Deadly in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

When I woke up, I was shocked to see it was nearly six. The sun had shifted from overhead, sliding farther across the sky as the afternoon waned, and the kids were gone. Only a few couples remained at the pool, and the immediate area had quieted down considerably. I gathered my things and headed back to my room to shower and dress for the evening. In all honesty, I wasn't 100% looking forward to it. The celebration luau for pageant contestants and staff was generous in concept, but I wasn't sure how celebratory the general mood would be. From what I'd seen during the past week, everyone was either frightened or suspicious or both, and the mood was grim.

  I settled on a gauzy sapphire blue sarong, spent twenty minutes blowing out my hair and doing a light makeup, and by seven thirty, a far less gloomy Dana, Marco, and I were making our way down to the beach.

  The dining area had been closed for the evening to all but the pageant personnel, most of whom seemed to be already in attendance. Jeffries and Ruth Marie were chatting, sipping cocktails, their heads close together, his arm draped protectively across her shoulders. I spotted Laforge playing the part of the attentive host as he roamed, dressed in island chic white with his shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel and his trademark sunglasses in place. Ashton Dempsey had affixed himself to Whitney, likely trying to align himself with a winning contestant again, talking in her ear as his bulging belly in a screaming Hawaiian shirt nearly brushed against her hip. Even from a distance I could see he was wearing more makeup than she was. Surfer Dirk chatted with himself as he circulated, serving food and drinks. From the looks of it, he was the happiest person on the beach.

  Most of the contestants stood in nervous-looking clusters, occasionally glancing outside their private circles like frightened deer watching for a predatory mountain lion. Whether their nerves stemmed from the next day's pageant or fear for their personal safety was anyone's guess. I found it interesting that only Whitney didn't seem to share their apprehension. Was it because she knew she was the front-runner now?

  A live trio was set up on the stage, providing a soothing musical backdrop while native dancers swayed in mesmerizing rhythms to the beat. Despite the laid-back island vibe, no one seemed particularly relaxed or festive. In fact, there was an air of somberness layered over the entire affair.

  "Doesn't feel much like a party," Marco commented, glancing around.

  "Can you blame them?" I sipped my drink. "I know I don't feel like celebrating."

  Dana nodded. "I can't believe I'm anxious to leave Hawaii." She paused. "Uh-oh."

  I looked at her. She was staring over my shoulder with a mixture of amusement and horror.

  "I've been looking for you, dear!"

  I turned to see Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt making their labored way toward us through the sand. They were impossible to miss. Mom was wearing a basic black twinset with two leis draped around her neck and enough flowers in her hair to plant a garden. Mrs. Rosenblatt was in a flesh-colored muumuu that for a moment was scarier than anything else that had happened during the week. "You know this party is for pageant personnel only," I told them in a mock scolding tone.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt shrugged. "As if we'd miss a good luau. And this—" She tipped her nose up in the air and sniffed. "—is a good luau."

  Mom studied me. "How are you feeling, dear?" She leaned in closer. The scent of frangipani washed over me. "Are you carrying the mojo bag?"

  I'd forgotten all about the mojo bag. I think I'd accidentally left it in the wastebasket in my room after the juju cleansing. From what I'd seen of the housekeeping service, it was probably still there.

  "What's a mojo bag?" Dana asked.

  "Well, let me tell you—" Mom began.

  "Look, here come the fire dancers," I cut in. "We should find a seat."

  As we made our way to a viewing spot, I couldn't help but cast another casual glance over the beach. Assuming that Xander Newport's alibi held up—and if it didn't, chances were good that he was now at the police department—my instincts were telling me that the killer had to be among the assembled group here at the luau. It was an unsettling thought. It wasn't easy to put it aside and trust that there was safety in numbers, but eventually I found myself lost in watching the performance of the skilled fire dancers. The breeze was warm and gentle, the ocean calm and unhurried as it rolled onto the beach in frothy ringlets. Overhead, the palm fronds rustled quietly in answer to the breeze. It was an idyllic night.

