High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  He paused, his smile faltering as he stared at me, his eyes blinking back what I could swear was a sincere emotion bubbling just below the surface.

  For half a second I was almost afraid of his answer.

  But then the Tabloid Boy I'd come to know and dread resurfaced. "You know me, I live for the story. The only thing that gets me hot and bothered is a report of the Loch Ness Monster surfacing to chat with Bigfoot."

  "Very funny. Who's the comedian now?"

  He grinned, showing off twin dimples. "Listen, Dana told me about your fan in the Rover today. I know you’ve got wicked accuracy with the pepper spray, but I think you should consider something a little more serious.”

  "What do you mean, 'serious?'"

  "I mean a real weapon."

  "The pepper spray is fine. It stopped you, didn't it?"

  He shot me a look.

  "All the pepper spray did was piss me off. Were I really bent on harming you, I still could have." Felix went to a low cabinet along the wall and opened a drawer. He pulled something out and slipped it into my hand. “Here.”

  I looked down and blinked. “A gun?!”

  “It’s a .38 pistol. Easy to use, all you have to do is pull the safety back like this,” he flipped a little metal switch, “then point and shoot. Simple.”

  I shoved it back at him. “No, I don’t want a gun.”

  “Maddie, someone out there is trying to harm you. You walked away from them today, but that doesn't mean they won't be back tomorrow. Please, just take it.”

  If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn there was genuine concern in his voice.

  Before I had a chance to respond, Felix shoved the .38 into my purse.

  I suddenly felt like my Kate Spade was carrying a ticking time bomb.

  "Are we leaving or what?" Dana called from the drive.

  "Coming," I shot over my shoulder. Then turned to Felix. "You'll call me the second something comes up on our PayMate search, right?"

  He nodded and held up two fingers. "Scouts honor."

  Satisfied, I jogged over to the car and got in as Dana revved up the engine. I could see Felix still shadowed in the doorway watching us as we pulled away. The weight of my purse eerily unnerving.

  * * *

  Half an hour later Dana dropped me off in front of my studio, hightailing it to a SA meeting in Van Nuys. (First heartthrob Ricky, then, as she'd put it, Brit-o-yummy Felix, were more than her positive sexual sobriety self could take.)

  The patrol car was still comfortingly parked across the street and I gave the uniformed cop a little wave as I climbed my steps. No response. Figures. I didn't have real good luck with cops lately.

  Probably due to the police presence, my doorstep was thankfully road kill free as I let myself into my apartment and saw my message machine blinking like mad. I hit the play button, letting the mechanical voice tell me I had two new messages as I stripped off my clothes in favor of an oversized Aerosmith T-shirt.

  "First new message," it informed me. "Maddie, this is Mr. Shuman at Tot Trots." I groaned, staring at my abandoned design table. "I just wanted to remind you that we're expecting the Pretty Pretty princess designs by Monday. Mrs. Larson's threatening to reassign the My Little Pony flip-flops this summer if you're late again."

  I made a mental note not to neglect my real job and finish those sparklies and bows tomorrow. If I lost the My Little Pony account, there went rent. Not to mention those strappy Santana sandals I'd had my eye on.

  The machine clicked over to the second message and Dusty's shaky voice filled my studio. "Hi, it's Dusty. Um, listen I… I kind of need to talk to you, Maddie. It's important. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. I… it's important."

  "End of messages," the machine informed me.

  Something about the urgency in Dusty's message had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. I quickly grabbed the receiver and dialed her number. It rang three times. Then four. Five. Finally I gave up after the tenth ring and redialed. Still no answer.

  I hung up, reluctantly telling myself that if it really was that important, she'd call back. I crawled into bed, but instead of falling into the deep sleep I'd been dreaming of all evening, I tossed and turned, uneasy feelings churning in my belly as I mentally replayed Dusty's message over and over.

  I swear someday I'll learn to listen to those feelings.

