High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  The best way I could describe the studio lot was to compare it to a life sized doll house – every corner dressed within an inch of its life but none of it real. Just beyond the rear entrance lay the Sunset Studios “city”, which was basically a maze of city streets with hollow buildings made to look like New York, Boston, San Francisco, and, of course, a generic middle American suburb.

  Beyond the “city” were rows of squat warehouses with the names of hit shows painted on the outside. All buzzing with activity. I spied a group of extras and guys in headsets milling around outside stage 3F, where the sign said they shot that new cop drama. Outside stage 4B was a catering truck handing out breakfast burritos and the guy who played Screech digging into a box of morning Krispy Kremes.

  I would have loved to do a slow celebrity gawking tour around the rest of the lot, but, since I'd hit snooze about a dozen times that morning (if God wanted people to be awake at 6 AM, he wouldn't have invented late night TV) we were already running ten minutes behind, so instead we'd hightailed it to stage 6G.

  The Assistant Director (or AD) quickly ushered Dana to a holding room with the other extras. She'd given me a co-conspiratal wink as she headed off, which I'd tried not to roll my eyes at. (Okay, fine. I hadn't tried very hard.) And only thirteen minutes late (but who was counting?), I'd made my way into the wardrobe department, where Dusty was currently filling me in on suburbanite fashion, Hollywood style.

  "So, basically the outfits will be hung up here for you ahead of time," she pointed to a rack along the wall where outfits were clumped together and tagged, "and all you have to do is make sure the right person is wearing the right thing for the right scene."

  "That's it?" And people were going to pay me for this?

  Dusty laughed. "It's harder than it sounds. Getting actors through wardrobe is like herding cats. Especially if they aren't happy with what we've picked out for them. Speaking of which, watch out for Margo. She's notorious for adding her own accessories." She did a mock shudder. "Costume stuff and cheap as hell."

  "Margo?"

  "She plays Nurse Nan on the show. You know, Ashley's evil twin sister who just escaped the mental institution and is secretly living in Ashley's attic?"

  "Oh, riiiight. Nurse Nan."

  Dusty chuckled again. "You'll get used to calling them by their real names, don't worry. In the meantime, how about we go get some coffee and I'll introduce you around."

  Grateful for a moment to absorb it all, I followed Dusty out of the wardrobe room and down a series of hallways littered with make-up bags, discarded scripts, and lengths of cable. As I picked my way around the landmines, I made a mental note to wear wedges tomorrow. I could just see myself snagging a stiletto on a cable and doing a face plant in front of Mia Carletto.

  Finally the hallways opened up to a larger common area just behind the actual soundstage. In the center of the room sat Craft service – a large folding table laden with chips, cookies, crackers, soda, water, candy and about a million other fattening, sugar filled treats that made my mouth water. Not the least of which was a large metal carafe of coffee with the Starbucks emblem emblazoned on the side. That was it. I was never leaving.

  A mousy looking girl in an oversized T-shirt and jeans stood behind the table, refilling bowls of Chex mix. Around the table two guys in tool belts full of tape, wires, pens, and huge walkie talkies stood munching on handfuls of cookies, while two waif-thin women with sprayed-in-place hair sipped at water bottles.

  Dusty pulled me aside confidentially. "That's Margo there on the left." She pointed to the older of the two women, a tall brunette in a tailored suit with skin pulled so tightly back from her face that her lips were bulging. Obviously a fresh face lift, and an aggressive one at that.

  "And her?" I asked, gesturing to the other woman. She was slim, with long blonde hair and there was something vaguely familiar about her.

  "That's Veronika, Mia's stand in."

  "Stand in?" I asked.

  "The stand in runs through the scene for the technical crew, so they can get the lighting right, block out the camera angles, that sort of thing. She's pretty much the same height, size, and coloring as Mia and she generally wears the same clothes Mia will be while she's running through the scenes. In fact, that," she said gesturing to Veronika, "is the identical Armani suit that Mia will be wearing in the scene we're shooting today."

  No wonder she'd looked familiar. As I took in the light, cream colored pencil skirt and blazer paired with alligator pumps, I was struck by just how much she did look like Mia. They honestly could have been twins.

