High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  Shar Pei didn’t look up.

  I cleared my throat. “Um, hello!”

  Nothing. I yelled a little louder. “Hey!”

  Finally he glanced up from his hose and gave me a myopic squint. Then turned up his hearing aid.

  “Oh, hello again,” he said. “Sorry. Wife’s been watchin’ home shopping all day.” He pointed to his ear. “Had to tune Joan Rivers out.”

  “Ah. Understandable. Anyway, I was just wondering if you’d seen Lar- uh, Lola around today.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. I seen her pull in here last night, though. Went inside there round about when Pat Sajak came on. Then after Dancing with the Stars was over, I looked out the window and saw her loading a suitcase into her trunk and off she went again.”

  Suitcase. That was not good.

  “I don’t suppose she mentioned where she was going?”

  He shook his head again. “Nope. But she looked in a real hurry. Maybe she had a hot date.” His wrinkles squished together in an exaggerated wink.

  I felt my Mad Cow burger threatening to make a repeat appearance.

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem. Any friend of that Lola’s is a friend of mine.” He did a couple of eyebrow wiggles that had me clinging to my denial like a security blanket.

  I stared up at the house. Well… if Larry was gone, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have just one tiny peek around, right?

  I opened the back gate and tippy-toed around the yard to the sliding glass door again, this time careful to watch my step over the dog toy landmines. I peeked in the windows, lifting up on the balls of my feet to see around the bushes. It looked a lot like it had yesterday. In fact, the Windex was even still out on the table. With a quick over-the-shoulder I tried the sliding door. Locked. Well, what did I really expect?

  So, what now? I scanned the interior of the house as I thought. Honestly, I was out of ideas. If Larry was involved with the Mob, this was so out of my league. My league was full of children’s shoes, Rainbow Brite jellies and Spiderman slippers. My league wasn’t even playing the same game as a bunch of Italian-American family men.

  On the other hand… I didn’t think Larry was really in their league ether. I know, I know, I’d only met the man once. Okay, maybe twice if you count the whole ’74 El Camino incident. How could I really know for sure what he was like? Truth? I couldn’t. But what can I say? He was my dad. If I wasn’t on his side, who would be?

  So, telling myself I was really doing Larry a favor, I pulled out my Macy’s card and stared at the locked door, trying to remember how Veronica Mars had broken into that guy’s house last week. I gingerly slid the corner of the red, plastic card between the metal frame and the door. I paused, waiting for alarms to go off. Nothing. Okay, so far so good. I wriggled the card in a little deeper, until it was wedged in all the way up to the expiration date. Then I slowly slid the card downward until I came in contact with the lock. Hmmm… now what? I wriggled some more. I hated to admit it, but this didn’t seem to be doing anything. By now Veronica had been inside the perp’s house, had hacked into his computer, and was downloading evidence off his hard drive.

  I moved the card up and down a couple more times, silently willing the lock to magically spring free. I gave it a hard downward thrust.

  Snap.

  Oh crap. I pulled my credit card out, only coming away with half of it.

  “Nooooooo!” I wailed. I stared at my mangled Macy’s card. Why oh why hadn’t I used my Nordstrom card instead? At least I knew I was already over-limit on that one.

  Conceding that I was no Veronica Mars, and not willing to sacrifice my Banana Republic card, I gave up on the sliding door.

  Instead, I decided to explore the other side of the house. Who knows, maybe Larry had left a window open in his haste in skip town last night. I followed a neat flagstone pathway around the corner of the building. A line of terra cotta pots and gardening tools stood beside the fence, next to the re-coiled garden hose. This time I carefully stepped over it.

  There were three windows visible on the top floor from here, and two on the bottom. All five closed (And locked. I checked.) and all five sporting beige mini blinds pulled tightly shut. I might have been discouraged at this point, had I not spied a door leading into the garage at the end of the flagstone pathway.

  What were the chances it was unlocked? Considering my luck so far, I didn’t hold out a lot of hope. So imagine my surprise when the knob turned with ease in my hand. Wadda ya know? Maybe I wasn’t a total jinx after all.