  Chapter Eleven

  True to my promise, as soon as I woke up the next morning, I went straight to my drawing table and sketched out the patent leather buckle closures for the Pretty Pretty Princess shoes. I worked straight through the morning, careful not to get any of my strawberry frosted pop tart on the drawings, before rolling them up and popping them in a mailing tube, ready to send off first thing Monday.

  Those My Little Pony flip-flops were so mine.

  Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I hopped in the shower, letting the hot water work out any lingering stiffness in my neck. Next to push-up bras, hot running water has got to be one of the greatest inventions know to man. I stood an eternity under the spray until finally the water started to turn tepid and my tiny bathroom was filled with so much steam even my eyelashes were beginning to frizz. I stepped out, wrapping myself in a big fluffy towel and plopped down on my futon to treated myself to a fresh coat of toenail polish. I was halfway through the second foot when my doorbell rang. I did a heel-walk, careful not to let my wet toes touch, as I called a, "Coming," and peeked through the security hole.

  Then froze.

  Dark hooded eyes, thick black hair, just a little too long, T-shirt fairly painted on that I-can-bench-press-a-Buick body, arms crossed over his chest, causing that sleek panther to trail dangerously down one bulging bicep.

  Ramirez.

  I hugged my fluffy towel closer to my body, the sight of him sending a sudden shiver down my spine.

  I debated the merits of throwing on a pair of pants first, but his fist banging impatiently on the other side of the door made the decision for me. I undid the security chain and slowly opened the door just enough to stick my head out.

  "Hi."

  He gave my disembodied head a funny look. "Hi. Can I come in?"

  "Um…" I looked down at my towel, which in the face of Ramirez's George Clooney stubble and worn in the right places jeans, suddenly seemed way too small.

  "Please?" Eyes dark, voice low and intimate. That shiver transformed into instant heat, starting in the pit of my stomach and settling somewhere distinctly lower.

  What the hell, he did say please, right?

  I stepped back, opening the door. The second he stepped in the room, my studio felt about ten times smaller, bursting at the seams with sexy detective. I shifted nervously from foot to foot as his eyes gave me and my itty-bitty towel a slow up and down. I'm not totally sure but I think I heard him groan somewhere in the back of his throat.

  Or maybe that was just me.

  "Uh, so, what are you doing here?" I asked, tugging at the hem of my towel. "I mean, not that I don’t want you here. Or that you shouldn't be here. I mean you can be here any time you like. If you like. Which, you do, 'cause you're here, but I mean we kind of left things… I mean I wasn't sure where we… I mean with all the fighting and all…"

  I trailed off as Ramirez licked his lower lip, an innocent movement that somehow erased every single thought from my head.

  "The birthday party," he said, bringing his eyes (with difficulty) up to meet mine.

  "Huh?"

  His tongue shot out again and I started having the kind of thoughts that could land a person in SA.

  "Your nephew, Connor? You invited me to his birthday party, remember?"

  "Oh. Right." Then I paused. "Wait - and you still want to go?" I was pretty sure that the whole “talk to me through my attorney” thing was free license for him to skip any and all family functions he'd previously agreed to accompany me to. And Lord knows I would have taken the out if I could. I cocked my head to the side. "Really?"
/>   He grinned, deep dimples punctuating his stubble covered cheeks. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  Wow, he had a nice smile. I mean, like, completely-aware-I'm-not-wearing-any-panties nice. So nice I could feel any lingering anger I might have had at him melting faster than a push-pop on the Venice Boardwalk.

  "Right," I said, clearing my throat in an attempt to rein in those pesky little hormones of mine. (Which totally failed by the way.) "So, does this mean that we're… I mean am I… we're sort of…"

  His grin widened. "It means we're going to be late if you don't get dressed."

  I glanced at my digital VCR clock. One fifteen. He was right. We were so late. "Oh crap! Molly's going to kill me."

  I quickly heel-walked over to my closet and pawed through the pile of clothes sitting near the hangers. (I know, I know, on the hangers would be better. But I'm a woman on the go. I'm lucky if the clothes are clean.) Thankfully I found a little pink sundress (clean!) and white sweater (pretty clean) that perfectly matched the pink leather heels I'd put the finishing design touches on last month.