  "So, how long have you been working in production design?" Dusty asked, pouring herself of cup of coffee.

  "Oh, well, uh…" Okay, so here's the thing. I might have exaggerated my resume just a teeny tiny bit when I'd spoken with Dusty on the phone last night. In fact, if you wanted to get technical about it, I might have even lied. A little. But, it was for a very good cause. There was no way I'd be able to help Ramirez get his old job back just sitting at home watching the daily entertainment report. He needed a man on the inside, so to speak. And I was that man.

  Even if it meant fudging the truth a little.

  "Well, I've been interested in design my whole life," I said, noncommittally as I grabbed a paper cup.

  "Yep." Dusty nodded. "Me too. I was always the artistic type. When I was fifteen, I got my first piercing," she gestured to the silver barbell cutting through her heavily lined eyebrow, "and my mom just about freaked. She didn't get my need to express myself, you know?"

  "I totally hear you." Okay, so my need to express myself had come through the use of my mother's Visa to buy two hundred dollar pumps when I was fifteen, but same concept.

  "Oh, are you pierced?"

  "Me?" I asked, dumping cream into my cup and taking a sip. Heaven. "No. Well, my ears, but that's it. My vice is shoes. I'm a total pain chicken. I'm really impressed that you have three."

  "Seven."

  I coughed, choking on a mouthful of coffee. "Seven?"

  "Yep." She nodded. "I started with the eyebrow, then nose, lip, bellybutton, both nipples, and my hood."

  I cocked my head to the side. "Hood?"

  "Yeah. You know… down there." Dusty pointed down at the crotch of her jeans.

  I think I went about fifteen different shades of red. I sipped at my coffee to cover my embarrassment, doing a physical cringe at the thought of needles going… down there.

  Luckily, though, I didn't have to come up with a clever reply.

  "Uh oh," Dusty said, glancing to the left.

  "Uh oh?"

  She gestured to a doorway. "You're about to meet Hurricane Mia. And it looks like she's a category four today."

  I turned just as a tall, slim woman strode through the room making double time. Her long, blonde curls hung loose at her sides, bouncing up and down furiously as she stomped on two inch strappy heels across the cement floor. She had on the same cream colored pencil skirt as Veronika, paired with a white button-down blouse… open far enough that a lacey push up bra showed beneath, maximizing her D cups. I'd recognize her anywhere. It was Ashley!

  I tried not to go all fan-clubby on her, instead containing my excitement to something between open admiration and just plain staring. I had to admit, Ashley (or Mia, as I supposed I would have to get used to calling her) was much prettier in person. Her eyes were a bright green emerald, her alabaster skin perfect even without the effects of airbrushing, and the body stuffed into that pencil skirt wasn't an inch over size two. She looked like she either existed on Tic Tacs or had a personal trainer on twenty-four hour standby. Or maybe both. The only thing marring her perfection was the scowl etched on her face.

  Mia strode up to Dusty, bearing down with purpose.

  "Dusty!" she barked.

  "Yes?" Dusty replied, coolly. Though I could tell by the way her hand had tightened around her coffee cup that she was steeling herself for the worst.

  "What did I say yesterday about teal
?" Mia narrowed her eyes.

  Dusty bit at the inside of her cheek, looking like she hadn't been ready for a pop quiz so early in the morning. "I give up?"

  "It makes me look pale!" Mia slammed a hand down on the snack table, making a plate of chocolate chip cookies jump. "I told you I want to wear peach in the neighborhood watch scene. I'm a Spring. Springs wear peach."

  Dusty sucked in a slow breath, obviously keeping her composure with much difficulty. "Margo is wearing peach in that scene. You can't both wear peach."

  "Screw Margo!" Mia screeched.

  I saw Margo's spine straighten, but she didn't say anything.

  "I am the star of this show," Mia went on. "People tune in to see me. Let Margo wear the teal and look like a corpse. I will be shot in peach. Got it?"

  Dusty opened her mouth to respond, but Mia cut her off, sticking one manicured finger in Dusty's face.

  "Or it will be your job. You know how easily I could get you sacked? I'm Mia Carletto. And you? You're expendable." With that Mia slammed her hand down on the table again so hard the cookies hit the floor. Then she turned and stalked out of the room.

