Chapter One

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the traffic was even flowing on the 405, and I was out of the house enjoying an afternoon cocktail on the patio of a trendy Melrose restaurant with an old friend.  Life was good.

"So, where was I?" I asked, momentarily distracted by the overwhelming goodness of my life.  (And possibly the effects of the cocktail.) 

"I haven't the foggiest," my companion remarked dryly, his British accent lilting across the table to me.

"Right.  Livvie," I said, remembering my train of thought.  "I swear it was just the cutest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.  She and Max were outside, and we'd propped them up with their Boppy pillows, and Max had his binkie on his belly, and Livvie just reached out and got hold of it with her chubby little fists and..."  I paused, stealing a glance across the table at my companion.  He was smirking at me, raising one eyebrow in an is-this-chick-for-real? expression.

I bit my lip.

"Sorry.  I'm doing too much baby talk, aren't I?" I asked.

The smirk turned into a full-fledged grin as he sipped his martini.  "Maybe just a smidge."

Recently I'd stumbled across a very odd phenomenon.  Not everyone in the world thought my twin babies were as fascinating as I did.  Crazy, right?  But I'd found that when I was telling the story of how my three-month-old daughter, Olivia, or Livvie as we'd taken to calling her, was spitting up on her car seat or how my son, Max, exactly three minutes younger than his sister, was prone to colic, my fashionably single friends all seemed to yawn, roll their eyes, or smirk (as was the current case) and suddenly remember some very important appointment that they were late for.  Go figure.

I sighed, taking a gulp of my pomegranate margarita.  "Point taken," I mumbled.  "Honestly, I swear I can carry on an adult conversation, too."

He waved me off.  "Not at all, love.  Your Boppy, binkie-loving munchkins sound delightful."

"They are.  You know, you really should come see them sometime."

"Uh-huh," he said.  "I will.  As soon as they stop drooling and leaking from their back ends."

My turn to smirk.  Felix Dunn was not what I'd call a baby-person.  I'm sure he didn't actually hate them.  And he had probably even been one once.  But I had a hard time picturing him in the vicinity of one now.

Felix was the managing editor of the L.A. Informer, Hollywood's most notorious tabloid, making him much more comfortable stalking an A-lister down the Sunset Strip than holding an infant that may "leak" at any moment.  I'd met Felix years ago, when we'd both ended up in Las Vegas tracking down a group of Prada smuggling drag queens.  Clearly in my pre-husband-and-kids lifetime.  But Felix's life was, as far as I could tell, pretty much the same as it had been back then. 

Felix was not overly tall, but not what you'd call short either.  He had a slim build, sandy blond hair, and blue eyes that always seemed to be twinkling beneath his sandy brows with some sort of secret knowledge.  He was dressed today in his usual uniform of a button down shirt and khaki pants, though I noticed that since he'd been promoted from reporter to editor, he'd traded in his sneakers for a respectable pair of oxfords.  John Varvatos, if I wasn't mistaken.  A splurge I was surprised at, considering Felix's usual tendency toward thriftiness.      

"Okay, Dunn," I conceded, "I've got a moratorium on the baby talk.  So what was it you wanted to discuss this afternoon?" I asked, switching gears.

Two days ago, Felix had called me out of the blue and asked if I could meet him for lunch.  Not that I didn't appreciate the afternoon out, but, as I mentioned, Felix wasn't known for his extravagant generosity in the cash department.  If he'd agreed to pay for lunch, I knew he had an agenda. 

"Right."  He leaned his elbows on the table, studiously avoiding getting any marinara sauce from his pasta dish on his sleeves.  "I need your help with a story we're working on.  Specifically, I was hoping you could give me some background information on someone."

I raised an eyebrow his way.  "Sounds intriguing."

"Lana Paulson.  She's in fashion.  You know her, correct?" Felix asked.

I nodded, the name jogging an old memory.  "Sure.  She and I went to design school together.  She was my roommate.  But that was forever ago."  And, at the risk of dating myself unnecessarily, I wasn't going to admit to Felix just how long ago "forever" was.  In school Lana'd had a flair for the dramatic, and after graduation she'd taken her talents to Hollywood, designing costumes.  I, on the other hand, had gone the footwear route and started my own line of high heeled shoes.  "Last I heard Lana had a boutique on Melrose and was wardrobe assistant at some TV network," I told Felix.

