Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12)

by Gemma Halliday

  That was a name I did know. Aunty Mae was a sixty-something woman with a wide smile, a sweet Southern accent, and a down-home solution for every household problem, which she could teach the viewing public in thirty minutes or less. If Martha Stewart had a perkier Southern sister, it would be Aunty Mae. She'd been a staple on the Cooking Network for years, and she could not seem more the opposite to the grungy looking rapper on stage right now.

  "That seems like an unlikely pairing," I noted.

  "Oh, it is. That's what's so fun," Mom said.

  "Aunty Mae and Dog are always fighting on the show." Mrs. Rosenblatt grabbed Mom's arm. "On yesterday's episode, they were each using knives to slice up tomatoes, and I swear they were thinking about using them on each other. Dog said Mae had a 'face like the back end of a haggis.'"

  "I missed that one," Mom said, frowning.

  "Stream it," Mrs. Rosenblatt advised. "You'll thank me for it later."

  Goatee Guy turned around in his seat again. I felt we should be on a first name basis by now. "I read they got into it so badly last week that Aunty Mae stormed off the set."

  "What did Dog do?" Mom asked.

  Goatee Guy shrugged. "Maybe he added something funny to the brownies."

  Dana snorted back a laugh.

  The lights in the studio audience flicked on and off, and the familiar opening musical strands of the show met my ears, followed by Johnny Gilbert's booming voice. "This is Jeopardy!"

  My mother clutched my hand in excitement. "Here we go."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The contestants were introduced one by one, starting with Doggy Z, who looked like he was having a hard time concentrating on the host. He startled when he heard his name. "From the bonny hills of Scotland, rapper and co-host of In the Kitchen with Aunty Mae and the Dog, Doggy Z!"

  Dog gave the peace sign to the audience, which got a few laughs and murmurs of approval. I glanced over at the stage manager, who didn't seem as impressed.

  "He looks a bit out of it," I noted.

  Dana agreed. "Yeah, even for Dog."

  Faux Dad smiled and nodded graciously when Johnny called him the "hairdresser to the stars." Angela's gleaming white teeth looked like they belonged in a Crest commercial when Johnny referred to her as the "Queen of Mean on Daytime."

  "And now, here's your host of Jeopardy!" Johnny cried, "Alex Trebek!"

  Mrs. Rosenblatt whistled loudly and threw up her arms to clap. "The older that Trebek gets, the hotter he looks. If he plays his cards right, he could be Husband Number Seven."

  "He's happily married," I told her.

  "Oh poo." Mrs. Rosenblatt frowned. "This is Hollywood. Anything goes." Then she shouted out an, "I love you, Alex!"

  "Thank you, Johnny," Trebek said, slightly flushed, and I wondered if he'd heard Mrs. Rosenblatt's confession. "Welcome to the first night of our Celebrity Jeopardy! Tournament."

  Trebek went on to introduce each of the contestants and asked what charity they were playing for. Faux Dad announced that he'd selected the Los Angeles Children's Hospital. Angela was playing for a local animal shelter.

  Trebek looked puzzled as he stared at his card before addressing Dog. "This says that you're playing for the Bonnie Ladies of Glasgow fund?"

  Dog gave a slow smile. "I dinnae ken what that is, but they sound like wee belters to me!"

  Trebek was left speechless for a second. Then he smiled and said, "Uh, let's take a look at the board."

  I glanced at the categories. American Presidents. Farming. The 1500s. Crossword Puzzles. Figure Skating. Before & After.

  I bit my lip. I had no idea if Faux Dad knew anything about any of those categories.

  Faux Dad went first and boldly skipped over the smaller amounts, selecting Figure Skating for $1,000. He was rewarded with the Daily Double.

  "Too bad he had to find it so early," Mrs. Rosenblatt lamented.

  "Shush!" Mom whispered.

  After the applause subsided, Faux Dad said, unflinching, "Let's make it a true Daily Double, Alex."

  My mother gasped and grabbed my hand in a vise-like grip. "I don't think he knows much about figure skating," she said in a worried undertone.

  "Try to think positive," I told her.

  Trebek read the answer out loud. "She's an Olympic gold medalist but remembered more for her wedge haircut."

  Faux Dad didn't hesitate. "Who is Dorothy Hamill?"

