he said, handing back the business card along with my registration and license. "I'm going to give you a warning this time. But please slow down. And, uh, don't worry," he said awkwardly. "It's going to be okay."

I swallowed. "Thanks," I sniffed out. Though I didn't really believe him. Things were so far from okay, it would take a layover in Cincinnati to get there.

I watched the cop pull back onto the freeway, trying to get a hold of myself well enough to drive back home. I took deep breaths and finally got the hiccupping under control before pulling back onto the freeway.

I slowly navigated the oil-slick roads, watching the unexpected rain gather in the gutters, creating mini floods along the drainage-impaired L.A. streets. By the time I pulled up to my studio, it was an all-out downpour. I covered my hair with an old copy of
Vogue
I found in the backseat and clacked up the stairs, letting myself into my silent apartment.

At that point I was too tired to feel scared, alone, or any other emotion that had assaulted me during the evening. All I wanted was my warm cozy bed and the familiar, uncomplicated Letterman to lull me to sleep. I stripped out of the wet spandex and wrapped myself in a Lakers T-shirt before snuggling under my quilted blankets. I didn't even get to Dave's first guest before I fell asleep.

I was sitting at the edge of a tiled swimming pool, watching a man swim laps. I couldn't tear my gaze away. His long, sleek form cut through the water, the muscles in his back flexing as he swam for the far side of the pool. It was like a Cool Water commercial, his movements in slow motion so every muscle tensed, every move was exaggerated. As he hit the end of the pool and began swimming back toward me, I felt water falling on me. It was raining. Fat, clear drops hit the glassy surface of the water, making rhythmic sounds like nature's orchestra.

The man swam closer and I leaned over the edge of the pool to get a closer look. But suddenly I was wearing Strawberry Shortcake high-tops that were three sizes too small and I tripped on the sparkly laces. I began to fall toward the water. It seemed like I was falling forever, as the rain orchestra picked up tempo, plinking out a frantic "William Tell Overa-ture." I screamed, and the man stopped swimming.

He reached up to catch me. And that's when I noticed the black panther tattooed on his right bicep.

I opened my eyes, jerking to a sitting position. My gaze whipped wildly around me as if I expected the swimming man to appear. All I saw were the tangled sheets on my bed, harsh sunlight slanting through my windows and a pile of rain-soaked spandex on my floor. All that remained of my dream were the strains of "William Tell," which seemed to be coming from the region of my purse. I rubbed my eyes, fumbling with sleep-clumsy hands for my cell phone.

"Hello?" I mumbled, still trying to shake the image of Ramirez's tattooed muscles.

"It's gone." Mom's voice assaulted my ears with a high-pitched screech.

"Mom?" I rolled over to look at the clock on my kitchen wall. Six-thirty. I groaned.

"Maddie, the cliff is gone. The whole thing is just gone."

I blinked the cobwebs out of my eyes, trying to figure out what she was talking about. "What's gone? What cliff?"

"The cliff in Malibu," she shrieked. "Where I'm supposed to get married tomorrow! It's gone. The rain caused a landslide and the whole cliff side fell into the ocean last night. It's just a big rocky, muddy mess. Maddie, what am I going to do?"

Oh. That cliff.

"Mom, don't panic. We'll think of something. Did you call the Malibu office?"

"Yes, yes. I talked to them first thing this morning. They said they'd refund the deposit for the site, but

Maddie, where on earth am I going to have the wedding now? Oh god. This is your grandmother's fault. She said we should get married in a church. She said god would never forgive me if I didn't get married in the Catholic Church. Now look, I've pissed off god so badly he's destroying Malibu."

My head was pounding, screaming for a double mocha espresso. "Where are you, Mom?"

"I'm at Fernando's."

"Okay, give me twenty minutes. I'll meet you there and we'll think of something."

"This is it, Maddie. I've heard about these sorts of Catholic curses. I'm doomed. This marriage is doomed. Oh god. I've doomed Ralph too."

"I'm hanging up now, Mom."

I pressed the end button and flopped back onto my bed. I closed my eyes, hoping that maybe
this
was the dream and I was
really
going to wake up soon. I lay there for a good five minutes before I cracked one eye open. Nope. No dream. Damn.

Somehow I dragged my exhausted body to the bathroom and managed to shower, dry my hair and throw on a little makeup without gasping in horror at the sight of my puffy eyes. After the good, long cry I'd had last night I resembled a bug-eyed cartoon character. That's it, no more feeling sorry for myself. My eyes couldn't take it. I quickly slipped on a pale blue sundress and a pair of low-heeled silver mules before deciding I was fit for human eyes again.

After checking my voice mail, just in case Ramirez had left a message saying he had Richard in custody, I grabbed my keys and headed for my Jeep.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled up to Fernando's. I parked on the near-empty street (Beverly Hills doesn't rise before ten unless it's Oscar night) and pushed through the glass doors.

"Dahling, thank god you're here!" Marco greeted me. He had his hair spiked up in crisp little points today, his eyeliner even thicker than usual. He leaned in and pseudo-whispered, "I put your mom in the back. She's pulling a Whitney Houston freak-out on us."

"Where's Ralph?"

"
Fernando
," Marco emphasized, "is with a client. He's almost done." He motioned to the sole chair being used at this unearthly hour. Faux Dad was doing a color rinse on a small Hispanic woman.