He nodded.  "Actually, she's the head of wardrobe for UBN now."

"Wow.  Good for her," I said, honestly meaning it as I sipped at my drink again.   

"One of my reporters recently got a tip that there have been items missing from wardrobe on one of Lana's shows."

"Missing?" I asked.

"Stolen," he clarified.

"Exciting.  Your paper must be thrilled."

Felix grinned.  "Trust me, I am.  This is a major story."  He paused.  "If it's true."

"Ah.  So, you want to know if Lana can be trusted."

Felix nodded.  "Exactly."

"Okay, tell me about the theft?"

"Well," Felix said, leaning back in his seat again.  "The source claims that twice now costume items have gone missing.  Last week, it was the lead's outfit, and the whole production had to shut down.  Cost them a day's worth of shooting time, and Lana was in some very hot water with the execs.  Time is money."

"So you think maybe she's just being careless and claiming theft to cover her ass?" I asked, reading between Felix's cynical lines. 

Felix shrugged noncommittally. "What do you think?"

I leaned back in my chair, letting the warm sun wash over my shoulders.  "That's a tough one.  Like I said, it's been years since I've seen her.  Was she a little dramatic?  Sure.  But this is Hollywood.  That's kind of a given."

Felix pursed his lips together, clearly not hearing the answer he was looking for. 

"But," I added, "she was good at what she did.  Clothes were her life.  I couldn't see her simply misplacing something that important.  If it were up to me, I'd be inclined to believe your source."

Felix nodded.  "Perfect."  I could see juicy headlines dancing in his eyes.  

I grinned at him.  "Since when are you tabloid boys so concerned with the truth, anyway?  Don't I seem to remember a time when you pasted my head on the body of Pamela Anderson to pump up one of your stories?"

Felix narrowed his eyes at me.  "You're never going to let me live that one down are you?"

I shook my head, feeling my blonde hair whip at my cheeks.  "Nope.  Not in this lifetime."

"Truth is, those were different times.  B.T.  Before Twitter," he clarified.  "Now, we print something that isn't on the up and up, and everyone and their mother is online calling us liars, propagandists, you name it.  Consumers are a lot more savvy."  He paused.  "Or possibly just cranky.  Either way, we have to be a bit more careful about checking our facts if we don't want to lose followers."

"Well, hurray for Twitter.  I'll be expecting a retraction to print any day now," I said, signaling the server for another dink.  Hey, I wasn't driving home, Felix was paying, and it was the first time since the twins had been born that I'd left the house without a diaper bag.  I was going to enjoy my adult afternoon to the fullest.  "So, how are we going to catch the thief?" I asked.  "You want me to talk with Lana?  Go undercover on her show?  Ferret out some suspects among the cast?"

Felix gave me a funny look over the rim of his martini glass.  "Maddie, love, you're a mum now.  I wouldn't ask you to do any of those things."

I paused.  "But didn't you just say you needed my help?"

"Your background on Lana is plenty enough help," he assured me.

"It is?" I asked, feeling a tiny prickle of disappointment.

"More than enough," he added.  "Besides, I've got Allie on the story, and I'm sure if there is a thief at the network, she'll get to the bottom of it."

I felt a frown marring my perfect afternoon out. 

Allie Quick was one of Felix's star reporters on the Informer staff.  She also just happened to be his girlfriend, ten years his junior, and the living embodiment of Barbie.  While my first impression had been dumb-blonde all the way, she'd actually proven to be a good reporter, so I had to give her credit there.  However, I suddenly had the faintest feeling of being replaced by a younger model.

"But what does Allie know about fashion?" I protested.  "I mean, I could at least have lunch with Lana.  Get the details for you."

Again Felix shook his head, closing his blue eyes and doing a frown-slash-smile thing that had "patronizing" written all over it.  "Don't worry a bit about it, Maddie.  Allie's got it under control.  In fact, she's meeting Lana this evening at her boutique to get the full story."

"Hmm," I said, sipping my fresh drink.  "Well, tell her to say 'hi' to Lana for me," I mumbled. 

Felix nodded.  "Will do.  But don't worry, love.  Really, we've got this one.  You just go home and enjoy your drooling monsters.  Leave the heavy lifting to those of us not graced with the joys of motherhood."

