High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  I gave Felix a pointed look. Now would be an excellent time to make an exit, pal.

  But he seemed pleased as punch to remain in the line of fire, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

  “Oh, Maddie,” Felix said, “don’t you worry your pretty little head…”

  Ramirez growled deep in his throat. Actually growled.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “…one bit about it. I’ve always got a Nessie angle up my sleeve.”

  “I’ll bet,” I mumbled. “Well, as fun as this has been, time to go, Tabloid Boy.”

  I grabbed Felix’s sleeve and physically propelled him the three feet to the front door. All the while Ramirez staring him down as if he were a bug he’d like to put a boot to. They sidestepped past each other, and I held my breath, knowing just how easy it would be for Ramirez’s fist to accidentally shoot out and catch Felix in the jaw.

  Felix must have realized too, as, despite the cool grin still cracking his cheeks, he scuttled out double time.

  “I’ll see you soon, Maddie,” he called over his shoulder.

  Prompting another growl from Caveman.

  I shut the door, internally sighing with relief that we’d avoided bloodshed.

  “Care to tell me what that was all about?” Ramirez ground out.

  I spun around to find his arms crossed over his chest, narrowed eyes now zeroing in on me.

  “Oh no, pal. Don’t play mad with me. How about you tell me what this,” I said, gesturing between him and the closed door, “was all about?”

  “What?”

  “The silent pissing contest. ‘Grunt, grunt, hands off my woman.’”

  He softened his stance, uncrossing his arms. “I didn’t grunt.”

  I raised a challenging eyebrow.

  “Much.”

  Despite playing the hard-ass, I couldn’t help a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

  “Thanks for not hitting him.”

  “You’re welcome. But no promises about next time.”

  “Fair enough.” The way Felix had taunted Ramirez, next time I might hit him myself.

  Ramirez sank down onto my futon and flipped on the TV, the tension leaking out of his shoulders and instantly being replaced by a look of fatigue.

  “How did it go at L’Amore after I left?” I asked, settling down beside him.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine? Like, fine how? Anything interesting at the crime scene? Any witnesses crop up?” I asked, trying my best at casual curiosity.

  Unfortunately, Ramirez knew me better than that.

  “No way.”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing I’m willing to share with a nosey blonde who hangs out with tabloid reporters.”

  “Hey!” I stuck out my lower lip in a mock pout. “We don’t ‘hang out.’ I was ambushed.”

  He grinned, tilting my chin up to face him. “You’re a lot of trouble, you know that, Springer?”

  I nodded.

  “Good thing you’re so cute.”

  I couldn’t help my insides from doing a squealy girly thing. The hot guy thought I was cute.

  “So… how about cluing the cute girl in on your case?”

  Ramirez shook his head, but the grin remained in place. “All right, I give in.”

  My turn to grin.

  “Cause of death was one stab wound to the back with a cake knife, wiped clean of prints. No defensive wounds, which indicates the killer was someone she knew and trusted. Time of death was approximately 10:32 am.”

  “Wow, that’s a specific approximation.”

  “Her watch stopped.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He shrugged. “Got clogged with buttercream.”

  “What about DNA?”

  “Have to wait for lab techs to finish processing.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  I sank back in my seat, suddenly thinking Dana and Marco were right. If that was all he had so far, Ramirez really did need our help.

  Having divulged all he knew, Ramirez focused on the TV. Me – I had no interest in guys in squeaky shoes putting a ball in a net. Instead I wandered over to my drawing table, picking up a sketch for a pair of ruby red slingbacks I’d been working on. On the floor next to my drawing table sat a brown package that I’d swear hadn’t been there this morning.

  “Where’d that come from?” I asked, nodding with my head.

  “UPS brought it after you went to the gym. Looks like a wedding present.”

