10 Suspect in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  She saw Clown Lady and a Bradley Cooper look-alike. I hated to say it, but this was far from a smoking gun. Still, it was something…

  "Don't worry," I reassured her. "I'm sure we'll find out who really killed Carrington."

  I only wished I was as confident as I sounded.

  * * *

  I left Mom in the care of Marco and Faux Dad and dialed Ramirez as I jumped back into my car. While Mom's info had been sparse, it was something.

  "Ramirez," he answered on the third ring, obviously not checking the display.

  "Hey, it's me," I said.

  "Hey," he replied, his voice softer. "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah. I was just with Mom."

  He sighed. "How is she?"

  "Been better." I paused. "Laurel and Hardy were here. They gave her quite a scare."

  "Yeah, they scare me too," he mumbled. Though I knew that was for different reasons. "She okay?"

  "She'll be fine," I said, hoping that was the truth. "I was wondering—have you seen the security camera footage from the Antiques Extravaganza?"

  "Not yet. But, as you know, there were no cameras in the room where Carrington was found."

  "Mom said she left her purse alone for just a minute while she grabbed some napkins in the food court. That must have been when the killer took the pin from Mom's purse."

  "Okay. It's possible," Ramirez agreed on the other end.

  "If they had cameras in the food court, maybe we could see who took it."

  "I can check," Ramirez promised. "But from what I was told, the cameras were pretty strategically placed near the larger ticket items at the show. I doubt any were trained on the pretzel carts."

  I felt my small hope bubble sink unceremoniously to the ground. "But it's worth a try?"

  "I'll see what I can find," Ramirez promised. Though I had a feeling he already knew that the answer would be not much.

  "Thanks," I told him.

  "Hey, I gotta go. Love you," he said.

  "Me too," I managed to get out before he hung up.

  I stared down at my phone. If the security cameras were a bust, maybe I could get my hands on another camera that had been at the show that day. And I just happened to know one.

  Cameron Dakota, the L.A. Informer paparazzo who had been popping off celebrity photos at the show.

  I pulled up the number for the editor in chief of the tabloid, hesitating only briefly before dialing. To say Felix Dunn and I had a complicated history would be an understatement. At one point he'd been stalking me (for a story), and I'd punched him in the nose (for said stalking), and he'd kissed me, and I might have even kissed him back a little. In my defense, we'd been in a castle in England, and the romance had kind of swept me away. And, well, I might have had a few romantic feelings to begin with. Felix had a way of growing on people. Kind of like a fungus. In the end, I'd married Ramirez, Felix had started dating a reporter on his staff, and we'd found a way to peacefully coexist. Mostly by staying out of each other's lives.

  I pushed the Call button and put it on speaker as I listened to the phone ring.

  "Felix Dunn" came the response, in a deep British accent that immediately took me back in time to our complicated phase.

  I cleared my throat. "Hey. It's, uh, Maddie."

  The line went silent for a moment. "Maddie, what a surprise. How are you?"

  "I've been better," I told him honestly.

  "Oh?" His tone held sudden concern.

  "Listen, long story short, Mom and I were at the Antiques Extravaganza when that appraiser, Carrington, was killed." I quickly filled him in about Mom's unfortunate hatpin incident.

  "And the police think she did it?" he asked when I was finished.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "What about Ramirez?" he asked, his voice catching just a little on my husband's name.

  "He's off the case."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thanks." I paused. "But I'm not calling for sympathy. I, uh, need a favor."

  "What sort of favor?" he asked.

  "Cameron Dakota was at the show, right?"

  "Yes," Felix responded slowly. I knew he protected his stories and sources like a mama bear protected her cubs. "Why?"

  "I was just wondering if she might have caught any footage of the food court."

  "Food court?" He sounded confused.

  I quickly explained my theory that it was the only time someone could have taken the hatpin. "I was hoping she might have gotten a picture of someone near Mom at the time?" I didn't add that so far all I had were Bradley Cooper and clowns.