  With one more quick over-the-shoulder for good measure, I quickly slipped inside and shut the door behind me. It was dark, only a pale stream of light coming from under the garage door illuminating the shadows. I paused a moment, letting my eyes adjust before feeling my way across the space to a door on the far side. As I did, it became clear this was no ordinary garage. This place was clean. I’m talking obsessive compulsive clean. Pristine, white floor to ceiling storage cabinets lined the far wall, neatly stacked side by side. The floor was completely free of any tell-tale oil spots and I’d dare anyone to find an errant cobweb nestled in the corners. Along the back wall stood a tool bench with one of those pegboard thingies full of tools, each in it’s rightful place. I tried to block the mental image of Larry swinging a hammer in his frilly skirts and fake wigs as I gingerly crossed the room and opened the interior door.

  I found myself in the kitchen and blinked against the suddenly onslaught of light. Yellow calico curtains hung above the apron sink with a matching calico table cloth draped over a small breakfast table near the windows. Corian counters, whitewashed pine cabinets, and two framed prints of roosters completed the suburban French country look. Standing in the bright, cheerful room it was hard to imagine the owners of this house being into anything sinister.

  Since I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, I decided to start in Hank’s room. He was, after all, the dead guy in all this. Besides, he was the least likely one to mind if I did a little snoop- I mean, investigating through his things.

  I jogged up the stairs and entered the bedroom on the right. It was clear Maurice had used his magic touch in here as well. Light, airy fabrics mixed with thick, dark woods, and large, mall-store quality prints adorned the walls. Little lace doilies covered the dresser and night stands and if I hadn’t known better I’d swear my sixty-five year old Aunt Mildred lived here.

  I did a quick scan of his closets and drawers, fighting off a slight case of the heebie-jeebies at touching things that belonged to a dead man. I mean, he hadn’t actually died in these clothes, had he? In fact, he hadn’t died in any clothes, if I remembered correctly. I made a mental note to ask Ramirez about that.

  Due to Maurice’s clean-aholic tendencies, I didn’t turn up much, other than a few piece of expensive jewelry and a drawer full of size triple XL pantyhose. With a quick glance at my watch (if I limited my snoop- investigating – to another ten minutes, I could still make my lip waxing appointment) I moved on to Larry’s room.

  I crossed the hall and opened his bedroom door. I took one step in and cringed as my eyes fell on that tube of Raspberry Perfection sitting on his dresser.

  Here’s the thing: I like to consider myself as liberal minded as the next gal. I enjoyed watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and mourned the loss of Will and Grace just like anyone else. I don’t begrudge anyone’s right to be different, and if a guy wants to wear a wig and pantyhose, more power to him, right? But, just why did it have to be my dad in the wig, huh?

  It was so much easier to be opened minded when it wasn’t happening to me.

  Taking a deep breath (and clutching denial in a two fisted death grip) I crossed the room and shoved the lip gloss under a long, blonde wig. There. That was better.

  I decided to start with Larry’s nightstand, reasoning that’s where the contents of my pockets ended up every night. Maybe Larry had left a receipt or matchbook – anything that might tell me where he was now or wh
at he was running from.

  I started with the top of the nightstand, unfolding one small piece of paper after another. Mostly receipts from the grocery, drug store, some fast food restaurants. Nothing terribly telling except that he should be eating a lower fat diet. I made a mental note to tell Dana my junk food cravings were genetic.

  Coming up zero on the nightstand, I moved on to the closet – not sure my denial cocoon was strong enough yet to withstand the sight of the ‘intimates’ that might be lurking in Larry’s dresser drawers.

  I opened the closet door and gasped. Shoes. Dozens of beautiful, shiny, designer shoes. It was like looking in a boutique store window. I knelt down to examine a pair. Michael Kors’ last season black satin wedges with rhinestone detail and ballerina straps. If they hadn’t been five sizes too big, I would have been in heaven. I turned them over in my hands, letting the long silky straps run through my fingers as I took in every little detail. If these were fakes, I was a rugby player. Whatever Larry’s connection to the containers of counterfeit shoes, this wasn’t it. These were the genuine $600 a pair article. I did a little sigh and set them back in the shoe rack with all the reverence they deserved.