  I leaned over to step into a pair of clean panties and heard that groan behind me again.

  I snapped up straight and turned around to find Ramirez grinning from ear to ear, his eyes glued to the rising hem of my towel.

  "Um, do you wanna wait outside?" I asked.

  The grin widened and he slowly shook his head from side to side. "Uhn uh."

  I rolled my eyes. "Come on, I'm late. I have to get dressed."

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Honey, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

  Yeah, but that was before we'd turned into the Hatfields and the McCoys. After being at each other's throats the last week, I wasn't quite ready to do a strip tease in my living room for him.

  I tugged at the hem of my towel again.

  "At least turn around."

  Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me, but complied, turning to face the door.

  I quickly stepped into my panties and slid the dress over my head.

  Even though I was ninety-nine percent sure he was peeking.

  Ten minutes later me and my half-painted toenails (luckily the pumps were closed toed!) were in the front seat of Ramirez's black SUV pulling out of my driveway.

  I glanced across the street. "What happened to the patrol car?" I asked, noticing the conspicuously absent spot between my neighbor's garbage cans and the mailbox.

  "I sent them home." Ramirez sent me a sly sideways look. Then rested one hand on my thigh. "You're all mine today."

  I did a dry gulp and crossed my legs.

  Oh boy.

  * * *

  My cousin Molly lived in a fifties-style bungalow in the Larchmont district of L.A., just south of the 101. Larchmont was a popular shopping area filled with little mom and pop bookstores, trendy boutiques, and three coffee houses on every block. On the weekends it was home to locals browsing for bargains, and on the weekdays, actors memorizing their lines and moms pushing strollers two by two. Molly was one of those moms. Only there was no way her stroller would fit two by two anywhere. With four rugrats under the age of five, I think Molly was applying for sainthood in the near future.

  Either that or head of the west coast division of Mommy and Me.

  “Madds! I’m so glad you could make it," she said, throwing open her screen door and attacking me with air kisses. I awkwardly tried to navigate a hug around her swollen belly.

  "Come on in, everyone's already here,” she chided.

  Hey, I was only fifteen minutes late. That was a record for me!

  “Ma, ma!” The Terror yelled, toddling across the carpeted living room floor. He had on a teeny tiny pair of chinos and a dress shirt that was already stained with three different colors of baby drool. Instinctively my new heels and I took a step back.

  "That's right, Connor. Auntie Maddie's here."

  I gave the little person an awkward wave. It's not that I don't like kids. Kids are great. I might even have one someday. It's just that I was never quite sure how to talk to them. Somehow I couldn’t do the high-pitched mommy-voice Molly did, but I felt slightly ridiculous talking to a drooling, baldheaded guy in a diaper as if we were meeting at Starbucks for lattes. So, I settled on the non-committal wave.

  "Hey there, big fella," Ramirez said, leaning down and giving Connor a high five.

  Connor blew him a spit bubble. "Ablablabla!" he screamed.

  I resisted the urge to cover my ears.

  "What do you want, Connor?" Molly asked. "You have to sign it. Sign it to Mommy.”

  Connor blew some raspberries and yelled, "Aboooboooboo."

  “Sign it, Connor. Mommy can’t understand you.” She turned to me. “We’re teaching Connor baby sign language. All the experts agree that it's the best way to foster early communication skills and ensure proper conceptualization of interpersonal dynamics at a young age."

  Connor smiled at me and drooled onto his Chinos.

  Oh yeah, a baby genius in the making.

  "Now," Molly said, crouching down and slowly enunciating to the drooling wonder, "use your signs and tell Mommy what Connor wants."

  "Mabooooogoooo," he yelled, going red in the face.

  "Use your signs," Molly prompted.

  The Terror stomped one foot. Then let out a wail that could wake the dead. “Mamabooogooooooo!”

  He raised one chubby fist in the air and, I could swear, lifted his middle finger.

  How's that for sign language?

