High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  “Auntie made dinner reservations for us. We were just about to leave. Is it urgent?”

  Considering Gisella wasn’t coming back to the room and the police had likely already done their worst to it, not to mention the fact that I really had no idea what I might look for in there anyway except maybe some clue to Mystery Man’s identity, I figured urgent didn’t exactly describe the situation.

  “No,” I conceded. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, why don’t you come with us?” Charlene suggested. She turned a big beauty pageant smile on me that was all teeth. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be any bother to change the reservation for three.”

  “Thanks. But no thanks. I, uh, I’m not feeling all that well. I’ve got a little stomach thing going on.”

  “Oh, too bad,” Charlene said. Then gave Felix’s thigh a squeeze. “I was so looking forward to getting to know one of Felix’s little friends.”

  My turn to flash the fake smile.

  “Tomorrow, then?” Felix asked, rising from his chair. Auntie Charlene did the same, quickly linking one arm through Felix’s.

  “Sure. Tomorrow.”

  “Right. I’ll call you in the morning then. ‘Night, Maddie.”

  “‘Night,” I said to his retreating back.

  Wondering why the hell the sight of Charlene’s mini-dress encased hips wiggling back and forth beside Felix’s should make that bad latte rise like bile in my throat.

  * * *

  I got back to my room and, considering my ill state, promptly ordered a bowl of chicken soup from room service. There. That oughtta shut my stomach up.

  I then chucked the crutches and settled down on the chaise by the window to check my messages.

  The first one was from Mom, saying she and Mrs. R had printed out a ream of papers on Gisella and to call her as soon as I got in.

  The second message was from Ramirez. I felt that clenching sensation in my gut fade as his deep voice filled my ear.

  “Hey, it’s me,” he said. “I’m at the airport. I booked a seat on the red-eye. I’ll be there by morning.”

  Okay, so I know I’d put up a fuss about him coming over, but in all honesty, it made my little heart go pitter patter that he was racing across an ocean to be by my side.

  That is until he added, “Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

  I stuck my tongue out at the phone as it clicked over. “End of new messages.” I deleted both of them, hung up and tried Mom’s cell. It went to voicemail, so I left a message of my own saying I was in the room.

  Since room service still hadn’t made it up with my soup, I grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV to wait. Unfortunately, the first thing that hit the screen was a picture of my own face staring back at me. I sat straight up, stabbing a finger at the volume control. The sound filled the room, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Damn. I strained, trying to pick out any phrases from the French for the Traveler book I’d picked up in the airport. Unfortunately they clearly weren’t asking where the bathroom was or what time the train arrived, so I was out of luck.

  The only thing I did understand was the headline that shot across the bottom of the screen in English as the picture switched back to the anchor at the news desk:

  The Couture Killer Strikes Paris

  * * *

  I was in the Le Croix tent. Flashbulbs going off, music pumping through the speakers, models in various states of undress running back and forth behind the stage. The show was in full swing. Jean Luc barked orders from one end of the room, a long line of models standing at the head of the runway, waiting for their cues to strut its length for all the world to see.

  Suddenly, Ann grabbed me. She said something in French to me, which I didn’t understand in the least. I shook my head, tried to tell her I couldn’t understand her. But she just kept talking, getting more and more upset. Finally some English came through.

  “You’re next!” she told me.

  I looked down. I was wearing one of Jean Luc’s creations – the bright blue ruffle skirt that I’d seen him fitting Gisella for earlier.

  Ann shoved me ahead of her, toward the runway, to the front of the line of waiting models.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I’m not a model, I don’t know how to do this!”

  But it was too late. She pushed me through the white flap and onto the runway.

  The lights were blinding, I couldn’t see a thing except the white flashes of cameras going off. I couldn’t make out faces, but I knew the tent was packed. I heard a chorus of voices oo-ing and aw-ing. I took a tentative step forward. Then anther, feeling my way down the runway through the blinding spotlights. I finally felt like I was getting the hang of it. People started clapping and I started strutting in earnest.

  Until my toe hit something.

  I tripped, falling forward, my arms splayed out in front of me to break my fall. Which seemed to go on forever. The ground was suddenly miles away from me. And as I looked down to see what I’d tripped over, I heard myself scream.

  There, lying beneath me was Auntie Charlene in a pool of blood. With a stiletto heel sticking out of her neck.

  * * *

  I sat straight up in bed, my heart pounding, my ducky jammies sticking to my sweaty body.

  I was not on a runway. I was not falling. I was not looking down at a pool of blood. I was in my hotel room, surrounded by ruffles and very civilized French décor. I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back on the pillows and I took great big gulps of air, trying to rein in my heart rate from Autobahn to something slightly less hectic than L.A. freeway.

  First a stomach bug. Now nightmares. Come on, girl, get a grip.

  Throwing off the covers, I set my one good leg down on the ground and hopped into the bathroom.

