Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "They were in Ratski's drawer."

  "Eep."

  "Thank you!" Dana said, tossing the panties back into the open drawer in front of her.

  "Find anything else interesting?" I asked, peeking into it.

  "Not really. There were some letters in the nightstand. They started getting dirty, though, so I put them back. Who'd want to 'shtup schmoopy'?"

  "Ick," I agreed.

  "You find anything?"

  I was about to answer in the negative when a noise from the first level made me freeze in my tracks.

  I immediately cut my eyes to Dana's. "Ratski?" I mouthed to her

  Dana shrugged. She opened her mouth, about to respond when the answer came floating up the stairs to us loud and clear.

  "John? Johnny I'm home," came Beth's voice.

  Oh snap. The wife.

  CHAPTER twelve

  Instinctively, I ducked, even though I was pretty sure that she couldn't see us all the way up here. Something that wouldn't hold true for very long.

  "Johnny?" I heard her walking farther into the house. "Whose car is that outside?"

  Dana's eyes went big and round. "What are we going to do?" she whispered to me, the panic I felt rising in my stomach clear on her face.

  I quickly whipped my head around the room, looking for an escape route. Unfortunately the only way out was the way we'd come up. I grabbed Dana by the hand, speed tiptoeing out of the master bedroom as quickly as possible. When we reached the landing I peeked out.

  "Great. Passed out again," I heard Beth say out loud. She stood in the doorway to the parlor, narrowing her eyes at the sleeping Ratski.

  I flattened myself against the wall as she turned around. She paused at a credenza in the foyer, shuffled through some mail, then grabbed her handbag and started up the stairs.

  Oh, crap.

  Dana squeezed my hand tighter as we crabbed walked as silently as we could down the hall toward one of the guestrooms, slipping into the dark doorway just as Beth hit the top landing. I held my breath, crouching behind the guestroom door. I heard feet padding along the carpeting toward the master and held my breath, praying she didn't notice anything out of place. I couldn't be 100% sure I'd put everything back in exactly the spot I'd found it.

  A couple of tense moments passed before we heard bathwater running from the master. I took it as a sign to bolt.

  We both took our shoes off before padding barefoot down the wooden staircase and across the marble foyer. I closed my eyes and thought very, very quiet thoughts as I slowly turned the front door knob and slipped outside.

  Dana and I both jumped into her roadster, and I crossed my fingers that the master bath was far enough toward the back of the house Beth either wouldn't notice the sound of the engine turning over or would attribute it to a neighbor as we peeled out of the driveway and onto the street. Dana parked just in front of my minivan, and we sat in the silence for a few moments taking deep breaths.

  "That was close," I said. What can I say? When I'm nervous I state the obvious.

  "No kidding. Bad enough I was out on a date with her husband. I can't imagine what I would've said to Beth if she'd caught me in her house."

  "Poor Beth," I said, not for the first time thinking about what life must be like married to Ratski. Despite her to-die-for shoe collection, I suddenly felt incredibly fortunate for my own loyal lug at home.

  "You know, when this is all over I have half a mind to tell her what a cheating scum her husband is," Dana said.

  I nodded. "Agreed." And if we were lucky, he might just be a murderer, too.

  * * *

  The house was dark by the time I got home, save for the flicker of the television coming from the living room. And I was happy to say that instead of a completely pristine room, there was one empty water glass sitting on the coffee table. I guess Mr. Mom wasn't completely perfect after all.

  Ramirez was lying on the couch, snoring lightly, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. His jaw was slack, dusted with a day's worth of stubble, creating an oddly vulnerable pose for my usually intimidating husband.

  I grabbed an afghan his mother had knitted for us from the back of the sofa and covered his legs with it. Then I picked up the remote and switched off the volume on the TV. He stirred, and I felt an arm snake around my middle pulling me back onto the sofa beside him.

  "How'd the date go?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

  I couldn't help a small smile as I snuggled next to him. "Ratski passed out drunk. His wife came home and almost found us snooping through his underwear drawer."