Chapter Two

An hour later Felix had dropped me off outside the nineteen-fifties style bungalow I shared with my husband and two kids.  My babysitter's, A.K.A. Mom's, car was parked in the drive, and I could already hear shouts of teeny tiny protests from beyond the front door as I walked up the slate pathway. 

Even though I loved my twins with all my heart, I paused just a moment before opening the door, enjoying my last breath of freedom before I pushed inside the house.  Where I was immediately assaulted with wails (from the twins), baby-talk (from mom), and a loud sigh (probably from me). 

"Mommy's home," I announced from the doorway, dropping my purse on the floor and kicking off the kitten heels I'd worn to lunch. 

"Perfect timing, Mads" Mom called out, emerging from the twins' bedroom with a screaming bundle swaddled in a pink blanket.  With a pink body suit on.  And pink booties.  And a warm, pink wool hat.  I prayed it was Livvie. 

"I think they're hungry," she said.

"Mom, you do know that it's eighty-five degrees out, right?" I asked, taking the baby from her and peeking beneath the layers.  Thankfully we had a female.    

"Babies need to be kept warm," Mom protested, picking up an almost identical blue bundle from the play mat in the corner of the living room.

"Warm, yes.  Cooked, no," I protested, removing Livvie's hat to expose a soft dusting of blonde peach fuzz along her scalp.

But Mom waved me off.  "I'll get the bottles, you hold," she commanded, shoving the blue bundle into my arms as well.

Luckily, both babies were fabulous eaters (I had no idea where they got that trait.  Couldn't have had anything to do with the nightly tubs of Ben & Jerry's I'd ingested while pregnant.), and as soon as we'd settled them in their respective carriers with their little bottles of milk, they were both happy as clams, the roars of tiny screams ceasing.  After a good six ounces a piece, a pair of burps loud enough to make their father proud, and a two wet diaper changes, they both settled into blissful newborn happiness, cooing at each other on the play mat again.

"Okay, I'm off," Mom announced, wrapping a polyester scarf around her neck and grabbing her gargantuan purse.  "There's a sale today at Sears, and Dorothy and I both have coupons."

I cringed.  As much as I loved my mother, the one thing in this world that I was most thankful for was that I had not inherited her sense of style.  Somehow her fashion sense had peaked around 1989 and stayed there ever since.  Today she was clad in a pair of acid washed jeans that were at least two sizes too big in the rear, white Keds that looked as if they'd been bedazzled with pink rhinestones along the top, and a bright green sweater with a kitten chasing a ball of yarn on the front of it.  With matching green eye shadow that went clear up to her eyebrows.  Sadly, I was not surprised that she was buying clothes in the same store as power tools.

"You know, I have a gift card for Nordstrom, Mom.  I'd be happy to take you shopping there any time," I offered, trying to steer her in the right direction.

But Mom waved me off.  "Nonsense.  That stuff is way too overpriced.  Take these jeans for instance.  You know what I paid for these?"

I looked down at their pale denim glory.  Whatever it was, it was way too much.

"$14.99," she said proudly.  "What a steal, huh?"

I bit my lip, holding back the slew of snide remarks bubbling up in my throat.  She was, after all, my mother.

"You know," Mom said, a scary light bulb look going off in her eyes.  "If Dorothy has a couple of extra coupons, I could pick up a pair for you.  I think they're still on sale."

"Oh, gee, wow.  That would be... yeah, you know I think I'm good on jeans right now."

"It would be no trouble."

"I'm... still trying to lose baby weight.  Not a good time to buy new clothes."

"But you have to wear something."

"I'm good.  Honest."

"You sure?"

"I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

Mom shrugged, slipping on a leopard print jacket.  "Okay, suit yourself.  But if you change your mind, just send me a text," she said, pointing to her cell.  Texting was Mom's latest thing.  Her husband had finally convinced her to join this century and bought her a smart phone for her birthday.  Fifteen times a day I got little notes telling me she was "loling @ ur stepdad" or "h8ing the new amricn idol jdg". 

"Will do," I promised.  And thanks for watching the kids," I added as she stepped out.

"Any time, Maddie," she called over her shoulder before shutting the door.

