Sweetheart in High Heels (5 page)

Which is probably why I didn’t see her until I felt my backside bump up against hers on the other side of the red carpet.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, turning around to apologize. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that my stiletto heel was on her train, and when I turned, I pulled her backward with me.

I heard a gasp, a strangled cry, and then she tipped backward, stumbling on her pumps. Her right heel broke underneath her, sending her toppling over, right into my arms. Which, unfortunately, were not as gym pumped up as Dana’s were, and collapsed under her weight, sending us both falling to the ground.

“Help! She’s trying to kill me!” the woman shouted.

I blinked as I looked down at her face. Holy hell, I’d knocked over Betty White! “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry.”

“Help!” she screamed again to the guys in headsets swarming around us.

“I’m so,
so
sorry. Here, let me help you,” I said, trying to crawl out from under her. Only, instead of lifting her, I only managed to roll her onto her side.

“Help!” she cried again, though it was kind muffle by the red carpet as she was now face down, butt in the air.

Finally one of the guys must have heard her over the noise, as he reached down and, in one swoop, had both Betty and I on our feet. I had a feeling we were not the first red-carpet-plus-high-heels casualties he’d rescued.

“She’s trying to kill me!” Betty yelled, pointing a finger at me.

The guy in the headset took a menacing step forward.

“No!” I said, shaking my head. “I just tripped and fell. It was a accident. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. White.”

“Look at my shoe,” she said, lifting her right foot. “You broke my heel! How am I supposed to present the award for best comedy actress with a broken heel?” She scowled at me, narrowing her eyes.

Was it wrong that a little part of me was giggling inside at the thought that
Betty White
scowled at
me
?

I am so sorry,” I repeated again. “Here, let me see if I can fix it,” I offered, getting down on my hands and knees as I inspected Betty’s foot. “I’m a professional.”

“A professional what?” Betty scoffed.

“Shoe designer.” I stood up. “And, unfortunately, my professional opinion is that this shoe is toast.”

“Well, I could have told you that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What size are you?” I asked.

“What size shoe? Seven,” Betty said. “Why?”

I took a deep breath and made the ultimate sacrifice for my comedy idol. “Take my shoes.”

“What?”

I slipped the crystal t-straps off, losing four inches of height instantly. “Take these. They’re sevens, and they’re designer originals. They don’t match your dress exactly,” I said, taking in her bright turquoise outfit, “but they’re better than going barefoot.”

Betty took a shoe in one hand, turned it over, inspected all sides. “Nice,” she finally said. “Okay, I’ll trade.” She slipped her broken shoe off, along with the matching pump on the other foot, and swapped with me.

“I have to say, I’m not used to heels this high,” she said, suddenly towering over me in my stilettos. “Between these and the suffocating unitard I’ve got on under this dress, I’ll be lucky if I can make it onto the stage.”

I nodded. “I hear ya. The Spanx are horrible, aren’t they?”

Betty laughed. “Oh, honey, I’m about twenty years past Spanx. I’ve got industrial grade latex holding this body in. I tell you, I’m suffocating under here.”

I paused, staring at her. “Wait - what did you just say?’

Betty blinked. “What? What did I say?”

“Latex,” I repeated. And then I knew just how Peach had died.

* * *

“It was the latex suits she made,” I told Dana three hours later as we rode in Ricky’s limo to the post-awards party.

It had been all I could do to contain my theory to myself as I watched one star after another thank everyone they’d ever met from their agent to their third grade music teacher all through the show. Never had an awards show crawled by so slowly. But by the time I finally met up with Dana again in the lobby, I was sure I knew exactly what had happened that morning at the Pleasure Den.

“What about the latex suits?” Dana asked, leaning in.

“Gage said Peach was creating an original line of latex wear. Well, suppose she was making something new that day, something that wasn’t quite finished, and, when she went to try it on, it got stuck on her. The latex is so tight and unforgiving, all it would take would be a few seconds of it covering her face and she wouldn’t be able to breathe. She’d pass out and suffocate with the latex costume on.”

“But the police didn’t find her wearing any latex,” Dana pointed out.

I nodded. “I know. Someone must have come in and seen her dead like that. They took the suit off and stabbed her, making it look like she’d died from stab wounds instead of suffocation.”

“But why would anyone do that?” Ricky asked. “I mean, dead is dead. What’s the difference how it happened?”

“None, to Peach. But it made a difference to the suit.”

Dana raised an eyebrow at me. “The suit?”

“Remember how Gage told us the latex was a huge seller? Chances were if someone died in one of their latex suits, it would affect business. Big time. If it got out that the suits weren’t safe, the shop was finished.”

“So, Gage did it! Wow, how did you figure that out?”

“Well, I had a little help,” I admitted. “I called Ramirez during the musical number and told him about the latex. He did some digging through the evidence CSU collected from the shop and found a latex suit in the trash that had Peach’s DNA all over it. It also had Gage’s fingerprints. When they confronted him with the evidence, he broke down and confessed.”

“So he found her in the suit?”

I nodded. “He immediately realized what it would mean for the shop, so he ditched the latex and stabbed her with a box cutter from the store room to make it look like she’d died that way.”

