Undercover in High Heels (5 page)

The worst thing about it all was that I hadn’t even gotten a chance to talk to Mia. The only thing I’d gathered from the other actors was that they routinely got fan letters, some of which verged on the unbalanced edge. The odd thing about Mia’s were that, unlike the usual fan mail, these letters had started showing up in her trailer. Which meant that the writer had somehow gotten onto the set. I thought of the security guard standing sentinel. It didn’t seem likely he’d let a crazed fan in, which meant that whoever wrote them worked either on the show or at the studios. A somewhat disconcerting thought. And, unfortunately, one that didn’t narrow things down a whole lot. But I dutifully relayed it all to Dana when I met her for lunch in the studio cafeteria.

“Ohmigod, that means someone on the show is
threatening her?” Dana asked, shoveling a spoonful of fat-free yogurt into her mouth.

I shrugged. “Not necessarily. The letters could be coming from outside and someone on the set is just delivering them.”

“I think it’s the AD. That guy has totally shifty eyes.” Dana illustrated by wagging her eyeballs back and forth as if she were watching a Ping-Pong match.

“Creepy. So, what did you gather in holding?” I asked, digging into my cheeseburger and fries. Hey, all that running around burned a lot of calories. I needed fuel. Thick, greasy, cheese-covered fuel.

“Well, there are seven regular extras on the show and a few others who filter in and out, ” Dana said, nibbling on a carrot stick. “But I think we can eliminate them from the suspects list. That AD watches us like a hawk.”

“With his shifty eyes?” I couldn’t help adding.

She ignored my sarcasm. “There’s no way an extra could wander off without being noticed. The leads, however, are a different story. They’re all over the set. One of them could easily slip away to Mia’s trailer for a minute without being missed.”

I popped a fry in my mouth. “I wish I knew what the letters said. I mean, at least then we’d have a clue what kind of person we’re looking for.”

“Someone who doesn’t like Mia very much.”

“From what I gather, she’s not exactly popular.”

“Have you had a chance to talk to her yet?”

I shook my head. “No. But I’m on it this afternoon.”

We finished our meal, topping it off with dessert (Dana’s a fat-free bran muffin, mine a chocolate-chip brownie with whipped cream) and promised to meet at the back gate after work, before Dana returned to
her holding room under the shifty gaze of the assistant director.

I took the long way around the studio, picking my way through the maze of warehouses until I found myself at the back of stage 6G. Here six portable white trailers were lined up in rows, most of them with their blinds shut tight. The first one bore the name RICKY MONTGOMERY. The next two, a generic TALENT, and the fourth MIA CARLETTO. I paused, squinting up at the windows for any indication of life inside. Nothing.

“Mia?” I called, doing a gentle little
tap, tap, tap
on the door. Still nothing.

Apparently Mia was still at lunch. But that didn’t mean that her mysterious letters were…

I bit my lip, glancing over both shoulders. I should have walked away. I should have gone back to wardrobe, where Dusty was probably waiting for me. I should have known as I tiptoed up the two metal steps leading to the trailer’s door and gingerly turned the knob that nothing good would come of breaking into a star’s private trailer.

I should have.

But I didn’t.

Instead I slowly opened the door ducked my head inside.

“Hello? Mia?”

The interior of the trailer was a decadent contrast to the stark outside. Red velvet material covered a plush, four-foot sofa along one wall. The blinds were not only shut, but layered with brocade curtains in deep reds and golds. The floor was covered in a thick, plum-colored rug that swallowed up the sound of my heels as I stepped into the room. This was a far cry
from the trailer my mother had rented to drive us to the Grand Canyon when I was eight.

To my left was a small hallway, at the end of which I could see a bedroom done in the same dark, opulent colors. To the right was a mini kitchen, complete with stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. In front of the sofa sat a coffee table, the top littered with scripts, notes, half-empty coffee cups, and a stack of mail.

I raised one eyebrow. Fan mail?

I took a step closer, gingerly flipping one envelope over to see the address. It was hand-written in loopy letters with little hearts dotting the Is. Bingo.

