Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “Well, I don’t know about that-”

  “Oh, honey, don’t be so modest. You single handedly solved two murders.”

  I bit my lip, refraining from mentioning I’d actually suspected the wrong blonde. “Well, I got lucky.”

  “I’ll say. Honey, you could have been killed.”

  I looked down at the bandage on my arm. Like I needed a reminder.

  “Well, I didn’t. I’m fine.”

  “For now. But what about next time?”

  “Next time?” I’m sorry, but I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to come face to face with another gun wielding psycho. “Trust me, I’m a one trick pony. There will be no next time.”

  “How can you be sure? Maddie, this is a wake-up call. Crazies are everywhere!”

  I rolled my eyes at the phone. “I’m fine, Dana.”

  “This guy at the gym does these self defense classes for women. We should totally sign up. He has one starting next week called Urban Combat for the Modern Woman. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m hanging up now, Dana.”

  “Well, what about carrying a gun for protection? Or pepper spray. At least think about getting some pepper spray.”

  I rolled my eyes so far I think I saw blonde roots. “Goodbye, Dana.” I hit the end button, leaving my best friend making a shopping list of deadly weapons.

  Crossing my fingers they were in a good mood, I dialed the next number on my call back list, Tot Trots. I explained the situation and asked for an extension on the Strawberry Shortcake designs. They weren’t too thrilled with one of their employees being affiliated with embezzlement and murder, but they agreed to give me until the end of July. Next I called Marco back and promised to come in for a long pedi soak and gossip session tomorrow. Then I called Mrs. Rosenblatt and promised to let her do an aura cleansing for me next week.

  Then I didn’t have any other calls to make except for the one I’d been dreading since I saw Richard sitting on my futon last night.

  I made another cup of coffee.

  I scrolled through my speed dial numbers. Ramirez’s was right next to Richard’s. God, I hated decisions. I closed my eyes and did a little eeny meeny miny mo. I didn’t like the outcome, so I did it again. I took a deep breath and dialed.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Hi, it’s Maddie. Listen, do you want to meet for a drink tonight? Say, seven at Casa Maderda on Wilshire?”

  I could hear the eagerness in his voice. “I can’t wait.”

  I admit, as I hung up I was eager too. For the first time in days, I knew I had the right answer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I threw on a black, silky dress with a high neckline, high hem, and low back. I put on my Gucci two-inch heels, black mascara, and fire engine red lipstick. After giving my hair a good mousse and blow dry, I think I was looking damn sexy. Which was good. Because I needed all the confidence I could get if I was really going to do this.

  I jumped in my Jeep and took the PCH up to Wilshire. The only parking spot I could find was two blocks down from the restaurant so I used the short walk to summon up my nerve. Butterflies were doing the mambo in my belly, but I told myself this was what I really wanted.

  I spied him as soon as I walked in the doors. Sitting at the bar with his back to the door. I took a deep breath and held my chin up high as I made my way toward him.

  He must have sensed my presence as he turned around just as I approached. His face breaking into a slow grin as he took in my outfit. I had the briefest moment of doubt at his appreciative stare, but it was all washed away as he leaned in and planted a kiss on my cheek with a, “You look gorgeous, pumpkin.”

  Pumpkin. Ugh. I forced a smile back. “Hi, Richard.”

  “Can I order you a drink?” he asked, as I slid onto the stool beside him.

  “Uh…” I looked down at Richard’s scotch and soda. “Just a Diet Coke, thanks.”

  He signaled the waiter, who quickly deposited the cool drink in front of me. I took a long sip, hoping to settle the over active butterflies.

  “Maddie, I’m so glad you called,” he said, taking my hand in his.

  I took a deep breath. “Listen, Richard, I’ve thought about what you said last night.”

  “You have? I’m really glad to hear that. Because while I was in prison I had a lot of time to think about us and-”

  “Richard it’s over.”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “Us. It’s over.” I let out a long breath. Wow, it felt good to say that.

  “But, I…” Richard trailed off, his eyes pleading with me. “I thought we had a good thing, pumpkin. What happened?”

  I snorted. “What happened? You lied to me about everything, Richard.”

  “But I thought you understood why.” His perfectly waxed eyebrows drew together in confusion.

  “I understand that when things got rough, you lied, cheated, stole and then ran off. You’re weak, Richard. And I’m way too strong to be sucked down by a guy like you. I can hold my own, but I can’t hold us both up. I’m sorry.”

  I downed the rest of my Diet Coke in one gulp as Richard sputtered beside me. I took his bewildered face in both my hands and deposited a quick kiss on his cheek. “Good luck, Richard. I hope you don’t go back to prison.”

  With that, I collected my purse and walked as quickly as I could through the restaurant and out the front door. I knew he was watching as I left, but I didn’t even feel his eyes on me. All I felt was an enormous sense of freedom.

  As soon as I got out the door I flipped my cell phone open and hit the speed dial. Ramirez answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

  He paused. “Why?”

