High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  Marco was in the reception area when I walked in, stringing a row of plastic grapes across his desk.

  “Ciao bella,” he sing-songed as I walked in. “What do you think? Tuscany Chic?”

  I nodded. “Very nice.”

  Marco beamed.

  “Hey, is my mom around?” I asked, giving a wary glance to the back room.

  “Sorry, doll, she and Fernando just went to lunch,” he answered.

  Chicken that I am, I breathed a little sigh of relief.

  “Would you mind giving her a message when she gets back?”

  “Sure thing, dahling.” Marco pulled out a grape shaped pad of paper. “Shoot.”

  I filled Marco in on my search for Larry Springer, the Houdini of dads, and my upcoming trip to Vegas. When I mentioned where I was staying he did a deep, wistful sigh that could have earned him a Tony on Broadway.

  “I always wanted to go to New York.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s actually in Vegas.”

  Marco gave me a blank stare. Sometimes Marco had a problem distinguishing fantasy from reality.

  “Any-hoo,” I continued, “If you could just give my mom the message. And tell her that she can call if she, well, wants to talk or anything…” I trailed off.

  Marco patted my hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll break it to her gently.”

  I thanked him and left, trying not to picture how tightly Mom’s lips would clamp once she found out. But, with any luck, I’d be on the road by then.

  * * *

  I made a quick detour on the way home, stopping at the Beverly Center for the perfect I’m-going-to-meet-my-dad-for-the-first-time outfit on the chance that a) we did find him, b) he wasn’t shot or wounded or… worse, and c) I actually had the courage to go up and introduce myself to him. That last thing was kind of a long shot considering my past record of chickenhood, but I figured I’d play the Girl Scout and be prepared.

  Only for the first time in my life, I hadn’t a clue what to wear.

  As a kid I’d always fantasized about the kind of person my dad might be. When I was six I was certain that he’d left Mom and me to join the circus as a lion tamer. He was brave, strong, and loved animals – an all around great guy if you ignored the fact he’d left his family behind.

  By the time I was ten he’d moved on to an illustrious career as a CIA spy, the kind that spent his life overseas drinking martinis that were shaken and not stirred. I figured that was a really good reason for not sending your daughter a birthday card, because of course, if I knew where he was, I’d be in danger. Really he was staying away for my own protection.

  When I turned fifteen I was absolutely certain my father was Billy Idol. Of course he couldn’t be there helping me with my homework, he was touring the world with his rock band, which everyone knows was no place for kids. Poor Billy. I think I sent him a copy of every one of my high school report cards.

  But now, by the age of twenty… somethingish… I had finally accepted the reality that my father was just a jerk who had abandoned his family to get it on with a showgirl.

  A jerk I was driving to Vegas to meet tomorrow.

  I bit my lip as I stared at a pair of Jimmy Choo slingbacks in teal green. Yet somehow I still wanted him to have the perfect impression of his little girl. I wondered if I should make some more copies of the report cards.

  A first for me, I walked away from the Beverly Center empty handed. Instead, I swung by the local Auto Club and picked up a map of Las Vegas before heading home.

  I was happy to find only one message waiting for me at my studio. Blockbuster was still on me about not returning Joanie Loves Chachi. Yeah, like they had a long wait list for that one.

  Instead, I popped it in my DVD player, losing myself in puppy love instead of thinking about what might be waiting for me in the desert tomorrow.

  * * *

  At seven-o-one I was awakened by a beeping sound that rivaled Mariah Carey’s last album in the shrill department. I bounced out of bed, arms flailing, wild bed hair whipping around my face as I fought through my sleep haze for the source. Fire? I blinked a couple times. Didn’t smell smoke. I finally realized it was my alarm clock. The one I’d set the night before. I smacked the damn thing with the palm of my hand, thinking for the hundredth time just how wrong it was that mornings had to start so early.

  I dragged myself out of bed, made a couple thousand pots of coffee and took a long, hot shower, trying to work the sleepless kinks out of my neck. I threw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeved, white DKNY logo top and my favorite pair of Gucci boots. The ones with the supple black leather finish and teeny tiny hand stitching along the top that only the most discerning eye (which of course, mine was) could see. By the time Dana arrived, knocking on my front door, I was feeling human again and had almost lost my sarcastic morning edge.

  I opened the door and took in her outfit. “Who threw up on you last night?”

  Hey, I said almost.

  Dana was dressed in a classic A-line skirt, black pumps and a white blouse. Covered with green and orange stains.

  “Baby food commercial,” Dana said, trudging into my apartment. “I had to audition with five different munchkins yesterday, all of which, apparently, have an aversion to carrots and peas. Got anything to eat?” Dana started going through my cupboards.

  “And you’re still wearing it because…?”

  “I spent the night at Rico’s last night. After the audition I needed to get a little aggression out so he met me at the gun range.” She paused, scrunching up her nose at my Cap’n Crunch and frosted Pop Tarts. “You know how much refined sugar is in these things?”

  “Tons.”