I did another over-the-shoulder, praying Mia took a long lunch, as I quickly sifted through the pile of letters. Three from teenagers asking Mia to their prom, one from a little girl in the hospital, two marriage proposals, and one from a housewife in Milwaukee wanting to know were Mia hired her gardener. Great fuel for my celebrity addiction, but none of them threatening enough to warrant a police presence.

I was about to concede that my snooping was just…well, snooping, when I spotted one more envelope, partially shoved under last week’s copy of
Variety
. I picked it up.

The outside was a plain number ten, like the kind my phone bills came in. It was addressed to Mia Carletto, care of Sunset Studios, though I noticed it was missing a postmark. My heart sped up. Hand-delivered? There was no return address, and the top had already been neatly slit open.

With my pulse picking up to marathon speed, I gingerly slipped my fingers inside and pulled out the note.

Again, nothing special about the stationery: plain
white paper, typed note. Could have come from any computer. It started,
Dear Mia
, but those were about the only repeatable words on the page. This guy seriously needed his mouth washed out with Ivory. He seemed to have a thing for the F-word, coupled with the B-word, with a few references to female genitalia thrown in for color.

But as vulgar as the letter was, it was the last paragraph that made a chill run up my spine.

I’ve been watching you. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m going to kill you.

Irrationally I looked to the closed blinds, as if Mr. Potty Mouth might be watching me right now. Of course, I didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t slow the adrenaline shooting through my limbs. Suddenly Mia’s trailer was the last place I wanted to be. I quickly shoved the letter back in the envelope and stuck it under the
Variety
. I did a hasty survey of the room to make sure it looked the same as when I’d entered, but really, I all I wanted to do was get out of there. Now!

I grabbed the handle of the door and quickly twisted it open. If I hadn’t been in such instinctive fight-or-flight mode I might have had the presence of mind to peek outside first. As it was I plowed headlong out the door.

And ran smack into something.

“Unh.”

It was something solid. Stiff.

I looked up.

Something pissed off.

I gulped down the fresh shot of adrenaline sitting in
my throat like a lump and did a little one-finger wave. “Uh…hi, ” I squeaked out, doing a great Minnie Mouse impression.

Two dark espresso eyes narrowed at me. A stubble-covered jaw tightened into a hard line.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ramirez ground out through clenched teeth.

I moved my mouth up and down, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat and sucked in a big breath. Which did nothing to help me because it smelled like Ramirez and just sent my circuits reeling again in a whole new direction.

“I…I…”

His eyes narrowed into fine slits. “Yes?”

“I’m working?” I said. Only it came out more of a question.

“How the hell did you get on the set?” He glanced behind me as if looking for security rushing to catch up to the blonde who’d broken in.

“I was on the list.” Okay, I’ll admit I just liked saying that. I mean, how often does one get on that kind of list? “I’m working here. On the set. I’m the new wardrobe assistant.”

Those eyes narrowed again, so far that I wasn’t even sure he could see out of them. “New wardrobe assistant?”

I nodded, doing another dry gulp. I was ninety-nine percent sure that Ramirez was like an M&M: hard coating on the outside, but kind of sweet and soft inside. But as I stood there, his dark, intent face hovering over mine, that white scar running menacingly across his eyebrow, and his black tattoo peeking out of his sleeve (not to mention the fact that I knew he always carried a loaded gun somewhere on his person),
I was a little intimated. Okay, fine. I was a
lot
intimidated. I pitied the criminal who had to come up against that face across an interrogation table. They’d crack like a cheap Naugahyde bar stool.

Which, of course, was exactly what I did.

“See, here’s the thing: I thought that maybe if I was on the set I could help you with this whole stalker dealie. I mean, people tell their stylist things they never tell anyone else. And I totally know
Magnolia Lane
. I mean, like megafan know it. And Dana decided we should go undercover, and then we’d find the stalker, and you could go back to homicide and wouldn’t have to spend your days babysitting a bunch of flawless actors. Speaking of which, I’ve heard that Mia is a bit of a pill, so you might not want to get too involved with her. I mean, not that you’re involved. I mean, you wouldn’t be, and I’m totally
not
jealous at all because I know how
that
turned out last time, and I’m so not going there again, and I know that even if I was, you wouldn’t. You know?”