  One steamy hot shower and three layers of mascara later, I was feeling more like myself again. I slipped on a white, empire waisted sundress, a red cropped cardigan, and one red sandal with white beading along the strap and just the teeniest tiniest half inch heel. I know, if Doctor Ponytail saw it she’d probably have a cow. But considering half the population of France thought I was a murderer, I needed a little something to lift my sprits. Even if it was only half an inch.

  I was just making my way through a café au lait and a pain au chocolat (a croissant filled with gooey, delicious chocolate – do Parisian’s know how to do breakfast or what?) from room service when my cell rang and Felix’s number popped up.

  I flipped my Motorola open. “Yeah?”

  “Do you always answer your phone that way?” Felix asked.

  “No. I checked the caller ID. I knew it was you.”

  “Ah. So, you save your most charming self just for me, then, that it?”

  I ignored the sarcasm and shot back some of my own. “How was dinner with Auntie?”

  “Lovely. How was your evening? Stab anyone else I should know about?”

  “I hate you.”

  “Yet you continue to call.”

  “Hey, you called me, pal.”

  “Because you asked for a favor. Considering which, one would think you’d be nicer to me.”

  I shoved a large piece of croissant in my mouth to keep from shooting something nasty back at him. Mostly because he was right. I did need his help.

  “So, what’s the favor?” he asked, as I chewed.

  “I ‘eed’ ur icks.”

  “What?”

  I swallowed the bite. “I need your picks. Your lock picking set. I want to take a look in Gisella’s room and it’s locked.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “Here in the hotel?”

  I nodded at the phone. “Yes.”

  “Maddie, these aren’t the kind of locks you can just jimmy open. You need the key card.”

  “Okay, how do we make one of those?”

  Felix sighed. “Well, first you’d have to know the code for that particular room. Then you’d have to program the card with the proper code.”

  “Like with a comp
uter?”

  “Trust me, these hotels are very secure. We cannot just ‘make’ a key card.”

  Damn. I shoved another piece of croissant into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Okay, how about I go to the front desk and tell the clerk I’m in room 1243 and that I’ve lost my keycard.”

  “Hmm…” Felix said on the other end. “That might work. I’m sure the clerk wouldn’t check your name against the hotel register and even if he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t put it together with the stream of reporters outside all vying for statements about the dead woman whose last residence was room 1243.”

  “You know, you’re a very sarcastic person.”

  “It’s one of my better traits.”

  I gave my phone the finger.

  “Okay, Felix, you come up with a better plan.”

  He sighed. “Alright, if you’re determined to get into Gisella’s room, I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

  “And exactly how will you get us in?”

  “Trust me.” And he hung up.

  Trust me – famous last words.

  * * *

  If I’d had any better ideas, I might have exercised them. As it was, I finished my breakfast, grabbed my crutches and made my way to the elevators and up to room 1243.

  Felix was standing outside waiting, fresh pair of rumpled khakis on, his hair a little wet as if he’d just showered.

  “So?” I asked as I approached.

  He flashed me a smile large enough to create dimples. Then held up a key card.

  “No way!”

  He nodded. “Yes way.”

  He stuck the card in the slot above Gisella’s door handle. And, amazingly, the little light turned green.

  “Okay, spill it, Tabloid Boy. How did you get the card?”

  “It pays to be Lord Ackerman,” he said, opening the door.

  “What about the dead woman, the press, all that? What, just because you’re Lord Ackerman, Andre gave you the keycard?”

  “No, he gave it to me because I’m Lord Ackerman who told him that I was dating the deceased and had left a priceless family heirloom in the room the last time I’d been in here and didn’t trust the police not to make off with it.”

  “And he bought that?”

  Felix gave me a look. Then held up the card again.

  I shook my head. Like I said, Felix may be one step above pond scum, but he knew how to think like a criminal. Which, in certain situations, like this, came in very handy.

  I shut the door behind myself, flipping on the light switch and flooding the hotel room with florescent light. While the room was situated to get morning sun, the frilly yellow curtains were drawn tight, creating a tomb-like atmosphere that was downright creepy considering the circumstance. The bed was unmade, dozens of tiny pillows having fallen to the floor. Clothes covered the chaise, floor and arm chairs while numerous tubes of lipstick, eye shadows and concealer littered the top of the dresser.

  Felix went immediately to said dresser, opening the top two drawers.

  “So, what exactly are we looking for?” he asked.

  “Evidence,” I replied, crouching down to look under the bed.

  “Of what?”

  “Well, I’m not going to be terribly picky at the moment. Anything that will clearly state to the police, ‘Maddie didn’t do this.’”

  He paused and I could feel his eyes on me.

  I straightened up. “What?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, no. Not you, too. You know I didn’t stab her, Felix.”

  He held his hands up in a defensive gesture. “I never said you did.”

  “Yeah, but you gave me a look.”

  “What look?”

  “It was a look.”

  He grinned. “Yes, I was looking at you. But I was merely thinking how cute you looked all crouched like a sand crab down there on the floor with your one giant foot.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and thought a really dirty word.

