Homicide in High Heels (9 page)

As I left the salon, I pulled out my phone,
dialing the number for Kendra's cell.

Four rings in, it was answered with a
sing-song, "He-llo?"

"Hi Kendra, it's Maddie Springer. We met the
other day?"

"Of course. Dana's friend."

"Yes. Listen, I was wondering if you know
where I could find Bucky Davis today?"

She paused, and I could hear mental wheels
turning. "May I ask why?" she asked.

"I, uh, never got to give him my condolences
at the memorial yesterday," I said lamely.

But it must have been good enough for her,
because she answered, "Well, he's at practice today. The whole team
is."

"Oh." I was surprised to hear he was back at
work so soon, and it must have shown in my voice.

"He says he needs to keep busy," Kendra
explained. "Hitting a ball, getting testosterone out. You know,
that's how guys do grief."

I guessed I could understand. Hey, if retail
therapy helped me through hard times, who was I to judge someone
using baseball therapy?

"I'm actually headed to the ballpark today
to speak with the management about the charity fund in Lacey's
name. Would you like me to put your name on the security list?"
Kendra asked.

"Please!" I agreed, quickly jumping on the
invite.

Kendra gave me direction to the player's
entrance and told me she'd leave my name with the guard.

I detoured only long enough to hit a
drive-through Starbucks for a mid-morning pick-me-up before jumping
on the 2 and heading toward the stadium.

The Stars stadium was located in Echo Park,
at the apex of the 5, 101, and 110 freeways. It was the kind of
neighborhood where you could pay a half-million for a two bedroom
cottage down the street from a massage parlor that offered "happy
endings" for twenty bucks. Transitional might have been the word to
describe it, only this neighborhood had been transitioning for the
last fifteen years. Its residents called it "eclectic," but Geico
called it "high risk."

I pulled into the stadium parking lot,
driving around to the east side where the players' entrance was
located. Without a game today, the lot was a ghost town except for
a small section near the players' entrance where rows of sports
cars and luxury SUVs stood gleaming in the sun. I slipped my
mini-van into a slot near the back, hoping it didn't stick out too
badly, and made my way to a tall guy in a black security uniform
standing by the entrance.

"Maddie Springer," I told him. "I'm a guest
of Kendra Blanco."

"Just a moment," he told me, pulling up an
electronic tablet and gliding his finger over the surface. A moment
later he must have found my name on the list, as he nodded. "Mrs.
Blanco is already here. She said you could go on in." He moved
aside and held open the glass doors for me.

I thanked him and stepped into an air
conditioned corridor.

Like much of Los Angeles, the stadium was
built on a hill, the field and concessions above ground, while the
business offices and private areas were carved into the hillside as
an underground world. One large corridor ran the circumference of
the stadium with several smaller walkways and doors leading off to
the left and right. As I wound my way through the inner workings of
the Stars' world I spied break rooms, training areas with weight
machines, and a ton of offices housing the administrative arms of
the franchise. I was starting to worry that I'd be lost forever in
the maze of cool, white hallways when I finally spotted a ramp to
the field about halfway through my stadium lap.

I took it and found myself once again in the
bright, warm sunshine, squinting at a scattering of guys in various
work-out gear tossing balls to each other on the field. Most were
working in groups of twos and threes, coaches shouting directions
as players worked out their kinks.

But I spotted Bucky thankfully alone.

Near the dugout, Bucky was swinging a bat at
a pitching machine. It shot a white blur toward him, and the crack
of his bat sent it back toward the far stadium seats, echoing in
the empty arena. I watched him hit three or four in a row, then
pause to sip from a Gatorade bottle as a young kid in a Stars
jacket emerged from the dugout to refill the machine.

"Bucky Davis?" I asked, approaching him from
behind.

"Yeah?" he answered, not turning around, his
attention still completely focused on the fake pitcher in front of
him as if staring the machine down.

"Uh, hi. I was wondering if I could ask you
a couple of questions?"

"Shoot," he told me, swigging his drink
again.

I cleared my throat, having a hard time
broaching the subject of his dead girlfriend to the back of his
head. "Uh, it's about Lacey."

