In the center of the room sat a glass walled office, where the blinds were currently open, giving us an unobstructed view of its sole occupant.
Felix Dunn was medium height, medium build, and had sandy hair that was often standing on end from him having run an exasperated hand through it one too many times. His eyes were blue, his clothes generally rumpled and looking like he'd slept in them, and while I knew his net worth had several zeroes involved, he favored sneakers designed by skateboarders to stuffy wingtips.
There'd been a point in my life where I'd been a single, struggling shoe designer and Felix had been a novice reporter at the paper, and he and I had created a tentative partnership. However, the years in between then and now had taken our lives down very different routes. His had taken him to running the operations at the Informer, and mine had taken me, among other places, to Ramirez. And my husband wasn't a fan of me backtracking down any roads that wove near Felix. (Might have to do with that kiss in the castle thing.)
As we stepped through his open office door, I noticed Felix had a sandwich in one hand and a phone in the other, as he spoke into the receiver in his lilting British accent.
"Sorry¸ love, there is such a thing as freedom of the press," he said, pausing only briefly for a response before adding, "Well, if she's not keen on seeing her name in it, I suggest your client stop flashing people from her limo, then." He clicked off and looked up. He quickly hid the surprise that flitted through his eyes at seeing me.
"Well, hello, Maddie." He glanced behind me. "And Marco."
"Hi," I greeted him, stepping into the room. "Uh, I hope I'm not interrupting?" I glanced at his sandwich.
"Not at all." He took a big bite, and the scent of tuna fish floated across the room to me. "What can I do for you today?" he said around the mouthful.
"You can stop harassing Fernando is what!" Marco piped up beside me.
I shot him a down, girl look.
"Harassing?" Felix grinned, looking intrigued now.
"Uh, what Marco means is that one of your reporters called my stepfather's salon today, asking him some uncomfortable questions."
"Did they, now?" he asked, sitting in a leather chair behind his desk as he took another bite of tuna on rye.
I nodded. "Tina Bender."
Felix frowned. "As far as I know, Tina's looking into Doggy Z's untimely passing. Fernando was one of the last people to see him alive. On the Jeopardy! set, correct?"
I bit my lip, hesitant to admit anything in his presence, lest it be quoted in their pages tomorrow. "He did compete against Dog yesterday."
"But Fernando knows nothing about Dog's overdose," Marco piped up again. "So would you kindly tell your reporter to move on?"
"I'm curious," Felix said, giving me an assessing stare. "What did Tina ask your stepfather that had him so uncomfortable?"
I shot Marco a look, not sure how much we should say. As far as Felix knew, Fernando was exactly who he portrayed himself to be—a slightly eccentric European hairdresser who had married my mom.
"Nothing," I finally said. "He just…would prefer to be left alone. He's distraught. You know, over Dog's passing."
"Hmm." Felix chewed thoughtfully as his gaze went from me to Marco. "Death is distressing."
"Very," Marco agreed.
"It also sells copy like there's no tomorrow." He grinned at us.
His compassion was heartwarming. "Look, tell Tina to print all the salacious stories she wants about Dog. Just…please keep Fernando's name out of it. It's bad for business."
But Felix shook his head. "Sorry, love. I've got a professional obligation to let the Informer's journalists go where the story takes them."
Marco rolled his heavily lined eyes. "I'd hardly call this rag journalism."
But Felix ignored him. "Look," he went on, swallowing a bite of tuna fish, "Tina's talking to everyone who had contact with Dog in the last twenty-four hours of his life. In fact, she's on her way to meet with the other contestant, Angela Gold, now. If she has an angle she's working on that focuses on Dog's competitors…well, it's my obligation to let her run with it."
"Even if it means ruining Fernando?" Marco asked.
"Ruining?" Felix gave me that assessing look again, like he knew we were holding something back.
"Rumors can be damaging," I said, hoping our vague concern was enough.
"We fact check every story," Felix assured me. "Legal won't allow us not to." He paused. "Anymore."
I snorted.
"Look, I promise you we won't print anything about Fernando that isn't true," Felix said, actually looking genuine for the first time since I'd walked into his office. "You have my word."
While I wasn't entirely sure how much Felix's word was worth, it was the first part of the statement that scared me. The truth was exactly what we didn't want him to print.
* * *
"Well, that was a bust." Marco sulked as we got back into my minivan.
"Sorry. I tried," I told him, turning on the car and cranking up the AC. Even though we were well into fall, Los Angeles never seemed to get the change-of-season memo, the temperatures in the high eighties.
"Oh, we're not giving up that easily." Marco pulled out his phone, typing and swiping.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking Angela Gold's social media."
"Angela Gold." I frowned. "Why?"
"You heard Felix. Tina is on her way to meet with Angela now." He turned an imploring set of brown eyes my way. "If we can't convince Felix to kill the story outing Fernando, maybe we can talk Tina out of it."
"I don't know." I'd only had a couple of run-ins with Tina personally, and she hadn't struck me as the type to back down easily. In fact, she'd struck me as the type to bulldoze right over you if it meant her column could garner a few hundred likes in the morning.
"Well, we have to at least try," Marco said, glancing back at his phone again.
I let out a big breath, eyes going to my dash clock. I really should be getting to work. My heels weren't going to design themselves.
"Look here!" Marco said. "Angela just checked into Villa Rosé for a daytime TV stars charity fashion show." He turned his phone so I could see the screen. Sure enough, she'd put a little pin icon in the event, adding the note: pumped to be here!
I looked from the screen to Marco's wide, pleading eyes, lashes fluttering imploringly at me.
"Please, Maddie. For Fernando?"
"Fine," I finally relented. "For Fernando."
CHAPTER FOUR
Villa Rosé was a trendy restaurant and event venue located just off Santa Monica Boulevard in a section of West Hollywood that saw more foot traffic than DSW. We circled the block twice before finding a spot in the alleyway behind a vintage clothing boutique. The sounds of the runway music could be heard as soon as we exited the car, filtering to us from the open doors of the Villa.
We quickly pushed our way inside, where, despite the early hour, the room was packed with those looking to see and be seen. Vuitton, Armani, Versace—the gang was all represented in the teetering heels, flowy summer prints, and handbags that cost more than a car. And those were just the fashion spectators flanking the makeshift runway created down the center of the restaurant, where long-legged creatures and daytime TV stars strutted in designer couture for charity. As we threaded our way through the crowd, the brunch cocktails and whispered gossip flowed as freely as the air kisses.