  She shrugged and put them back on the shelf, taking out a box of Wheat Thins and popping a couple in her mouth as she talked. “Anyway, Rico asked me if I wanted to see his private collection…”

  Rico, the master of the double entendre. I did a mental eye roll.

  “… and of course I said yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “And one thing led to another and I haven’t had time to go home and change yet. You mind if we swing by my place on the way out of town?”

  “Fine with me.”

  After another cup of coffee – which Dana insisted on after the puke comment – we were ready to go. I was giving my studio a last once over for locked windows and irons in the off position when a sound like a dying goose singing Cabaret erupted outside my building. Dana and I rushed onto the porch.

  “Hell-oooo dahlings!”

  I blinked. Marco was at the wheel of a nineteen sixties mint condition Mustang convertible, seafoam green with white tires. He had on big Donna Karen sunglasses and a scarf tied over his hair circa Miss Hepburn’s black and white days. An effect that would have been a tad more classic if he hadn’t paired it with a rainbow striped turtleneck and leather pants.

  “Are we ready to road trip, girls?”

  Dana looked at me, raising one eyebrow. I shrugged.

  “Uh, I didn’t know you were coming with us,” I finally said.

  “Well, I just couldn’t let the opportunity to go to New York pass me up, now could I?”

  Dana raised the other eyebrow at me. More shrugging on my part.

  “Don’t worry,” Marco plowed on, “you’ll hardly know I’m there. Besides, I told your mom a much better story than the one you gave me. You’re going on a weekend getaway to Palm Springs with that hunky cop. So, shall we?”

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open. He’d lied to my mom? I had to admit, though, it was a pretty good lie. Half of me kind of wished I’d come up with it myself.

  And he had a point. Mom would be much happier with this version. But, most of all what he had was a nineteen sixties vintage Mustang convertible. What girl could resist the allure of riding through the desert al la vintage starlet?

  “Let’s get a move on,” Mizz Hepburn called from the front seat, “traffic’s backing up on the 10 already.” He punctuated this by laying on
the horn, bringing the singing goose back from the dead again.

  “On one condition,” I said.

  “Yes?” Marco raised his shades.

  “Don’t touch that horn again.”

  “Fine, fine.” He turned to Dana. “Geeze, she’s a little pissy in the morning, huh?”

  I gave him the evil eye.

  * * *

  Two hours later we’d stopped at Dana’s for a change of clothes, and at Starbucks for a grande mocha latte that Dana insisted I needed after I threatened to castrate Marco if he played one more Madonna CD.

  I sipped in silence as we drove through La Puente and Ontario, finally merging onto the 15 north as we left the city behind us for Joshua trees, sagebrush and the occasional trailer park. We stopped in Barstow for lunch and I felt only minimally guilty watching Dana eat her fat-free protein bar and fruit smoothie as I wolfed down a Big Mac and fries. And a chocolate shake. And two apple pies. But, everyone knows that traveling calories don’t count, right?

  As we were merging back onto the freeway I was settling nicely into my fast-food coma when I caught a flash of blue behind a semi-truck to our right. I whipped my head around, that weird tingling sensation breaking out on my neck again. I could swear I saw the dented front bumper of a Dodge Neon disappear behind the truck as we merged into the fast lane.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “What?” Dana craned her neck.

  “A blue Neon. Back there.”

  “No.” Dana shook her head. “Why?”

  I bit my lip. I had a sinking suspicion I was becoming paranoid. “Nothing.”

  Marco peered at me in the rearview mirror. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. Dandy. Just peachy,” I lied. I peeked behind me again. Just in time to see the Neon dart out from behind the semi truck, exiting the freeway at a rest stop on the right.

  I stifled a gasp.

  Things had officially just been upgraded from coincidence to creepy.

  Chapter Four

  I spent the rest of the trip glancing over my shoulder every three minutes to check for my stalker. No further sign of him. But the tingling sensation on the back of my neck stayed with me all the way up the 15, right into Las Vegas.

  “Welcome to Sin City, girls!” Marco said, fairly bouncing out of his seat with giddiness as we exited the freeway onto Las Vegas Boulevard. We crawled past the Excalibur castle and Luxor pyramid, almost crashing into the white limo in front of us when Marco spotted the New York, New York skyline.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod, there she is, Lady liberty herself,” he cried, clutching his hands to his heart.

  “Honey, you do know that’s not the real Statue of Liberty, right?” Dana asked.

  But Marco ignored her, his eyes glazing over as we took a left on Tropicana and pulled up to the front. “Oh, look! The Brooklyn Bridge, New York harbor! It’s just like I always imagined it.”

  Dana and I did a synchronized eye roll.

  Marco handed his keys over to the valet in a red uniform and Dana and I grabbed our carry-on sized bags. Marco reached into the backseat and pulled out a huge, leopard print suitcase big enough to fit a small child.

  “How much did you pack?” I asked.

  Marco blinked at me. “Honey, this is just my overnight bag.” He popped the trunk to reveal three more matching leopard printed pieces of luggage.

  Mental forehead smack.