Dana bit her lip. “But he didn’t really kill her. I guess the Sex Shop Murder was really just the Sex Shop Tragedy.”

“That’s right.” I nodded. “Peach’s death was purely an accident. Everyone was right. She really was too sweet for anyone to have wanted to hurt her.”

“Poor Peach,” Dana said, looking down at her hands. “What a way to go.”

“And her partner. Gage?” Ricky asked. “What’s going to happen with him?”

“Ramirez said they charged him with obstruction, but he thought the DA would go lightly on him.”

“And Ramirez?” Dana asked. “Now that the case is closed….” she said, trailing off.

I grinned. “Ramirez has tomorrow night off.”

* * *

I turned onto my side on the bed, showing off the ruffles along the bodice of the pink lingerie I’d bought just before heading to our romantic rendezvous at the Beverly Hilton. Yes, I’d taken Dana’s advice after all and bought lingerie for Ramirez. However, I’d done so in the intimates section at Macy’s and not at the Pleasure Den. I think we’d both had enough of that place to last us awhile.

Ramirez had gone in to the station early to finish up the paperwork on the case, but he’d promised on a stack of jelly donuts (not made by me) that he’d be here by 7 PM.

It was 6:58. And I was poised to be perfect when he made his entrance.

I tried out a pouty look in the mirror across from the bed, abandoned that idea (I looked more pissed than sexy), then went for a coy smile, instead. Much better.

I pasted the coy look on my face and stared at the door, careful not to move as I had the ruffled bottom of the baby doll slip strategically placed on my thigh to cover all the good stuff… for now. (wink, wink)

6:59. 7:01. 7:05.

By ten after, my right hand was falling asleep from being propped under me, and the smile was starting to make my cheeks ache. I took a deep breath and gave up, abandoning my pose for the moment. I shook out my legs and arms, grabbing for my cell on the night table to make sure I hadn’t missed a call telling me someone else had had the nerve to get murdered in his jurisdiction on our Valentine’s anniversary. I reached for my phone… but instead of connecting, my still-asleep arm collapsed under me and I fell right off the bed.

“Uhn.” I landed on my face, my baby doll hiked up over my butt, my lace bodice twisted under me.

And, of course, that’s when I heard my husband’s voice.

“Maddie?”

I squinted my eyes shut, embarrassment washing over me. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi. Watcha doing down there?” he asked, a grin lacing his voice.

I cleared my throat, pulling myself up off the floor with as much dignity as I could. “Waiting for you,” I said, tugging the hem of my lingerie down. “You’re late.”

Ramirez glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “A little,” he admitted. “But, I’m here.”

“Huh.” I crossed my arms over my chest, not yet ready to let this one go. Especially since he’d caught me on the floor and not in my perfect sexy-coy pose.

“I think you should forgive me,” Ramirez said, taking a step toward me. “Because I brought you something.”

He held out a box to me. It was pink, about a foot long, and wide.

“Shoes?’ I squealed, all immediately forgiven as I grabbed it from him and tore the top off.

“Not just any shoes,” he said as I pulled them from the tissue.

He was right. They were the shoes I’d had specially made for the Viewer’s Choice Awards and given to Betty White.

“Ohmigod, where did you get these?”

Ramirez grinned. “I have a friend on the force who knows Betty’s personal assistant. She got them back for you.”

“You are the best!” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Check inside the strap,” he instructed.

I did, turning the shoes over. Along the interior of the leather T-strap, in permanent sharpie marker, was Betty White’s autograph. I think I squealed again.

“These are now officially the best pair of shoes I own.” I smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Happy Valentine’s anniversary, Maddie,” he said, coming in for a kiss.

A very warm, soft kiss that made me tingle in all the right places.

“So,” he said when we finally came up for air. “Remember when I said I’d make all those missed dinners up to you?”

“Yes?” I said.

Ramirez grinned, his eyes going dark and wicked. “Lock the door.”

* * * * *

About the author:

Gemma Halliday is the author of the
High Heels Mysteries
, as well as the
Hollywood Headlines
Mysteries
series. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in 2012.

To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at www.GemmaHalliday.com

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

of the exciting first book in the

Hollywood Headlines Mysteries

by Gemma Halliday:

SCANDAL SHEET

Chapter One

TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION:

LAST NIGHT THE
INFORMER
CAUGHT EVERYONE’S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -

“Shit!”

“Tina!”

I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.

“What?”

“Swear Pig.”

I pursed my lips. “That doesn’t count.”

“I just heard you say ‘shit.’”

“It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn’t count.”

He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn’t cutting it.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” I protested, changing tactics. I’d been typing up a juicy tidbit about
the
It teen actress, who’d been caught with a joint in her hand at last night’s after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. “I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?” I went on. “Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?”

He shook his head. “Swear Pig, Bender,” he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.

“Shit.”

“I heard that!”

I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But he’d set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It’s not like I was shooting heroin or anything.

Which brought me back to my story.

I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.

IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL “REHAB?”

I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the “stinky cigarette” into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she’d promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky “Pippi Mississippi” in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.

I hit “send” letting my daily gossip column zip through the
L.A. Infomer
’s network to Felix’s inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.

I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

“Bender?”

I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. “Did you want something, chief?”