Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11)

by Gemma Halliday

  "Maybe you could make an exception," I said. "We're in town with the Lord of the Throne movie project."

  His eyes widened theatrically. "Are you kidding me? Lord of the Throne?"

  Now we were getting somewhere. "You're a fan, then?"

  "Never heard of it," he admitted dryly, eyes going back to normal.

  Oh. I get it. Make fun of the Hollywood people. "The movie is based on the bestselling books," I said, trying to spark some interest.

  Irwin shrugged. "I'm not much of a reader. I prefer to spend my off time watching YouTube videos and practicing my ukulele."

  Dana and I looked at each other.

  "Well, do you like movies?" she asked.

  "Everyone likes movies." He hesitated. "Why?"

  "Listen, Irwin." She took a step closer to the desk. Irwin leaned back a little. Something told me Irwin wasn't exactly a stud with the ladies. "My friend didn't give you the whole story. We don't just work on the Lord of the Throne. I play the lead in the movie. That means I can get you tickets to the Hollywood premiere. Would that interest you?"

  "Hollywood. That's awfully far away. I'm not much a traveler."

  Dana kept her smile steady. "You might enjoy it in Hollywood. There are movie stars there and everything."

  "Will Jennifer Aniston be there?" he asked.

  "Well," she said, "no. Jennifer Aniston isn't in the movie, Irwin."

  "How about J-Lo?"

  Dana glanced at me. "No, there are no Jennifers in the movie, Irwin. Do you think you'd be interested?"

  "Depends," he said. "Is there a lot of shoot-em-up stuff in it? 'Cause I don't like excessive violence in movies."

  She smiled sweetly, showing her dimples. "There are no guns at all."

  Just medieval swords that double as murder weapons.

  "Can I bring my mother?" he asked. "She likes popcorn."

  "There's no popcorn—" Dana paused to blow out a sigh through pursed lips. "Yes, you can bring your mother, Irwin."

  "I guess that'd be okay," he said doubtfully.

  "Great!" She showed him her dimples again, plus some teeth. "All you have to do is check your computer and let us know which bungalow J.R. Ravensberg is staying in."

  He tapped a few keys, frowned, tapped a few more, frowned again. I was beginning to sense a pattern when he looked up at us. "Mr. Ravensberg has checked out."

  Dana closed her eyes, and I could practically hear her thinking a dirty word.

  I stepped up to the desk. "Can you tell us when?"

  More tapping, more frowning. "A week ago. Now I remember. He's the author, right?"

  Dana's body tensed with frustration. "Yes, Irwin," she said between clenched teeth. "He's the author."

  "He said the place was too noisy for him," Irwin said. "That he couldn't get any writing done."

  I looked over my shoulder at the community space. Empty. Maybe the ceiling fan had turned too noisily.

  "So he left Moose Haven?" Dana asked, the disappointment evident on her face.

  "No." Irwin frowned and shook his head. "No, I remember distinctly he said he wasn't going anywhere. Almost like a threat."

  "Did he relocate to the Big Moose, maybe?" I asked.

  "Oh, definitely not." Irwin said, the frown deepening. "Our guest would never downgrade like that."

  Clearly it hadn't dawned on him where we must be staying.

  "Actually," he went on, "he mentioned renting something. Quite a few of the locals rent out their cabins short term. Though, they do fill up quickly in salmon season."

  "I don't suppose he said which one he was renting?" I asked.

  "Oh, gosh." Irwin tapped his chin, thinking. "Could have been the Godfrey cabin."

  I nodded. "And where is—"

  "Or the Winthorp cabin."

  "Is either one close to—"

  "The Mellinger cabin—"

  "Thank you, Irwin," Dana said frostily. "You've been a real help."

  "Don't forget to fill out a survey. Management likes to know." He pushed one across the counter. "Thank you for visiting the Grande Moose. Have a nice time in Moose Haven. Don't forget to see the world's biggest pinecone collection!"

  "Wouldn't want to miss that," Dana muttered.

  We left the office.