I watched his back stiffen, then he spun
around, his blue eyes narrowing at me. "You a reporter?"

"No," I shook my head quickly. "No, I'm…with
the salon. Where she was…" I trailed off.

I watched Bucky's jaw clench. "What do you
want?"

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about
Lacey."

"Why?"

Great question. I doubted that saying
because I thought he killed her was going to get me very far.
Instead, I went with a small half-truth. "For our insurance
purposes." I was pretty sure Faux Dad had some kind of
insurance.

It seemed to work as some of the suspicion
drained from his eyes. "Oh. Right. Sure, what do you want to
know?"

"We noticed that Lacey was coming into the
salon an awful lot," I started with.

He nodded. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, she liked
to look pretty."

"She was spending a lot of money there."

He shrugged. "Hey, money spent on looking
pretty is money well spent in my book, right?" He gave me his
all-American smile, but it never quite made it to his eyes. Which,
I noticed were rimmed in red like he'd spent more time crying than
sleeping in that last couple of days. In fact, he looked exactly
the way I'd expect a brokenhearted, grieving boyfriend to look.
Which made me wonder if maybe he really
was
grieving. I'd
seen him in the Stars commercials. And actor, he was not.

"Right. Well, we're a little concerned with
how much she was spending," I said, trying to find a tactful way to
put it.

His sandy brows drew together. "What do you
mean?"

"I mean, she was spending upwards of three
hundred dollars a week at our salon alone. Cash."

He blinked at me. "You gotta be joking?"

I shook my head. "No joke. And the clothes
she was wearing?"

"What about them?"

"Designer. As in expensive."

"How expensive?" he asked, the confusion in
his face making it clear that he was connecting the same dots about
Lacey that I had. She'd had way more money to spend than she should
have.

"Seven-hundred-dollar-heels expensive."

He did more blinking, the frown between his
brows deepening.

"Do you know where she was getting that kind
of money?"

He looked behind me, as if searching the
ball field for the answers. "No. But, I mean, maybe she got a raise
or something. She works at a boutique on Melrose. Tony DeCicco's
wife owns it."

I bit my lip. "Actually, Liz told me Lacey
didn't work there anymore."

He did more blinking, the surprise on his
face plain. If he was faking, he was doing a bang-up job of it.

"She didn't?"

I nodded. "She didn't mention that to
you?"

"Nuh-uh…" He trailed off, the realization
that his dead girlfriend had been keeping secrets from him sinking
in. I had to admit, I felt sorry for the guy. I was having a hard
time keeping him in the suspect numero uno spot.

"Do you know if she had signed on to do the
Baseball Wives
show?" I asked. "Maybe received an advance
from them?"

But he just shrugged. "I'm sorry. I don't
know."

"I have to ask…someone said they heard you
two fighting. Last week after a game."

His jaw clenched, and I could see his eyes
growing wet. "Yeah. We did."

"Can you tell me what that was about?" I
asked.

His eyes welled up, and he shook his head,
suddenly sinking to sit on the wooden bench behind him. "It was so
stupid. I mean now, with her gone, it seems like a totally petty
thing."

"What was it?"

"I got home early from our series in
Denver," he said, finally looking up. "I called her to go out, but
she didn't pick up. All night. When I confronted her the next day
after the game, she got all cagey."

"Cagey?" I repeated, feeling my suspicion
radar perk up.

"Yeah, like she didn't want to tell me where
she was. I got sorta upset and accused her of being out with
someone else. Then she got
totally
upset and said I needed
to trust her more. It got kinda loud, so I'm not surprised someone
overheard."

"Did she ever say where she was?"

He shrugged. "She said it was a girl's night
out at City Walk that went a little late. That's it. I mean, we
made up the next day."

My heart sank. While I was 90% sure Lacey
had been lying to her boyfriend, I also had a feeling Bucky was
telling the truth to me now. And I didn't see him being the type to
kill over a girl's night gone late.

* * *

Out of leads and out of ideas, I pointed my
car toward home. Ramirez's SUV was parked in the drive, but the
house was silent as I slipped my key in the lock.

