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.