  I felt Ramirez's chest rise with a deep chuckle. "You girls know how to have a good time."

  "We try."

  "Learn anything useful?"

  I quickly told him about Bucky's lack of an alibi and availability of amphetamines in the form of ADD meds.

  "I'll call it in tomorrow," he told me. "It's possible it will be enough for a warrant to go through Bucky's things."

  I felt pride bubble up in my chest.

  "Though, all this will prove is that he has access to the drugs, not that he killed Lacey."

  Bubble burst.

  "Well, it's a start," I mumbled.

  "That it is," Ramirez agreed, hugging me closer.

  "When did the twins go down?" I asked.

  "Couple of hours ago."

  "They wore you out, huh?" I asked, tilting my head to see his face.

  A slow smile snaked across his cheeks. "I might have a little energy left in me…" he trailed off, his lips finding the back of my neck.

  I felt myself go warm in all the right places as I shut off the TV.

  * * *

  I woke up to the sound of insistent pounding on my front door. I groaned, peaking one eye open. I had no idea what time it was, but the sun was barely dusting the sky with the palest pink color. I closed my eyes, hoping the noise would go away.

  No such luck. More pounding.

  I rolled over to check my bedside clock. 7 AM. On the upside, it was the latest the twins had slept in the last six months. On the downside, somebody at the front door was demanding that I not sleep in. I was about to roll over and put a pillow over my head when I heard the worst sound the parent of sleeping children can ever hear.

  The doorbell.

  I jumped out of bed, grabbed a robe from the back of the chair, and sprinted toward the front door. I had just reached it when the soon-to-be dead man on the other side went to hit the doorbell button again.

  "Do not touch that button!" I yelled at him.

  The portly guy in a gray uniform with a bunch of balloons on the lapel blinked at me, his finger hovering over the button.

  "Well, what do you want?" I asked. So clearly I'm not a morning person.

  "I got a delivery here for Springer?" he said, a question in his voice.

  "I didn't order anything."

  The guy consulted the clipboard held in his other hand. "Three helium tanks and a cotton candy machine for a kids' birthday party?" he asked, looking me up and down from my bed head to my hastily thrown on robe to the scowl that I'm sure was marking my features.

  I took a deep breath. I counted to ten. Okay, I only got as far as five before I started counting ways to kill Marco.

  "Fine. In here," I said pointing to the living room.

  He looked behind me. "I'm not sure it's all gonna fit. I mean, your house is kinda—"

  "Small. I know. Just cram it in, okay?"

  He took a step back. "Okay, okay, lady. I'll do my best."

  I closed my eyes and told myself it wasn't this guy's fault that my party planner was out of control. I left the door open to let the party guy cram items into our living room, and I shuffled into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I was just taking the first divine sip when the party guy yelled an, "All done!" and scuttled back to his truck as fast his feet would go.

  Cup in hand, I walked back into the living room.

  And stopped short.

  M
y sofa had been moved out of the way to accommodate a machine almost as tall as I was with colorful painted balloons on all sides, three nozzles sticking out of the front. Beside it sat an equally tall cotton candy machine, dripping what looked like pink syrup into the burnout hole in Ramirez's chair.

  I grabbed my cell from my purse by the door and immediately stabbed through my contacts, hitting Marco and listening to it ring on the other end. Five rings in, I got a voicemail.

  I stabbed the phone off. Clearly Marco was sleeping in this morning. I took a deep breath, then another, and another. Then I decide this was an excellent way to hyperventilate, and took a sip of coffee instead.

  It was just one day. One little party. By Monday, this would all be over.

  I held onto that one comforting thought as I showered, dressed, and threw on a pair of black skinny jeans, a red silk tank, and cute grey high-heeled ankle booties. Then I fired up my computer just as I heard Livvie and Max rousing their dad from dreamland. The first thing I did was scroll through my photos on my phone and google the drug names I'd found on Ratski's prescription bottles, in hopes that one of them contained the lethal drug. After reading through pages of medical jargon, I found that Ratski had prescriptions to combat acne, hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and high blood pressure. But nothing that contained the lethal amphetamines. If Ratski was using PEDs, he wasn't getting them legally.