  "I honestly couldn't tell you," he said. "She printed a few with her story last night, but I didn't see her entire roll."

  "Would you mind if I took a look at it?"

  "Be my guest," he agreed. "But Cam's out in the field right now. I can text you the address."

  "Thanks," I said, finally feeling something go right today. "I owe you one."

  "Be careful, Maddie," he said, his tone only half joking. "I may take you up on that someday."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My GPS took me to the address Felix had given me, a sprawling house in Bel Air. The gated estate looked locked up tight, and there was no sign of Cameron or any other paparazzi outside. I drove past, noticing a construction site next door, where some lucky millionaire was getting a fully renovated mansion, and a couple more gated estates past that. I turned around in the cul-de-sac and drove past again, searching for any sign of Cam. Finally I parked on the street near the home under construction and got out, surveying the area on foot.

  I was just about to give up and decide Felix had the wrong address, when I heard a female voice hail me from the foliage to my right.

  "Psst. Maddie!"

  I spun to find a construction worker peeking out from behind a row of Eucalyptus trees, a bright yellow helmet and orange reflective vest glinting in the sunlight.

  "Cam?" I asked, moving toward the figure.

  She lifted her hat as I approached and gave me a wide smile. "Felix told me you were on your way over."

  "What's with the outfit?"

  "I'm on a stakeout." I noticed she had a roll of papers tucked under her arm, her phone in one hand, and another hard hat in the other. She shoved the second yellow plastic helmet toward me. "Here. Put this on."

  Vision of hat head danced before my eyes. "Uh, I'm good. I think I'll just—"

  But Cam didn't wait for me to finish, unceremoniously placing it on my head. Which, considering she towered over me by a good six inches, was not a difficult feat for her. "I swiped it from the site manager's trailer. We're undercover. Walk with me."

  Given little choice, I did, following her through the trees to the construction site. "Just keep your head down and don't make eye contact with anyone."

  I nodded. "Okay. What are we doing here?"

  "See that place?" She pointed toward the gated estate that had been the address Felix had provided.

  "Yeah?"

  "Brad Pitt is staying there."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Looking to catch a candid shot?"

  She nodded. "Yeah, especially since the house belongs to Jennifer Aniston."

  "You think he's with her?" I had to admit, my inner tabloid reader perked up.

  Cam's face broke into what could only be described as a giddy smile. "God, I hope so."

  She led the way toward a pile of lumber and set the papers down, unrolling them to reveal a set of construction blueprints. She frowned, holding them up in the direction of the Aniston Love Shack, a look of concentration on her face.

  "What are those?" I asked.

  "Prop. They're of my aunt's condo in Manhattan Beach."

  I stifled a laugh. "Nice."

  "Hey, it's worked so far. I've been frowning at these blueprints for a couple hours now. No one wants to know why, or who might have screwed up, so they all leave me alone."

  "Smart."

  "Thanks." She paused, squinting at the windows of the house. A figure pass
ed by one but disappeared just as quickly. "So Felix said you needed to see some pictures?"

  I nodded under my heavy hat. "You were at the Antiques Extravaganza, right?"

  Cam nodded. "I was. Who knew a puff piece on Charlize Theron's antique obsession was going to turn into a murder case?" Though, she didn't look entirely upset about it.

  "That's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about." I gave her a brief rundown of my mom's involvement—or noninvolvement—in said murder and how someone must have taken the murder weapon from her purse at the food court.

  "That's a short window of time," Cam said, eyes still on the house.

  I nodded. "I know. But someone must have been watching my mom and waiting for the opportunity to grab the hatpin. I was hoping maybe I could take a look at the photos you shot at the Extravaganza to see if you might have caught anything useful from around that time?"

  Cam gave me a sympathetic look. I was getting used to those these days.

  "Sorry, but I don't think I shot anything at the food court. I was mostly on the convention floor, but you're welcome to look through the footage. It's all still on my camera."

  She handed it to me, juggling the blueprints to pass it along.

  "Just, keep the shutter open," she warned. "If I spot Pitt, I'm gonna need to catch him quickly."

