Undercover in High Heels Read Online Free PDF

people…” I surveyed the room behind Marco, scanning the hairdresser stations and buzzing blow-dryers. “Are Mom and Ralph here?”
    “ Fernando , ” Marco chided, “is with a client. He’s doing a weave for Mrs. Banks.” He leaned in close and did a pseudo-whisper that could be heard all the way to the Valley. “Tyra’s mom.”
    “Oh.” I nodded, appropriately impressed.
    “But your mother’s in the back doing a pedi.”Marco gestured toward the rear of the salon, where a line of foot tubs flanked the turquoise walls.
    “Thanks.” I waved as I walked off.
    “Hips don’t lie, hips don’t lie!” I heard behind me.
    Then Marco mumbling another, “Ay-yi-yi…”
    In keeping with the island-paradise theme, the pedicure chairs had been covered with red tropical prints sporting large, colorful hibiscus flowers. Which completely clashed with the neon green muumuu covering the woman getting the pedi. Though, to be fair, Mrs. Rosenblatt was one of those people who clashed with just about anything. She was a five-time divorcée who weighed three hundred pounds, wore her hair in a shade of Lucille Ball red, and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. (Yeah, I know: only in L.A.)
    She’d met my mother when, after a particularly depressing Valentine’s Day, Mom had gone to Mrs. R for a psychic reading. When the very next day Mom had met the dark-haired stranger Mrs. R had pre-dicted, Mom was hooked. Never mind that the stranger turned out to be a chocolate Lab named Barney; Mom and Mrs. R had been firm friends ever since.
    “Mads!” Mrs. Rosenblatt called as I approached. “I heard about your shootout last night. Very impressive!”
    I gritted my teeth together. “It wasn’t a shootout.”
    Mom looked up from Mrs. R’s toes. She dropped a bottle of green polish on the floor and immediately grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Oh my baby, I’m so glad you’re all right!”
    “I’m fine, Mom.” Which actually came out sounding more like, “I fie, Ma, ” considering she was cutting off my air supply.
    “I was so worried about you! My poor, poor baby.”
    “Really, ” I said, extracting myself from her death grip. “I’m fine. It was just a little…misunderstanding.”
    Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. “It’s Mercury. Mercury’s in retrograde this month. Makes for a whole heap of misunderstanding.”
    At least someone understood.
    “So, did you have a gun during this ‘misunderstanding’? You pop anyone?” Mrs. R asked.
    I rolled my eyes. “No, I did not pop anyone. No one got popped.”
    “Bummer, ” Mrs. R said. “I always wanted to know what it would be like to shoot a gun. My first husband, Ollie, had all kinds of guns. He used to hunt quail with ’em. Never let me shoot one, though.”
    Ollie had been a smart man.
    “What did happen last night?” Mom asked, sitting down and wiping the spilled nail polish on her black skirt. I grimaced. At the nail polish stains, yes. But more at the skirt.
    When I was ten, Mom was the hippest mother in my Brownie troop. Unfortunately, she hadn’t changed her fashion style since then. Today she wore a lacy black skirt that was about two inches too high for comfort, black mesh leggings, ballet flats, and three different tank tops layered together above about a billion jelly bracelets in every color of the rainbow. A little mole and she’d be the perfect postmenopausal Madonna.
    Ignoring the urge to comment on her outfit, I gave Mom a much-edited version of the previous night’s events. However, by the end, her plucked eyebrows were still hunched together in concern.
    “Maddie, you could have been killed!”
    “I’m fine, Mom. Really, ” I tried to reassure her.
    “I think you should think about carrying some protection.”
    “Protection?”
    “What you need is a gun, ” Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. “I think I might still have one of Ollie’s in storage.”
    “No!” I said a little too loudly.