  I chewed on my lower lip as I stared at my computer screen. If Lacey had been blackmailing someone over drug use—or anything else—how had she found out? As much as I'd liked the idea of her overhearing a tidbit from the wives, I was getting the impression that they were pretty tight lipped around outsiders. So where had she stumbled on some crumb of information scandalous enough to kill over?

  On a whim, I googled the Bellissima boutique.

  Lacey had worked for Liz there before becoming a tag-along member of the Baseball Wives crew, and it had been where she'd met Bucky. Maybe she'd found her blackmail worthy item while in Liz's employ?

  I scanned through the first page of hits getting mostly references to the Baseball Wives TV show. Two pages in, I saw couple of articles about the grand opening of the boutique, just over a year ago. I clicked, the screen in front of me filling with pictures of Liz and her husband posing as the happy couple. I scrolled through but didn't see anything out of the ordinary—nothing to indicate a blackmail-worthy secret. I squinted at the photos for a glimpse of the handbags on the shelves behind her. Unfortunately I couldn't see much more than colorful blobs on the shelves which could've easily been the Michael Kors' spring collection or the Jaclyn Smith Kmart collection.

  Which meant just one thing. A shopping trip to Melrose was in order today. Oh, the sacrifices I made.

  * * *

  Bellissima was nestled along a trendy shopping corridor where small boutiques rubbed elbows with big-name designer stores and dozens of coffee houses. Tourists carrying cameras mingled with housewives from Beverly Hills toting their Birkins, with a few young Hollywood "It" kids sprinkled in between, loitering in the cafes in their short-shorts, Ugg boots, and gargantuan sunglasses. Parking was scarce, but I must have been on the traffic gods' good side as I found a spot on the street just two blocks from Bellissima.

  Large glass windows faced the street on either side of the door, flanked by displays of mannequins with skin in neon hues, dressed in tasteful black-and-white, each sporting a pair of pewter kitten heels that had me drooling. I pushed through the doors and was greeted with the familiar scent of retail—new clothes, fresh leather bags, and a slight hint of expensive perfume. I inhaled deeply as I took in my surroundings.

  The boutique was an eerie duplicate of the Sunset Studios set. The walls were stark white with shelves in the same neon hues as the mannequins lining them, artfully displaying handbags, shoes, and belts, while the main floor of the boutique was occupied by racks of blouses, skirts, and dresses. Along the back wall sat a large sofa, two chairs, and some curtained-off sections which I guessed to be dressing rooms.

  I went to the first rack pretending to browse as I scanned the place for Liz. (Okay, I might have actually browsed a little too. Liz had good taste!) I spied a young woman with Bambi eyes, Lindsay Lohan lips, and long, pale blonde extensions behind the cash register, ringing up a purchase. Another blonde with almost identical make-up and hair stood near the dressing rooms, and a third clone was straightening shoes on a wall rack. I silently wondered if Liz had a hard time telling them apart.

  Blonde Number Three spotted me and approached. "Welcome to Bellissima. May I help you with something today?"

  "I was wondering if the owner was in?"

  She nodded. "She's in the back. May I get your name?"

  "Yes, Maddie Springer," I said, hoping Liz remembered me.

  The blonde nodded, then scooted away toward a door behind the cash register.

  I browsed for a few moments, wandering to the wall of handbags. Designer labels in leather and nylon stared back at me, assuring me that Bellissima was as high end as its address promised.

  "Maddie?" I heard behind me. I turned to find Liz, her brown eyes blinking at me. "How wonderful to see you again."

  "Lovely to see you too. I love the boutique," I told her honestly meaning it.

  She brightened up right away, a genuine smile of pride on her face. "Thank you. It's sort of my baby."

  "How long have you been here?" I asked, even though I knew full well from my handy dandy googling earlier.

  "Just over a year now," she said.

  "And business is going well?" I fished.