  Applause commenced, and Mom allowed herself to breathe again. Faux Dad and Angela went on to split the rest of the skating category between them. Then they moved on to Farming and American Presidents. All the while, Dog stood there, unmoving, more like an observer than a contestant.

  Trebek announced a commercial, and the stage manager, positioned in a booth to the left of the set, started clapping, encouraging the audience to do the same. As soon as the camera was off, Trebek went to each contestant and posed for a quick picture with them. We watched as Angela wrapped her arm around his waist and gave the camera a flirtatious grin.

  "What I wouldn't give to be in her place right now," Mrs. Rosenblatt sighed. "He'll never know what he's missing."

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  A makeup artist ran over to touch up Faux Dad's face. The hot lights above weren't doing him any favors, and we could see streaks of foundation running down his cheeks.

  "Nerves," Mom said. "He always sweats when he's nervous."

  Goatee Guy turned around again. "Ah, he's got it in the bag. Angela got lucky with her answers, and Dog's on another planet."

  I watched Trebek approach Dog, who blinked at him, not seeming to comprehend who he was. He moved as if in a trance through posing for a photo, giggling like a child when asked to smile.

  One of the stagehands went over to Dog and handed him some sort of blue sports drink. Dog grabbed it and chugged as if he'd been in the desert all day. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, let out a burp, and handed it back to the man, who looked at him with disgust.

  The taping resumed, and I glanced at the scores. Dog had $200, Faux Dad was leading with $3,400, and Angela had $1,200. I could feel Mom getting more and more tense as each answer came up on the board. Faux Dad got one wrong, pulling away from his score a bit, and for a moment Angela was in the lead. Then he answered two in a row right and became the frontrunner again.

  Dog, however, couldn't seem to find his stride. During Double Jeopardy! he kept clicking the buzzer, even after Faux Dad had answered the question correctly. Disgusted, he threw it on the floor and yelled, "What a bag of bollocks!"

  "Cut!" one of the crew yelled.

  Dog sat down on the floor. "Am just needing a wee doggy nap, ye ken," he said.

  Several people in the audience laughed at the joke, though I didn't see the crew enjoying his antics. I glanced over at Dog's son sitting in the audience and saw him frown.

  The stage manager came over to Dog and tried to coax him back onto his feet. He handed the buzzer back to Dog, who tossed it into the audience.

  "That thing does nae work," Dog said. "I dinnae ken how yea bogtrotting poshies cannae afford some batteries. Yer all tighter than a duck's bum!"

  This got a few more chuckles from the audience. The older man in the navy suit who I'd seen argue with Dog earlier reappeared.

  "I wonder who he is," I mused out loud.

  "Rupert Blick," Dana supplied. "He's one of the executives at the network. And he doesn't look very happy."

  That was an understatement. Pure exasperation and frustration showed on his face. He drew Dog aside and said something to him. Dog just swayed unsteadily on his feet as he listened, then resumed his position behind the podium as Blick left the stage.

  "Doggy's face looks awfully pale," Dana said thoughtfully.

  "And his aura is all gunky," Mrs. R noted. "Not at all his usually snazzy blue."

  I wasn't sure what a snazzy blue aura was, but I had to agree that Dog seemed to be struggling.

  The taping resumed, and Dog managed to ring in once
with a correct answer about a cooking show host who hailed from Upstate New York. "Who's that fitty of a lass Rachael Ray?" he said, and the audience clapped, cheering him on.

  Final Jeopardy! arrived, and the category was Famous Actors. Faux Dad had a decent lead, but as a long-time fan, I knew anything could happen. Mom squeezed my hand so tightly that I yelped as Trebek read the answer.

  "Born in Winterset, Iowa, Marion took Hollywood by storm and saddle."

  "Who is Michael Landon," Mrs. Rosenblatt whispered.

  Dana nudged her. "Michael Landon's name wasn't Marion. I think it's the Lone Ranger."

  "Shush!" said Goatee Guy.

  Mom squeezed my hand, eyes on the stage as she watched Faux Dad write down his answer. He didn't hesitate, which meant he was confident—though whether he was right or not was another matter.

  Finally the theme music ended and Trebek told them their time was up. He went to Dog to reveal his answer first. It took Trebek a moment to read the almost illegible writing.