  Until my cell phone buzzed with a text. I tried to ignore it, but my curiosity got the better of me. After all, it might be Ramirez with news of the arrest of Xander Newport. Shielding the phone from Mom's curious eyes, I stared at the message on the screen, which I noted had been sent from an unavailable number:

  I know who the killer is. Meet me by the pool at midnight.

  My head shot up, and I quickly scanned the group, hoping to spot the source of the text among our companions. While the gathering darkness and shifting shadows created by the fire dancers made it difficult to read faces, I saw several cell phones out. Most pointed at the stage, taking pictures and videos. My gaze whipped from one beauty queen taking selfies to a coach intently hunched over his smart phone screen. The text could have come from anyone here. They all had a copy of the pageant personnel contact list. I scrutinized anyone with a phone, but no one looked back or paid me the least bit of attention.

  Dana nudged me. "Are you alright?"

  I gave a start and dropped the cell phone back into my purse. "I'm fine. It's just a…shoe thing." I forced a smile, and Dana's attention went back to the dancers. But my concentration was broken. I wished it was a shoe thing. That, I could handle. It was familiar, comfortable ground. But this was unnerving. Any one of the people surrounding me could have sent the text. I had no way of knowing, and no one seemed to be jumping up to volunteer the information.

  Unless, that is, I showed up at midnight as requested.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I tried not to look like I was checking out every single patron at the luau for suspicious signs as I listened to the pounding drum beat and watched the spectacular finale of the dancers' performance. I was careful to keep a neutral expression, trying my best to imitate Ramirez's blank cop face, even though I couldn't, my gaze straying again and again to the assembled crowd. Of course, it was possible that someone not in attendance at the luau had sent the text, but as I catalogued the pageant personnel, there didn't seem to be anyone missing.

  Which made me wonder if it had come from someone not involved with the pageant at all. Someone like Xander Newport, or Donatella Curcio. Had they seen something that pointed to Jennifer and Desi's killer? Possibly something that hadn't even made sense until now? I felt like I'd talked to everyone involved with the pageant about Jennifer's death at this point. Maybe something I'd said or a question I'd asked had jarred loose a memory.

  Then again, there was always the possibility that the text had come from the killer himself, and this was his attempt at getting victim number three alone. I fought back a chill at that thought, despite the warm evening.

  A few minutes later, the dancers hurried off into the night to hearty applause, and dessert was brought out to even more applause. Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt decided to take theirs back to the room to enjoy on the balcony. Dana and Marco went to refresh their drinks, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I watched absently while the other attendees slowly started to disperse, some forgoing the desserts entirely, others carrying their plates back into the hotel with them. Before long, the group had thinned considerably.

  I was so deep in thought that I didn't notice Maxine until she fell into the chair beside me, unsteady in the sand in the Gucci stiletto sandals I'd admired from underneath her bed. They looked just as good from out in the open, and I took a moment to admire them while she tried to corral her long blonde hair extensions in the ocean breeze. "It's pretty out here, isn't it?"

  I nodded. "Very pretty." Although the fire dancers had departed, the flickering tiki torches circling the area continued to provide a p
eaceful, intimate ambiance.

  "I just can't help but think about everything that's gone on." She pointed with her chin out beyond the tiki torches to the darkness. "How do we know someone's not out there watching us right now?" She shuddered. "I'm not going to be the last to leave tonight, I can tell you that."

  "Did you come with Whitney?" I asked.

  Maxine nodded. "You bet I did. I don't go anywhere alone now. And I don't think you should, either."

  I gave her a sharp look. Was that honest concern or a threat? Maxine was staring out toward the ocean, her eyes narrowed against the breeze so that she looked almost…calculating. I wondered for the first time if perhaps Maxine wasn't as dumb as she seemed, if she had actually been the one who'd sabotaged Jennifer by stealing her bikini top, and maybe even killed her to get a leg up in the competition. Maybe she wasn't even as clumsy as she seemed. Maybe it was all an act to deflect suspicion while she murdered her way toward the top of the pageant rankings.

  The thought sent a chill shimmering up my spine. I fought the sudden urge to leap from my seat and get as far away from her as I possibly could. "I'm not taking any chances," I said, choosing my words carefully.