Whew, close one. 

I left the twins to their happy babbling while I changed the laundry, put away a load of clean dishes, and checked my email.  Basically doing the frantic mad-dash that had become my everyday holy-crap-no-one's-crying-quick-get-something-done routine. It lasted the average fifteen minutes before a foul smell came from Livvie's corner, and Max started protesting in shrill, ear-drum splitting cries.  I'd swear the child was destined to become a lead singer of a heavy metal band. 

I was just cleaning up Livvie's mess and pleading with Max to stop yelling, when a text vibrated from my pocket.  I did a silent prayer that it wasn't from my Mom saying she'd found acid wash in my size.  I put Livvie down, swapping her for her brother, then checked the readout.  It was from my husband. 

Homicide just came in.  Gotta stay late.  Sorry. XOXO

I sighed. (Though the sound was swallowed up by Max's howls.)  My husband was detective Jack Ramirez, L.A.P.D. Homicide.  And, while we had both agreed it would be me taking a four month hiatus from work when the twins arrived, I hadn't realized at the time that it meant I'd basically be a single mom six nights out of seven.  Not that it was his fault.  A notoriously unpredictable work schedule kinda came with the territory.  I mean, it was hard to convince people to get killed just between the hours of nine and five.            

I looked down at the twins.  "Well, I guess it's just you and me again tonight, munchkins."

The next morning found the twins in a much better mood, my husband gone again before dawn, and me sipping a cup of very strong coffee across the living room floor from my best friend, Dana.

"You didn't sleep again last night, did you?" Dana asked, stealing a glance at me over the rim of her coffee cup.  Organic with soy milk and Stevia sweetener.

"Does it show?" I responded, checking my eyes for lower lid bags in the fun-house style mirror attached to the twins' playpen.    

"Just a little," Dana said.  "But I have some concealer samples that will do wonders." 

I sipped at my coffee (non-fat, no-calorie sweetner, sugar-free vanilla syrup) while I watched Dana dig into her purse.

I first met Dana Dashel when we'd both attended John Adams Middle School in Reseda.  She'd been the only other girl in seventh grade who understood the power of tasteful eye make-up.  Her hair was a light strawberry blonde, her eyes a bright blue, and she was at least five inches taller than I was, bringing her within a breath of supermodel height.  And her addiction to the gym was almost as strong as my addiction to junk food.

Dana was an actress who, in addition to landing several hot supporting roles lately, was the face of the Lover Girl cosmetics commercials.  Which meant she always had free samples. 

I gratefully took the concealer, applying a generous helping in the baby mirror.

"Last night wasn't as bad as some," I told her.  "I did get a solid three hour stretch at one point."

"You should get out of the house," Dana told me.  "Maybe some fresh air would wear them out."

"Fresh air like at the mall?" I asked, warming to the idea.

"Actually, I was thinking of visiting Ricky on set."

Ricky Montgomery was Dana's boyfriend, a movie star, had abs you could do laundry on.  He and Dana were rivaling George Clooney and whatshername as the top celebrity couple in TMZ's latest polls.  Ricky's latest gig was on a reality show called Dancing with Celebrities.  Ten celebrities from various walks of Hollywood life paired up with professional ballroom dancers to compete for the ultimate title of Celebrity Dance Champion.  Each week they engaged in tricky tangos and wild waltzes for the viewing public, who then voted off their least favorite dancer/celebrity combo.  They were only in week three of live competitions, but so far Ricky and his partner, Irina Sokolov, had been fan favorites. Not surprising since the show's demographic was mostly female, and Ricky was currently being touted as "Hollywood's most eligible bachelor" (according to People).  Possibly one reason Dana was a frequent visitor on the set. 

"I wish I could," I said, sincerely meaning it.  The costumes looked to die for on TV; I could only imagine the fabulosity in person.  "But I'm not sure they'd be welcome," I added, gesturing to the pair currently blowing raspberries at each other.

"Are you kidding?  They're so cute, I'm sure no one would mind them."

"Right, no one would mind me bringing a pair of screaming infants to a closed set.  And their huge diaper bag.  And their milk, their changing pads, their playmobiles, their-"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," Dana said holding her hands up. 

"Sorry, but I'm kinda homebound at the moment," I said, sipping my coffee again.