"Hello?" I called, pushing the door open.
"Anyone home?" I did a slow survey of the living room and felt my
stomach clench. Again no toys littered the floor. No piles of
diapers. No half-drank bottles or sippy cups on the coffee table.
Ditto in kitchen. The sink was void of any dirty dishes, the
counters were cleared, and the dishwasher hummed contentedly. If I
didn't know better, I'd even say someone had washed the floors.

I hated to say it, but my husband was Super
Mom.

I was just about to go check if he'd had
time to do the laundry, too—then shoot myself for being such a
slacker at this obviously easy mom thing—when the back door opened
and Ramirez appeared pushing the twins' double stroller.

"Hey, look who's ba-ack," he sing-songed.
"It's Mama."

This resulted in two rounds of giggles and
raised arms from Max and Livvie.

I bent down, unbuckling Max from his seat,
and gave Livvie kisses on the top of her head. "Everything go okay
today?" I asked.

"Great," Ramirez said, pulling Livvie from
her seat and setting her down on shaky toddler legs on the kitchen
tile.

"They give you any trouble?" I asked,
wondering what Livvie had been told to spit out earlier.

"Nope."

"You even had time to clean the house, huh?"
I gestured to the spotless room.

"Yep," he answered, doing the one word thing
again.

"Huh. I'm impressed," I admitted.

He grinned at me. "What? You think I can't
be a domestic kind of guy?"

While it should have made me happy, I was
slightly annoyed that he had done it. And better than I had.

"No, it's great. I'm glad it all went
well."

"It did. And my buddy at the station got
back to me with Lacey's financials."

Great. Super Mom, and he'd done more
detective work than I had, too.

"You okay?" he asked, cocking his head at
me.

"Peachy," I lied. "What did you learn about
Lacey?" I asked, trying to hide my inexplicably foul mood.

"Okay, so here's what we know," Ramirez told
me, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the kitchen
counter, quickly shifting from domestic-kind-of-guy to Cop Mode.
"Lacey was receiving regular deposits into her bank account. They
started just over a month ago. Weekly deposits of large sums of
cash."

"How large are we talking?"

"Ten thousand."

"Wow."

"Each."

I blinked at him, doing some mental math.
"That's at least—"

"Fifty-thousand dollars over the last five
weeks."

"I'm guessing the production company did not
pay her fifty-thousand dollars in five cash increments?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Nope. Though, she
was
actually set to join the cast in the new season. But the
producers confirmed that they paid per episode once production
began. And not nearly that much for a first-timer on a reality
show."

I bit my lip. Cash deposits, no paper trail,
and no shortage of secrets. I could think of one way a gold digging
celebrity girlfriend like that could come up with a money-making
scheme.

Blackmail.

The next morning the first thing I smelled
was freshly brewed coffee. The scent pulled me out of bed and
toward its delicious caffeinated aroma, despite the fact the sun
was barely peeking through the early morning smog layer.

"Coffee?" I croaked out.

Ramirez handed me a mug that read: Real
Women Do it Backwards and In Heels. "Morning, sunshine."

"You're up early," I mumbled, gratefully
taking a sip. Heaven.

Ramirez nodded. "Tox screen on Lacey is
coming in this morning. I'm meeting my buddy for coffee to get a
look at it." He paused. "That is, unless you've got some hot lead
to follow this morning?"

I shook my head, ashamed to say I
didn't.

"So you're good watching the munchkins
today?" Ramirez asked.

I nodded, then, as if on cue, I heard tiny
voices babbling through the baby monitor. I followed them to the
nursery where both twins were wide awake and demanding their
breakfast.

A whirlwind morning of diapers, bottles,
mashed bananas, and flying Cheerios later, I decided I needed more
info about the Baseball Wives. If Lacey had been blackmailing
someone, the wives and Stars players were the most likely suspects.
True, she hadn't been invited into their inner circle with open
arms, but she could have been close enough to stumble on a
scandalous secret that someone was willing to pay to keep quiet.
And possibly even kill over.