  "Who is Nessie?"

  The studio audience roared with laughter. Trebek almost smiled but not quite.

  Dog had a score of $400, but he had bet $399.50.

  "That leaves you with fifty cents," Trebek said.

  "Oi, your bums oot the windae, mate," Dog replied with a scoff that turned into a giggle.

  Trebek looked grateful to move on to Angela. She had a score of $8,200. Her guess was Who is John Wayne? Trebek told her she was correct. She had bet $2,000, bringing her total up to $10,200.

  This left Faux Dad and his score of $10,100. If he was correct and had wagered more than $100, he would be the winner.

  Mom's face was pale, and she sucked in some air.

  Faux Dad smiled as Who is John Wayne? was revealed.

  The crowd cheered, Alex Trebek praised Faux Dad, and my mom let out a long breath of air that ruffled Goatee Guy's hair in front of us.

  "Let's see how much you risked," Trebek said. "If it's more than $100, you'll be a finalist."

  Faux Dad had bet a total of $1,800 and wound up with $11,900 for a total.

  "And we have our first finalist," Trebek announced while we all clapped and cheered.

  Angela's frosty pink mouth formed a small pout, and she folded her arms over her chest as Trebek approached her. "You've still got a chance at the Wild Card, Angela. In the meantime, we'll see you tomorrow night, folks."

  The music swelled—Trebek stood across from the contestants, chatting amicably. Angela seemed to be monopolizing the conversation, but Faux Dad was smiling, and Dog stared at them like they were spacemen.

  As soon as one of the crew shouted, "That's a wrap," the network executive, Rupert Blick, appeared on the stage again, immediately descending on Dog with a scowl and escorting him offstage.

  Announcements came on over the loudspeaker for people to clear the audience, and we all made our way backstage to find Faux Dad in the greenroom, downing a bottle of water. He stopped when Mom threw her arms around him.

  "Honey, you did wonderful," she cried.

  After Mom stepped back, I gave him a hug. "Great job. Were you nervous?"

  He wiggled his hand back and forth. "At first. But the whole show moves so fast there really wasn't time. It was actually fun once I was able to just concentrate on the questions." He paused. "I did feel bad for Doggy Z."

  "I think we all did," I added.

  "Is he still here?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, eyes darting around as if hoping to catch a glimpse of her favorite rapper.

  Faux Dad shook his head. "No. I saw him talking to his son after we finished taping. They all went out the back door together. He's probably trying to avoid publicity."

  "Good luck with that," Dana remarked. "I'm sure the clip of him throwing the buzzer into the audience will be viral by morning."

  Even Mrs. R nodded her agreement at that one. "The media's gonna murder that guy."

  * * *

  After a celebratory lunch with Mom and Faux Dad, and a quick stop at the Beverly Center afterward to find an outfit to wear to the finale taping I'd now be attending on Friday, I pushed through the front doors of my 1950s style bungalow that evening, and two pairs of sticky hands converged on me. My twins, Max and Livvie, met me at the front door, covering me in hugs and kisses as they regaled me with tales of the block tower they'd built in my absence. My heart melted at the enthusiasm, and I almost wished they could stay that age forever. Almost. I was pretty sure some of the sticky stuff on my pencil skirt was Play-Doh, which was not easy to get out of cotton twill.

  After I'd paid the babysitter, one of the teenagers who lived down the street, and washed Max's hands, I put Toy Story on for the kids and wandered into the kitchen. I'd just poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and popped a frozen pizza into the oven when the front door opened and cries of "Daddy!" filled the living room.

  A beat later my husband appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  Detective Jack Ramirez worked homicide for the LAPD, had a big gun, a big black panther tattooed on his left bicep, and a big heart that those closest to him were lucky to be the beneficiaries of. He was tall and broad shouldered, had dark hair that curled a couple weeks past a haircut on his neck, and a pair of dark eyes that could either stare a confession out of a perp or seduce a woman out of her morals with one hot look. Having been married to the man for five years, I'd been on the receiving end of both types of looks, as well as several in between.

  Ramirez threw his car keys onto the counter. "Something smells good in here." He nuzzled my neck as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

  I giggled and turned around to peck him on the lips. "I assume you're talking about the pizza?"

