I could sense Mom frowning through the phone. “What do you want us to do when we get there?”
“Oh nothing. Just be yourselves.”
Chapter 15
Fifteen minutes later a gold minivan pulled up in front of Jasmine’s house, and I watched from the window as the occupants burst out. Mom was first (in peg-legged white pants, an oversize Day-Glo green T-shirt tied at her hip in a large knot, and penny loafers with no socks), then Molly (waddling due to her ever-growing belly encased in a huge maternity dress that looked like a tent with eyelets), all four of my cousin’s kids (in various states of sticky-mouth, sucking on leftover piñata candy as two of them wielded some sort of Nerf noodles and popped the unarmed one on the head), the Terror (blowing big, fat spit bubbles that dribbled down his chin onto his Baby Gap sweatshirt as he wailed), and, last but not least, Mrs. Rosenblatt (in a bright orange-and-red muumuu and Birkenstocks). Oh, yeah. And Pablo.
“Squawk. Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Squawk. Yeah, don’tcha?”
“What the hell is that thing?” Jasmine asked beside me, gesturing to the cage dangling from Mrs. Rosenblatt’s chubby hand.
“That is the best distraction ever.”
I peeked between the curtains as Molly’s kids ran circles around the lawn, Molly waddling after them and yelling at the munchkins to stop hitting their siblings. Connor wailed as he got whacked in the side of the head by a noodle. Mom picked up Connor, who promptly tried to wiggle out of her grip, doing the patented toddler back arch. Mrs. Rosenblatt told Pablo to stop singing or he was going back to the salon in a teeny-tiny body bag. Molly’s eldest found a pile of doggie doo on the lawn and starting singing about doggies that made “hunks of stinky chunks.” And above it all, Pablo screeched, “A freak like me!”
Officer Mustache didn’t know where to look, his gaze ping-ponging between the players straight out of a madcap British comedy.
Some days I loved my family.
“Let’s go.” I grabbed Jasmine by the sleeve, and we slipped out the side door, making a beeline for the garage. Jasmine unlocked a tiny yellow Miata and hopped behind the wheel. No wonder she existed on a diet of vitamin water and Tic Tacs. Any bigger and there was no way she would have fit in her toy car. I dove into the passenger seat and ducked down, crossing my fingers as she pulled out of the garage, backed into the street, and punched it down the road. I waited for the sound of sirens to follow us. I held my breath, counting to four-Mississippi before I peeked my head up.
“Coast clear?”
“Yep.” Jasmine nodded, her eyes shining. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was enjoying this.
I pulled out my cell and dialed Mom’s number, telling her thanks for the rescue and that I owed her one-the “one” being dinner at her house next week with her, Faux Dad, and my Irish Catholic grandmother. But considering I’d just asked her to help me escape police custody, I figured it was a fair request. (Besides, my steady diet of Chinese takeout and Hamburger Helper was, I admit, getting a little old.)
We sped down the 101 into Hollywood, making a left on Cahuenga until we reached the address Felix had given me. Jasmine killed the engine in front of a large, split-level ranch with a yard full of garden gnomes. The windows were covered in chintz curtains, and the front door was adorned with a big heart-shaped wreath made of pink silk roses. Didn’t exactly scream murderer in bright neon.
“You sure this is the right place?” Jasmine asked.
I looked down at my hand and doubled-checked the address. Granted, after my great escape, I’d sweated some of the street name off, but the number was still visible enough. “This is it.”
She shrugged. “I guess it takes all kinds.”
I followed her up the rose-flanked pathway to the front door, nerves starting to build. I admit that the idea of coming face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer did more than a little to creep me out. Not to mention the fact that I’d just done a high-heeled striptease for him. I looked down at my pumps and blushed. If he made one reference to licking anything below the ankle, I was so out of here, killer or no.
Jasmine gave the bell a ring and we waited while it echoed inside. Two beats later the door opened, and I got my first glimpse of BigBoy78.
My jaw dropped, and I stared in disbelief.
Deveroux Strong’s frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders clad in a baby blue sweater with skintight white leather pants beneath. He wore alligator-skin black ankle boots, and one diamond stud winked at me from his left earlobe.
“Hey, Maddie, ” he said, a big white smile flashing across his tanned face. Then he looked behind me and spotted Jasmine. At first his eyes went big, as if he’d seen a ghost (or a fifty-foot billboard come to life), and then his cheeks turned a red to rival Rudolph’s shiny nose as he realized why we were here. “Oh.”
“Yep, that’s him. That’s the guy I saw Veronika bring home, ” Jasmine said, jabbing me in the ribs.
Deveroux gave a fleeting glance at my pumps, then, if it were possible, blushed even deeper. “Uh, look, I can explain.”
“You were dating Veronika?” I sputtered, finally finding my voice. Theories tumbled one over another in my head, making me question whether we’d made a mistake after all.
Deveroux looked nervously from side to side. “Maybe you’d better come in.”
I nodded, mutely following him into a neatly decorated living room just a little on the floral side for my taste. Deveroux sat on an orange, hibiscus-printed sofa set next to a lilac-covered armchair, and gestured for Jasmine and me to take the petunia-studded love seat. (Okay, a lot floral for my taste.) The only thing breaking up the garden of furniture was a small black TV set in the corner, tuned to Inside Edition. I sank down onto the petunia seat, crossing my legs selfconsciously, as Dana’s dress rode up my thigh.
“You’re BigBoy78?” I asked.
Deveroux went red again, his blush spreading all the way to his blond roots. “Look, it’s not what you think. I’m not into that porn stuff. I just…I just have a thing for feet.”
“I noticed, ” I mumbled, tucking my heels underneath me.
“Specifically Veronika’s feet?” Jasmine prodded. She leaned forward in her seat, her heavily lifted eyes intent on Deveroux’s face. For how badly I’d had to bribe her to get here, she was really getting into this questioning-a-suspect thing. Any second now I feared she’d pull a spotlight and a billyclub from her leather clutch.
He nibbled at his lip. “Yeah. Look, not that it makes any difference now, but Veronika and I were…well, kind of an item.”
“Wait-I thought you were gay?”
Deveroux put one hand on his leather-clad hip and tilted his frosted tips at me. “What makes you think I’m gay?”
Hmmm…
“Okay. So, you’re not gay.”
“No, I’m not, ” he said emphatically. Then picked at a stray piece of lint on his sweater. “That’s just a vicious tabloid rumor.”
“And you were dating Veronika?”
He nodded. “For the last four months. We met when she started working on Magnolia Lane and began dating soon after that.”
“And soon after that started logging on to my site to watch her, ” Jasmine piped up.
The blush worked itself into an all-out five-alarm fire across his forehead. “Look, it’s perfectly normal for a man to enjoy a woman’s feet. Feet are the most beautiful part of a woman’s body. Ancient cultures have revered women’s feet for thousands of years. It’s not weird!”
Not wanting to aggravate a potential killer, not to mention relive my moments as a foot whore, I changed the subject. “How serious were things between the two of you?”
“Very. We were both going to leave the show at the end of my contract. One more season. We were…” He paused, a watery look in his eyes, and sniffed hard. “We were going to get married.”