Homicide in High Heels (16 page)

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.

My 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.