Murder Plays House by Ayelet Waldman Page A

Ninth Circuit appeal, she did an interview for
Entertainment Tonight
about hot young women directors. Unlike me, however, Stacy had not let pregnancy and parenting derail her career. She’d limited herself to one child, Zachary, who was brilliant and accomplished enough for a whole pack of siblings. Zach had inherited his mother’s looks—he was sharp-faced and attractive, with the same thick head of dark brown hair growing low on his forehead that I vaguely remembered Stacy sporting before she’d begun dying it a succession of glittering tones. She had been a honey blond for years, and had lately taken to wearing her hair swept up in an artfully messy bun at the top of her head, clipped with one or two antique marcasite hair clasps.
    It took a moment to convince Stacy’s new assistant that she should put me through to her boss. I’ve been known to keep a pair of pantyhose longer than Stacy keeps one of these poor young things. They never last more than a few months—she chews them up and spits them out, much the worse for wear. To my friend’s credit, however, her assistants invariably end up moving up the ranks of the ICA hierarchy, or into a better job at a studio or production company. The assistants might have a miserable few months in Stacy’s employ, but she prepares them for a career in Hollywood, and she champions them forever after. Los Angeles is full of her castoffs, and no matter how severe their nervous twitches, or how bad their cases of hives, once they move on to biggerand better things they remember her, if not fondly, then with respect and admiration.
    “Jules!” Stacy shouted. “I just got back from the Manolo Blahnik trunk show at Neiman’s!”
    “Lucky you,” I replied, wishing that I, too, could indulge in the purchase of a pair of three hundred and fifty dollar stiletto heels I’d have no opportunity to wear. I have, I’m afraid, something of a shoe problem. For a woman who spends her life in maternity smocks and overalls, I have a rather stunning collection of pumps and strappy sandals. As indulgences go, it’s not so bad, is it? And anyway, since I’d discovered eBay, my shoe fetish had come to be satisfied with bargain basement bidding.
    Once I’d managed to divert my friend’s attentions from the delightful distraction of overpriced footwear, I said, “Felix. The designer. You know him?”
    “Booty Rags? Of course. He’s a friend.” She paused. “Anyway, I’ve met him once or twice. On the phone. He dressed Fiona.” Fiona Rytler was one of Stacy’s latest mega stars, a waiflike blond with a classical Shakespearian education and a talent for comedy.
    “He dressed her?”
    “Yup. For the MTV Movie Awards. He had her in this amazing black dress, like a spider web. Didn’t you see it?”
    “Uh, Stace?”
    “Right, right. What was I thinking? You don’t watch award shows.”
    Peter and I had long ago made a vow that we wouldn’t watch the Oscars or any of the other of the multitude of award shows unless and until he was nominated for one. I had a feeling we’d be spending the Oscar nights of our golden years catching reruns of
The Rockford Files
on TV Land.
    “Anyway, we were on the phone for weeks working out the dress. He’s a sweetheart.”
    “Can you call him for me?”
    “Why?” she asked, suspiciously.
    I explained about my investigation.
    “Oh, Juliet. When are you going to give this nonsense up? I mean, you can’t possibly be making any money at it, can you?”
    “We’re doing fine,” I said, barely managing to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I knew Stacy had my best interest at heart, but she didn’t approve of my burgeoning career as an investigator. She, like my mother, felt I should be working at what I was really good at: keeping criminals out of jail. She was convinced that I was wasting my time hanging out with the kids and playing at being a private eye. She was probably right, as I freely admitted to her. Still, I reassured myself that,