Ramirez took a deep breath. And I could see him mentally debating the merits of throwing me over his shoulder and bodily carrying me off the studio lot.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, that vein in his neck pulsing double-time. “I told you to stay out of this. To stay away from me. What part of that was so hard to understand?”

My turn to narrow my eyes. “Listen, pal, didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m doing this for you.”

Both eyebrows headed north this time. “For me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough for me lately?”

“I said I was sorry about that.”

“And yet here you are. Doing it again.”

“I’m here to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You know, you don’t seem all that happy to see me.”

“Happy?
Happy!
” Ramirez clenched his jaw, and I could tell he was thinking a really bad word. “You don’t ever listen, do you?”

“Look, you just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

He leaned in so close that I could feel his coffee-scented breath on my cheek. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”

I ground my teeth together. But, to my credit, I didn’t even shoot back a smart remark. Mostly because I couldn’t think of one. The heat of his body so close to mine suddenly chased every logical thought right out of my head. Instead, all I could think of was the last time our bodies had been this close. And, if that vein bulging in his neck was any indication, how very long it could be until we were this close again. Without meaning to, I inhaled deeply. Fabric softener and woodsy aftershave. I felt my stomach flutter.

Damn traitorous body.

Ramirez stepped around me and stalked into Mia’s trailer, back straight, jaw clenched so tightly he’d need a crowbar to pry that sucker open.

I had a bad feeling that unless I repaired the damage I’d done with Ramirez quickly, there might not be anything left to repair.

I spent the rest of the afternoon washing, pressing, and patching clothes, in between running back to wardrobe for Dusty’s last-minute changes. The woman may be pierced in some weird places, but I was beginning to think she was a saint. Despite the outrageous requests from the actors (like Margo’s insistence that
she wear a three-inch, rhinestone-studded brooch over her scrubs in the hospital scene), Dusty managed not only to make sure everyone was fully clothed for each scene, but to keep some semblance of peace on the set as well. Even when it came to Mia. Who, I realized as the day wore on, just didn’t want to do anything. Ever. For anyone. I found myself wishing it were Ashley in the coma instead of her husband. By the time Stein-man, the director, yelled the longed-for, “It’s a wrap, ” it was growing dark outside and I was beyond beat.

I picked up my bag and dragged my tired self through the Sunset city and out the back gates, barely managing to drop Dana off at home and climb the steps to my apartment before collapsing fully clothed onto my futon.

And dreaming of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to do it all over again.

Isn’t Hollywood glamorous?

Somehow I pulled my tired body out of bed at the crack of dawn and by 7:37 (only seven minutes late today—I was improving!) I made my way through security and onto the lot. Solo today. We were scheduled to shoot a bedroom scene between Ashley and Chad, so obviously no extras were needed. Though Dana assured me she was booked for the following two days and would be “back on the case.” (Ever get the feeling your life has become a
Charlie’s Angels
episode?)

After blindly stumbling through New York, Boston, and San Francisco (all the while wishing I’d gone for the venti latte instead of the tall), I came to a screeching halt outside stage 6G.

A crowd was gathering around Mia’s trailer. And not the good kind of crowd, where someone has just
been nominated for an Emmy and we’re all celebrating with early-morning champagne instead of lattes. This was a hushed, speaking-in-whispers, pointing, and doing that “can’t look away from the car wreck” kind of crowd. I jockeyed myself into position to get a look at what they were all staring at. Only, since I’m just five-one-and-a-half, my chances of seeing anything were slim to nil.

I spotted Kylie standing a couple of feet away.

“Kylie!” I called her name as I approached.

She jumped as if I’d startled her. “Oh, hi. Wardrobe, right?”

I nodded. “What’s going on?” I asked, gesturing to the crowd, which I could swear was growing by the second.

Kylie grimaced, rolling her lips inward and stuffing her hands into her pockets. “You haven’t heard? It was all over the morning news.”