I itched to text Ramirez and ask more, but it sounded like he had enough on his plate already that day. My curiosity could wait until I saw him. Instead, I downed my coffee and added a slice of toast before packing up the kids' lunches and backpacks for preschool. I was just going in search of two pairs of shoes when my phone rang and my mother's name showed up.
"Hey," I said, tucking the phone under my chin as I retrieved a pink sandal from under the sofa.
"Did you hear about Dog?" she asked.
"I did. Ramirez is working the case."
"So sad," she lamented. "He was so full of life, wasn't he?"
"He was full of something," I mumbled, laying hands on the sandal and spying its mate on the coffee table.
"Well, Ralph was just beside himself when we saw it on the news last night," my mom went on. "I mean, he was just talking to the poor man yesterday, and now he's gone."
"It's shocking," I agreed, slipping a pair of wiggly little feet into the sandals.
"Do you know what happened?" Mom asked. "Did Ramirez tell you anything?"
I shook my head. "No. I haven't had a chance to ask him yet. But they're saying on social media it was an overdose."
"That's what the brunette on Channel Seven said too. So tragic. What a way to go."
"Are you at the salon?" I asked, slipping Max's backpack onto his tiny back.
"No, but I will be soon. Ralph left early to take care of a nail emergency for one of those Real Housewives."
"Which one?" I couldn't help asking.
"I can't remember. Ralph said the catty one."
If only that narrowed it down. "I'll stop by after I drop the twins off at school," I promised, handing Livvie her Vampirina lunchbox.
"Would you? I think Ralph could really use the moral support today. This has all been so upsetting for him."
"Happy to," I told her. And that wasn't just because I could use a little nail touchup myself. "I'll see you soon," I promised before saying goodbye and ushering the twins out the door.
An hour later I'd dropped the twins off, grabbed a grande pumpkin spiced latte with extra whip from Starbucks (life was too short to drink unflavored coffee), and pulled my minivan up to the curb in front of Fernando's. Yes, I was a minivan driving, Starbucks drinking mom of two, but I did it in three-inch heels, which meant I narrowly avoided being a cliché.
Fernando's salon was located at the center of Beverly Hills' Golden Triangle, at the corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard and only one block north of Rodeo. Faux Dad had started his career long before I met him, in a strip mall in Chatsworth, though through word of mouth and a few recommendations in the LA Times, Faux Dad had primped and permed his way out of the Valley and into the playground of the rich and pampered. He'd met Mom one fateful day when she'd come in for a cut and color and left with a date for that weekend and, as it turned out, a mate for life.
I pushed through the front doors, inhaling the strong scents of ammonia based hair dyes, floral shampoos, and acetone nail polish remover. Several dryers were in use, humming loudly over the sounds of women chatting and sipping champagne as they had their nails done. Faux Dad was currently going through a rococo decorating period, and the salon walls were covered in pale pink flocked wallpaper and paintings in ornate gold frames depicting classic landscapes and curvy women lounging on chaises.
"Maddie, dahhling!" Marco, Faux Dad's longtime receptionist and my good friend, came running over to kiss me on both cheeks. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and so on the cutting edge of fashion that he was often in danger of falling right off. Today he was dressed in fishnet leggings, three-inch silver platform heels, and a plaid jumper that looked like he'd stolen it from a Catholic schoolgirl. He attacked me with air kisses as he blinked his long lashes at me. Real ones. I had severe lash envy. "Did you hear the news?" he asked breathlessly.
"About Dog?" I nodded. "Yeah, I heard."
Marco shook his head. "He was so young. So clever. So talented."
I wasn't sure we were talking about the same celebrity.
"How's Ralp—er, Fernando?" I asked.
Marco sighed dramatically. "As well as can be expected. It's all been an emotional twenty-four hours. First the high of celebrating his win last night followed by the plunging low of his fellow contestant's death."
I honestly felt for Fernando—I knew how much he'd been looking forward to being on Jeopardy!, never mind winning. I wondered if they'd even continue the tournament now. "Where is he?" I asked, looking past the large dryers and pedicure chairs.
"He's hiding in the back. Trying to avoid the reporters."
"Reporters?" I frowned.
Marco nodded. "TMZ was outside with a cameraman when I opened this morning. Fernando thought at first it was to talk about his win, but all the guy wanted to know was how Dog had looked yesterday."
Ramirez's note about the media frenzy came to mind. "His death is big news. And I supposed Fernando was one of the last people to see Dog alive."
Marco nodded. "Well, TMZ wasn't even the worst of it. Wait till I tell you about the call from—"
Only he didn't have the opportunity as the phone behind the reception counter rang. Marco held up a sparkly silver nail, indicating for me to wait, and hurried behind it to answer. "It's a wonderful day at Fernando's. How may I help you?"
I waited while Marco took the call, scheduling a root touch-up for the woman on the other end. I sent Faux Dad a quick text that I was there and glanced around at the ornately carved settees in the lobby and the naked cherub statuettes Fernando had installed on every available surface in keeping with the 17th century France vibe. I was just admiring a pair of gilded wall sconces holding pamphlets on eyebrow threading, when Fernando scuttled from the back room, his eyes darting left and right as if anticipating the paparazzi to have followed me in.
"Oh Maddie, love," he said, grabbing me in a hug.
"Hey, Ral—er, Fernando," I said, correcting myself quickly. "How are you?"
"Horrendous! It's shocking. Tragic. Downright upsetting, all of it." He fanned himself with one hand, bejeweled with three gold rings today. His white shirt was open two buttons at the top, showing off a tanned chest in Simon Cowell style, though the cuffs were adorned with ruffled frills, giving off a slightly pirate vibe. He'd paired it with magenta slacks and white loafers for an outfit that would be hard to miss if any photographers were, in fact, after his likeness.
"I heard about Dog," I told him, putting a hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."
He nodded. "I almost can't believe it. I mean, one minute you're talking to a man, and the next…poof, he's gone."
"Did he say anything to you yesterday?" I asked. "Anything that might have indicated he was using drugs?"
Faux Dad gave me a look. "Honey, you saw him at the taping. We all thought he looked high as a kite."
Good point. "How was his mood?" I asked.
"Fine." Faux Dad shook his head. "He was laughing and joking in the greenroom. He seemed in good spirits. Even after he lost. That's what makes it all so tragic."