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What critics are saying about
Gemma Halliday's High Heels series:
"A saucy combination of romance and suspense that is simply irresistible."
- Chicago Tribune
"Stylish...nonstop action...guaranteed to keep chick lit and mystery fans happy!"
- Publishers' Weekly, starred review
"Smart, funny and snappy…the perfect beach read!"
- Fresh Fiction
"A roller coaster ride full of fun and excitement!"
- Romance Reviews Today
"Gemma Halliday writes like a seasoned author leaving the reader hanging on to every word, every clue, every delicious scene of the book. It's a fun and intriguing mystery full of laughs and suspense."
- Once Upon A Romance
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HOMICIDE IN HIGH HEELS
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Gemma Halliday
http://www.gemmahalliday.com
http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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Chapter One
Babies are rough on romance. Have you ever tried to seduce a man while wearing spit-up, mashed sweet potatoes, and a fine dusting of baby powder? It gives sexy a whole new meaning. Which is why, after almost a year of being the parents of twin babies—Olivia and Max—my husband and I realized that if we were ever going to have an adult conversation again, we had to make some "us" time. Twice a month we vowed to leave the twins with my mom and spend an entire day together, just the two of us.
At first it was like we were prisoners on furlough from our teeny-tiny wardens, giddy with the freedom. We found no shortage of adult activities to engage in. Dinner at a restaurant with actual cloth napkins. Movies that didn't involve animation or talking animals. Wine tastings where not a soul under twenty-one was in sight. But once we'd exhausted the options of alcoholic outings and R-rated movies, my husband and I realized that we had a distinct conflict of interests.
My husband, Jack Ramirez, is an LAPD homicide detective with a big gun, a big tattoo of a panther on his left bicep, and a big scar running through his left eyebrow from an altercation with a perp. Other alpha males look girly next to him. I, on the other hand, am a 5' 1 ½" blonde who designs high heeled shoes for a living and am never, under any circumstances, without a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip gloss somewhere on my person. When someone calls me girly, I take it as a compliment.
But you can see where our interests might not always coincide.
So instead of trying in vain to find things that we both enjoyed doing, we decided that we would trade off picking our "us" outings. Two weeks ago we spent our "us" day shopping—starting at the Farmer's Market on 3rd street and ending at the Beverly Center. (Which I suspect that Ramirez secretly enjoyed when he realized the mall had a Ferrari Store.) Today we were at the L.A. Stars baseball game, courtesy of two tickets my step-father had scored for me at the last minute from one of his semi-celebrity clients who was dating a player.
And if the frozen margaritas continued flowing, I might admit that a baseball game wasn't altogether bad.
"So, why is the thrower tossing the ball so far away from the guy with the bat?" I asked, slipping a straw into my mouth as I squinted down at the action, several tiers of bleachers below us.
"The pitcher," Ramirez responded, "is throwing outside the batter's strike zone in order to walk him."
"Huh. And why do they want him to take a walk?"
"It's a higher percentage play. They're putting a man on first in order to get the opposing pitcher at the plate."
"Ah," I responded, nodding. "And why do they want that?"
"Because he can't hit if his life depends on it. We have a better chance of striking him out, which we need to do with their man on third in scoring position."
"Right. He's about to score a touch down."
Ramirez turned to me and grinned. "Score a run. Wrong sport, babe."
"Hey, I had a sport."
"True. You get points for that," he agreed.
"Thank you," I said, grinning back as I sipped contentedly. The truth was, all I knew about baseball was that on the reality show Baseball Wives, the players looked hot shirtless, the wives were deliciously catty to one another, and the drama peaked whenever the team was on the road.
The higher percentage play must have worked, because the crowd cheered, my husband included, and some guys moved around the bases. Two more hitters later, the inning ended with our rivals, the Oakland A's, not scoring a run. Our team mascots ran out onto the field: a Charlie Chaplin and Marilyn Monroe with huge, oversized heads that looked like they might topple at any second. They danced around, threw some T-shirts into the crowd, then waddled back to the dugout as the A's took the field and our team came up to bat.
The announcers called the name of our first player over the loudspeaker, and the crowd went nuts.
"Number twenty-four, Bucky Davis!"
I'll admit, I leaned forward in my seat to get a better look. Even a sports-illiterate gal like me knew Bucky's name. He was the top player on the Stars, the face of the team, and for the last two months the face of L.A., showing up everywhere from movie premiers to toothpaste commercials. It was his girlfriend who'd scored us the tickets, and while I didn't know her personally, I'd seen her petite, model-thin frame hanging on his arm in several Fashion Police episodes.
I watched the jumbo screen zoom in on Bucky's face as he waved back at the crowd. He was blond, tanned, and had a boy-next-door look about him that had both teenage girls and baby boomer women cheering his name. I heard a group of twenty-something girls a few rows over screaming a marriage proposal.