  "Well, at least we know he's still in town," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  "You think I really have to send my premiere tickets now?" Dana asked, eyes cutting back over her shoulder. "For him and his mother?"

  I shrugged. "He did at least give us a start. A cabin."

  "Yeah. And apparently everyone in town has a vacant one. At least until the salmon spawn."

  "I wonder if the production noise will keep the salmon from getting frisky," I said.

  Dana gave me a look.

  "You know. Like the beavers."

  She shook her head. "This fresh air is having a detrimental effect on you."

  I was about to protest that it was probably more the dead body than the fresh air, but as I glanced up, I noticed a familiar face emerging from one of the bungalows closest to the road.

  "Isn't that Selma Frost?" I asked, pointing.

  Dana turned as Selma settled into a rocking chair on her tiny front porch with a cup of coffee in one hand and a giant wad of tissues in the other. She looked every inch the grieving widow, dressed in head-to-toe black. Though I noticed that particular black outfit was Gucci. She even grieved fashionably.

  Dana nodded. "Poor thing." She paused. "Think we should go offer her our condolences?"

  "Seems like the decent thing to do," I agreed. Even if I wasn't sure how much consolation she'd find in a virtual stranger.

  We detoured down the dirt path that strung the bungalows and the office together, and Dana waited until we were a few yards from the bungalow to call out softly, "Selma?"

  The older woman gave a start, as if we'd jolted her out of her own thoughts. She blinked, her gaze going from Dana to me, clearly trying to place us.

  "Dana Dashel," my friend offered. "I, uh, worked with your husband."

  "Yes. Of course. Pixnetta." She turned to me. "And I met you yesterday."

  "Maddie," I supplied. "We just wanted to offer our condolences on your loss."

  She blinked rapidly, as if trying to ward off tears. "Yes. Thank you. That's…that's very kind."

  "How are you holding up?" Dana asked, genuine sympathy in her gaze.

  "Well, that depends on the minute, but thank you for asking. " She dabbed at her eyes with the tissues in her hand. "Are you staying here?"

  "The cast is actually at the Big Moose. Down the street," Dana answered.

  Selma nodded. "I guess Jasper thought the accommodations were better here." She glanced around with a sniff. "Better being a relative term, I suppose."

  "It's not exactly the Beverly Wilshire, is it?" I said.

  "No," she said emphatically, though there was a hint of a smile in her tone. "But, apparently, we're all stuck here for now." She paused, eyes cutting to Dana. "I suppose that detective told you not to leave town as well?"

  "I think he told all of us," I jumped in, hoping to save Dana from being singled out on that one.

  "Well, it's just ridiculous. Why Jasper had to get himself killed in this backwater town, I have no idea." She did more eye dabbing, though I'd yet to see any moisture. "They haven't even released his…remains to me," she added. "We have a lovely plot in Woodlawn, and here he is, lying on a cold slab in Moose Haven. There's no dignity in that, I can tell you."

  We all took a moment to reflect on the indignity of the situation.

  Finally, I said, "This must be so shocking for you. We've been trying to make sense of it. Did you get the feeling that your husband was worried about anything or anyone? Did he mention anything at all to you?"

  "You're trying to make sense of it." She shook her head.

  That wasn't much of an answer. "Was he upset about anything the last time you spoke with him?"

  I thought I saw her eyes narrow sli
ghtly. "That's a strange question to be asking me."

  "What she meant was, we were just wondering if Frost had any enemies that you knew of?" Dana jumped in. "Anyone who might want to harm him. Or anyone making threats against him?

  "Threats? Certainly not." She hesitated. "Why? Did you hear something about threats?"

  She could make it to Wimbledon with that volley.

  "I haven't heard anything," Dana told her. "It was business as usual the day before he…" She let that thought trail off.

  "It was those swords," Selma said. She bit her lip and shook her head before the tissues went back to her eyes. If I was the cynical type, I'd think that gesture had been rehearsed.

  "Jasper insisted on using real swords," she went on. "Said they made it feel more authentic." Her eyes lifted to me. "That's what killed him, you know."

  "That's what the police said," I told her quietly.