  I nodded. "Fair enough."

  As Cam kept her eyes on the house next door, I pulled up the recent shots, scrolling through what seemed like hundreds of pictures taken in rapid succession of various parts of the convention center. Clearly Cam had wanted to have a few to choose from. The most recent were of the aftermath of the murder—CSI swarming, police corralling antiquers into tidy lines, EMTs huddled over Carrington's body. It was like watching the event unfold in reverse as I scrolled backward through shots. Unsettling at best, but nothing jumped out at me as particularly helpful to Mom's case.

  Finally I found a shot of Carrington alive, which meant we were close to the timeline I was looking for.

  Unfortunately, as Cam had said, nothing in her footage was near the food court. Shots of the line leading to Carrington, one photo of him with the Clown Lady as she shoved her jewel-buttoned toy in his direction. Lots of Charlize.

  I was about to give up and hand the camera back, when something in the corner of one photo caught my eye. It was a picture of Carrington's line, but while the focus of the photos were the antiquers, I spied a figure just to the right, clad in all black, complete with a black pixie cut and pointy toed boots. Just like I'd seen his business partner wearing.

  The business partner who said she hadn't been there.

  "This woman," I said, showing her to Cam. "Do you have any more pictures of her?"

  Cam took her eyes off the Love Shack long enough to study the figure, who, honestly, barely filled the corner of the frame, her face cut off. Cam shook her head slowly. "Sorry. I'm not sure. Who is she?"

  "I'd bet money it's Carrington's business partner."

  Cam gave me a blank look, like she was waiting for the punch line.

  "I just talked to her yesterday, and she swore she wasn't at the Extravaganza."

  Cam raised an eyebrow my way. "Well, that sounds suspicious, doesn't it?"

  I grinned. "Very."

  Cam took the camera from me and scrolled through a few photos. "If I had any more of that area, they'd be in this sequence." She paused, glancing at the Love Shack. "Keep an eye out for Pitt, would you?"

  I nodded, keeping my gaze on the house as Cam scrolled. Well, mostly on the house. I couldn't help a little glance over her shoulder every now and then. Finally she straightened up and held the camera out toward me with a triumphant smirk. "Bingo."

  I looked down at the view window. Carrington was behind his table, crouching down in a defensive position as my mom swung her purse toward his head. I cringed, but my embarrassment was short lived as I noticed the woman standing behind Carrington. At the time my attention had been focused on keeping Mom from beating the appraiser to death, but now I clearly saw Allison Cash just to the right of the commotion, her face front and center. There was no mistake about it. She had been there when Carrington was killed.

  So why had she lied about it?

  * * *

  I left Cam frowning at her aunt's bathroom plumbing configurations as she waited for a Pitt/Aniston sighting, and jumped into my car. Before taking off, I pulled out my cell and dialed the number for Allison Cash's antique shop.

  "Yesterday's Treasures. This is Mina. May I help you?"

  "Hi, Mina. This is Maddie Springer," I said. "I was in your shop yesterday morning with the vintage Chanel heels."

  "Right," Mina said. "I remember you. Did you change your mind about selling?"

  "Uh, maybe," I hedged. "I was hoping to speak with Allison. Is she available?"

  "I'm sorry, but she's not here right now."

  "Can you tell me when she'll be in?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure." Mina paused, as if unsure if she should share more. "She, uh, called in this morning saying she'd be out all day."

  "Did she say why?" I pressed.

  "Not exactly. But I think maybe Mr. Carrington's passing hit her pretty hard. I mean, they were close."

  I jumped on the word. "Close? As in, they had a relationship?"

  "Oh, no, nothing like that," Mina quickly backpedaled. "I just mean, they worked closely, you know? And, well, his death was so sudden. I think she just needs some personal time."

  "Right," I said, only slightly deflated.

  "I'm sure she'll be back in tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow," I repeated. With the police hounding my mom, it sounded a million years away. I only hoped we had until tomorrow.

