Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

Then Ramirez glanced down at the kitchen counter. “Taken that test yet?”

“Get out!” I pointed a straight arm at the front door. “Get out, get out, get out!” Okay, so I’d become a scene out of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown . But he was hitting below the belt now.

“Fine,” he yelled one more time before Bad Cop turned and slammed the door behind him.

I picked up the new EPT and threw it across the room at the closed front door. It bounced on the floor with a little plop. Which wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. So, I picked it up and jumped up and down on it a few times. My heel hit the little plastic window with a satisfying crunch. Apparently “virtually indestructible” didn’t take into consideration a pissed off woman with spiky heels.

I stared at the ruined pile of plastic. Damn. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t take a simple pregnancy test without becoming Calamity Jane? Did everything I touched have to fall to pieces? That’s it. I seriously needed therapy.

Ice cream therapy.

I got back in my Jeep, drove straight to the nearest Ben and Jerry’s shop and ordered a pint of Chunky Monkey. I sat in the parking lot and ate the entire thing.

Unfortunately, as I licked bananas and chocolate from my plastic spoon, I realized part of what Ramirez had said was true. Richard was a liar. He’d kept his marriage secret from me. And that was a hell of an omission. But part of me still hoped he had a reasonable explanation. Granted it was a very small part. Smaller even than my bite-of-bug boobs. But it was still there, itching at the back of my mind. Urging me to polish off the last of my ice cream therapy and point my Jeep in the direction of Richard’s office. I wasn’t sure where Ramirez’s cop friends were keeping Richard, but I knew someone at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe would. And it was time to have a little chat with my boyfriend.

I took the 10 into downtown, parking across the street from the law offices as I wasn’t in any sort of mood to walk the two blocks from the garage. Especially since I could feel the afternoon heat creeping into the high nineties again. Instead, I anteed up the change for the meter and gratefully rode the air conditioned elevator up to the fourth floor.

As usual, Jasmine was standing sentinel at her desk. She looked up and quickly closed whatever screen she’d been working on. I suspected another highly productive solitaire game.

“You again,” she said. “You’re not getting past me this time.” She wagged an acrylic nail at me in scolding.

“Relax, Receptionist Barbie. I’m here to see about Richard.”

She gave me a big, toothy smile, which I could swear actually said kiss-off-bitch. “Richard is indisposed, as you may have heard.”

“I know. I want to speak to whoever is handling his case.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I gritted my teeth. I counted to ten. I promised myself another pint of B &J’s if I made it out of here without strangling her. “No. I don’t have an appointment.”

She smirked. I think she lived for people who didn’t have appointments. “Please have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Chesterton know you’re here. But,” she added with obvious glee in her eyes, “it could be awhile. Mr. Chesterton’s very busy right now.”

I matched her kiss-off-bitch smile with one of my own. “I’ll wait.”

I sat down in a leather chair near the door as Miss PP dialed Mr. Chesterton’s extension. She spoke to him for a few minutes, then hung up. “He’ll be with you in a moment,” she said. Which of course by the satisfied gleam in her eyes translated to: Get comfy. It could be awhile.

I held my tongue, instead watching as she opened her computer screen again, her eyes intent on what I guessed was a very difficult card game for a woman whose head was filled with silicon. Her evil Barbie sense must have felt my eyes on her as she turned around and caught me staring.

“What?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

“Nothing. I’m just amazed at how much you get done around here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Sarcasm isn’t a very attractive trait.”

“Neither is bitchiness.”

Jasmine scowled at me. At least, she tried to scowl. Her eyebrows just kind of just twitched.

“Your eyebrows are twitching.”

Jasmine’s hands immediately went to her forehead and I had a moment of glee myself as she self-consciously pulled out a compact.

“For you information I’m frowning at you. It’s the Botox. Dr. Bradley says I can’t frown for another three days.”

Ugh. Mental forehead slap.

“Well, you look very placid.”

Jasmine snapped her compact shut again. “Thank you.”

I refrained from pointing out that it wasn’t a compliment.

I was spared further conversation about Jasmine’s cosmetic procedure number five thousand and one as the frosted doors opened and Mr. Chesterton ambled up to me.

“Miss Springer, we’re so sorry to hear about Richard’s legal troubles,” he said, taking one of my hands in both of his. Mr. Chesterton reminded me of an over sized teddy bear, tall with fuzzy cheeks and large hairy hands. He had a loud, deep voice that sounded like Raymond Burr, which, I’m told, he used to full advantage in front of a jury. I felt a little better knowing he was in charge of Richard’s defense.

Right behind him was Althea, looking especially dowdy today in a checked cardigan, corduroy A-line that reached mid calf and low heeled loafers. Her eyes never strayed higher than knee level as she stood meekly beside her employer.

“I can’t tell you how eager we all are to get this whole unpleasantness cleared up,” Chesterton continued. “We’re sparing no expense on Richard’s account.”

Althea nodded beside him like a bobble head.

“Thank you,” I said. “I feel better knowing someone’s on Richard’s side. I was kind of worried that the police aren’t looking at any other suspects now.”

Mr. Chesterton tilted his head. “Other suspects?”

“Well, if Richard didn’t do it, someone else had to,” I reasoned.

Mr. Chesterton gave me a blank look. Like the thought of Richard’s innocence hadn’t even occurred to him. Or, perhaps closer to the mark, just didn’t interest him. Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, like most attorneys outside of a television sound stage, had no time for such trivial matters as guilt and innocence. It was all about probable cause, technicalities, loopholes, and very large retainers.

Trying my best to appeal to Mr. Chesterton’s human side, (Some lawyers have those, right?) I quickly outlined my mistress theory. I admit, after the less than appreciative reception it had just gotten with Ramirez, I was a little reluctant, especially with Jasmine hanging on my every word, but at this point, I didn’t have much to lose. I was so not doing visitations at San Quentin.

Only when I finished, Mr. Chesterton’s blank face gave way to the kind of patient smile one wore with whiney children or small, disobedient dogs. “That’s all very… interesting. But I’ll tell you what, why don’t you just let me worry about how to get Richard out of this jam.”

It was that leave-it-to-the-big-boys speech again. I was really beginning to get tired of all these big boys screwing with my life.

“I want to help,” I insisted.

Mr. Chesterton put on a placating smile. “Well, honey, you know what you could do that would really help Richard the most?” he asked.

I bit my lip. “What?” So help me God, if he said go home and knit I was going to lose it.

“Be Richard’s moral support in all this. He needs someone in his corner. A cheerleader, if you will.”

I’m proud to say I didn’t laugh out loud. Not even a little snicker.