Dana sighed, letting Max grab her finger with his chubby fist.  "I want one of these."

I raised an eyebrow at her.  "I'll sell you one cheap."

She grinned, elbowing me in the ribs.  "No, I'm serious.  I mean, I've always thought of myself as the motherly type."

I raised the other eyebrow.  "Really?"  Honestly this was the first I'd heard of it.  Dana had always been more of the film-opening type than the diaper-genie type.  

"Well, okay, maybe not always," she admitted, "but I can feel it ticking, you know.  The ‘biological clock,'" she said, rolling her eyes and doing air quotes.  "I have a bad feeling its alarm may go off soon."

I shook my head. "Honey, you have plenty of time."  Dana was my age.  I refused to think of any clock running out on either of us anytime soon.

But Dana shook her head.  "No.  I don't.  Not really.  I mean, even if Ricky were to pop the question today, we'd need at lesat eighteen months to plan the wedding, then we'd want to go on an extended honeymoon, and we always said we'd like to travel a little before bringing kids into the picture, so we're looking at three years down the line before I even get pregnant.  Then another nine months on top of that, and if want him to have a sibling that could be another two years before baby number two comes along and then... boom!  Too late.  Hot flash city, and I'm all barren."

I blinked at her.  "Wow.  You've really thought this through."

Dana sighed.  "Well, I've had a lot of time to think about it.  You realize that Ricky and I have been dating for almost three years now, and he's not so much as breathed a whisper of a ring."

"I'm sorry," I said, laying a hand on her arm.  "I didn't realize it's been that long."

"Well, it has."  She tickled Max under his chin, resulting in a smile full of spit bubbles.  "At this rate, I may never get one of these."

"Well, listen, you are free to borrow mine any time you like."

She smiled.  "Thanks."

"Hey, doesn't Dancing with Celebrities air on UBN?" I asked Dana, trying to steer the conversation back to more comfortable subjects than barrenness and blaring biological alarm clocks.

Dana nodded.  "Yeah.  Why?"

"Well, I just saw Felix yesterday..."

Dana raised an eyebrow at me.  "Tabloid Boy?  What's he up to."

"The usual.  He wanted to know about a schoolmate of mine who is working wardrobe for the network.  He has a source who says someone is stealing clothes."

"Ooooo, naughty.  So, what did he want you to do?  Go undercover?  Investigate?" She asked.

I frowned.  "No.  That's just it.  He just wanted to know about her character.  He didn't want me to do anything."

Dana scrunched up her nose.  "Why not?  You're like totally good at finding things out."

"I know, right?" I agreed.  "He's got Allie Quick on it instead."

Dana scrunched her forehead up to match her nose, making a face that would produce Botox-proof wrinkles if she wasn't careful.  "You're way better at investigating than Allie."

I shot her a grateful look.  "Thanks." 

"Hey, you know what?" she said.

I bit.  "What?"

"I bet Ricky could get us into wardrobe at UBN no problem."

"Really?" I asked.

"Sure.  I mean, he's there all the time.  I bet he totally has access to this Lana chick."

I sucked in the side of my cheek.  What harm would there be in just visiting the set, checking out the wardrobe department, and chatting with an old friend?   

"He wouldn't mind?" I asked.  "I mean, I don't want to cut into his rehearsal time."

Dana waved me off.  "Are you kidding?  He's usually dying for an excuse to take a break.  That Irina is a slave driver."

I pursed my lips.  In that case, it was almost irresponsible of me not to look into Felix's theft story.  I sort of even owed it to Felix to help him out, right?  I mean, I'm sure if I thought hard enough I could think of a time in the past when he'd helped me out.  At the very least, he'd bought me two pomegranate margs at lunch.  I really should return the favor. 

"An insider's view is something that Allie would never be able to get," I mused out loud, knowing that the network had a strict no-paparazzi policy.  It did not, on the other hand, have a no friends of the girlfriend of its stars policy.   

Dana nodded.  "Totally.  We'd be way inside."

I looked down at the twins gurgling a little spit bubble symphony.  "You know, if we could get them to nap in the car, maybe they'd be quiet on set after all."

