Deadly in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  My husband, Detective Jack Ramirez, was a member of the LAPD homicide division. He had a big gun, a big tattoo of a panther on his left bicep, and a thin white scar running through his eyebrow from a long-ago fight. His dark hair was just a little too long, his dark eyes could pierce a confession right out of a perp, and I'm pretty sure he could bench press me. While I was as girly a girl as you'd ever want to meet, my husband was a man's man to the core. Which is why I had just a teeny tiniest bit of trepidation about leaving him alone with the kids for a whole week. A carjacker in Inglewood, I'm sure my husband could take care of without a second thought. A pair of sticky-fingered, sippy-cup toting, terrible almost-twos? That I had my doubts about.

  "Did my mom stop by to take the Livvie to Gymboree?"

  "Yes," he answered.

  "And your mom dropped off Max's buggy bear?"

  "Yes."

  "And Livvie got her ear infection drops?"

  "In both ears."

  "And Max has had his—"

  "Why do I get the feeling that you don't trust me?" Ramirez cut me off.

  I thought about lying for a second, but I knew my husband would be able to sniff that out in a heartbeat. "Because I don't."

  Ramirez laughed on the other end. "We'll be fine. We've got a case of Pull-Ups, we're stocked on string cheese, and I've got nothing to do but watch Elmo for the next seven days. Trust me. I got this."

  I bit my lip, holding back the rest of the interrogation I'd had planned. Hey, if he said he had this, I had to trust him, right? I mean, what was the worst that could happen?

  I decided not to dwell on that thought as I told him to give my love to the kids and that I missed them all. Then I hung up, grabbed my purse, and made for the door. I was in paradise, my husband said he had everything under control at home, and those mai tais were calling my name.

  *

  The air was just starting to turn warm by the time I awoke the next morning. I rolled over on my side to look at the alarm clock. 7 AM. Normally I wasn't what you would call a morning person, but I was still on California time. I closed my eyes, pulled the blankets over my head, and tried to tell myself there was no reason to be up at dawn. Ten minutes later I decided it was useless.

  I pulled myself out of bed and contemplated joining Dana downstairs in the gym. For about half a second. My feelings on going to the gym were about what they were on wearing Crocs—if a gun was to my head, I'd do it. But no way would I like it.

  However as a concession to last night's drinks (not to mention the pineapple teriyaki pork kebabs and the chocolate lava cake that went with them) I decided swimming a few laps in the pool might not be a terrible idea. I slipped into my new purple one-piece with turquoise hibiscus flowers along the front and tossed on a white-cover up round my hips. In lieu of heels, I grabbed a pair of wedge sandals in a white wicker that would be moisture resistant and made my way to the elevators.

  At this time of morning, the pool area was largely deserted, the lingering scents of sunscreen in the air only hinting at what the day ahead would bring. In fact it looked as though there was only one other patron at the pool this morning, lying on a chaise lounge a few feet away.

  I immediately recognized the long legs and pale silver-blonde hair of Miss Montana. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes, her head lulling to the side under a big floppy hat as if she'd dozed off.

  I looked up at the sun. Even this early in the morning it was already starting to get warm, and I could easily imagine Miss Montana's pale limbs turning an unsightly pink if she snoozed too long.

  I wondered if I should wake her. Being of Irish decent myself, I knew how quickly fair skin could burn in the harsh sun. That was the last thing a beauty queen wanted before going on stage. There were many flaws that one could hide with makeup, but a deep sunburn was a toughie. I paused, contemplating the cool water or the burning queen. In the end my own fair skin wouldn't let me walk away, and I made for Miss Montana.

  "Excuse me?" I called quietly, not wanting to startle her awake. "Did you put on sunscreen?"

  Only the girl didn't answer.

  I reached out to gently shake her shoulder, but instead of rousing her, the movement served to jar her sunglasses to the ground.

  And that's when I realized something was wrong.

  I blinked, my pre-coffee brain slow to register what I saw as I looked into the wide, unseeing stare of Miss Montana's glazed-over eyes.

  This beauty queen wasn't sleeping. Miss Montana was dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Name?"