  “Maybe I’ll just go check the bathroom,” he said. Then called over his shoulder, “You might want to try the desk.”

  “I’d already thought of that,” I lied. I awkwardly hobbled across the floor, my crutch catching on a discarded Wonderbra as I tackled the small writing desk by the window, hoping that whoever Mystery Man was, he’d left some trace of himself behind.

  Nothing but hotel stationary and a pen in the first drawer. The second held a mishmash of receipts, postcards, papers and a slim, silver camera. I picked the camera up and turned it over in my hands. It was one of those digital kind that could take either stills or video. I hit the power button and watched as the little screen came to life. I’ll admit, I’m not the most technologically clever person on the world. I can work my ipod and check my email, but beyond that, I’m pretty much clueless. So, it took me a few minutes of aimlessly pressing menu buttons before I came to a list of what looked like video files. They were all labeled with names. Rocco. Marcel. Charlie. Roberto. Ryan. Curiosity got the better of me. I scrolled down to the one marked “Roberto” and hit the play button.

  Instantly the sounds of moaning and panting filled the room as visions of naked body parts flashed across the small screen. I cringed, trying not to look as I searched for the stop button.

  “What are you doing out there?” Felix called.

  “Nothing!”

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing.

  I pressed all the buttons, hoping one would work. Finally one did. Not only making the video disappear, but all the files as well. I stared at the little screen, the words “No Files Found” where Gisella Does Paris had just been.

  Felix poked his head through the door.

  “What was that?”

  “Just a camera.”

  Felix raised an eyebrow. “Any pictures on it?”

  “Nothing you want to see.” I hoped.

  He shrugged, then popped back into the bathroom.

  I turned the camera off, but on the off chance the files could be retrieved, slipped it into my purse. Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize a guy again from the videos Gisella had shot unless I went around asking men to drop their pants. But, just for good measure, I pulled out the hotel stationary and wrote down the names of all her files before I forgot them. While I couldn’t remember the dates beside them, I did know they were all made in the last two months, with Ryan being the most recent, dated just two days before Gisella’s murder. Which could mean nothing, but at least it was a place to start.

  I moved on to the piles of papers in the desk drawer. Most were receipts from taxicab rides, boutiques, restaurants. Almost all were written in French. And though I could clearly make out the amounts she spent, I was ashamed to admit, I didn’t have my Euros to dollars calculations memorized and they meant little to me. But from what I could make out of the boutiques she shopped at, Gisella had expensive taste. There were several shops in Paris whose names I recognized, as well as three top tier Italian designers.

  “Hey,” I called to Felix.

  He popped his head back out again.

  “Check the closet, would you?”

  “What am I looking for?” he asked, crossing the room and sliding back the mirrored doors.

  “A de la Renta coat.”

  Felix paused, flipping through her wardrobe. “And a de le Renta would look like…?”

  “Fur.”

  He rummaged around. “She has three furs.”

  As much as I was against killing defenseless little animals for the sole purpose of looking cool, I felt my heart clench just a little. “Three?”

  He nodded.

  I couldn’t help myself, I needed just one little look. I hobbled over to his side. Sure enough, one de la Renta, one Alta Moda, and one vintage Chanel. I ran my hand over the Chanel, making little moaning sounds that were strikingly like the ones I’d just heard on Gisella’s camera. “You have any idea how much this is worth?’

  Felix was checking the pockets of the Alta Mod
a. He shook his head. “No. Tell me.”

  I couldn’t. It was priceless. Woman had given their first born for less.

  “I can tell you, however,” he said, his face breaking into a smirk, “how much this one is worth.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh really? All right, Mr. Fashion Knowledge. What’s it worth?”

  Felix pulled his hand out of the pocket, then held it open. In the middle of his palm glittered a necklace, three perfectly cut diamonds suspended from a thick gold chain. “Exactly five hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and two dollars. Last time I had it appraised.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Your necklace?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “That I don’t have to deal with the insurance company?”

  “That Gisella had the necklace all along. She really did misplace it.”

  Felix stared down at the necklace, turning it over in his hands. “Or she’d planned on keeping it for herself.”

  “You mean Gisella stole it?” I raised one eyebrow in his direction. Now there was something I hadn’t thought of. I was just about to ask him what prompted that train of thought when a sound outside the door made us both freeze.

  “What was that?” I whispered.

  Felix shook his head, shoving the necklace in his pocket. “I think that’s our cue to get out of h-”

  But he didn’t get to finish, the sound of the door flying open cutting him off. Three policemen in blue uniforms came bursting into the room, practically filling it, guns drawn, arms straight out in front of them.

  The first one shouted something in French.

  “What?” I asked.

  He repeated his command.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

  He pointed his gun at me.

  Yikes! Okay, that I did speak. I put my hands up in a surrender motion.

  “Look, I can explain. This is Lord Ackerman and we were just here because he left a priceless family heirloom here last time he slept with Gisella.”