"Mrs. Lopez. Jen's mom." He nodded solemnly. "She always comes in early to avoid the tabloids."

"Ah. I see."

"Come on. That psychic lady is with your mom, but I don't think she's actually helping things. She said she had a vision of a tornado."

I rolled my eyes, praying Mrs. Rosenblatt would at least refrain from comment on my aura today. Of course, the fact I hadn't been to confessional in about five years was probably why god didn't have time to get to my prayer by the time Marco and I crossed to the back room.

"Your aura looks awful. Were you out in the rain last night?" Mrs. Rosenblatt narrowed her eyes at me.

"A little."

She opened her mouth to warn me of the universal dangers of aura soaking, but I quickly cut her off. "I know, I know. Rain isn't good for purples."

She looked me up and down the way one might a leper. "Oh
bubbee
, you're way beyond purple now."

Trying not to get self-conscious about the state of my aura, I leaned down and kissed Mom's cheek. "I'm so sorry about the cliff."

Mom looked like she'd been crying harder than I had. Her nose and cheeks were red and splotchy like she'd spent the weekend at the Venice boardwalk without sunscreen. She was still wearing her nightgown underneath a gray trench coat with blue tube socks and a pair of Nikes. The effect was sadly comic.

"Malibu was so beautiful." Mom sniffed.

"But it was such a long drive," I said, trying to put a positive spin on this. "Maybe we can find somewhere closer?"

"Maybe," Mom squeaked out. She pulled a handful of tissues from her pocket and blew her nose.

"At this late date? Oh honey, you are dreaming," Marco said. I shot him a look that could wither a cactus.

"Come on, there's got to be something." I glanced down at Mom. She had that Old Faithful look about her. Like any minute tears would come gushing with landmark intensity.

"Albert said there's nothing in L.A. County," Mrs. Rosenblatt argued.

"Who's Albert?"

"My spirit guide."

Great. Just what we needed. A pessimistic spirit guide.

Just in case Albert hadn't done his homework, I asked Marco to pull out the L.A. County phone book. I won't tell you what kind of I-told-you-so look Mrs. Rosenblatt gave me when half an hour later I'd gone through every conceivable site with no luck. None could accommodate a wedding of this size on such short notice.

"Albert is never wrong." Mrs. Rosenblatt informed me. "He was a fact checker for the
New York Times
in his earthly existence."

I ignored her with no small effort. "Okay, well, maybe there's something in Orange County? Or Ventura?"

Again Marco went to retrieve phone books. Marco took Riverside County, Mrs. Rosenblatt took Orange, and I took Ventura, while Mom sat in the corner and took a Xanax.

Just as Faux Dad joined us, saying Mrs. Lopez's roots had never looked better, Marco hit pay dirt. It wasn't much, but a small hotel in Riverside had a back garden they sometimes rented out for weddings. They'd had a last-minute cancellation when the bride-to-be found a pair of someone else's Victoria's Secrets in the groom-to-be's pickup truck, and the garden was free for tomorrow afternoon. They said they even had the chairs and tables rented for the previously cancelled wedding, so we'd be all set. As long as it didn't rain. Mom made the sign of the cross at that, but Mrs. Rosenblatt assured her that Albert said it wasn't scheduled to rain again until November. I promised I'd check the Weather Channel, just in case.

Wedding crisis averted, I went home. My answering machine was blinking furiously when I stepped in the door. The first message was from Tot Trots, asking why they hadn't gotten the Strawberry Shortcake designs yet. I glanced guiltily at my drawing table as I deleted the message.

The next was from Ramirez. I bit my lip, trying not to picture the image from my dream as his voice filled my studio.

"This is your
boyfriend
calling. Don't drive so fast next time, okay?" End of message. I couldn't tell if he was amused or annoyed by my antics with the CHP last night. I told myself it didn't matter. As long as the word "warrant" didn't enter into the picture, it didn't matter what Ramirez thought of me.

But instead of deleting it, I saved the message, skipping on to the next one.

It was from Dana, asking if: a) she was a bad person for sleeping with Liao on the first date; and b) if I'd seen anything on the news about Greenway's arrest.

It felt like I'd lived a lifetime since I'd left Dana at Mulligan's, and I wasn't at all sure I could relay the events of the previous evening to her with any amount of coherency. At least not before coffee.

Too tired to hoof it to Starbucks, I flipped on my Mr. Coffee, dumping in two generous scoops of French Roast as I turned on the television, hoping to get the latest Greenway update on the noon news. Two carjackings in Compton, a mudslide warning in the Hollywood Hills, and one minor celebrity arrested for drunk driving. No news of Greenway or Richard. Which I guess should have been comforting. No news meant at least Richard wasn't behind bars. But instead of relieved, the non-news made me feel antsy.

I'll be the first to admit, I don't have a really great history of patience. I was one of those kids who always peeked in Mom's closet for a preview of my Christmas and birthday presents. After a first date, I can never wait for the guy to call (even though I read
The Rules
twice and managed to wait three whole hours once), and even though I really, really meant to wait until we'd been seeing each other for a couple of weeks first, I slept with Richard on our second date. So just sitting by the phone, waiting for Richard to turn up in handcuffs, was producing a bite-your-fingernails, crawl-up-a-wall feeling that was so not working for me.