He wiggled his hand back and forth. "At first. But the whole show moves so fast there really wasn't time. It was actually fun once I was able to just concentrate on the questions." He paused. "I did feel bad for Doggy Z."

  "I think we all did," I added.

  "Is he still here?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, eyes darting around as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her favorite rapper.

  Faux Dad shook his head. "No. I saw him talking to his son after we finished taping. They all went out the back door together. He's probably trying to avoid publicity."

  "Good luck with that," Dana remarked. "I'm sure the clip of him throwing the buzzer into the audience will be viral by morning."

  Even Mrs. R nodded her agreement at that one. "The media's gonna murder that guy."

  * * *

  After a celebratory lunch with Mom and Faux Dad, and a quick stop at the Beverly Center afterward to find an outfit to wear to the finale taping I'd now be attending on Friday, I pushed through the front doors of my 1950s style bungalow that evening, and two pairs of sticky hands converged on me. My twins, Max and Livvie, met me at the front door, covering me in hugs and kisses as they regaled me with tales of the block tower they'd built in my absence. My heart melted at the enthusiasm, and I almost wished they could stay that age forever. Almost. I was pretty sure some of the sticky stuff on my pencil skirt was Play-Doh, which was not easy to get out of cotton twill.

  After I'd paid the babysitter, one of the teenagers who lived down the street, and washed Max's hands, I put Toy Story on for the kids and wandered into the kitchen. I'd just poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and popped a frozen pizza into the oven when the front door opened and cries of "Daddy!" filled the living room.

  A beat later my husband appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  Detective Jack Ramirez worked homicide for the LAPD, had a big gun, a big black panther tattooed on his left bicep, and a big heart that those closest to him were lucky to be the beneficiaries of. He was tall and broad shouldered, had dark hair that curled a couple weeks past a haircut on his neck, and a pair of dark eyes that could either stare a confession out of a perp or seduce a woman out of her morals with one hot look. Having been married to the man for five years, I'd been on the receiving end of both types of looks, as well as several in between.

  Ramirez threw his car keys onto the counter. "Something smells good in here." He nuzzled my neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

  I giggled and turned around to peck him on the lips. "I assume you're talking about the pizza?"

  He shrugged. "That too." He gave me a wink as he crossed the room to the refrigerator, pulling himself a cold beer from inside. "So how did the game show go?" he asked, popping the top.

  "You realize it's Jeopardy!, not just some 'game show,' right? It's an institution," I told him, trying to get across the magnitude of the show as I peeked in on the pizza. It needed a couple more minutes to get the cheese bubbly.

  "Okay, so it's a big deal game show," Ramirez teased. "How did Ralph do?"

  "He did great." I sipped my wine. "He won. He's officially a finalist." I paused. "Shoot. We're not supposed to tell anyone until after it airs."

  Ramirez grinned. "Don't worry. I won't tweet the spoiler to all my followers," he joked.

  "You know, lots of people love Jeopardy!"

  Ramirez nodded. "Sure."

  "Anyway, Ralph killed it. He and Mom are celebrating at City Walk tonight."

  He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't want to go with them?"

  "What, and miss all this?" I asked, gesturing to the cardboard box our dinner had come in.

  Ramirez grinned, coming in close again and nuzzling my neck. "Pizza, beer, a playoff game, and a night off with my family. What more could a man ask for?"

  I giggled, the Chardonnay kicking in. "What is 'A Beautiful Wife, Alex?'"

  Ramirez laughed and kissed my lips. A long, lingering one that left me breathless and suddenly counting the minutes until the twins' bedtime.

  Only, before I got too far into that fantasy, his phone went off at his hip.

  "Ignore it?" I suggested.

  He gave me a look that said he was having the same fantasy, but he was too good a cop to take my advice. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the text.

  "Lemme guess. Work?" I took a disappointed sip (gulp?) of wine.

  "Sorry, babe," he answered, setting his beer down and swiping to call in. He ducked into the living room as I pulled our dinner out of the oven and began searching drawers for a pizza cutter. Which should have been in the drawer by the sink, but when Max and Livvie helped put away the dishes, all bets were off.

  I finally found it in the cupboard full of Tupperware and had just cut the pizza into triangles when Ramirez came back into the room.

  "I'm on my way," he said into the phone before stabbing it off.

  I must have groaned out loud, as my husband shot me a sympathetic look.

  "Sorry," he repeated.

  I shook my head. "No, it's fine. I know. Duty calls." I was proud of how supportive I sounded, even if I had to shove pepperoni into my mouth to keep the sarcasm out.

  "I'll make it up to you later," he told me, grabbing a slice to go.

  "You'd better." I handed him a paper plate. "Do you think you'll be very late?"

  He shrugged into his jacket. "Not sure. Sounded like a high profile case."

  "Dead celebrity?" I read between the lines.

  He nodded. "Before you ask—no idea who yet. Unresponsive in their home. Sounds like a possible drug overdose."

  I felt a pang of sadness for whoever it was, even though the phenomenon was not uncommon in LA.

  "Wake me when you get home," I said, imagining he wasn't looking at an early evening.

  He nodded, gave me a quick kiss, and grabbed one more slice of pepperoni pizza to go before heading out the door.

  I tried to look on the bright side—the twins and I could have some precious Mommy & Me time together instead. Given my husband's line of work, I'd learned to expect nights like this. And while I didn't love them, they came with the territory and I was used to making the best of them. I loaded pizza onto a couple of plates that I took into the living room, where we all watched Woody and Buzz together. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and shuttled the kids into the bathtub for an extra sudsy and bubble filled bath time. After they were all clean and snug in their footed pajamas, I read them Green Eggs and Ham and Clifford Goes to School, two of their favorite books. I was all ready for a third book, but they were sound asleep before I could start it. My watch said eight o'clock. I wandered into the living room and tried to decide what to do for the rest of the evening.

  Ramirez hadn't texted, so I assumed as expected, he'd be home late. I sat down on the sofa with a second glass of wine. In theory, it would be a good time to work on the latest sketches for a pair of vintage inspired two-toned pumps I was designing, but I wasn't feeling motivated that night. I flipped on the TV and indulged in a couple reality shows my husband wouldn't be caught dead watching. After I'd had my fill of romances between yacht crews and long-distance fiancés, I switched to the local news to see if Ramirez's drug overdose had hit the media yet.

  A blonde, perky-looking reporter in a pound of makeup chatted about the upcoming election, the price of gas, and the rising temperatures for the weekend. I was only half paying attention, the long day and the wine doing their thing to make my eyelids feel heavy.

  Until the perky woman said, "And in other sad news today, we've just gotten word about the death of a Los Angeles icon."

  I sat up, suddenly fully awake as a picture of a man flashed on the screen beside the newscaster. It was a face I knew well—having spent the better part of the afternoon looking at it.

  Unshaven, craggy wrinkles, glassy stare.

  Doggy Z.

  JEOPARDY IN HIGH HEELS

  available now!

 

 

  Gemma Halliday, Peril in High Heels

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
Share this book with friends