Chapter Three

Only a scant forty-five minutes later I had the diaper bag packed, the bottles made, the extra outfits picked out and shoved in the bottom of my purse, baby toys, baby wipes, baby blankets, and two clean, semi happy children strapped into car seats in the back of my Honda Odyssey.

Yes, it's true.  I now drove a minivan.  With a "Baby on Board" sign suctioned to the back window.  Commence laughing at me. 

When I'd first found out I was pregnant, I'd been hesitant about the ability of my little red Jeep to hold my new precious cargo.  Sure it was awesome for buzzing around town with the top down on a sunny day, but it wasn't exactly the quintessential mom-mobile.  But when I'd found out I was not having just one, but two little bundles of joy, I knew I was going to need a new car.  I had resisted the minivan at first, looking at every four-door sedan and SUV on the market.  But the truth was, the minivan was so easy.  The doors opened on their own, the seats were big enough for two car seats plus all the baby gear, and there was even a built in TV in the back of each seat for when the kids got old enough to stare at Elmo.  So, I'd relented. Hanging my head in shame, I had bought a minivan.

But I hadn't been able to completely let go of my first baby - my Jeep.  It was still tucked away in the garage, just waiting for a time when a top-down, carefree day might come my way again.  (Even if that didn't look likely for at least another eighteen years.)

Thankfully the twins didn't mind car rides and did, in fact, sleep most of the way to the UBN Studios.  Dana gave her name to the guard at the gates, which, of course, was on the list, and we were quickly ushered into a lot to our right where we parked and pulled out the twins' huge double stroller, ever so carefully attaching their car seats to the top to keep them asleep as we transferred them.

The United Broadcasting Network was a fairly new network, cropping up on basic cable and vying for valuable Nielsen airtime with the big boys of NBC, CBS, and ABC.  They started out filling the prime-time sitcom void with fresh premises and out-of-the-box humor, then graduated to the mother lode of ratings grabbers with a string of reality shows.  They had a show about an aging rock star's crazy teenage kids, a weight loss show featuring flab to fab results of former child stars, and, of course, Dancing with Celebrities, which, thanks to featuring a Teen Mom whose fifteen minutes of fame should have ended hours ago, a nineties child star turned coke addict turned rehab advocate, and a former NFL player turned tranny, along with heart-throb Ricky, this season had launched the network into the front-runner of the ratings race.  Personally, I was addicted and voted for Ricky every week. 

The network studios themselves look shockingly like any other office building complex in Los Angeles.  Squat, stucco buildings with brown clay tiled roofs were arranged around a central courtyard with a bubbling fountain and tasteful landscaping.  Behind the offices sat a row of warehouses that housed sets for the various TV shows currently shooting.  Interspersed between the warehouses were white trailers, holding mobile wardrobe racks, props, and designer coffee drinks. Dana and I pushed the monster stroller down an alleyway lined with white trailers stopping at studio 3B, where a bright orange sign above the door proclaimed it home to Dancing With Celebrities.

Dana and I walked through the large doors that reminded me of the ones on our garage at home, immediately assaulted by the rounds of the rumba being blasted at top volume.  To our right sat a set of bleachers, empty now but ready to hold the live studio audience once shooting began on Wednesday.  To the left was a bandstand, though the rumba we currently heard was not being shouted out by a live horn section, but by speakers hidden in the ceiling somewhere.  And in the center of the room was a polished, hardwood stage, bathed in bright spotlights, where Ricky and Irina were currently rumba-ing in sparkly, sequined outfits.   Ricky's was a tuxedo style pantsuit, and Irina's a skin-tight, red dress that ended just below her butt.  Dana took one look at the barely-there skirt, and a frown settled between her brows.  Her jaw clenched.  Her lips set in a grim, tight line. 

The cameras were absent today, but a dozen guys in cargo shorts and T-shirts reading "crew" laid cables, arranged microphones, and adjusted lights, getting positions ready to capture the dance from all angles once they went live.

I watched Ricky and Irina finish their rumba, seriously impressed at Ricky's moves.  While the sweat on his forehead indicated that he was working hard to keep up with Irina, the fact that just two months ago he'd never even heard of the rumba, let alone attempted the ballroom dance, was pretty amazing.  I had a feeling he might even be in the running to win the whole competition.