  I grinned from ear to ear. “‘Cause I’d like to cash in that rain check.”

  I felt him smile through the phone and could almost see that sexy dimple denting his cheek. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

  Heat wrapped around my spine, clear down to my panties. Which were so not grannies tonight. “There’s one thing I have to do first. Meet me at my place in half an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  I almost ran the rest of the way back to my Jeep. I hopped back on the PCH, pulling off at Pico for a quick duck into Rite Aid before heading home. I bought a new EPT. And this time I made sure it had a splashguard and an expiration date that was eighteen months into the future. I was determined to conquer the test this time.

  As soon as I got home I took it into the bathroom, carefully leaving my Diet Coke in the kitchen this time. Then I sat down on my futon, trying not to look at the clock as I waited out the three minutes. You’d think I was a pro at this by now, but it was honestly the longest three minutes of my life. I chewed on a stubby nail. Rearranged my drawing pencils. Paced back and forth the four steps from one end of my living room to the next about fifteen times.

  Then I heard a knock at the door. I looked up at the clock. Two minutes fifty-five seconds.

  “Just a second,” I called. I closed my eyes. I counted to five. Then looked down at the readout.

  One line. Negative.

  I let out a long breath, feeling something like a mix of disappointment and relief. Okay maybe just a little higher on the relief side. I glanced down at my belly. Maybe someday. But, tonight I had other plans…

  I quickly threw the test in the wastebasket under the sink and opened the door.

  Ramirez leaned against the doorframe, dressed in his usual black T-shirt and worn jeans. The panther flirted with me from beneath the hem of his sleeve and his dark eyes swept me from head to toe.

  There went that panty heat again.

  “Hi,” I said, trying for sexy seductress but falling closer to Minnie Mouse territory again. “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you up last night. I wanted to, but everything was just too confusing, and I didn’t know where things stood with Richard, or what to do about the pregnancy t
ests, which just kept breaking, but I got a new one, and I just took it and it’s-”

  Ramirez silenced me with his finger on my lips. “Enough talk,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

  And this time he did kiss me. Oh boy did he kiss me.

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Gemma Halliday is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, and the Deadly Cool series of young adult books, as well as several other works. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com

  Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:

  http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor

  * * * * *

  OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  High Heels Mysteries:

  Spying in High Heels

  Killer in High Heels

  Undercover in High Heels

  Alibi in High Heels

  Mayhem in High Heels

  Fearless in High Heels

  Christmas in High Heels (short story)

  Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

  Hollywood Scandals

  Hollywood Secrets

  Hollywood Confessions

  Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:

  Play Nice

  Young Adult Books:

  Deadly Cool

  Social Suicide

  Other Works:

  Viva Las Vegas

  A High Heels Haunting (novella)

  Watching You (short story)

  Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the next High Heels Mystery

  by Gemma Halliday:

  KILLER

  IN

  HIGH HEELS

  Chapter One

  There are two things in life I hate more than getting shot at. Number one: Birkenstocks, one shoe I am proud to say I did NOT design. And number two: sit ups. The torture routine my best friend, Dana, was currently making me perform on the floor of the Sunset Gym.

  “Come on, two more, you can do it!”

  I grunted, giving my personal cheerleader the evil eye as I struggled to a sitting position.

  “I (pant) can’t (pant) do it.” My stomach muscles started to shake and I could feel an unattractive bead of sweat trailing from my blonde roots down to the tip of my chin.

  “Come on, Maddie. I know you’ve got two more in you. Think of how good you’ll look in a bikini this summer.”

  “I’ll buy a one-piece,” I grunted.

  “Think of how great you’ll feel knowing you did something good for your body.”

  I raised one eyebrow, giving her my best ‘get real’ look.

  “Okay, think of this,” Dana said, a light bulb moment flashing in her blue eyes. “Think of how bad Ramirez will want you when he sees your ripped abs.”

  That did it. With one really unladylike grunt I clenched my teeth together and hauled myself into a sitting position.

  “Woohoo! I knew you could do it!” Dana stood up and did an end zone worthy victory dance on my behalf. Dana was a 5’7”, 36 double D, strawberry blonde aerobics instructor slash wanna-be actress with the kind of body that inspired rock songs. I don’t need to add that every male head in the gym suddenly turned our way.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I needed that.”

  “No prob. What are friends for?”

  “But you do realize you violated The Oath.”

  Dana bit her lip, getting a guilty look on her face.

  The Oath was the vow I had made all of my friends and family take to never mention the name ‘Ramirez’ to me again. Last summer Detective Jack Ramirez, or as Dana had dubbed him, The Panty Melter, showed up at my apartment with a pocket full of condoms. He kissed me. I kissed him. There was a mad frenzy of clothing falling to the floor. We were one Vicky’s push-up bra and a pair of Hanes-Her-Way from the bedroom… when his pager went off.

  He left me with a platonic kiss on the forehead and a promise to call me the next day. Yeah right. Two weeks later I got a message on my machine. “Sorry, been busy. Work. Gotta go. Call you later.” And not a peep since.