  Dusty clenched her jaw, her eyes shooting daggers at Mia's back. I joined her. Those looked like they'd been really good cookies.

  "And that," Dusty said, still clenching her jaw, "was Mia."

  "So I gathered. Is she always that friendly?"

  "Oh, this was a good day. You should have seen her during sweeps week."

  "Yikes. Remind me to stay on her good side."

  "Impossible. Mia doesn't have a good side." Dusty tossed the remains of her cup in the trash can. "Well, apparently I've got to go switch out Mia's outfit for something 'Springy peach,'" she said, doing air quotes with her fingers. "Think you can start rounding up the others and get them dressed for the first scene?”

  “No problem,” I responded.

  Famous last words.

  * * *

  The trouble with actors, I was soon to learn, was that they lived by the hurry-up-and-wait credo. Depending on the complexity of a scene, the director might spend an hour setting up the shot for fifteen seconds of dialogue. This left the actors with way too much time on their hands and nothing to fill it. Which, as any kindergarten teacher will tell you, just spells trouble.

  The Magnolia Lane cast had me running from one end of the Sunset Studios lot to the other all day long. First it was fetching Blake, a.k.a Ashley Culver's comatose husband, who was, by the way, not in his trailer but across the lot at the basketball court playing one-on-one with a doc from E.R. Then, I had to find Kylie, who played Tina Rey Holmes, the perky newlywed turned high-class call girl who'd moved in next door to Ashley and had the hots for the single electrician across the street who was being framed by the D.A. for murdering his ex-girlfriend. If last season's cliff hanger was any indication, I suspected Tina Rey would be having an affair with Ashley's husband when he woke up from that coma. (That is, if Nurse Nan didn't off him first. God, I loved this show!) Kylie, of course, was nowhere near her trailer either. Instead I finally tracked her down smoking a cigarette near the fake Golden Gate Park in the San Francisco section of the Sunset “city.” Ricky, who played the show's hunky gardener and everybody's favorite boy toy, Chad, was, predictably, not in his trailer either. (See a trend here?) Instead, I tracked him down outside stage 3E, chatting up two of the briefcase girls from Deal Or No Deal. And last, but certainly not least, was Deveroux Strong, the Nordic looking blond who played the hot electrician slash framed murderer, and who, incidentally, all the tabloids suspected was about to come out of the closet any day now. After checking the studio cafeteria, the Craft service table, the basketball courts, and the producer's office, I finally found Deveroux, wonder of wonders, in his trailer.

  I changed my mind about the wedges. I was wearing running shoes to work tomorrow.

  The worst thing about it all was that I hadn't even gotten a chance to talk to Mia. The only thing I'd gathered from the other actors was that they routinely got fan letters, some of which verged on the unbalanced edge. The odd thing about Mia's were that, unlike the usual fan mail, these letters had started showing up in her trailer. Which meant that the writer had somehow gotten onto the set. I thought of the security guard standing sentinel. It didn't seem likely he'd let a crazed fan in, which meant that whoever wrote them either worked on the show or at the studios. A somewhat disconcerting thought. And, unfortunately, one that didn't narrow things down a whole lot. But, I dutifully relayed it all to Dana when I met her for lunch in the studio cafeteria.

  "Ohmigod, that means someone on the show is threatening her?" Dana asked, shoveling a spoonful of fat free yogurt into her mouth.

  I shrugged. "Not necessarily. The letters could be coming from outside and someone on the set is just delivering them."

  "I think it's the AD. That guy has totally shifty eyes." Dana illustrated by wagging her eyeballs back and forth like she was watching a ping-pong match.

  "Creepy. So, what did you gather in holding?" I asked, digging into my cheeseburger and fries. Hey, all that running around burned a lot of calories. I needed fuel. Thick, greasy, cheese covered fuel.

  "Well, there are seven regular extras on the show and a few others that filter in and out," Dana said, nibbling on a carrot stick. "But I think we can eliminate them from the suspects list. That AD watches us like a hawk."

  "With his shifty eyes?" I couldn’t help adding.

