High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  “You’re late,” she said.

  What was with people continually pointing this out?

  “Sorry. I had a long night.”

  “Ooo… with your detective?”

  “No!” Thanks to my stupid pride. “And he’s not my detective. He’s just a detective.” Who kept showing up in my dreams naked. Ugh.

  “Too bad. So…” Dana got that wicked twinkle in her eyes. The one that through many years of friendship I’d come to associate with short-term men. “Ask me about my night with Sasha.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.

  “Would you hate me if I said I’d rather not?”

  “It was fabulous! Maddie, the man is a machine.” She held up four fingers. “Four times. Four separate orgasms in one night. Can you imagine?”

  I was ashamed to say, I almost couldn’t.

  “I’m telling you, he’s like the Energizer Bunny. He just goes, and goes, and goes…”

  “I get the point.”

  “And the best part is…” She leaned in close, pseudo whispering. “…he has a friend. Micha.” She winked at me. “Wanna double date tonight?”

  I admit, the Energizer Bunny aspect was tempting. “Dana, I have a boyfriend.” Sort of.

  She cocked her head at me. “I thought you said he was married? And, like, in jail?”

  I hated that she had a point. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Just, think about it, okay?” She held up four fingers again.

  I rolled my eyes and quickly changed the subject. “Are those Prada?”

  “Uh huh. You likey?” Dana wiggled her toes in a pair of camel colored calfskin boots.

  “Likey? Honey, I’m in lovey. Can you afford Prada?” I asked.

  “I wish. But I can afford to try them on.”

  As if on cue a salesman emerged from the back room, carrying three more boot boxes that he deposited on the seat beside Dana.

  “Thank you, David,” she said reading his name tag. “You’re an absolute doll.” Then she flashed him her biggest, flirtiest smile. “And would you mind checking if you have these,” she pointed to a pair of spike heeled Gucci’s, “in black?”

  “No problem.” He then looked expectantly at me.

  “Oh, I, uh…” I looked from the calfskin Prada to the salesman. What the hell. “And those in a seven and a half.”

  Twenty minute later I was warring with my Visa over whether or not there was any chance in hell I could afford Prada. Maybe if I sold my car, and didn’t eat for the next six months I could swing them. And, I decided as I looked at myself in the mirror, it would almost be worth it. The soft tan leather felt as light and airy as silk against my legs and the soles were so finely crafted it felt like I was walking on clouds. Not to mention that the three inch heels made my calves look almost like Dana’s. Tiny precision stitching, perfectly molded contours, and that shiny little Prada logo zipper. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what shoes were meant to be. I twirled in front of the mirror and did a little sigh.

  Unfortunately my Visa won the argument when I did the math on how many pairs of kiddie shoes I’d have to design to afford one pair of boots. It was not pretty. Reluctantly I put my own emerald slingbacks back on. Dana and I left Prada at Neiman’s and she settled on a pair of white, vinyl go-go boots for her reinvention of Mod Squad Chic.

  Purchases in hand, we walked down the street to Leon’s where I ordered extra cheesy chili fries and Dana munched on a low fat cucumber and sprouts pita as I told her about my late night caller.

  When I finished, Dana looked thoughtful, grazing on her sprouts. “So, who do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know. Bunny maybe? She was pretty pissed when I ran into her at Charlie Platt’s.”

  “Uh huh.” Dana popped a cucumber into her mouth, chewing as she nodded.

  “Or maybe Andi. She did sound like she had a vicious streak to her.”

  “You know,” Dana said, licking her fingers, “I’m wondering, have you thought about the wife?”

  “Celia?” I asked. “She’s dead.”

  “No, I meant Richard’s wife.”

  I froze, chili fry halfway to my mouth. “I thought we weren’t mentioning his marital status.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said, waving her napkin in the air. “It’s just…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

  I gave in. “What? What about Richard’s wife?”