  Men.

  Then again what did I really expect? Jack Ramirez was a cop with a big gun, a big tattoo, and a big… well let’s just say his BVD’s didn’t hide much that night. So, I shouldn’t really be surprised he wasn’t turning out to be Mr. Cleaver material. I had to admit, though, Ramirez was still an improvement over my last boyfriend, Richard, who ended up getting arrested for conspiracy and embezzlement.

  Do I know how to pick em’ or what?

  “Sorry,” Dana said, “but you had to finish the set. Honey, you’re doing so good.”

  Actually, I kind of was. When The Name that Shall Not Be Spoken did his disappearing act last July I did what any other normal, rational, single woman would do when being completely ignored by the object of her affection. I junk food binged. Oh, mama, did I binge. Cheetos, pizza, Oreos, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey by the bucketful and Keebler fudge cookies in every size, shape and variety. Dana finally did a chocolate chip intervention, pointing out that if I didn’t cut it out soon I would a) have permanent cheese doodle stains on my fingers, b) not be able to fit into my favorite black Nicole Miller dress, and c) qualify as an official member of the Pathetic Losers of America club. She was right. My Miller was a little snug. Which is why I didn’t even protest (much) when she dragged me to the gym and forced me to perform the modern equivalent of medieval torture. Sit ups.

  I flopped back onto the blue gym mats, breathing heavily. “Please tell me we’re done?”

  Dana (who, by the way, hadn’t even broken a sweat yet despite the fact we’d been here nearly an hour) put her hands on her hips. “But we haven’t even worked your glutes yet.”

  “If I promise to have lettuce for dinner, can I skip the glutes?” I pleaded. Even though I was actually dreaming of lettuce sandwiched between a sesame seed bun and a quarter pound beef patty.

  Dana let a little frown settle between her strawberry blonde brows. But, since she was such a good friend (and I was still panting like a Doberman) she let me off the hook. “Fine. But I expect to see you back here on Saturday ready to do some lunges and squats.”

  “Aye, aye captain.”

  Taking pity on me, Dana helped me up as I dragged my sweaty behind to the locker room.

  “So,” she asked, “any big plans tonight?”

  Considering it was Friday night and the only action I’d gotten in months was from a battery powered rabbit, the answer to that one was a no brainer. “Nope. Why?”

  “I’ve got a Pilates class at five, but I was going to go shopping after that. Wanna come with?”

  Does a bear go poo poo in the woods? “I’m there.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I pulled my little red Jeep up to my second story studio in Santa Monica. Two blocks away from the beach, my apartment was my little piece of heaven. And I do mean little. A fold out futon, a drawing table, and three dozen pairs of shoes had the place at max capacity. I let myself in and even though the half eaten bag of Chips Ahoy was calling to me from the back of my cupboard, I resisted, popping the top on a can of Diet Coke instead while I played my messages.

  The first one was from Blockbuster. “The Sex and the City DVD you ordered came in,” a bored sounding teenager informed me. “The computer also shows that you have out Pretty Woman, When Harry met Sally, and…” she paused. And might have even done a little laugh slash cough thing. “…Joanie Loves Chachi, the complete set.”

  Yes, this is what life without a man has driven me to.

  I hit the delete button.

  The next messa
ge clicked on.

  “Hi, this is Felix Dunn with The L.A. Informer. We’re doing a follow up story to your ordeal last summer. I’d like to schedule a time to interview you about-”

  Beep. Delete.

  Ever since my ex-boyfriend, Richard’s, very public arrest, which at one time had included a charge of murder, the press had hijacked my phone number. Okay, I’ll admit there had been a little stabbing incident involving me, a homicidal ex-mistress, her popped breast implant and a stiletto heel in the jugular, which had somehow captured the imagination of the media. I’d been featured no less than three times on the cover of the L.A. Informer since then. Twice with my head superimposed over the body of a slasher movie heroine and once as the bride of Bigfoot. Hmmm… maybe that’s why Ramirez hadn’t called.

  The machine clicked over to the next message.

  “Hi honey, it’s Mom. Guess what? Ralph finally got our Hawaii pictures printed! You must come see them. They are fabu! Call me!”

  Mom had recently come back from an extended Hawaiian honeymoon with husband number two, Ralph. Or, as I liked to call him, Faux Dad. My real dad having run off to Las Vegas with a showgirl named Lola when I was only three. All I remember of Real Dad is a hand, connected to a slightly more hairy than normal arm, waving goodbye out the driver’s side window of his ’74 El Camino. Needless to say, Faux Dad and I had bonded right away. (And it didn’t hurt that he ran one of Beverly Hills most exclusive salons and offered me all the free manicures I wanted, either.)

  The machine clicked and the mechanical voice proclaimed, “End of messages.”

  Sigh. No Ramirez. No Brad Pitt. No handsome stranger who saw me in line at Starbucks and looked up my number on the internet.