The music finally ended with Ricky and Irina striking a stunning pose as he held her high off the dance floor.  As soon as he set her down, Ricky spotted us and sauntered over, pausing only long enough to grab a water bottle from the Craft Service table.   

"Hey, babe," he said, coming in to give Dana a kiss.

"Eww, you're all sweaty," she giggled, though I noticed she didn't move away as his lips hit her cheek.

"What are you ladies doing here?" he asked.

"Oh, we just thought you could use a visit," Dana replied.

He grinned at her.  "You just can't stay away, can you?" 

"Oh, you know you love the attention," she teased. 

His grinned widened as he looked past her.  "And I see you brought babies with you."

"Don't worry," I quickly reassured him. "I'm outta here if they start screaming."

Ricky waved me off.  "Who, these little guys?  I can't imagine them causing any trouble," he said.  Though, he did look slightly relieved.  "So what do you think of my rumba?" he asked, gesturing to the dance floor.

"Awesome!" I said, the fan girl in me coming out.  "Ohmigod, you and Irina are amazing together."

Dana's frown returned.

"I mean, you dance amazingly together," I quickly backpedaled. 

"Thanks," Ricky said, chugging his water.  "I swear the football workouts I did in high school were nowhere near this hard.  These dancer chicks are hard core."

As much as I was enjoying talking dance, I knew I was on borrowed time before the munchkins started screaming again.  I figured I'd better get to the point of the visit.

"Hey, do you happen to know where wardrobe is?" I asked.

Ricky shrugged.  "For which show?"

Good question.  "Actually, I'm looking for Lana Paulson.  She's head of wardrobe for the network."

Recognition dawned in Ricky's eyes.  "Sure.  She's in the big, white building at the back of the lot."

"Awesome."  I paused.  "Do you happen to know her?" I asked.

He nodded.  "She does all our costumes."

I cocked my head to the side.  "I would have thought she had assistants doing the actual costuming."

"She does," he agreed.  "For most shows.  But DWC is like the granddaddy of costume shows, you know?  She said she's waited her whole life for a gig like this."

I suddenly felt bad for her.  If she had waited her whole life, then had someone was stealing her creations and ruining that one chance, she was in trouble.

"There's a rumor going around that someone is stealing items from her," I told him.

Ricky paused a moment, biting the inside of his cheek.  "That would explain a lot."

"Explain what?" I asked, jumping on the phrase.

"Well, last week they had to shut down production for a day," he said, echoing the story Felix had told me.  "We were supposed to be doing a dress rehearsal, and Lana couldn't find  the sequined gown Shaniqua was supposed to wear for her tango."

"Shaniqua - the football player turned..." I paused, searching for the appropriately PC term.

"Turned chick," Ricky supplied for me, clearly not as concerned with PC as I was.  "She used to be Shawn Jones.  She's actually really cool.  I'd offer to introduce you, but she's rehearsing next door right now." 

"So, the gown.  It was stolen?" I asked.

He shook his head.  "No, just misplaced.  But the director was pissed.  He was shouting at Lana so loudly she was crying.  I kinda felt bad for her.  I mean, we all misplace stuff sometimes, you know?"

"So it wasn't stolen?" I asked.  I'll admit it, stolen gowns were the most excitement I'd seen in months.  I was kind of disappointed to see it slipping away as nothing more than an absentminded wardrobe woman trying to save her job.

"No.  She did eventually find it.  It was stuck in the wrong wardrobe rack.  We all just figured she forgot where she put it."

"What about the other items?" I asked m.  "Lana said there were other items missing before.  Were they ever found?"

Ricky shrugged.  "Sorry.  This the first I've heard of it.  You'd have to ask Lana, I guess."

"Who has access to the wardrobe?" I asked.

Ricky squinted past me.  "Well, it's housed in the wardrobe building overnight and locked up pretty tight.  But during the day, they bring it all on set.  Some goes in our dressing rooms, some stays in the trailer.  It's honestly all over.  Anyone could grab the gown unnoticed, really."

Which was good and bad for Felix's story.  It proved that theft was possible, but it didn't narrow down a field of suspects any.

"Ricky, Irina's ready to go over the footwork again," a guy in a black crew shirt yelled from across the room.