"This guy's amazing," Ramirez said, looking a little starry-eyed himself. "He was a rookie last year, but his batting average is three-thirty with seventy-two RBIs."
"Uh-huh." I stared at the guy on the field, watching him approach the plate. "And is that good?"
Ramirez grinned at me again. "It's great. He's looking at MVP this year." He paused. "Most valuable player."
"I know what MVP stands for," I said, punching him in the shoulder. "I'm not a total ditz."
"Of course you're not," he wisely agreed.
"Hey, you didn't know the differen
ce between a slingback and a wedge at Nordstrom last month. Cut me some slack. You have your lingo. I have mine."
"Fair enough," he agreed, flinging an arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my head.
I snuggled into the crook of his arm, as much as I could in the confines of the plastic seats, as I watched the action down below.
Bucky swung at a pitch and missed, causing the crowd to let out a groan of disappointment. He did a repeat of the miss. Then a couple of balls went foul, flying into the grateful hands of the crowd on the second tier. Then finally Bucky connected with a ball, the crack echoing in the bowl-shaped stadium, followed by a roar from the crowd as it sailed high over the field, landing in the stands on the other side of the wall.
Ramirez jumped to his feet, throwing both hands in the air and yelling. As did ninety percent of the people around me. I followed suit. I was pretty sure that was a home run, but I didn't say anything until I saw the jumbo screen confirm it in huge, animated letters.
"Damn, Davis is on fire," Ramirez remarked, sitting back down in his seat.
"Who's next?" I asked, getting into the excitement of the game.
"Ratski," Ramirez informed me.
I watched a tall, broad-shouldered guy take the plate. He had a week's worth of stubble covering his chin, a small beer belly straining against his uniform, and he spit on the ground before taking his batting stance.
"Is he good?" I asked.
Ramirez shrugged. "He's hit-and-miss. Last year he had a decent hitting average, but he's faltering this season."
Ratski hit the tip of the ball, sending it flying wild into the stands. The next pitch went past him completely. Ramirez made some disgusted sounds, taking a long swig of his beer.
"You're killing me, Ratski," he mumbled.
I'll admit I didn't really get the difference between fouls, strikes, and fair balls. But I tried my best to follow the pitch count as the player swung again. This time he caught the end of the ball, sending it high up in the air behind him. I watched the catcher throw his mask to the ground, trying to position himself under the ball.
But instead of coming down on the well padded catcher, I watched as the ball came hurtling into the stands.
Right toward me.
"Eep!" On instinct, I ducked, throwing both hands up to cover my head. I felt something hard crack against my right hand, then a frenzy of movement in the seats around me as people dove for the ball.
"Got it!" I heard my husband yell.
I opened my eyes to find him grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, holding a smudged baseball high above his head in a victory pose.
"Ahem," I said, still in my crouched position.
To his credit, he quickly turned to me, his expression morphing to concern. "You okay, babe?" He held out a hand, pulling me from the cement floor.
I nodded, looking down at my hand. The ball had snapped a nail, but as I flexed my fingers I could tell that my manicure had taken the brunt of the damage. "Maybe a bruise, but I'll be fine."
Ramirez grabbed my hand and kissed it. "Better?"
I couldn't help grinning back. "Getting there."
He leaned in and kissed me just below the ear. "Tell you what? When we get home, I'll really kiss that boo-boo away."
I felt my cheeks heat as I snuggled into the crook of his arm again. Apparently being lucky enough to get smacked by a foul ball just might get me lucky later, too.
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In deference to my hurt manicure, my first move the next morning was to call up Fernando's Salon. "Fernando" was actually my stepfather, Ralph, who, upon hitting Beverly Hills via the Midwest, indulged in faux tans, a European-sounding faux name, and a faux Spanish ancestry to go along with it. The real housewives of Beverly Hills had eaten it up, flocking to Faux Dad's salon to soak up his manufactured exotic flair ever since.
Luckily, they'd had a cancelation that morning and said they could fit me in ASAP. I dropped the kids at my cousin, Molly's, place, then hightailed it to Rodeo and Wilshire.
The first thing I saw when I pushed through the glass doors was Faux Dad's receptionist Marco.
"No, no, no. I asked for daffodils, not dahlias," he said into a Bluetooth while pacing behind a large, chrome and glass desk. Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore enough dark eyeliner to single-handedly keep Sephora in business. His complexion was flawless, his lashes enviously long, and his accent much more San Francisco than south of the border. He was dressed today in metallic silver pleather pants, a skin-tight baby-doll T-shirt in hot pink, and a pair of white loafers sans socks. He looked up just long enough to give me a little wave, before continuing his conversation. "That's right. Two dozen. One dozen wrapped in pink ribbon and one in blue." He paused. "This is going to run how much?" Another pause. "Ouch. Maybe make it half a dozen of each. But keep the calla lilies! They make the centerpieces, am I right?" He paused again, listening to someone on the other end. "Perfect. I'll have someone pick them up this weekend. Ta!"