  I dropped my sketch with a squeal. “We have unopened gifts in the house? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing a pair of scissors from my drawing table and attacking the box. It was addressed to “the Future Mrs. Jack Ramirez” (which elicited another high-pitched squeal on my part) from Uncle Cal, my Mom’s oldest brother. In a flurry of packing peanuts and bubble wrap, I dug into the sucker, pulling out our very first wedding gift, the first thing that belonged to us as a couple. I felt anticipation building in my stomach, as I emerged with a crystal… um…

  “What the hell is that?” Ramirez asked, staring at our first wedding gift.

  It was clear, angular, and… kinda shaped like a duck. With a spout coming out of its beak. And a handle made of crystal tail feathers.

  “Gravy boat?”

  “It looks like a duck.”

  “A duck-shaped gravy boat?”

  Ramirez grinned. “Does this mean you’re gonna learn how to cook when we get married?”

  I resisted the urge to throw the gravy boat at him (I threw a packing peanut instead), shoving our anticlimactic first gift back in the box.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll learn to cook when you learn to scrub toilets.”

  “Takeout it is.”

  “So,” I said, joining him on the sofa. “Dana and Marco agreed to help plan the wedding now that Gigi’s… well, you know…” I trailed off, not able to actually make myself say the words.

  Ramirez narrowed his eyes. “Marco? He’s the guy with the eyeliner?”

  I nodded.

  Ramirez shook his head. “God help us.”

  “They promised they’d keep it tasteful. Small.”

  He shot me a ‘yeah right’ look.

  I would have argued with him, but honestly I had my own doubts.

  “So… um, we still need to let the caterer know about the cake. I know we didn’t actually get to taste it, but, well, they still need to know what to make.”

  Ramirez’s eyes took on that dark, hooded cop-face look. That unreadable gaze that left me forever guessing the emotion hiding behind them.

  “They left a message on my voicemail saying a sample would be ready at the bakery day after tomorrow. So, how about it?”

  “Look, Maddie, I can’t think about a wedding right now. Can’t you just… handle it?”

  That squealy feeling faded instantly.

  Our wedding was now something to be “handled.”

  Okay, I know he probably didn’t mean it that way, but right then I didn’t quite trust my voice. Instead, I just nodded, avoiding his gaze.

  “Thanks.” He wrapped one arm around me, grabbing the TV remote with the other and flipping on some basketball game in progress.

  I closed my eyes and leaned against his chest, focusing on his steady heartbeat against my cheek and not the tiny bubble of anxiety those unreadable eyes had instigated in the pit of my stomach.

  Probably Ramirez was just tired. Probably he was preoccupied. Probably it was that he just didn’t have the energy to think about white organza-strewn aisles and not that he was having second thoughts about actually walking down them.

  Probably.

  But one thing was for certain - if I wanted my groom back, I was going to have to find Gigi’s killer.

  And fast.

  Chapter Six

 
; Organ music filled the air, echoing off walls peppered with bright red roses and delicate white baby’s breath. Silky ribbons knotted into intricate bows made a clear pathway down the aisle. I followed them, slowly walking forward, my feet moving as if through molasses. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, watching me, waiting breathlessly.

  My hands began to sweat as I neared the end of the aisle. A line of bridesmaids in black stood to one side, their dresses somehow morbid against the white background, the bloodred roses in their bouquets suddenly appearing sinister. To the other side, a line of groomsmen, again in unrelieved black. One stood out from the rest, his back to me, apart from the other tuxedo clad-men. The groom.

  I swallowed a nervous lump in my throat, my heart beating way too fast. Somehow the organ music had morphed from the wedding march to something out of a B-horror movie. Shadows seemed to gather along the walls, shifting the flowers and ribbons into grotesquely distorted shapes. I wanted to run, to leave, to get away as fast as I could. But I couldn’t make my feet respond. No matter how I tried to flee, they continued their steady forward motion toward the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle.

  I watched in fascinated horror as he came closer and closer, until I was standing right behind him.

  I held my breath as he turned around.

  Only it wasn’t a him.

  It was Gigi, the front of her suit covered in sickly yellow buttercream, her lifeless eyes staring out at me as her lips mouthed the words, “Don’t forget to order place cards.”

