Undercover in High Heels by Gemma Halliday Page B

much.”
    “From what I gather, she’s not exactly popular.”
    “Have you had a chance to talk to her yet?”
    I shook my head. “No. But I’m on it this afternoon.”
    We finished our meal, topping it off with dessert (Dana’s a fat-free bran muffin, mine a chocolate-chip brownie with whipped cream) and promised to meet at the back gate after work, before Dana returned toher holding room under the shifty gaze of the assistant director.
    I took the long way around the studio, picking my way through the maze of warehouses until I found myself at the back of stage 6G. Here six portable white trailers were lined up in rows, most of them with their blinds shut tight. The first one bore the name RICKY MONTGOMERY. The next two, a generic TALENT, and the fourth MIA CARLETTO. I paused, squinting up at the windows for any indication of life inside. Nothing.
    “Mia?” I called, doing a gentle little tap, tap, tap on the door. Still nothing.
    Apparently Mia was still at lunch. But that didn’t mean that her mysterious letters were…
    I bit my lip, glancing over both shoulders. I should have walked away. I should have gone back to wardrobe, where Dusty was probably waiting for me. I should have known as I tiptoed up the two metal steps leading to the trailer’s door and gingerly turned the knob that nothing good would come of breaking into a star’s private trailer.
    I should have.
    But I didn’t.
    Instead I slowly opened the door ducked my head inside.
    “Hello? Mia?”
    The interior of the trailer was a decadent contrast to the stark outside. Red velvet material covered a plush, four-foot sofa along one wall. The blinds were not only shut, but layered with brocade curtains in deep reds and golds. The floor was covered in a thick, plum-colored rug that swallowed up the sound of my heels as I stepped into the room. This was a far cryfrom the trailer my mother had rented to drive us to the Grand Canyon when I was eight.
    To my left was a small hallway, at the end of which I could see a bedroom done in the same dark, opulent colors. To the right was a mini kitchen, complete with stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. In front of the sofa sat a coffee table, the top littered with scripts, notes, half-empty coffee cups, and a stack of mail.
    I raised one eyebrow. Fan mail?
    I took a step closer, gingerly flipping one envelope over to see the address. It was hand-written in loopy letters with little hearts dotting the Is. Bingo.
    I did another over-the-shoulder, praying Mia took a long lunch, as I quickly sifted through the pile of letters. Three from teenagers asking Mia to their prom, one from a little girl in the hospital, two marriage proposals, and one from a housewife in Milwaukee wanting to know were Mia hired her gardener. Great fuel for my celebrity addiction, but none of them threatening enough to warrant a police presence.
    I was about to concede that my snooping was just…well, snooping, when I spotted one more envelope, partially shoved under last week’s copy of Variety . I picked it up.
    The outside was a plain number ten, like the kind my phone bills came in. It was addressed to Mia Carletto, care of Sunset Studios, though I noticed it was missing a postmark. My heart sped up. Hand-delivered? There was no return address, and the top had already been neatly slit open.
    With my pulse picking up to marathon speed, I gingerly slipped my fingers inside and pulled out the note.
    Again, nothing special about the stationery: plainwhite paper, typed note. Could have come from any computer. It started, Dear Mia , but those were about the only repeatable words on the page. This guy seriously needed his mouth washed out with Ivory. He seemed to have a thing for the F-word, coupled with the B-word, with a few references to female genitalia thrown in for color.
    But as vulgar as the letter was, it was the last paragraph that made a chill run up my spine.
I’ve been watching you. I’ve been waiting for you.