  I stifled a little squeak as I spied the next pair. Jimmy Choo Mary Janes in fire engine red with three-inch heels and gold plated buckles. I had to hand it to Larry, he did drag with style. I pulled the Mary Janes out of the closet and held them up to the mirror. The light from the window shone off the patent leather like glass. I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of my kittens heels and treated my toes to a moment in Choos. I’m pretty sure I moaned out loud. Okay, so I was a small seven and these where a big ten, but I didn’t care. They looked fabulous. Beyond fabulous. These were Sarah Jessica Parker-tastic! I did a couple of foot model poses, checking them out from all angles. I was just contemplating how many cotton balls I’d have to stuff in the toes to wear them on my date with Ramirez tonight, when I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs.

  I froze.

  “Hello?” a voice called out. “Larry? You here?”

  I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I recognized that voice. It was the same one I’d heard arguing at the club with Monaldo. Unibrow.

  “La-ry,” he singsonged. “You here, buddy? Your front door was open, so I thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

  Liar. If Unibrow had come in the front he was a hell of a lot better at breaking and entering than I was. Not a totally comforting thought.

  “Larry!” Unibrow called up the stairs, his voice sharper now. “I’ve got something here for you. Don’t make me come up there looking for you.”

  Crap, crap, crap! I quickly scanned the room for a hiding place as Unibrow’s bulk thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. The closet would have been the obvious choice, had it not been filled to capacity with pumps. Bed, dresser, nightstand – none of which were large enough for me to hide behind. I lifted the leopard printed bed skirt. More boxes of shoes were stacked under the bed. Wow. Aside from myself and Imelda Marcos, I didn’t think anyone owned this many shoes. I quickly shoved a stack out of the way and wedged myself in with the shoeboxes and dust bunnies, just as Unibrow reached the landing.

  I could hear his labored breathing as he entered the room, but all I could see were his brown wingtips and the hem of his black slacks.

  His feet crossed the room to the dresser, then I heard the sound of him opening drawers and tossing the contents. Tubes of lipstick fell to the floor, along with three Styrofoam heads and a handful of costume jewelry. The long, blonde wig fluttered down from the dresser, the Raspberry Perfection lip gloss rolling out from under it, across the carpet, and coming to a stop just inches from my nose.

  Okay, why was it fate was taunting me like this? Can you cut a girl a little slack? I’m doing denial here!

  Unibrow grunted something and gave up on the dresser. I watched his wingtips moved toward the closet, cringing at the thought of his big meat cleaver hands tossing Larry’s precious designer footwear aside. I heard one shoe rack meet it’s demise, collapsing with a crash, and felt a tiny piece of my heart break. I was glad now I’d put on the Mary Janes. At least they were safe.

  Apparently feeling he’d caused enough destruction, Unibrow’s wingtips moved away from the closet. I did a little sigh of relief for the spared pumps.

  Then held my breath as he turned toward the bed.

  I felt my eyes growing bigger as his shoes slowly came at me. One step after another until the tip of his right foot was inches from my face. I could smell the leather and pungent shoe polish he used, along with the faint scent of odor eaters. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the saint of bad hiding places that Unibrow didn’t sit down on the bed. With his bulk, I’d be an instant pancake.

  Someone up there must have heard me, because he didn’t, instead veering to the left and out the bedroom door.

  I did a sigh of relief so big, the dust bunnies in front of my face danced. His footsteps lumbered back down the stairs as I scrambled out from under the bed. I waited until I heard the front door open and shut before kicking off the too-big Mary Janes, grabbing my kitten heels, and taking the stairs two at a time. I padded barefoot across the kitchen to the garage door and slipped inside just as I heard the front door open again. I slid my shoes back on and did a little tippy-toe across the garage in the dark, hoping I didn’t bump into anything but too chicken to wait until my eyes adjusted to get the heck out of Dodge.