  * * *

  I shot bolt upright in bed, sweat trickling down my spine, breath coming out like a marathon runner’s. I whipped my head around the room. No organ, no blood red roses, no gory corpse groom.

  I let out a deep breath, sinking back onto my pillow.

  Instinctively I rolled over toward Ramirez… only to find his side of the bed conspicuously empty.

  I opened my eyes, swallowing down a lump of disappointment. But what did I really expect? With an open homicide, he’d probably been strapping his gun on well before the sun had come up.

  I got up and padded into the kitchen to my Mr. Coffee, filled to the brim, giving off the heavenly aroma of freshly brewed French Roast. A yellow Post-it was stuck on the side.

  Had to run.

  XO

  R

  Okay, so I didn’t get to wake up in his arms. But he had made me coffee. Gotta love the man for that.

  I downed a cup, then showered and dried my hair before stepping into a pair of cropped jeans, an Ed Hardy T-shirt with pink skulls and rose vines creeping over the shoulders, and a pair of cute pink wedge heels I was determined to wear despite the fact that spring was still a good month and a half off.

  Pouring myself a second cup of Ramirez’s caffeinated offering, I flipped open my laptop and booted it up.

  As I may have mentioned, I’m not what you’d call technology savvy. I’m an artist – give me a pad of paper and a set of drawing pencils and I’ll create you the most to-die-for designs you ever saw. But sit me in front of a computer and my IQ drops about twenty points. What makes a computer tick is a total mystery to me. Part of me still has this irrational fear I’ll push the wrong button and smoke will start coming out of my monitor.

  With no small difficulty, I’ve stumbled my way through learning the basics. I can check my email and order shoes from Zappos.com. And, I’m proud to say that, after a particularly frustrating afternoon with my laptop, I’d figured out how to make the songs on iTunes miraculously appear on my iPod. But download, upload—it was all gobbledygook to me.

  Needless to say, MySpace was way out of my league.

  I took a fortifying breath before typing the web address into my browser. It only took me two tries to realize that MySpace was all one word (Whatever you do, don’t put an underscore in there. Shudder. That was way more than I wanted to see of anyone before my second cup of coffee in the morning.), but finally a blue welcome screen came up. I typed in my email address and the password Marco had given me.

  My personal page came up next, along with the information that I had two friends. Some guy named Tom and Allie Quick. I clicked on the little link below my name that read “inbox” and saw Allie’s smiling face at the top of the queue.

  Look at me, navigating the internet like a pro!

  Feeling pretty darn proud of myself, I opened the message.

  It was short and to the point, saying how horrified she was about what happened to Gigi and that she’d be happy to meet with me this morning. She suggested her apartment at 10:00 and gave me an address in Glendale.

  I glanced up at the clock above my drawing table. 9:30. I downed my coffee and I prayed traffic on the 5 was light.

  * * *

  10:12 I pulled up in front of a two-story tan, stucco building hunkered against the side of a hill on Verdugo. It was one of those nondescript seventies buildings that conformed to the utilitarian shoebox school of architecture. Three units on the bottom, three on top, one set of rusted metal stairs climbing up the right side. On the left was a covered car park, where a pair of sedans squatted beneath the overhang.

  I parked at the curb and clubbed my Jeep, taking a cement walkway to the building through overgrown agapanthus and a lawn that was 90% crabgrass. The mingling scents of curry and onions wafted from beneath the first door, the distant wail of an unhappy toddler bellowing from the second before I reached unit F on the end. I gave a sharp rap, hoping Allie was still home.

  Two beats later Gigi’s former assistant opened the door. Her blue eyes were red and rimmed with dark circles that spoke of a sleepless night. She held a tissue in one hand. A pair of white cargo pants hung limply on her slim frame beneath a black Daughtry concert T-shirt that hugged her generous D cups in a way that made me wish I’d thrown on a Wonderbra this morning.