  "Was there something maybe I could help you with?" Mina asked.

  I shook my head in the empty interior of my car. "No. Thanks. But if you talk to Allison again, can you have her call me?" I left Mina with my number and thanked her before hanging up.

  Allison had seemed anything but distraught yesterday over her partner's death. While it was possible emotion had hit her all at once today, it was also just as possible her sudden need for alone time was born out of guilt rather than grief.

  Thinking of Dana's long-shot idea, I grabbed my phone and typed Van Steinberg's Auction House into my maps app. I still had my Chanel heels tucked away in my trunk, which felt like as good an excuse as any to visit them. If something had gone bad between the partners, I crossed my fingers that someone at the auction house knew something about it.

  I pulled away from the curb and headed toward the freeway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Two freeways, one overturned Prius, and forty-five minutes later I arrived at a large building in Century City. It was done in an ornate Mission Revival Style, with pale taupe stucco walls, adobe inspired arches and colonnades, and intricately carved dormers and niches. A small parking lot sat in the back and, thankfully, was largely empty at the moment. I slid into a spot near the entrance, grabbed my shoebox from the back, and made my way inside.

  While the styling was nineteenth century, the plush carpeting, cool air conditioning, and bright LED lighting said the amenities were all modern. The air held the same reverence and loftiness I'd associate with a museum, and I instinctually felt myself wanting to use my indoor voice as I approached a large walnut reception desk.

  "May I help you?" asked the woman in glasses behind the desk.

  "Yes. I was hoping to speak to someone about putting these vintage shoes in an auction?" I said, phrasing it as a question. To be honest, all the auction experience I had was on eBay. This was a little out of my league, and I wasn't sure what to expect.

  She sent me a pleasant smile. "First time here?"

  I nodded.

  "Let me get Mr. Van Steinberg. He can give you a better idea about if we're the right place for your item." While it was said in the same pleasant voice, I suddenly felt like my shoes were under scrutiny, and I hoped they'd pass muster.

  I waited a beat while the wo
man disappeared into a back office, and a moment later she emerged with an older man in an impeccably tailored suit with strategic creases in all the right places. His face was tanned, his white goatee trimmed neatly, and as he offered his hand in greeting, I noticed his nails were perfectly manicured. He seemed the type that crumbs wouldn't dare adhere to. I self-consciously brushed at my own skirt, hoping it didn't hold any lingering goldfish dust.

  "Richard Van Steinberg," he told me, shaking my hand. "You have an item you'd like to auction?"

  "Maddie Springer," I offered. "And yes. I was hoping to learn a little bit more about my vintage shoes. Chanel." I patted the box and smiled. "And maybe put them up for auction."

  "Please step into my office, and we'll have a look at them." He gestured to the back, and I followed his lead, coming into a large room that looked like a Victorian library straight off the Downton Abby set. High backed chairs, tufted loveseat, carved wooden bookcases filled with leather volumes and stained glass lamps, and a variety of oil paintings on the walls. Richard stood behind a walnut desk that looked like the granddaddy of the one in the reception room, and he indicated a pair of leather chairs in front for me before taking his seat.

  I sat and slid the box across the desk. He opened it slowly, with the appropriate reverences the items deserved, and removed one pump. "These are in very nice condition," he said, giving me an approving look. "Looks like a '62 or '63. Kitten heel, sling-back." He looked up at me. "Any idea what you're looking to get out of them?"

  "Honestly, I'm not sure," I admitted. "I took them to the Antiques Extravaganza to get an idea what they were worth, but I never got a chance to get them appraised."

  At the mention of the show, Van Steinberg's face darkened. "Yes. Nasty business, that."

  "Were you at the show?"

  He nodded. "Briefly. We tend to get an influx of people wanting to sell their items at auction after a show like that comes through town."

  "Having found out how much Grandma's ugly pottery is really worth," I surmised.

  He gave me a wry smile. "Exactly. I like to browse the show ahead of time and see if anything really stunning makes an appearance." He frowned. "Only, I didn't get much of a chance this time."