  "He didn't deserve that," she said. "No one deserves that."

  While I was far from Frost's biggest fan, I was inclined to agree with her on that point.

  "The police also said he was killed around midnight last night," I said. "Do you have any idea why he'd be on the set at that time?"

  Selma twisted the tissues in her hand. "He said he wanted to watch the dailies."

  "Dailies?" I glanced to Dana for explanation.

  "What we'd filmed that day. Directors usually review them to make sure they have at least one take they like. And that there weren't any technical issues we didn't notice while filming. You know, like a boom mic in the shot or a stray Starbucks cup lingering on the set."

  I nodded. "When did your husband say he was going to check them?" I asked Selma.

  "Right after dinner. We ate at that moose restaurant."

  Which could describe any place in town, though since there was only one restaurant that served dinner, I knew she was talking about the Tipsy Moose.

  "What time was that?" I asked. It must have been after Dana and I had left, because I didn't remember seeing Frost there.

  She shook her head. "I don't know. When we got back from set, Jasper wanted to shower and change before dinner. Though, I can't imagine why he bothered. He was the only man in the place not wearing flannel."

  "It does seem to be the fashion of choice," I mumbled.

  "Anyway, I guess we finished our meal around maybe nine thirty? Ten?"

  "And your husband? Did he come back here with you or go straight to set?" I asked.

  "No, he left to watch the dailies from the restaurant. That was the last time I saw him."

  When she dabbed at her eyes again, it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't heard a single sniffle. Who cried without a sniffle? And I had yet to see a tear, despite the tissues.

  "I'm so sorry," Dana said, putting a hand on the woman's shoulder.

  "I waited up until one o'clock or so. When you've been married as long as I have, you're not entirely comfortable sleeping alone. But Jasper never came back." Her gaze shifted away to stare at nothing. "Of course, I didn't realize that right away. After all, I didn't lie awake all night. Naturally I assumed he'd come back to get some sleep and had gotten an early start in the morning. Jasper was always one hundred percent devoted to his projects. He put his heart into his work. He didn't know how to be any other way. That dedication is what made him such a great director. You'll never see another man like him."

  I certainly hoped not.

  "Did Frost tell anyone else that he was going back to set?" Dana asked.

  Selma did another eye dab. "What? What do you mean?"

  "Well, just wondering if anyone else knew he'd be in his trailer last night."

  Great question. I gave the widow my full attention as she answered.

  "I-I don't know. I mean, I guess he could have told any number of people. Several of the cast and crew were at the restaurant last night. He spoke to a few of them, but I really don't know what was said. I guess I wasn't paying that much attention."

  "Can you think of specifically whom he talked to?" I asked.

  "Who?" She frowned, two lines forming between her eyebrows. "Well, I'm not sure. There was a tall guy with dark hair—he stopped by our table. Then Jasper spoke to a couple of younger men at the bar who play those Bobbit things. That older woman who plays the warlock's wife. Doug, the prop master."

  It seemed Frost had really made the social rounds for a guy who had seemed to have disdain for everyone.

  "Oh, and I saw him speak to that Dragon girl."

  "Dragon girl?" Dana jumped in. "You mean Alia? Who plays the Dragon Queen?"

  Selma nodded. "Yes. That one. It was only for a moment when he got up to use the restroom, but I remember because she looked so different without her wig that I was trying to place her."

  "You're sure it was her," I said, my eyes cutting to Dana. "You saw Alia Altor at the Tipsy Moose last night?"

  Selma nodded. "Yes. Why?"

  Because Alia had told us she'd stayed in her room all night, that's why. I could tell from Dana's expression that she'd also recognized the contradiction as well.

  I shook my head. "No reason, really. I just wanted to ask her something, that's all."

  Like why she'd lied to us.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Why would Alia lie to us?" Dana asked, voicing my exact thoughts once we'd made our way back out onto the street. "I mean, I'd get it if she was claiming she was at the Tipsy Moose as an alibi. But why lie about not being there?"

  "Unless Selma is lying about seeing Alia," I said, playing devil's advocate.

  "Why would she do that?"

