I pulled the top off, stuck my finger over the trigger, and took a deep, fortifying breath that smelled a little of stale French fries, then jumped out from behind the Dumpster.
Isabel was standing over Jasmine’s car, systematically shooting out all the windows. What was it with this chick and cars?
“Hey, Isabel!” I shouted.
She turned to face me, her eyes big, pupils the size of silver dollars. The girl seriously needed a double dose of Xanax.
I straight-armed the pepper spray in front of me, aiming it right at Isabel’s face, and pressed the button.
Which, I realized, would have been totally effective if I’d been standing the suggested four to six feet from my target. Unfortunately, Isabel was a good ten feet away. A fine stream of liquid shot out from my canister…and dribbled harmlessly down the Miata’s tires.
Uh-oh.
Isabel pointed the gun at me. “You stupid bitch, now you’re going to pay!”
I looked down at the useless canister in my hand. On pure instinct, I threw it in her direction.
If I’d actually tried out for the softball team in high school instead of just telling my mother I was going to tryouts and actually sneaking underneath the bleachers with Jason Pratt, I might have had something resembling aim, maybe even enough to pull a cool Lucy Liu move and knock the gun out of her hand. But considering Jason Pratt was the best kisser in all of ninth grade, not to mention the spitting image of Luke Perry circa 1991, my aim sucked.
The canister bounced on the ground, landing at Is-abel’s feet.
She laughed. “You are so girlie.”
Crap. Damn you and your magical tongue, Jason!
Only my curse at the French-kissing god of ninth grade was cut short as a hissing sound erupted from the canister. Both Isabel and I looked at each other. Then down. Just in time to see the canister explode, covering Isabel head to toe in cayenne-pepper water.
“Ahhh!” she screamed, dropping the gun and clawing at her eyes. “I’m on fire!”
Thank you, Mrs. Rosenblatt.
Sirens erupted in the background, the signal that Pimple Boy had, indeed, called the cops. Isabel pulled her hands away from her swollen eyes just long enough to scoop up her gun before bolting in the opposite direction.
“Don’t think I’m through with you, bitch!” she yelled, slipping into another no-doubt-stolen SUV at the end of the lot, this one a red MDX with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. I watched her wild hair flying out the window as she turned the corner, disappearing behind the Tip Top Dry Cleaners.
“Come on.” I grabbed Jasmine by the arm, hauling her skinny butt off the ground. “We have to go.”
Jasmine was shaking, and I wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t see a wet stain peeking through her Brazilians. “Is she gone?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. And we have to be, too.” The only thing worse than being shot at by Isabel would be the wrath of Ramirez if he caught me here, sans babysitter.
I shoved Jasmine into the passenger seat, hopped behind the wheel, hastily brushing broken glass off the seat, and put the Miata into reverse, squealing out of the parking lot just as two cop cars, lights blazing, rounded the corner.
Jasmine looked pale in the seat beside me. So pale that her foundation stood out on her cheeks like poster paint. I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t about to hurl.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Jasmine turned and did her best Evil Barbie, squinting her eyes and hissing through her teeth. “Okay? Okay! No, I’m not okay. I just got shot at!”
“Yeah, I know. I hate it when that happens.”
“I changed my mind, ” she said, pink slowly seeping back into her skin. “I so don’t want to be an Angel.”
We rode the rest of the way into Bel Air in silence, Jasmine periodically wincing and re-paling as wind ripped through her shot-out windows, me periodically looking in the rearview for SUVs driven by crack heads.
Luckily none appeared, and twenty minutes later we were sitting outside the gated home of Margo Walton.
I hit the intercom button and waited as a man’s deep voice buzzed over the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Maddie Springer. I work with Margo.”
Nothing.
“I, uh, wanted to see if I could talk with her?”
I waited as he did the strong, silent routine again.
“Please?”
Finally: “Hang on a minute.”
He clicked off and I let the Miata idle, hoping Margo was in a chatty mood. I tried to peek around the wrought-iron gates, but all I could see from here was a winding, gravel-lined drive leading into a grove of strategically placed oak trees, planted, no doubt, specifically to keep nosy people like me guessing.
“How much do you think a place like this costs?” I asked.
Jasmine shrugged. “I dunno. Ten mil?”
I shook my head, marveling at the thought that a woman worth ten million dollars in prime California real estate would show up to work wearing plastic Crocs. I guess money can’t buy fashion sense.
Just when I was beginning to think the gatekeeper had forgotten about us, the intercom buzzed to life again. “All right, you can go on through.”
As if by magic the heavy iron gates in front of us slid back, allowing entry. I put the car in gear, tires crunching as we wound toward the center of the property. The drive was flanked by long expanses of green lawn, punctuated here and there by blooming flower beds and the occasional fountain with a naked Greek god spurting water from completely inappropriate body parts.
Finally the drive ended in a roundabout in front of an enormous plantation-style home. Immediately I thought of Gone With the Wind, but to my knowledge Bel Air wasn’t known for its historic cotton roots. Large white columns flanked the brick steps leading to an oversize wooden door. Ornate moldings covered the cornices, and a long white balcony stretched the entire length of the upper floors.
It was officiaclass="underline" I lived in the crappiest place in all of L.A.
I parked the dwarfed Miata near the front steps and stared up at the building.
“How many B movies did you say she made?”
“At least fifty in the U.S. Maybe more overseas. I heard she even had a short stint as a German pop star in the late nineties.”
And here I thought I knew everything there was to know about my favorite TV stars.
“So…” Jasmine said, her eyes darting to the imposing front door. “You really think Margo might have done it? Killed two women?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
Jasmine’s throat bobbed up and down, a little of that pasty look returning to her cheeks. “Know what? Maybe I’ll just wait in the car.”
“Suit yourself.” I opened the door and hopped out, my heels crunching on the white gravel leading up to the steps. I rang the bell and heard elegant chimes echo throughout the home. Two beats later the door was opened by a young Asian woman in a gray uniform.
“Hi, I’m Maddie Springer?” I said. Only it sounded more like a question. I’ll admit, growing up around Beverly Hills, I wasn’t easily intimidated by wealth. But being faced with a real, live uniformed maid right of out a Merchant Ivory film was something I wasn’t accustomed to. I nervously tugged at my hooker outfit.
The woman was obviously a pro, and if she wondered why a woman in spandex and clashing pumps, driving a Miata that looked like it belonged to Bonnie and Clyde, was standing on her employer’s doorstep, she didn’t show it. Instead, she did a slight nod of her head and motioned for me to come in. “Please follow me, ” she said in softly accented English.
I did, as she led the way down a narrow hallway to her right. I was glad she had her back to me as we walked, because I was pretty sure I was staring with an intensity that bordered on rude as I took in Margo’s decor.