  Eventually (after Marco huffed and puffed his luggage onto a rolling cart) we made our way through the lobby. The air was thick with dinging slot machines, cigarette smoke and the occasional holler of “jackpot!” There were no windows in the casino and it could have been two in the afternoon or two in the morning for all I could tell. The place was packed with an assortment of people ranging from tourists in t-shirts that read ‘I heart the Hoover Dam’ to women in slinky (bordering on slutty) cocktail dresses and heels. It was like entering another dimension where time, space and tasteful attire did not exist.

  The art deco registration counter stood at our left, and after walking through the roped off lines of baggage toting gamblers, we were met by a tall, slim guy with bad acne and a name tag that read, ‘Jim.’

  “Welcome to New York,” Slim Jim said as we approached. Mainly talking to Dana’s boobs.

  “Ohmigod, did you hear that? His accent is even New York,” Marco whispered to me, bouncing up and down on his toes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was Jersey.

  “Maddie Springer,” I said. “I have a reservation.” I slid my credit card along the counter to Jim. He took it, giving it a cursory glance before returning to his staring match with Dana’s chest.

  Luckily Dana was too busy salivating over the video poker machines to notice.

  Slim Jim did a few clicks on his keyboard. “Yes, I have you down for a non-smoking double, checking out on Wednesday.”

  I nodded. I hoped that three days was enough time to track Larry down and help with whatever kind of trouble had him leaving gunshots on my answering machine. “We’d like to add a second room, too, please,” I said, glancing at Marco and his matching luggage set.

  “All right,” the Slim Jim said. More clicking. “We have one Marquis suite available on the fifteenth floor.”

  “Perfect!” Marco clapped his hands together.

  Slim Jim smiled. “First time in New York?”

  “Don’t encourage him,” I pleaded.

  “Okay, the Marquis will be $495 a night.”

  Marco stopped bouncing.

  “Excuse me?” I choked out.

  “Sorry,” Slim Jim said, shrugging his bony shoulders. “It’s all we have. Bette Midler’s performing in the Cabaret Theater this week. We always fill our, uh…” He paused, leaning in close to do a pseudo whisper thing, “…low rent rooms when Bette’s in town.”

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod!” Marco grabbed my arm, his painted black fingernails digging into me. “Bette Milder is here?! I think I’m going to faint. Catch me.”

  Neither Dana nor I moved.

  “I could order a rollaway for your room if you like,” Jim offered.

  While the idea of sharing a room with the divine Mizz M himself wasn’t exactly in my plans, unless I suddenly hit the mega bucks jackpot it was all we could afford. “Fine we’ll take the rollaway.”

  “Okay, here you are. Room 1205, up the Chrysler elevators at the back of the casino and to your right. Enjoy your stay and,” he said, clearly addressing Dana’s cleavage, “please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

  I grabbed the keys and Dana and I hightailed it up to our room before Slim Jim stared a hole through her shirt. Marco trailed behind, stopping to stare at a ‘street performer’ doing New York State of Mind on his tenor sax.

  * * *

  Once we’d huffed our luggage the entire length of the casino (dotted with fake trees, fountains and twinkling lights to look like Central Park) we rode the elevators up to our room and drew straws for the rollaway. Dana lost, grabbing the shortest swizzle stick from the mini bar. She started unpacking while Marco went to the ‘little girl’s room’ to freshen up. I called home to check my messages on the off chance Larry might have called again. No such luck.

  The first message was from Mom. She was glad I had let the Larry thing go and hoped I was having a fun time in Palm Springs. I felt just the teeny tiniest prick of Catholic guilt niggling at me. Especially since part of me (the part that hadn’t seen any action in so long Scott Baio looked good) kind of wished I was on a getaway with Ramirez. I mean, he did come running at the first indication I might need his help. And as much as I hated to admit it that kiss had been kind of nice. Okay, fine. It had been really nice. Nice enough that I was starting to fantasize about a Palm Springs getaway for real. Me, Ramirez, sunny blue skies, a sparkling swimming pool, him in tiny little swimming trunks. Or better yet, no trunks at all…

  Only before my wandering libido could get to the good part of that fantasy, my machine clicke
d over to the next message.

  “Maddie? Where the hell are you?”

  Mr. Tiny Trunks himself. Ramirez. And he didn’t sound too happy.

  “I’m outside your apartment right now and you’re not here,” he said, his voice doing that tightly restrained growl thing. “Please tell me you’re just out getting your hair done or your lip waxed or something.”

  My hand immediately went to my lip. What did he mean ‘lip waxed’? Was I really growing a mustache? I scrutinized my upper lip in the reflection of the brass lampshade.

  “Look, call me when you get this, Maddie. I mean it.” Clearly an order. Not a suggestion.

  I thought about calling him back. For about half a second. I mean, who did he think he was? He’d gone for six whole weeks without calling me back. Besides, that wax comment hit below the belt.

  I deleted the message, still smooshing my face around in the lampshade reflection, checking for dark hairs.

  “Dana, give it to me straight, do I have a mustache?”

  Dana paused, pulling a pair of running sneakers from her suitcase. “Of course not.”

  I squinted at my reflection. “I mean, you’d tell me if I did, right? You wouldn’t let me walk around looking like Groucho Marx, would you?”