Then without missing a beat, he spun and launched himself at me with air kisses. "Maddie, my dahling, how are you this morning?"
"Fabulous, thanks for asking." Which, after my night celebrating the Stars' seven-to-four win with my husband, was the truth. "Planning another party?" I asked, gesturing to his Bluetooth. In addition to manning the phones and schedules at Faux Dad's salon, Marco had started a part-time business party-planning to the stars. Or at least the D-listers. So far he'd done Britney Spears' sister's son's birthday party, the afterparty for the warm-up band at Daughtry's last concert, and a charity event for the Rihanna Look-alikes of West Hollywood.
Marco nodded vigorously. "I am. And it's going to be to-die-for."
"Who's the client?" I asked as I browsed the rack of colored nail polish along the wall.
"You!"
I almost dropped a bottle of Ravenous Red. "Me?"
Marco bobbed his head up and down, his spiky black hair not moving an inch. "Surprise!"
"Uh, but it's not my birthday…" I hedged, not sure I was in the market for a surprise where the flowers ran into the "ouch" realm.
"Of course it's not, silly," he said, waving me off. "It's for the twins. You didn't think I'd let their first birthday go by without a signature Auntie Marco party, did you?"
Honestly? I'd kinda hoped. "Oh, wow. That's… really nice of you. But they're just babies. They don't need anything big."
"Nonsense. It's their first birthday."
"Right. Which means they won't remember it anyway. Really, just some cake and they'll be happy."
"Oh, honey, I have cake! Three tiered, fondant covered, from Duff's Celebrity bakery!"
I blinked at him. "You know they have a combined total of six teeth, right?"
But Marco was on a roll, completely ignoring me. "I also have a waterslide, a pony, a candy bar, and I'm working on booking an ice skating rink where I'll have Johnny Weir do a personalized ice dance for the twins!" he said, ticking off items on his fingers.
"You're joking right?"
Marco frowned. "Babydoll, I never joke about figure skating."
"Exactly how much is all of this going to cost?" I asked, a headache brewing at my temples from the conversation that I now realized was with my florist.
Marco pursed his lip and shook his head. "Oh, Maddie. You can't put a price on something as precious as your babies' birthday."
I was pretty sure their father would disagree.
"I'm not sure—" I hedged.
But that was as far as I got before Faux Dad came bustling up from the back of the salon.
"Maddie, love, how are you?"
"Good," I told him, giving him a hug. "Better once I get this fixed." I held up my cracked nail.
Faux Dad gasped. "Oh, honey. Tragic!"
While I'd had my doubts about Faux Dad's heterosexuality before he and my mom had married a few years ago, I had to admit that it was nice to have a man in the family who understood.
"I know, right?" I agreed.
He clucked his tongue. "We'll get you fixed up in a jiffy. Come on to the back. I've got Petra waiting for you."
I followed him through the salon, currently decorated in a Greco-chic motif with large, ornate chandeliers hanging above cut and color stations, a gilded mirror and dainty vanities at the blow dry bar, and flocked wallpaper in a rich burgundy covering the walls.
"So, how did the tragedy occur?" Faux Dad asked, gesturing to my ruined manicure.
"Ball game," I responded. "I caught a foul ball."
Faux Dad shook his head and did more tsking. "Sports and shellac do not mix."
"Amen," I agreed. "But thanks, by the way, for the tickets. Ramirez had a blast."
"Happy to help," he told me. "When Lacey gave them to me, I didn't know what I was going to do with them. It's not as if I was going to the game myself," he said, chuckling as if that were the most absurd thing he'd ever thought of.
"Well, be sure to thank Lacey for me the next time you see her."
Faux Dad nodded. "I can do one better. She's in the back getting spray-tanned now. You can thank her yourself."
"Oh, I don't want to bother her…" I started.
But Faux Dad waved me off with a swift flick of his tanned wrist. "No bother at all. She's just drying now. She's a hoot. You'll want to meet her."
Actually, I'll admit that her semi-celebrity status had me curious. I did kinda want to meet her.
I followed Faux Dad through a door at the back which led to private tanning booths. Each room was equipped with a stall that looked a lot like my shower at home. Only these had several nozzles where tanning solution was sprayed out in a fine mist to evenly cover all the exposed skin. Usually patrons would hit a button, spin slowly in the tanning cloud, then allow themselves to air-dry for a few minutes before clothing and reemerging from the room.
Homicide in High Heels Page 1