  “Well, we’ve been going on the theory that the murders are tied to Greenway’s infidelity. But what about Richard’s infidelity?”

  I cringed. “Go on?”

  “Well, maybe his wife found out about you and was pissed. What if she used Greenway to frame Richard? Seeing your cheating ex on death row would be one hell of a revenge.”

  I popped a chili fry in my mouth as I chewed on this new angle. I had to admit, I liked it. “If she was planning on divorce, twenty million dollars would make a nice parting gift. And as Richard’s wife, Cinderella could have easily gained access to his files.”

  “Right. And women do get a little crazy when they discover they’ve been lied to.”

  You’re telling me.

  Dana shrugged. “It’s something to think about anyway.”

  It certainly was. The only question was, would Cinderella really kill two people in cold blood just to get revenge on Richard? I shuddered. I always knew there was something creepy about those Disney characters.

  “Well,” Dana said balling up her napkin, “this has been fun, but I’ve got to be in Hollywood in twenty minutes.” She held up her go-go boots. “Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg,” I said as she gave me an air kiss and made her way back down Wilshire. As I watched her round the corner toward the parking structure, my mind was still digesting the Cinderella theory. I scooped up the last of the chili with a soggy French fry and popped it in my mouth. I had to admit, the more I thought about it, the more I really, really wanted the killer to be Cinderella. Why not? Ramirez said that the gun was hers in the first place. Who better to use it? And the blonde hairs in Greenway’s room could have easily come from her. Heck, maybe Cinderella was even having an affair with Greenway? I mean, what did I really know about her anyway? Not much. Just that she drove a brand new roadster.

  And was married to my boyfriend. The bitch.

  I looked down at my watch. Two-ten. Visiting hours at the prison started ten minutes ago. No time like the present to drag a few answers out of Richard. I quickly threw away the remains of my calorie splurge lunch and headed for my Jeep.

  * * *

  The L.A. county lock-up was about the same as you’d see in any prison movie. Bleak and square, a series of cement blocks painted a dull orange sometime in 1976. The inside wasn’t much better, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and smelling like Pine-Sol and cigarettes. An indefinable feeling of tension hung in the air and no one quite looked me in the eye.

  I had to stop at the desk to have my purse examined inside and out for anything that could be used as a weapon (they held my nail file hostage) and was patted down twice by a woman who looked like John Goodman before being sent into the gymnasium like room full of tables and chairs where weepy women sat across from men in orange jumpsuits. All of them looking like they could use a good bath and a dose of antibacterial soap.

  The stony faced guards flanking the room did little to sooth my nerves, so I took a place at a table near the door. Five minutes later Richard was led through the self locking door on the far end of the room. I almost felt pity for him as he sat down across from me. His eyes were rimmed in dark circles like he hadn’t slept and his chin was covered in pale, blonde stubble. Only it didn’t remind me of a Schick commercial. More Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  I nodded, not really sure what to say.

  “Chesterton tell you I wouldn’t make bail?”

  I nodded again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He looked around himself
as if still not believing he was here.

  I admit, I was having a hard time believing it too. But, I tried to remind myself why I’d come here.

  “Richard, I need to know about your wife.”

  He looked down at his hands, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her, Maddie. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “You mean, you never meant for me to find out?”

  “No. I… we’re separated.” He sighed, still not quite looking at me. “I’ve been living in the condo and she’s got her life in Orange County. I just haven’t filed for divorce yet because I don’t want some lawyer of hers nosing through my assets right now.”

  I bit my lip. Did I believe him? I wasn’t sure. “And what about the roadster?”

  “God, how do you know about…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting mine. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair so it stood up in little tufts. I guess hair gel wasn’t standard prison issue. “Look, I bought Amy the roadster to put her off for a while. She wanted to file now, but I couldn’t risk it. Her lawyer would have wanted detailed accounts of every penny that ever went through my hands. With everything going on with Greenway… well, I didn’t think that would be a good idea right now.”