  "Maddison Louise Springer."

  "Place of residence?"

  "Los Angeles, California."

  A pair of bushy eyebrows puckered down suspiciously in the weathered face of the homicide detective before me. "You're from the mainland?"

  Considering I had already told the two uniformed officers who'd arrived first on the scene that I was a patron of the hotel, I thought that was rather clear. However I nodded. "Yes, I'm here with the Miss Hawaiian Paradise pageant."

  "You're one of the contestants?" he asked. I could hear the skepticism in his voice.

  I pulled my cover-up a little closer around myself. Maybe I wasn't in the same model-material league as Miss Hawaiian Paradise hopefuls, but I didn't like the insinuation that it was completely outside the realm of possibility that I might be a contestant. "No," I conceded. "I'm designing the shoes for the pageant."

  A hint of a grin tugged at his thin lips. He was a tall guy, slim, about sixty with skin that looked like it had seen the sun every single one of those days. His face and his arms, exposed from the elbow down beneath his tropical printed shirt, were generously freckled, and the network of lines along his face took more twists and turns than the Hana Highway. He'd introduced himself as Detective Kalanihankuhihuliha. Which, at first I thought was one of those "say that five times fast" jokes, but he was deadpan about it.

  "So you knew the deceased?" he asked, nodding toward the pool, where a team of crime scene techs were busy taking pictures and bagging items. I averted my eyes. When the ME had arrived on scene and taken off Miss Montana's big, floppy hat, I'd gotten more than an eyeful of the poor girl. The hat had been covering a bloody gash at the back of her head which, if I had to guess, had contributed to her current state.

  "I knew of her," I clarified for the detective. Having just arrived in Hawaii the day before, I had yet to personally meet all fifty-one of the contestants I'd be fitting.

  "Okay, what did you know of her then?" he pressed.

  "Only that she was Miss Montana."

  "Her name was Jennifer Oliver. And from what your friend over there told me, it sounds like she was the front-runner in this competition."

  I glanced nervously behind me. Marco was standing beside Dana at the edge of a line of crime scene tape spanning the perimeter of the pool area. Word of the dead beauty queen had spread through the hotel at lightening speed. For the last hour the detectives had been splitting up members of the pageant party and hotel guests into small groups to question them. Lucky me, they had saved me for last. Maybe because after finding Miss Montana's body, I'd been shaking so hard my teeth had been rattling together.

  "She was doing very well," I agreed. "But none of the preliminary scores were in yet."

  "I see," Detective Whatshisname (I was so not trying to pronounce it) said noncommittally, a pen hovering over a notepad. I noticed that in contrast to the electronic notebooks the homicide detectives in my husband's unit used, this guy was using an old-school Bic ballpoint and a lined paper.

  "You're staying on the same floor as the deceased, correct?"

  I nodded, feeling my hair bob up and down on my bare shoulders in the sunlight. "Yes, all of the women are in the east wing, and the men are in the west. Most of the contestants are doubled up in the rooms."

  "Right. It looks like the deceased shared a room with Desiree DiCicco."

  I shot a glance over at the group of contestants assembled on the oth
er side of the crime scene tape. Even in the wake of such surprising and devastating news, each and every one had taken the time to apply false eyelashes and copious amounts of lipstick before appearing on the scene. "I'm not sure," I replied honestly. "I only arrived yesterday. You'd have to check with the pageant director."

  "Oh, I will," the detective promised. "Did you happen to see or hear anything last night from your own hotel room, Ms. Springer?"

  I shook my head. I'd fallen into bed exhausted the night before. The combination of jet lag and mai tais had lulled me into a deep sleep almost immediately.

  "Well here's my card." He handed me a small square of cardboard with what looked like a coffee stain on the corner. "Let me know if you think of anything else that might be pertinent to our investigation."

  I nodded, slipping the card into my beach bag. Honestly, though, I didn't think there was much more I could tell him. I hadn't known the deceased. I'd only had the misfortune of being the one to find her dead.