"Sorry.  Duty calls," he told us.  Then he gave Dana a quick peck on the cheek before running over to stand in the spotlight. Irina appeared again on set to join him, lifting her head high, elongating her dancer's neck, as she took Ricky's hands in hers, standing frozen in their first pose as they waited for the music to start.

Max stirred in his stroller, and I held my breath, hoping he kept quite long enough to watch.  I did some stroller jiggling, watching as the music started and Irina snapped to attention, concentration taut in her face as she arched her body around Ricky's.

I stole a quick glance at Dana.  Her mouth was set in a grim line again, her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched.  Poor thing.  We were only three episodes in.  She had a lot of watching her man dance with someone else ahead of her.

The rumba was over surprisingly quickly, ending in the same air-lifted pose we'd seen before.  As soon as the music stopped and Ricky placed his partner back on the ground, Irina's face broke into a frown. 

"Too slow," she said, a thick accent coloring her speech.  "We'll do it again."

Ricky sighed.  "We've done it four times."

"We'll do it until you have it right!" she snapped, then turned on heel and walked back offstage again, down a hall leading to the left.  "Re-set the music," I heard her yell as she disappeared.

Ricky turned Dana's way, sent her a grin, then rolled his eyes before grabbing his water bottle.

And in the carriage, Max started squirming and making little mewing sounds.

"I think I better go feed the animals," I reluctantly told Dana.

She nodded, her face relaxing in direct proportion to the distance now between Ricky and his hot co-star.  "Sure.  There's a lounge just behind the bleachers.  It's usually empty."

I nodded.  "You coming with?"

She shook her head.  "If you don't need me, I think I'm going to stay and watch them practice."

Which I interpreted to mean she didn't want to leave Irina and her man alone.   

"‘K.  Be back in a sec," I promised, popping the brakes up on the stroller and heading toward the lounge.

I found it easily enough, a plain, square room filed with non-descript sofas, a microwave, and a water cooler.  Again, it reminded me of an office building much more than the glamour of Hollywood.  I plopped myself down in one of the chairs, then grabbed the bottles from the diaper bag and mixed their powdery stuff with some bottled water. 

While I'd honestly tried to breast feed at first, I'd learned very quickly that with twins, that meant ninety percent of the time I had a small person attached to my chest.  Kinda made it hard to do anything but make milk.  By week two I'd felt so much like a cow that the wheat grass juice Dana drank daily was starting to look appetizing.  I'd made the wise decision to switch to pumping half time, and going formula half time.  Honestly, the twins seemed just as content with a baby bottle in their mouths, and I was way more content.  And less prone to grass cravings.

After a couple of suck downs and a quick burp on the back for each, we were once again settled into the carriage.  I pushed the little ones out onto the set, hoping to grab Dana and go track down Lana.

But as soon as I turned the corner, I realized something much bigger than wardrobe malfunctions was going on.

The stage was abandoned, grips and PA's were running in every direction shouting into their walkie-talkies.  A new addition of about half a dozen security guards were swarming the set.  And dancers in sweats and tiny T-shirts were waving their arms and shouting loudly enough that even if the twins hadn't been fat and happy at the moment, they would have been totally drowned out. 

I pushed the stroller down toward the hallway I'd seen before, craning for a glimpse of Dana or Ricky.  A group of hair and make-up people were crowded together, talking in hushed tones, shaking their heads. 

Anxiety began to rise in my gut.  Something about the scene did not feel business-as-usual.

"What's going on?" I asked a girl in an apron loaded with cosmetics.

She whirled around, eyes wide.  "They found Irina," she told me.

"Was she missing?" I asked, trying to play catch up.  Last I'd seen, she was setting to rehearse again.  How long had I been gone feeding the babies?   Twenty minutes?  Half hour tops?

The girl nodded, her sloppy bun bobbing up and down on top of her head.  "When they went to set the music again, no one could find her.  She wasn't in her dressing room, or wardrobe, or anywhere."

"But you just said they did finally find her," I reminded her, knowing there was more to the story, or else everyone would be wearing looks of relief, not the frowns of anxiety marking their faces now.

She nodded again.  "They found her in Ricky Montgomery's dressing room.  Naked."

Oh lord.  Dana was going to freak!

But what I heard next made me realize that Dana was the least of the girl's problems.

"She's..." The make-up girl paused, her face paling.  "Dead."