  "Good." She nodded her approval. "I like you, Maddie. I'd hate to see something happen to you."

  Now that sounded like a thinly veiled threat. I was finding it hard to swallow. My mouth was dry.

  "Well, it's just about curfew time. I think Whitney's waiting for me to head back upstairs." She pushed herself out of the chair, her heels stabbing into the sand as she stood. "I wouldn't want to get in any trouble on the last night."

  "No," I agreed, my voice faint. "You wouldn't want that."

  She tottered off in her stilettos with a cutesy little finger wave. I forced myself to stay put and give her a five-minute head start before I called it a night myself and hurried back into the hotel. I was halfway through the lobby on my way to the elevators when I realized Don still hadn't made an appearance since the discovery of Desi's body in the auditorium. Kind of strange, considering she hadn't missed a single day prior to that. It made me wonder again if a guilty conscience was keeping her away.

  I took the elevator to the twelfth floor, but instead of turning toward my room, I went in the opposite direction, toward Marco's, where I hoped my husband would be. I hadn't seen Ramirez all day, and I wanted to hear what he'd learned about Xander's alibi.

  Luckily, I found Ramirez alone in the room, wearing jeans and little else. No shirt, no shoes…and with the way he looked, there were no complaints from me.

  "Hey, babe," he said, before pulling me into his arms and giving me a lingering kiss that went a long way toward calming my nerves.

  "Hey, yourself," I replied when we finally came up for air. "That's the best greeting I've had all day."

  Ramirez shot me a grin. "It better be."

  I glanced around the room and noticed that the TV was on in the corner, tuned to ESPN. It seemed that he'd been lying on his bed watching some sports highlights. There was a half-empty bottle of beer on the nightstand.

  Ramirez hit the mute button on the remote as I sat on the foot of his bed. "So how was the luau?"

  My mind shot straight back to Maxine's strange comments and their potential hidden meaning. In the bright, comfortable hotel room with my homicide detective husband, I now felt like maybe I'd been reading too much into them. "Oh, you know. You've seen one luau, you've seen them all."

  "Uh-huh." He studied me. "You want to tell me about it?"

  "The luau?" I shrugged. "A pig, some alcohol, a lot of desserts. The end."

  "Maddie…" This time he snapped off the television and tossed the remote on the bed. "What happened?"

  He knew me so well. And just, maybe I wasn't reading too much into the beauty queen's words. Maybe Maxine was crazy as a loon and planned to mow through all the remaining states to snatch the Miss Hawaiian Paradise crown. I did a deep breath. "I think Maxine might have sabotaged Jennifer. Or maybe Whitney did. But one of the two, for sure, but I'm leaning toward Maxine."

  Ramirez's expression didn't change. He'd traveled this road with me before. Plus he was way better at the cop face. "And you think this why, exactly?"

  Uh-oh. Not sure I wanted to confess to sneaking into their room and hiding in the closet and under the bed, not to mention going through their things. Even though I had found the bikini top, the search itself had been a tad in the gray area of legal, and Ramirez was a cop, first and foremost. Well, also a stud muffin, but mostly a cop. And I wasn't in the mood for a lecture on the legalities of not breaking and entering.

  I thought fast. "Just some comments Maxine made at the luau," I said with deliberate vagueness.

  "Like I sabotaged Miss Montana?" Ramirez asked.

  I grinned and swatted his arm. "She wants to win. It's not outside the realm of possibility that she'd do anything and everything she could to beat the competition."

  "So what you're saying," Ramirez said slowly, "is not that she sabotaged Jennifer. It's that she might have killed her."

  "That's what I'm saying," I agreed. "Only I didn't say it—you did."

  He took a drink from his beer and offered me the bottle. "And you're not saying it why?"

  "Things she said to me at the luau," I said. "Like telling me to be careful. That she liked me and would hate to see something happen to me."

  "Sounds vicious," Ramirez joked.

  I shot him a look as I took a sip of beer. "It's not only what she said, it's how she said it."

  "And how did she say it?"

