Undercover in High Heels Read Online Free PDF Page A

see you then.”
    I hit the end button and flopped back down on my pillows. 6:20 A.M. and already one crisis averted. My day was off to a smashing start.

Chapter 3
    Fernando’s Salon was located on the ultrachic, ultra—high rent corner of Beverly and Brighton, one block north of Rodeo and smack in the center of Beverly Hills’ Golden Triangle. It was the kind of neighbor-hood where the champagne was free and the pumps cost more than a small country. My stepfather, Ralph (or as I had affectionately dubbed him, Faux Dad), started out in a small strip mall in Chatsworth, but his mastery of the cut and color soon earned him a place in the hearts and hairdos of the rich and not-quite-famous. Only, knowing a salon called Ralph’s wouldn’t fit in with the Versaces, Blahniks, and Vuit-tons of BH, Ralph reinvented himself with a faux-Spanish ancestry and twice-weekly spray-on tans, and thus was born Fernando, European hair sculptor. When I first met him I was convinced he was gay, but considering he and Mom have been married nearly nine months now, I’m almost sure he’s not.
    In addition to Faux Dad’s skills with a blow-dryer,he’s also quite the interior decorator (hey, I said I was almost sure), a fact illustrated by the metamorphosis his salon went through every few months. Today, as I walked through Fernando’s polished glass doors, I was treated to a Caribbean theme. The walls were done in watercolor-washed turquoise blue with knotted bits of rope hung like swags along the ceiling line. Bright pictures of exotic beaches, along with bits of fishing net, decorated the walls, interspersed with large, leafy green plants and bright tropical flowers in artfully chipped planters. The reception desk was paneled in white clapboard with silk flower leis glued to the sides. And, I kid you not, in the corner sat a three-foot-high birdcage holding a bright green parrot.
    He squawked at me as I approached the reception desk. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”
    I turned to Marco, Faux Dad’s receptionist, who was slim, Hispanic, and probably the only person in the world as addicted to Project Runway as I was. “What did he just say?” I asked.
    Marco rolled his heavily lined eyes. “Oh honey, tell me about it, ” he drawled in an accent that was pure San Francisco. “The previous owner apparently had a thing for pop music. This damn bird has been singing Shakira all day.” Marco shook a finger at the bird. “You stop it, Pablo, you naughty boy.”
    Pablo the Parrot tilted his head to the side. “Hips don’t lie. Sqwuak!”
    “Ay-yi-yi!” Marco clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes again. “We couldn’t get a nice quiet goldfish. Nooooo, it had to be a parrot.”
    “Sorry, ” I sympathized.
    “So…” Marco leaned his elbows across his desk.“I heard about your big shootout last night. Ex-ciiiiii-ting! ” he said, drawing out the word.
    My turn to roll my eyes. “It wasn’t a shootout. It was a simple…misunderstanding.” That was my story, and I was sticking to it.
    “Do tell, dahling, ” he prodded me on.
    Since Marco practically lived for gossip, and the Informer had already beaten me to it anyway, I filled him in on the latest entry in my top-ten not-so-finest moments. So unfine, in fact, that as I related the story I felt worse and worse. Geez, had I really thought Ramirez was cheating on me? How paranoid was I? To be quite honest, Ramirez had every right to be mad at me. I mean, only I would turn a little thing like a canceled date into a shootout.
    I mean misunderstanding .
    True to his Queen of the Beverly Gossip status, Marco hung on my every word, and when I got to the part about Ramirez doing his Bad Cop face at me, Marco did an exaggerated swoon and started fanning himself. “That man is hotter than my mother’s chili con carne, honey.”
    I had to agree. Unfortunately, he had a temper to match. “Yeah, well, I think he’s just a wee bit miffed with me at the moment. And speaking of miffed