  After being released by the detective, I quickly made my way back upstairs to my room and traded my swimsuit and cover-up for a pair of white, linen straight leg pants and a violet wrap top. I did the bare minimum mascara and lip gloss and slipped on a pair of simple pumps before making my way back downstairs. By then, everyone associated with the pageant had been gathered into the ballroom, mingling in small groups and speaking in hushed tones. I spotted the two other judges deep in conversation with Laforge. Most of the pageant contestants were standing together awkwardly, as if not sure what they should be doing now that we'd gotten off the pageant's normally airtight schedule, and various costumers, choreographers, and pageant coaches were all wearing the same tightlipped, somber expressions. As I threaded my way through the groups, most of the conversation seemed to center around the question of whether the pageant would continue or not. Most of them seemed to hope it would. I couldn't say I totally blamed them. I knew how much time and money each of the contestants had put into this pageant. I'd overheard one of them at the rehearsal the day before saying that her talent outfit alone had cost her over $2,000.00.

  Tables of impromptu snacks had been set up along the ballroom walls: doughnuts, pastries, coffee, and fruit. Of course, considering the swimsuit competition was scheduled for later that afternoon, no one was actually eating snacks.

  Except me. What can I say? Finding dead bodies made me seek comfort food. I grabbed a doughnut and made my way to the back of the room where I spied Marco and Dana chatting with some of the contestants. I recognized one as the unfortunately uncoordinated Miss Arkansas, her blonde extensions trailing down the back of her spaghetti-strap dress. Beside her were a mocha-skinned woman with cheekbones to die for and the brunette with the big hair I'd seen chastised at yesterday's rehearsals, Miss New Mexico.

  Dana nodded a hello as I approached the group and eyed my doughnut with a frown. But she wisely didn't say anything. She'd long ago given up trying to convert me to the dietary habits of an aerobics instructor turned actress.

  "Did you know her well?" I heard Marco asking the three beauty queens.

  "Well, you know how it is. We all get to know each other pretty well on the pageant circuit," Miss Arkansas answered. "Especially here, living in such close quarters."

  "She was your roommate, wasn't she?" Marco probed turning to the brunette with the tall hair.

  I raised an eyebrow. That would make Miss New Mexico Desiree DiCicco. I took another bite of my jelly doughnut as I listened carefully to her answer.

  "She was." She paused, wiping a non-existent piece of lint off her floral printed skirt. "God, it's weird to talk about her in past tense."

  The other queens nodded, murmuring quietly.

  "Did you see what time she left her room?" I asked. I'd overheard the crime scene techs saying that Miss Montana had to have been dead for several hours by the time I'd found her.

  Desiree shook her head. "I'm a heavy sleeper."

  "Maddie this is Desi, Miss New Mexico," Marco said, quickly making introductions. "I don't think you've met Whitney, Miss Delaware, yet?" He gestured to the girl with the cheekbones. "And Maxine, Miss Arkansas," he finished.

  Quickly wiping the powdered sugar from my fingers onto my thigh, I stuck out my hand toward each of the girls. "Nice to meet you all."

  "I am so excited to meet you, Ms. Springer. We all just love your shoes," Miss Delaware gushed as she shook my hand. Though I wasn't sure if she was being sincere or trying to win some points with my friend the judge.

  "Thanks, I'm excited to be here."

  "Us too. Even under the circumstance," Miss Arkansas said. Though her comment served to bringing a somber tone back over the conversation.

  "Tragic," Dana said, shaking her head. "She was so young."

  "Any ideas who could've done that to her?" Marco asked the girls.

  I felt my eyes narrowing as Marco's voice took on that scary Fablock Holmes quality, like he might pull out a deerstalker hat and magnifying glass at any second. I silently sent him do-not-pry vibes. The last thing the pageant directors wanted was dealing with fifty hysterical beauty queens claiming there was a murderer amongst them.

  "No, of course not," Delaware said, her teeth nibbling on her pink lipstick, unnaturally long eyelashes fluttering up-and-down like spiders having seizures. "Everyone loved Jennifer."

  Miss Arkansas nodded in agreement. "We all did!"

  "It seemed to me she was doing very well in the competition," Marco countered.

  "No scores have been turned in yet," Dana chimed in, clearly trying to play neutral. "I mean, everyone is still on even ground with all of the judges."