  She ignored my sarcasm. "There's no way an extra could wander off without being noticed. The leads, however, are a different story. They're all over the set. One of them could easily slip away to Mia's trailer for a minute without being missed."

  I popped a fry in my mouth. "I wish I knew what the letters said. I mean, at least then we'd have a clue what kind of person we're looking for."

  "Someone who doesn't like Mia very much."

  "From what I gather, she's not exactly popular."

  "Have you had a chance to talk to her yet?"

  I shook my head. "No. But I'm on it this afternoon."

  We finished our meal, topping it off with dessert (Dana's a fat-free bran muffin, mine a chocolate chip brownie with whipped cream) and promised to meet at the back gate after work, before Dana went back to her holding room under the shifty gaze of the Assistant Director.

  I took the long way around the studio, picking my way through the maze of warehouses until I found myself in the back of stage 6G. Here six white, portable trailers were lined up in rows, most of them with their blinds shut tight. The first one bore the name of Ricky Montgomery. The next two, a generic “Talent” and the fourth, “Mia Carletto”. I paused, squinting up at the windows for any indication of life inside. Nothing.

  "Mia?" I called, doing a gentle little tap, tap, tap on the door. Still nothing.

  Apparently Mia was still at lunch. But that didn't mean that her mysterious letters were…

  I bit my lip, glancing over both shoulders. I should have walked away. I should have gone back to wardrobe where Dusty was probably waiting for me. I should have known that as I tip-toed up the two metal steps leading the trailer's door and gingerly turned the knob that nothing good would come of breaking into a star's private trailer.

  I should have.

  But I didn't.

  Instead I slowly opened the door and ducked my head inside.

  "Hello? Mia?"

  The interior of the trailer was a decadent contrast to the stark outside. Red velvet material covered a plush, four foot sofa along one wall. The blinds were not only shut, but layered with thick, brocade curtains in deep reds and golds. The floor was covered in a thick, plum colored rug that swallowed up the sound of my heels as I stepped into the room. This was a far cry from the trailer my mother had rented to drive us to the Grand Canyon when I was eight.

  To my left was a small hallway, at the end of which I could see a bedroom, done in the same dark, opulent colors. To the right was a mini kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances and granite co
untertops. In front of the sofa sat a coffee table, the top littered with scripts, notes, half empty coffee cups, and a stack of mail.

  I raised one eyebrow. Fan mail?

  I took a step closer, gingerly flipping one envelope over to see the address. It was hand written in loopy letters with little hearts dotting the "I"s. Bingo.

  I did another over the shoulder, praying Mia took a long lunch, as I quickly sifted through the pile of letters. Three from teenagers asking Mia to their prom, one from a little girl in the hospital, two marriage proposals, and one housewife in Milwaukee wanting to know where Mia hired her gardener. Great fuel for my celebrity addiction, but none of them threatening enough to warrant a police presence.

  I was about to concede that my snooping was just… well, snooping, when I spotted one more envelope, partially shoved under last week's copy of Variety. I picked it up.

  The outside was a plain number ten, like the kind my phone bills came in. It was addressed to Mia Carletto, care of Sunset Studios, though I noticed it was missing a postmark. My heart sped up. Hand delivered? There was no return address and the top had already been neatly slit open.

  With my pulse picking up to marathon speeds, I gingerly slipped my fingers inside and pulled out the note.

  Again, nothing special about the stationary. Plain white paper, typed note. Could have come from any computer. It started, “Dear Mia,” but those were about the only repeatable words on the page. This guy seriously needed his mouth washed out with Ivory. He seemed to have a thing for the “f” word, coupled with the “b” word, with a few references to female genitalia thrown in for color.

  But as vulgar as the letter was, it was the last paragraph that made a chill run up my spine.

  I've been watching you. I've been waiting for you. I'm going to kill you.

  Irrationally I looked to the closed blinds as if Mr. Potty Mouth might be watching me right now. Of course, I didn't see anyone but that didn't slow the adrenalin shooting through my limbs. Suddenly Mia's trailer was the last place I wanted to be. I quickly shoved the letter back in the envelope and stuck it under the Variety. I did a hasty survey of the room to make sure it looked the same as when I'd entered, but really, I all I wanted to do was get out of there. Now!