And then I saw it. A gun.
I froze, my eyes glued to the bit of gleaming metal shoved into the waistband of his jeans, the butt flat against his tight stomach. My breath came out in quick shallow gasps, my brain racing to come up with any good reason why a man with a gun should be searching through Richard’s personal belongings.
Mr. Armed and Dangerous mumbled to himself again as he opened Richard’s underwear drawer. I strained my ears to pick up what he was saying.
“Come on, come on… I know you left something… what the…?” He paused, holding up the pair of purple argyles. He shook his head, making a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, before throwing them back in the drawer. Well, at least the bad man had good taste. I watched as he continued on to the next drawer. “…come on, come on… don’t tell me the sonofabitch packed everything.”
Wait – packed?
My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I looked around the closet at the rows of hanging suits, polos and pressed slacks. Sure enough there were noticeable gaps. I felt my stomach clench up in a way that warned of morning sickness. Missing clothes, missing boyfriend. A man with a gun rummaging through Richard’s underwear drawer. And me crouched in a pile of seasonal sweaters hoping like anything that the dizziness hazing my vision was just fear and not pregnancy hormones. This was not good. I didn’t know what was going on here, but good it definitely was not.
And then things got worse.
Mr. Nobody stepped toward the closet doors. I bit my lip, hoping he would turn around. Nope. He headed straight toward me. I shut my eyes tightly, making myself as small as I could. I said a silent prayer, promising to attend church more often, give half my salary to the poor and really work in a soup kitchen this Thanksgiving instead of just telling my mother I was to avoid her dried out turkey.
I heard the wooden door slide on its tracks and eased one eye open, saying a silent thank you that he’d opened the other side of the closet and I was still in shadows. I held my breath, certain that my every inhale was as loud as a jackhammer in the silence.
Mr. Nobody looked at the clothes hanging in the closet. He squinted his dark eyes at them almost as if he were mentally counting.
“Shit.” He breathed the word on an exhale, then turned around and stalked out of the room. His boots continued to echo all the way down the hall and out the door, which he shut behind him with a crash that sent my teeth chattering. Or maybe they were doing that all on their own. I realized I was shaking and wrapped a wool sweater around myself as I sat in the dark closet for a full two minutes before venturing back out into the room.
I don’t know what Mr. Nobody would have done had he seen me there, but the gun poking out of his Levi’s was not reassuring.
I slowly ducked my head out the bedroom door. No sign of the bad man. I tiptoed as quickly as I could down the hall, slinked out the front door and sprinted across the street to my car as if I were dodging gunfire. Once inside I locked the doors, removed the club and revved up the engine, my hands still shaking as I adjusted the air conditioning controls.
I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths as I took stock. I was in one piece. Mr. Nobody hadn’t seen me. No bullet holes and I hadn’t wet myself. All was well.
Okay not all was well. Richard had obviously packed for a trip. That much was plain to both Mr. Nobody and me. A trip where? And why? Richard hadn’t mentioned a trip, and by the way an armed man had broken into his place, I didn’t envision it was a planned Club Med getaway. Was he hiding somewhere? Was he in trouble? Considering Richard thought claiming lunch with me as a deduction was unethical, I found it hard to believe
I wondered if I should call the police. But I wasn’t entirely sure Mr. Nobody had actually committed a crime. Breaking into a man’s house and going through his underwear drawer. In fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure he did break in. Had I locked the door behind me? I’d been a little preoccupied to notice.
God, I hoped Richard was all right. What would I do if he wasn’t? What about our potential unborn child? Again I felt that bout of possible morning sickness swell over me. I swear to God if Richard was just in the Bahamas, I was going to kill him.
Just then my purse rang. I jumped so far into the air I almost hit the roof of my car, adrenalin pumping through every limb of my body. I reached into my bag and flipped open my Motorola. My mother’s number popped up on the caller ID. If it was anyone else, I would have ignored it. But knowing Mom, she’d send the National Guard looking for me if I didn’t pick up by the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Maddie, you haven’t forgotten have you?”
“Of course not.” I racked my brain. Forgotten what?
“Good. Because we made reservations for five and Ralph’s canceling his last appointment so he can join us.”
Right. Ralph, a.k.a. Faux Dad, the owner of Fernando’s, the hottest place on Rodeo, and my soon to be step-daddy. I still wasn’t 110% convinced Faux Dad was straight, but I loved the discounted manicures.
Mom had hooked up with Ralph when, after twenty-five years as a single parent, Mom had discovered the wonders of internet dating and signed up for Match.com. Desperate to make a big re-entry into the dating scene, she’d gone to Fernando’s for a full make-over, where Ralph chopped, styled and colored her hair into a near masterpiece. After three months of flirtatious cut and colors, Mom was surprised to learn that not only was Ralph straight (allegedly), but his interest in her went way beyond her curly locks. Five months later they were planning a beautiful ceremony in Malibu, overlooking the ocean cliffs for a week from Saturday. I was to be the maid of honor and tonight Mom was laying official duty number three thousand on me. Planning her bachelorette party.
I debated fabricating an excuse to skip dinner. My hands were still shaking and, though my heart had slowed from NASCAR to L.A. freeway, I still had that jittery feeling in my chest like I was ready to fight or take flight any minute. However, knowing Mom (see National Guard reference) canceling dinner would lead to more questions than I currently had answers for. So I gave in.
“Right. No, I’ll be there. Five thirty, right?”
“Five!” my mother yelled into the phone.
“Right.” I looked down at my watch. Four forty-seven. Considering traffic on the 134 at this hour, I’d be cutting it close. “I was just getting in the car, Mom. I’ll meet you there.”
“Good. And don’t be late.”
I pretended not to hear that last comment. “You’re breaking up, Mom. Sorry, gotta go.”
At exactly five twenty-nine I pulled up to Garibaldi’s restaurant in Studio City. I might have been on time had I not spent the entire drive over looking in my rearview mirror for any sign of Mr. Nobody lurking behind me. Thankfully, I saw none. But, paranoia lesson number one, that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
I found a spot on the street and parallel parked between a Jag and a Dodge Dart on its last leg. Luckily I was wearing my ready-for-anything Spiga slingbacks, so the block and a half hardly even hurt my feet at the near sprint. Faux Dad was outside talking on his cell phone, a frown of concentration on his tanned face. Faux tan of course. When he hit Beverly Hills Ralph transformed himself from mid-western farm boy into Fernando, the European hair sculptor. He figured the chances of 90210’s elite frequenting a salon called “Ralph’s” were slim to none. Unfortunately, Ralph’s family was Swiss German, so to keep up with faux Spanish roots he indulged in magic tan sprays twice a week.
Ralph’s face broke into a smile when he saw me and he lifted a hand in greeting, gesturing inside.