  “So, she’s after your money?” The Cinderella theory was looking better.

  “No. No, Amy’s not like that. She’s not about money.”

  Yeah right.

  He shook his head. “The roadster was my idea.”

  “Richard, did Amy know you were seeing me?”

  He looked guiltily from side to side, his eyes looking everywhere but at mine. “No. I didn’t tell her.”

  Which didn’t mean she didn’t find out on her own. And go completely postal over it. I wondered what Richard would think of Cinderella if she was the killer. Would he file for divorce then? Take back the roadster? Because it was kind of bothering me that he was defending her even as he talked about how they were separated. What did he mean Cinderella wasn’t into money? Who wasn’t into money?

  I truly intended to continue grilling him about his possibly homicidal wife. I meant to be the unemotional fact finder, on a mission to nail her itty bitty butt to the wall. But the more I thought about perfect Cinderella and her perfect Z3, the more that other-woman insecurity got to me. I’d like to blame it on hormones that while I meant to ask, “Do you think your wife’s capable of murder?” something entirely different popped out of my mouth instead.

  “Are you still in love with her?” I bit my lip, loath to admit just how much his answer meant.

  “No. God, no. Do you really think I would do that to you Maddie?” His blue eyes searched mine as he reached across the table and took one of my hands in his. He began to draw little circles on the inside of my wrist with his thumb as his eyes pleaded with me. “I swear, pumpkin, you’re the only woman in my life.”

  I’ll admit, I was starting to waiver. He really did look sincere. “What about the condom wrapper on your desk?”

  “What?” To his credit he looked genuinely confused.

  “I searched through your office and found a used condom wrapper wedged beneath the calendar on your desk.”

  Richard’s jaw dropped open, shocked that I’d have the audacity to search through his office.

  I raised both eyebrows in a challenge, daring him to say something about it now. Go ahead punk, make my day.

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “You didn’t have sex with your wife at work?”

  “No.” He shook his head, scrunching his nose like the idea really was repulsive. “Look, I know you have every reason not to believe me after what I’ve put you through, but I promise you, I don’t know. Pumpkin, there hasn’t been anyone but you. I swear it. Please, believe me. I need you.”

  I need you. Not I love you, I’ve missed you. I need you.

  And I realized he really did need me. He was up shit creek and I was the only one in the world who might lend a paddle.

  Only – did I need him? I looked at the man across from me. He didn’t seem like a Ken Doll now. He’d been stripped of his shiny veneer and I was getting a glimpse of the man inside. The man that might have taken me years of fancy dates to the Hollywood Bowl to uncover in any other circumstances. And under the lawyer veneer, I had a sinking feeling there wasn’t much left.

  I’d spent the last week desperately wanting to find Richard. Thinking that if Richard was here, then suddenly I wouldn’t be going through this whole possible pregnancy thing alone. That if I saw that pink line and freaked out, at least I’d have Richard to fall back on. Only I had the idea now as I sat here looking at the man I'd spent the last five months of my life with, that even if he tried, Richard might not be strong enough to catch me. Instead of falling back on him, would I be the one holding the both of us up?

  Suddenly all I wanted to do was let him have it. To scream and yell and take out all my frustrations on the man that was single handedly ruining my life. I wanted to let loose and have a crying, girly breakdown to end all breakdowns right here in the prison visiting room.

  He was still waiting for me to say something. “I need you to believe me.” He lifted my hand to his lips and gently kissed the back of my knuckles. “Please, pumpkin, you’re all I have.”

  Ugh. If I ever contemplated getting involved with a man again, I made a mental note to shoot myself first.

  “Fine. I believe you.” Maybe.

  Richard did a little half smile, his hand still covering mine. “Thanks, pumpkin. I knew I could count on you.”

  I walked out with an odd feeling in my stomach. Hollow. Nauseating. Painful. I think it was that damn pride again.