  Liz paused, the smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Of course! I mean, look around. We're always busy."

  She was right. The place had a healthy number of well-dressed women browsing the racks, the dressing rooms looked full, and all three blond clones were busy.

  "Well it's amazing that you got this piece of real estate," I told her. "This is a prime location. I hope you're not paying a mint for it."

  Liz laughed, but it lacked the genuineness of her earlier beam of pride. "Well, you get what you pay for," she said noncommittally.

  "You must have a lot of overhead here." I gestured to the triplet girls handling the floor.

  A frown formed between Liz's perfectly threaded brows. "You're awfully interested in our business operations, Maddie," she said with a laugh, though I could see suspicion creeping into her gaze.

  Fortunately I had a plan.

  "Well, I'll confess something to you Liz. I'm not here purely for personal reasons. I'm looking at expanding the distribution of my footwear line. And your boutique," I said, spreading my arms out around me, "seems a perfect venue for my heels."

  Once again Liz's face brightened up. "Well, as you can see we have several top-of-the-line shoe designers here. You know we'd love to add your collection. Here, let me show you." She led the way over to the wall of shoes I'd spied earlier and began telling me about each designer. I'll admit, had I not pegged Liz as a potential suspect in a murder, I might have actually been tempted to enter into a business partnership with her. I hadn't been lying when I'd said the boutique was in a prime location, and it did seem to be doing a brisk business.

  "Liz?" Blonde Number One said, tapping her employer lightly on the shoulder. "You have a call in the back. Mr. Frinkelstein?"

  "I'm so sorry, Maddie, I have to take this. You don't mind, do you?" Liz asked backing towards the rear room on her stilettos.

  "Of course not," I assured her, even though I was a little bummed at not having extracted anything juicy from her yet.

  I wandered over to a rack of clothing near the dressing rooms, browsing through pastel, chiffon tops. I picked up one in a pale peach color that was cut on the bias, holding it up in front of me.

  "That cut is very on-trend for spring," Blonde Number Three piped up from behind me.

  I turned to face her eager customer-service smile. "It's lovely," I said.

  The Blonde nodded. "You're the shoe designer,
right? Maddie Springer?"

  I nodded, sending her a questioning look.

  "I overheard you and Liz talking," she admitted.

  I raised an eyebrow. An eavesdropper might be useful.

  I nodded. "Yes, I'm thinking of selling my line here. I see you do a good business?"

  "Oh, sure, we're always packed," she said.

  "Have you worked here long?" I asked.

  Blonde Number Three shrugged. "A few months."

  "So, then you worked here when Lacey was here?" I asked, lowering my voice the appropriate amount when speaking of the dead.

  But if the Blonde was spooked by mention of a dead coworker, she didn't show it. She just nodded her head, her extensions bobbing down her back. "Sure. But she wasn't here very long."

  "Oh, really?" I asked. "What happened?"

  Blond Number Three smirked. "She was fired."

  I raised an eyebrow. This was a tidbit no one had mentioned. Liz had made it seem like Lacey had quit when she'd started dating Bucky. "Do you know why?"

  She frowned at me. "Well, I don't know for sure why, but I can tell you that Kylie," she said, pointing to Blonde Number One at the register, "heard something about some unaccounted for money."

  "No!" I said, doing a little gasp which wasn't all acting on my part. Had Lacey been stealing and that's why she was fired? Or…was it the other way around? Maybe Liz had been skimming money from her own business. If Lacey had found out, and Liz fired her for it, I could see Lacey not losing sleep over blackmailing her former boss.

  "Did Lacey tell Kylie this?" I asked.

  Blonde Number Three shook her head. "No, she overheard an argument between Lacey and Liz in the back room. But I do know that Lacey was for sure fired."

  "You do?"

  She did the extension-bobbing nod again. "Yep. I ran into her at dinner at City Walk, like, a week ago."

  My ears perked up at the mention of the trendy City Walk. Was this the "girl's night" that Bucky said he and Lacey had fought about?

  "What did she say?"