  I thought about Maxine's narrowed eyes, staring out over the ocean. Like she was considering the best way to bump off Miss Nevada or something. "Almost too sincerely," I said finally.

  Ramirez just looked at me. "What a witch."

  "You had to be there," I told him.

  "Guess so." He took his beer back and drank some.

  "Then there's the clumsiness," I went on. "She falls all over the stage during the dance numbers. She fell over Desi's body! And she fell into the chair on the beach tonight. I mean, no one can be that clumsy, can they? It's got to be an act."

  Ramirez tilted his head to look down at my heels. "How high are those things?"

  I pulled my feet under the chair, mostly out of view. "Four inches. But we're not talking about my heels."

  "Fine. How high are her heels?"

  At least five, maybe even six inches. Compared to some of the other girls, Maxine was a little vertically challenged. She wore stilettoes on steroids. I glared at him. "What's your point?"

  "I think I made my point." Ramirez sipped his beer.

  I crossed my arms. "Okay, it's not just what she said. Maybe there's something else."

  "Thought there might be."

  His smugness irritated me. "Maxine has Jennifer's stolen bikini top in her dresser drawer," I blurted out before common sense could stop me.

  That got his attention. He lowered the beer bottle, his eyes fixed on mine. "How would you know that?"

  No way was I admitting to breaking and entering. He could glare at me all night long. I wasn't cracking. "I was on my way back to the room earlier," I said, "and the maid was working in there and she had the door propped open like they do, and—"

  "And she had the dresser drawers open, too," he prompted. "And the bikini top was lying right on top with a 'Jennifer' nametag on it?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Okay. So I might have slipped in and looked around for a few minutes. It was worth it, though, don't you think?"

  "No," he said flatly, "it was not. What if she or her roommate had come back to the room and seen you?"

  "She didn't see me," I said. "I was under the bed." Oops. Well, I don't know how that slipped out.

  Ramirez didn't say anything for a while, but I could see the muscles in his jaw working. "You were under the bed," he said finally.

  I nodded. "And let me tell you, the housekeeping in this place leaves a lot to be desired. You should've seen the amount of dust under there.
"

  He wasn't amused. "Maddie, I'm beginning to get the feeling you actually like putting yourself in harm's way."

  I shot him a dirty look. "Oh, come on! That is so unfair. Not to mention sexist. You go chasing after killers on a daily basis, but do I lecture you on safety? No."

  "Not the same thing. I'm a trained homicide investigator."

  I ground my teeth at the emphasis he put on the word trained—after all, this was not my first murder rodeo either—but considering I'd yet to decide what to do about the potential midnight meeting by the pool, I decided to let it go. "Fine. So how did your very official police investigation go today?" I asked instead.

  "Maddie…"

  "What? I can't even ask about an investigation?" I blinked my eyelashes up and down in mock innocence.

  "Fine." He shook his head, his expression softening finally. "Xander Newport was at the Curling Wave until closing time. So unless he hired someone to do his dirty work, he's in the clear."

  My shoulders slumped a little. "He has witnesses?"

  "Only every female in the bar," Ramirez said. "He hit on all of them, including the transgendered one. Turns out the guy's a creep but not a killer."

  I was disappointed, but not totally surprised. Xander might have had a motive to kill Jennifer, but there had never been a reason for him to murder Desi. And I doubted that there were two killers on the loose. "So Xander's in the clear," I said, mostly to myself.

  "Sad, but true." Ramirez stood up and pulled me to my feet, his hard, bare chest pressing against me. "Happy now?"

  "Not quite," I told him, tipping my face up to his. "But maybe you can fix that." I gave him a suggestive smile.

  "You better believe it," he agreed, lowering his mouth to mine. His arms tightened around me, fitting me more closely against him, and I wound my hands into his hair, breathing in his musky scent as a little sigh of satisfaction bubbled up and escaped me.

  "You two need to hang a sock on the doorknob!" Marco called out from the doorway. "Give a boy a sign, already!"

  I groaned, and Ramirez reluctantly pulled away. I erased my lipstick from his lower lip with my thumb, seeing the frustration evident on his face.