  * * *

  After my brush with prison life, I stopped in at a Taco Bell and ordered a big greasy plate of nachos, smothered in gooey cheese and jalapeños. Comfort food. I ate the entire thing before going back to my apartment.

  I tried not to think about my conversation with Richard as I pulled up to my studio. The awful thing was, I really kind of did believe him. I didn’t think Richard was capable of leading a double life, and I could see him buying Cinderella off with a car only too well. In fact, when I’d wanted him to come with me to my cousin Shannon’s confirmation last month, he’d put me off with a sparkly pair of 24 karat earrings. His story fit with his MO. Which left me where? With a boyfriend? Without? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t even sure it was about me anymore. I glanced down at my belly. I made a mental note to go out and buy a new pregnancy test in the morning.

  I slowly trudged up the stairs, so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice anything was wrong until I reached the top step.

  And saw my front door gaping open.

  Cold fear prickled up my spine, my feet freezing in place. Maybe it was just Dana. Maybe she’d had a fight with Sasha and had come over looking for a shoulder to cry on. Maybe Ramirez was back. Maybe he’d just let himself in.

  Only I didn’t see a black SUV or Dana’s tan Saturn on the street.

  I slowly crept forward, one step at a time, my ears pricked for any sound. All I heard was the slight hum of my neighbor’s TV and the street traffic from Venice. Gingerly I pushed the front door open on its hinges.

  “Hello? Dana?”

  I stifled a gasp when I saw my apartment. It looked like the Big One had hit. Every cupboard was open, the meager contents of my kitchen in a broken pile on the tile floor. My futon was on its side, cushions tossed across the room. My pens were scattered across the floor mingling with shoes, clothes and makeup into one big mess.

  Fearing the worst, I took a few steps toward my drawing table. I sucked in a quick breath, biting back tears. Someone had taken a big black marker and written across my Strawberry Shortcake shoe design. “Back off bitch.”

  The words swam before my eyes and I felt dizzy. I was still staring at the ruined designs, realizing I had to start all over on the damn thing now, when I heard a noise behind me.

  I spun around.

&nbs
p; But not quickly enough. Before I could see what had pricked my ears, I felt an explosion behind my temple. Then the drawing table, the ruined designs, and the entire mess that was my life faded and everything went black.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Slowly I blinked one eye open. Then the other. My vision was fuzzy but as I continued the painful practice of blinking, objects slowly came into focus. One emerald slingback. The Purple People Eater across the room. My pens, lipstick, purse. Slowly the room materialized in front of me. I moved my head and felt carpet beneath my cheek. What was I doing on the floor? I slowly sat up, putting one hand to my head as a jackhammer began to pound at my temple.

  Then it all came back to me. My open front door, the ruined designs. The whack on the head. My eyes whipped wildly around for a sign of my attacker. None.

  I grabbed my purse where it had fallen beside me and quickly dialed 911. I stood up shakily and half ran, half fell out the front door with one slingback on, down the stairs to my Jeep, where I locked myself in until I heard the police sirens approaching.

  Two uniformed cops were the first to arrive. It only took them a couple minutes, but it was long enough for me to work myself up into a state of unhinged hysteria. I was crying and babbling and I’m not entirely sure the bump on the head hadn’t knocked what little sanity I had left right out of my brain. One called for an ambulance and pretty soon my block was full of flashing sirens. I was impressed. Usually we didn’t get this kind of law enforcement turnout unless there was a gang shooting.

  The police officers searched my apartment and, predictably, found no one. The paramedic gave me a pack of ice and wrapped me in one of those ugly green blankets even though it was nearing ninety outside. He said I was in shock. I didn’t disagree.

  By the time the black SUV pulled up to my building, I’m happy to say I almost had myself under control again. My breathing had slowed to a near normal pace, the nice officer had retrieved a pair of fuzzy pink slippers from my closet and my nose had almost stopped running. Almost.