  “Oh, Maddie, doesn’t this just suck?” she said, her voice threatening to crack.

  I nodded sympathetically. “Thanks for seeing me. Do you mind if I come in?”

  She nodded, sniffling loudly before stepping back to allow me entry.

  The inside of the apartment was as square and uninteresting as the outside, a small kitchen done in olive green tile and pealing linoleum to the right, a living room to the left and a single bedroom visible beyond that. While the gray shag carpeting and at-one-time-white vertical blinds were an eyesore, she’d tried to make the most of it with the furnishings. A colorful sheet covered the sofa on the far wall, red and yellow throw pillows adding a cheery feeling. A TV sat in one corner on a stand painted in white and yellow, a matching coffee table sitting in the center of the room, a vase full of bright pink daisies gracing its top. Someone was obviously making the most of a meager salary.

  Next to the flower vase sat a slim, silver phone with about a hundred more buttons than mine and a textbook, open to a page filled with equations that made my eyes cross just glancing at them. Algebra had never been my thing. Math was numbers as far as I was concerned. As soon as they started throwing letters in there, they’d lost me.

  “Taking a class?” I asked.

  Allie sank down onto the sofa, pulling one leg up underneath her as she nodded. “At UCLA. Algebra two.”

  I suppressed a shudder as I took a seat beside her. “You’re ambitious.”

  “It’s required. If I want to graduate this June, I have to suck it up and take math.”

  “I didn’t know you were still in school.” Though it made sense. She looked about twelve today minus her makeup and tailored work clothes.

  Allie nodded. “Working with Gigi was just a part-time gig. I’m actually majoring in journalism. I only worked at L’Amore on days I didn’t have class. Which is why I wasn’t there yesterday when…” She trailed off, her eyes filling with big fat tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, laying a sympathetic hand on her arm. “Had you worked for Gigi long?”

  Allie shook her head, blonde hair swaying against her cheeks. “Not really. I just started last quarter.”<
br />
  “Do you have any idea who could have done this? Anyone have a grudge against Gigi?”

  “No! No one.” Allie pressed the tissue to her lips. “I can’t think of a single person who’d want to harm Gigi. She was wonderful. The woman was an amazing artist.”

  While I personally didn’t exactly see party planning as art, I bit my tongue, instead making more sympathetic noises.

  “What about businesswise? Any debts she hasn’t paid, financial trouble?”

  “Just the opposite. Business was booming lately. After she did that football player’s wedding to the pop star last month, she was featured everywhere. Entertainment Tonight, E!, even TMZ mentioned her by name. She couldn’t keep people away.”

  “What about past clients?” I asked, not yet ready to give up my fishing expedition. “Any weddings gone awry? Anyone who might have blamed Gigi?”

  Allie shook her head. “No. The police asked me all this yesterday, too.”

  “The police were already here?” Duh. Of course they would have been. Ramirez was a trained homicide investigator. I felt a tiny prickling in the back of my head that I was wasting my time. If Allie knew anything worth pursuing, chances were Ramirez was already pursuing it.

  “Yeah. They were really pushy, wanting to know if Gigi and I got along, where I was that morning, if anyone could verify it. It was almost like they were accusing me of something.”

  “How awful,” I said, appropriately horrified.

  “They were. Except for the tall one. He was actually sorta nice. Kind of a hottie, too. Hispanic, tattoo on his bicep, nice butt.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Hey, that was my hottie!

  “Anyway,” she continued, “they wanted to know all about who Gigi did business with, who might have been angry at her. But, honestly, I can’t imagine anyone being angry at her, you know? She was just the most wonderfully sweet woman ever.”

  While I was sorry to see Gigi gone, ‘sweet’ wasn’t exactly a word I would have used to describe Gigi. Efficient, yes. But sweet? I wondered if maybe we weren’t dealing with a minor case of hero worship here.

  “Allie, Gigi’s ex-husband mentioned that she was seeing someone new. Do you happen to know who he is?”