  Molly sighed and shook her head. "We're still working on it," she reassured us. "Anyway, come on out back, everyone's here." She grabbed Connor under the armpits and slung him onto one ample hip as she led the way through the Fisher-Price-littered house into the spacious backyard, strung with streamers, balloons, and “Happy First Birthday” signs. Molly’s brood of munchkins were on the lawn playing some kind of game that involved sticks, paper hats, and lots of loud war whoops. A pony stood in the corner, being petted by my cousin, Donna's, kids, and under an oak tree Molly's husband, Stan, was stringing up a big, blue piñata shaped like a dog. On the patio sat an inflatable Spiderman-themed jumphouse filled with shouting kids and my teenage nephew, Johnny, who recently started wearing his hair in a green Mohawk. My Irish Catholic grandmother sat straight backed in a deck chair, sipping at lemonade and plugging her ears. I spied Mom and Faux Dad standing next to the jump house, glasses of merlot in hand.

  Alcohol. Just what was needed to make it through a family gathering unscathed.

  "Let's find the booze," I mumbled to Ramirez as Molly's oldest came running towards us, swinging a wooden baseball bat and yelling for candy.

  Ramirez jumped back just in time to avoid being piñata practice, mumbling something in Spanish. (I'm guessing it was something along the lines of, “Gotta remember to buy condoms.”) "Good idea."

  Near the back fence, Molly had set up two folding tables, both covered in bright red and blue tablecloths. Trays of cookies, cupcakes, candies and a jumbo sized birthday cake shaped like a blue dog sat on the first table next to a big bowl of red punch. The second held clear plastic cups, a beer cooler, and boxes of wine.

  Ramirez grabbed a beer and moved over to the corner of the yard as Molly's kid came in for another swing. I opted for wine box number one, an indistinguishable pink wine, and filled my glass to the brim.

  “Hi.”

  I spun around.

  Then let out a little eek as I encountered a man in thick white makeup with a bright red nose, standing close enough that I could smell the breakfast burritos on his breath. His hair puffed out in red curls all around his ears and he had a big goofy smile painted over his lips. The effect was supposed to be cute, but with him standing so close, it was kind of creepy. I took a step back.

  "How's it goin'?" the clown asked.

  "Uh, fine."

  “Got any more of that?” He pointed to my glass of pink stuff.

  "Excuse me?”

  The clown stepped around me and flipped
the tab on box number two, filling his plastic cup with cheap merlot. He tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp. "Wow, that hits the spot."

  I blinked. “Uh, hello?"

  "What?"

  "You're a clown!"

  He stared at me. “Yeah. So?"

  I gestured around at the backyard full of little people. “Don’t you think you should be setting a good example?”

  Drunkie the Clown refilled his glass, taking a long swig. “Cut me some slack, dollface, I’m only doing the clown gig 'cause they fired me from Days of Our Lives.” He downed the second glass, then walked away, his oversized shoes squeaking with each step.

  "Did he just call you dollface?" Ramirez asked, coming up behind me. His eyes narrowed as he popped the top on a second Heineken.

  "Okay, everyone! Piñata time!" Molly yelled.

  Kids poured from every corner of the yard toward the oak tree, nearly knocking the grown ups over in the process. Johnny barreled through, loot sack in hand, and pushed his mohawked self to the front of the line.

  "Birthday boy first," Molly decided, extricating the wooden baseball bat from her oldest and handing it to Connor. She tied a bright red blindfold over his eyes.

  "Can you see anything, Connor?" she asked.

  "Maabaaagooo!"

  "Oh, this can't end well," Ramirez murmured in my ear. He casually rested one hand at the small of my back and I suddenly couldn’t care less what Connor did with that bat. I tried to tell myself it was inappropriate to get turned on at a child's birthday party.

  "Okay, here we go, honey. Swing for the piñata." Molly gave Connor a nudge in the general direction of the blue dog. The other kids danced on their tip-toes, poised to make a dive for flying candy. Connor toddled forward and swung, missing the piñata by a good two feet.

  "Lower, Stan, they can’t reach it.”

  Stan let the slack out on the piñata as Connor took another blind swing, this time barely missing Faux Dad.