  "But you all must've noticed how well she was doing, right?" Marco pushed.

  Arkansas shrugged. "I guess. But I think we all felt she whatever points she was getting. I mean, she was just, well, kinda perfect, you know?"

  I was about to open my mouth to protest that even perfect people can make enemies, when Miss New Mexico snorted beside her.

  "You disagree?" Marco asked, arching one perfectly groomed eyebrow. (If I didn't know better, I'd say he'd done some extra plucking since last night.)

  New Mexico shook her head. "Oh, sure, she acted all perfect, but she was really a perfect brownnoser."

  Arkansas gasped beside her, her eyes darting to Dana. I could tell she was mentally picturing Miss New Mexico's chances at Miss Congeniality quickly slipping away.

  "Why do you say that?" Marco pounced.

  "She was always playing everyone's friend, but nobody can be that sweet all the time, especially not a beauty queen. I mean—let's face it—to get to the national level pageants you've got to be competitive."

  "You can be sweet and competitive," Arkansas argued.

  New Mexico snorted again. "Not if you want to win."

  "Do you think any of the other contestants felt the same way about her?" Marco asked.

  "Wait—" Delaware put up one manicured hand. "You're not suggesting that one of the other contestants would want to harm Jennifer, are you?"

  Delaware was a smart cookie. If I knew "Marco Holmes," that was exactly what he was suggesting.

  Arkansas's eyes went big and round, a hand going to her lips.

  Marco opened his mouth to speak, but Dana rode right over him. "Of course not," she quickly said, shooting Marco a look. "I'm sure no one associated with the pageant had anything to do with the tragedy."

  Marco shut his mouth with a click. I was pretty sure he was thinking the exact opposite.

  "Who could've done it then?" New Mexico asked.

  "Do any of you know if Jennifer had any friends on the island? Family? A boyfriend maybe?" I asked.

  Arkansas looked to Delaware. Delaware chewed on her lower lip again, and I could see flakes of lipstick starting to stain her upper teeth.

  "Well, we know she had a boyfriend," Arkansas finally piped up.

  "Oh reeeeeeally. A boyfriend." Marco leaned in. "You know what they say about the boyfriends."

  "What?
" Arkansas whispered.

  "They are always guilty."

  I elbowed Marco in the ribs. "Ix-nay on the ilty-gay, Sherlock," I whispered.

  But Arkansas had already taken the bait. "Ohmigosh, you think? That would be terrible!"

  "Did you ever hear her talking about any problems with her boyfriend?" I asked. Hey, if Marco had already opened the door, I might as well step through it.

  Arkansas shook her head violently from side to side, her extensions whipping behind her like a tail. "No, everything that Jennifer said about her boyfriend was always so positive. I mean almost to the point where he seemed…"

  "Nauseatingly sweet," New Mexico finished, smirking.

  Why did I get the impression that there was no love lost between New Mexico and the dead girl?

  "So you heard her talk about a boyfriend too?" I asked.

  "We all did," Delaware finally chimed in. "But everyone talks about their boyfriends here, you know? I mean we all miss our guys back home."

  "Did she say anything specific about him?"

  "She was always talking about the stupid ring he gave her!" New Mexico rolled her eyes.

  Arkansas elbowed her in the side, her eyes again cutting to Dana.

  "Do tell?" Marco prompted.

  "She had this ridiculous 'promise ring.'" New Mexico made air quotes with her fingers. "She went on and on about how it was the perfect emerald color to match her sweetheart's emerald eyes. Gag. I mean—really—what are we in high school? Promise of what? Seriously, this guy couldn't be all that if he couldn't commit already and get her an engagement ring. A promise ring is just a cheap piece of jewelry that says, 'I like you but not enough to buy you a real ring.' You know what I mean?"

  Marco snickered. "Oh, I know what you mean."

  Dana frowned, looking down at her own multi-carat engagement ring on her left finger, courtesy of her movie star boyfriend, Ricky Montgomery. While the sparkling jewelry had been gracing her finger for several months now, Ricky had yet to set the date. A fact I knew was beginning to bother Dana.