  I shrugged. There didn't seem to be much point in Selma lying about having seen Alia either. "No clue. We have two people with no real reason to lie, yet one of them clearly did."

  "Well, I'm sure if Selma really did see Alia there, someone else did too," Dana reasoned.

  "Good point." I glanced down the road to where the Tipsy Moose sat at the end of the block of mom-and-pop stores.

  "Maybe we could stop in and ask Brock if he saw Alia?" Dana looked at me, a familiar spark in her eyes. One that I had come to dread. It usually led to her acting out some Charlie's Angels fantasy role and me being some sort of accessory after the fact.

  While part of me felt like we should leave this whole thing alone and let the real investigators do the investigating, another part was still hoping I didn't have to eat the cost of a non-refundable plane ticket.

  Dana must have seen the conflict in my expression, as she pulled out her best puppy dog eyes. "We'd just be asking a couple little questions. Just to see who could possibly have had the opportunity to maybe find Frost alone on set."

  I pursed my lips. If asking a couple of innocent little questions helped clear Dana as a suspect quicker, it could go a long way toward getting me on a flight come Monday morning. "Okay, but just a couple. Then we go back to the Keatons and the hotel room."

  Dana grinned.

  I sighed.

  I was kidding myself if I thought she was going to go back to bad TV after this.

  But I followed her as we did an about-face and backtracked down Moose Tracks Boulevard toward the tavern.

  "Hey, did you notice that Selma didn't sniffle?" I asked.

  She glanced at me. "What?"

  "If you had a role that required you to cry," I said, "how would you do it?"

  "The usual. Tears, hiccups, sniffles." She paused. "Oh."

  "She had tissues in hand, but I didn't see a single tear either," I noted.

  "Maybe we're not being fair to her," Dana said. "She might have a tear duct problem."

  I rolled my eyes. "Seriously, Dana?"

  "Benefit of the doubt?" she asked with a grin.

  I chuckled. Though, as we approached the Tipsy Moose, my humor faded. A news van was parked at the corner. I didn't recognize the station call letters on its side, but it looked local.

  "That's not good," I said. "News about Jasper Frost is bound to spread fast."

  Dana nodded grim
ly. "Where there's one reporter, more will follow."

  I closed my eyes, saying a silent prayer that Ramirez would keep the TV tuned to baseball.

  We pushed into the Tipsy Moose, the scents of french fries, beer, and wood rot hitting me immediately. Apparently the "drink to the Frost" crowd had broken up and moved on already, as only a few scattered members of the cast and crew lingered, hovering near the pool table.

  Brock, the bartender from our last visit, handed us a pair of menus. While we'd already indulged in comfort cheeseburgers, Dana and I each ordered a Caesar salad—mine accompanied by a Diet Coke and Dana's an ice water with lemon.

  As Brock grabbed a couple of glasses—etched with Moose antlers—I opened with, "I noticed the news van out front."

  Brock nodded, his beard bobbing up and down on his flannel-clad chest. "Yeah." He shot a glance at Dana. "Shame about that director. Sorry."

  Dana sent him a smile. "Thanks. But we weren't close."

  "Have any reporters been in here?" I asked.

  Brock shrugged. "Hugh Marceau was in here earlier. He's from Channel 8."

  "That's a local station?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

  Luckily, Brock nodded. "Saskatoon. Hughie usually does the salmon report during spawning season, but this year he's been real keen on tracking migration in the northern provinces. Says the global warming's disrupting their patterns so much, we might be looking at a late mating season. Well, you know what that means for elk hunters." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and nodded as if we all knew what that meant. "Anyway, I ain't one for politics, but this whole climate change thing isn't gonna be good for business if polar bears really are riding down from the north pole on those broken icebergs. You know a polar bear could eat a moose in one sitting? Hugh did a report on bear skin last month—"

  "You said Hughie was in here?" I asked, hoping to cut short the zoology lesson.

  Brock blinked, taking a beat to mentally adjust to the subject change. "Yeah. Sure. He was talking to a couple of those electrician guys."

  "Grips," Dana supplied automatically.