  I only tripped once, over a sack of fertilizer or something that someone had left in the middle of the floor, before I made it to the outside door. I gingerly twisted the handle, cracked the door open and peeked my head out. No sign of Unibrow. I slowly shut the door behind me, trying to make as little noise as possible even though my hands were shaking harder than a 7.2, and jogged over to the side gate. I did another crack and peek. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb, the trunk popped open. I’d watched enough HBO to know this car had Mob written all over it. I craned my head to the left and right. No sign of its driver. I prayed he was still inside the house. I gave myself a three count, then darted out of the yard and across the street to the Mustang.

  It took two tries before I could keep my hands steady enough to fit the key into the ignition. But once I did I wasted no time in punching the gas and squealing my tires down the street, seriously appreciating the zero to sixty qualities of a muscle car with a V8 engine.

  * * *

  By the time I got back to the hotel room my hands had finally stopped shaking, my teeth were no longer chattering together like castanets and, I realized with a stab of regret, I had missed my appointment at the Regis. Not only was I being followed by a stalker and cornered by Mob goons, I was stuck with my mustache for another 24 hours until the Fran Dresher sound-alike could fit me into her schedule again. (Apparently when Bette was in town not only were the low rent rooms booked, but salon appointments were also in high demand.) After setting up a four thirty appointment for tomorrow, I flopped down on the double bed and stared at the textured ceiling again, trying to make sense of all I’d seen that day.

  What had Larry gotten himself into? By now even I had to admit it looked like something just this side of legal. And from what Maurice said, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. That’s when Larry and Hank had fought, and Hank had started carrying a gun. So, what was it? And what sort of ‘something’ did Unibrow have for Larry? Had it been in the trunk? Did it have anything to do with the counterfeit shoes? Or was ‘I have something for you’ code for ‘I’m gonna snuff you out execution style’?

  I wondered. In fact, I wondered so hard I fell asleep. By the time I woke up the sky had turned into a deep blue and there was a little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth.

  I rolled over and looked at my cell phone. The display told me I had two new messages. Still holding out a small hope that one of them might be Larry trying to contact me again, I keyed in my pin number and listened to the recordings.
>
  Unfortunately neither, it turned out, were from Larry. The first message was from Mom, telling me about this charming Mexican restaurant on Beech that I had to try. They served the best mojitos in Palm Springs. In fact, she said, she’d had so many of them last time she was there that she’d ended up seducing Faux Dad right there in the backseat of his Caddy in the parking lot. My mother: Queen of Too Much Information.

  The second message was from Ramirez. He said he was running late and would meet me at Il Fornaio downstairs at seven. I glanced at the digital clock beside the bed. 6:15. Yikes!

  I quickly hopped in the shower, then set to rummaging through my suitcase for something suitable to wear on my very first date with Mr. I-Wanna-Sex-You-Up. The only problem was I’d packed for a father-daughter reunion, not a Vegas seduction. Unless I wanted him to end the evening with a pat on the head and a bedtime story (which, considering my dry spell, was already going into extra innings, I so did not) I needed new clothes.

  I pulled open Dana’s suitcase. Lots of spandex and workout wear. All in size two. I’ve never considered myself a hefty gal, but there was no way I was going to be able to squeeze myself into her itty-bitties. I made a mental note to skip dessert tonight.

  I glanced at the digital clock. 6:45. Not enough time to go buy something in the boutique downstairs. That left only one option. I stared at the matching set of leopard print bags. I quickly pulled one open, hoping to God Marco packed as girly as he shopped.

  Bingo.

  I found a pink and purple chiffon scarf that was the perfect accent to the low cut, V-neck cashmere sweater tucked into bag number three. Paired with my black leather skirt and Gucci boots, it presented a pretty decent look even if I did say so myself.

  I did a smoky number on my eyes with lots of shadow and mascara. With a little blow dry and a lot of mousse, I fluffed my hair into a sexy, just got out of bed, look. (Never mind that I did, in fact, just get out of bed.) And, just in case, I slipped a couple of Altoids into my purse and put on my Vicky’s Secret black lace thong. If all went well, this would be a first date to remember.