  He shrugged. "That too." He gave me a wink as he crossed the room to the refrigerator, pulling himself a cold beer from inside. "So how did the game show go?" he asked, popping the top.

  "You realize it's Jeopardy!, not just some 'game show,' right? It's an institution," I told him, trying to get across the magnitude of the show as I peeked in on the pizza. It needed a couple more minutes to get the cheese bubbly.

  "Okay, so it's a big deal game show," Ramirez teased. "How did Ralph do?"

  "He did great." I sipped my wine. "He won. He's officially a finalist." I paused. "Shoot. We're not supposed to tell anyone until after it airs."

  Ramirez grinned. "Don't worry. I won't tweet the spoiler to all my followers," he joked.

  "You know, lots of people love Jeopardy!"

  Ramirez nodded. "Sure."

  "Anyway, Ralph killed it. He and Mom are celebrating at City Walk tonight."

  He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't want to go with them?"

  "What, and miss all this?" I asked, gesturing to the cardboard box our dinner had come in.

  Ramirez grinned, coming in close again and nuzzling my neck. "Pizza, beer, a playoff game, and a night off with my family. What more could a man ask for?"

  I giggled, the Chardonnay kicking in. "What is 'A Beautiful Wife, Alex?'"

  Ramirez laughed and kissed my lips. A long, lingering one that left me breathless and suddenly counting the minutes until the twins' bedtime.

  Only, before I got too far into that fantasy, his phone went off at his hip.

  "Ignore it?" I suggested.

  He gave me a look that said he was having the same fantasy, but he was too good a cop to take my advice. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the text.

  "Lemme guess. Work?" I took a disappointed sip (gulp?) of wine.

  "Sorry, babe," he answered, setting his beer down and swiping to call in. He ducked into the living room as I pulled our dinner out of the oven and began searching drawers for a pizza cutter. Which should have been in the drawer by the sink, but when Max and Livvie helped put away the dishes, all bets were off.

  I finally found it in the cupboard full of Tupperware and had just cut the pizza into triangles when Ramirez came back into the room.

  "I'm on my way," he said into the phone before stabbing it off.


  I must have groaned out loud, as my husband shot me a sympathetic look.

  "Sorry," he repeated.

  I shook my head. "No, it's fine. I know. Duty calls." I was proud of how supportive I sounded, even if I had to shove pepperoni into my mouth to keep the sarcasm out.

  "I'll make it up to you later," he told me, grabbing a slice to go.

  "You'd better." I handed him a paper plate. "Do you think you'll be very late?"

  He shrugged into his jacket. "Not sure. Sounded like a high profile case."

  "Dead celebrity?" I read between the lines.

  He nodded. "Before you ask—no idea who yet. Unresponsive in their home. Sounds like a possible drug overdose."

  I felt a pang of sadness for whoever it was, even though the phenomenon was not uncommon in LA.

  "Wake me when you get home," I said, imagining he wasn't looking at an early evening.

  He nodded, gave me a quick kiss, and grabbed one more slice of pepperoni pizza to go before heading out the door.

  I tried to look on the bright side—the twins and I could have some precious Mommy & Me time together instead. Given my husband's line of work, I'd learned to expect nights like this. And while I didn't love them, they came with the territory and I was used to making the best of them. I loaded pizza onto a couple of plates that I took into the living room, where we all watched Woody and Buzz together. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and shuttled the kids into the bathtub for an extra sudsy and bubble filled bath time. After they were all clean and snug in their footed pajamas, I read them Green Eggs and Ham and Clifford Goes to School, two of their favorite books. I was all ready for a third book, but they were sound asleep before I could start it. My watch said eight o'clock. I wandered into the living room and tried to decide what to do for the rest of the evening.

  Ramirez hadn't texted, so I assumed as expected, he'd be home late. I sat down on the sofa with a second glass of wine. In theory, it would be a good time to work on the latest sketches for a pair of vintage inspired two-toned pumps I was designing, but I wasn't feeling motivated that night. I flipped on the TV and indulged in a couple reality shows my husband wouldn't be caught dead watching. After I'd had my fill of romances between yacht crews and long-distance fiancés, I switched to the local news to see if Ramirez's drug overdose had hit the media yet.