Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12)

by Gemma Halliday

  I licked my lips. "I plead the fifth?"

  A muscle ticked in his squared jaw. "Was Felix with you?"

  "No!" I answered truthfully, shaking my head vigorously to illustrate just how not with me he'd been. "Felix absolutely did not go with me to the studio to talk to Angela Gold."

  "So you didn't see him at all today?"

  "N—" I was about to answer in the negative when I realized I actually had seen him. Just, not then. Earlier. "Uh, I did not see him at the studio."

  Ramirez's eyes narrowed, darkening until they were nearly black. I had to admit, the jealously thing was kinda sexy on him. Even if it was totally misplaced.

  "What are you not saying?" he asked, lifting me into his lap.

  "Not what you're thinking," I assured him.

  "I don't trust that guy, Maddie."

  Honestly? That was probably a good instinct.

  "But you trust me." My arms went around his neck. "And I promise you I only have eyes for one man," I assured him.

  "Oh really?" His mouth lifted at the corners while he drew me closer. "What's his name?"

  I grinned, playing along. "Hmm, I'm not sure I remember. Why don't we talk about it in the morning? After all, tomorrow is another day."

  Ramirez's brow furrowed. "I've heard that line before. Isn't it from Die Hard?"

  I leaned in until our lips met. "Probably."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next morning, I awoke to my favorite aroma—freshly brewed coffee. I inhaled deeply as Ramirez placed a full mug on the nightstand beside me.

  "Bless you," I said around a yawn.

  He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. "Sleep well?"

  "Never better." I watched as he stood in front of my full-length mirror, buttoning his white Oxford shirt.

  "What are you smiling at?" he asked.

  "I was just thinking how I preferred you last night without the shirt."

  He crossed the room and leaned down to kiss me again. This time on the lips, long and slow enough that by the time he pulled back I was wide awake.

  "And there's plenty more where that came from," he said with a grin. "Any idea what movie that line is from?"

  I'd told him about Faux Dad's Final Jeopardy! outburst the night before. "What, are we auditioning for the show now too?" I teased.

  Ramirez winked. "Anything's possible."

  I leaned back against the headboard as I sipped my coffee. "Hmm…Home Alone?"

  His smile faded. "Actually, I was thinking of Happy Gilmore."

  "There goes our shot at fame," I said.

  Ramirez chuckled. "The twins are still sleeping. Enjoy the coffee in bed. That will give you time to plot your day."

  "Plot my day?" I echoed. "What would I be plotting?"

  "Remember, I know you." He gave me a wink before he went into the bathroom.

  I heard his electric shaver turn on as I sipped my coffee. I was just contemplating adding a frozen waffle to go with it, when my phone buzzed with an incoming call on the nightstand. A number I didn't recognize came up. "Hello?" I answered.

  "Good morning, Maddie. How are you, love?"

  Felix.

  My eyes cut guiltily to the bathroom door. "What do you want?" I asked quietly.

  "Wow. I've had worse greetings, but I'm not sure when."

  "Sorry," I mumbled. "Good morning. How are you? Now, what do you want?"

  Felix chuckled. "Always to the point. One of the things I love about you."

  I wished he wouldn't say words like love while my husband was standing just steps away. Clearly Ramirez's jealously from the previous night had been misplaced. Clearly I had no feelings in the present for Felix. Clearly Ramirez was not altogether wrong in thinking Felix was a wild card.

  I looked up to find Ramirez watching me in the bathroom mirror. "This isn't a good time," I said in a low voice.

  "Sorry, love, but this really couldn't wait."

  "No, I mean it really isn't a good time."

  Felix's tone changed. "Oh, you mean the detective is there? Shouldn't he have left for work by now?"

  The way that he referred to Ramirez as "the detective" irritated me. I got out of bed and took the phone into the living room. "His name is Jack. And he's my husband."

  "I'm well aware," he said pointedly.

  "What is it that can't wait?"

  He paused. "Is it true?"

  "Is what true?"

  "Have the police confirmed that Doggy Z died of ethylene glycol poisoning?"

  I felt myself freeze. "Police confirmed?" Those were dangerous words. "Is that what Tina told you?"

  Felix chuckled again. "Darling, she didn't just tell me. It's all over the internet."

  I closed my eyes and thought a bad word.

  "Wow, you okay?" Ramirez said, coming into the room.

  Okay, maybe I thought the bad word out loud a little.

  "Fine," I told him. I quickly stabbed my phone off, even as I heard Felix protesting faintly on the other end.

  Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. "Who was that?"

  "No one."

  The other eyebrow went up. "You were swearing at no one?"

  "Telemarketer," I said. "They always call at the most inconvenient times."

  I cringed. Tina must have been wearing off on me. The lies just tumbled from my lips before I even thought about them.

  "Telemarketer." He didn't buy it for a second. I saw his eyes go to my phone, as if he had X-ray vision and could read the number off it.

  "Uh, anyway, have a great day, honey." I stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss on his now smooth cheek.

  "Thanks," he mumbled. Eyes still on the phone. "And what do you have planned for today?"

  "Nothing," I assured him, this time being totally honest. "After I take the twins to school, I'll be spending the day at home. I need to work on my latest shoe design. You know, the two-toned pumps I showed you the other night."

  "Right," he said, obviously having no idea what I was talking about. "I'll try not to be home too late," he said, giving me one more suspicious side-eye before leaving.

  I watched him pull out of the driveway, waving as he drove away.

  Then I grabbed my phone and quickly pulled up the L.A. Informer's website. I didn't have to scroll far to find the story Felix had alluded to. It was the leading headline on their site, as well as their social media pages.

  DOGGY Z WAS MURDERED…BUT WHODUNIT?

  Okay, that much I expected. I took a deep breath before reading forward.

  While early reports of the iconic rapper's death mentioned a "drug overdose," an unnamed source inside the LAPD's homicide division has confirmed that he died of ethylene glycol poisoning.

  I frowned. Tina had promised to leave me out of it, but this was calling it too close. If Ramirez read this, I knew he'd recognize himself for sure as the unnamed source. Or at least said source's husband. I just hoped he was the only one who saw himself in it and no one else at the station realized they had a leak until an official cause of death could be released.

  I read the rest of the article, relieved that Angela Gold was mentioned several times as someone "close to Dog" who might have had a "checkered past" with the rapper.

  But that was where my relief ended.

  Who could have wanted the famed Doggy Z dead? Sure, he had a reputation for straying like a cat, but his fellow contestants on the Celebrity Jeopardy! Tournament have some interesting secrets of their own. Could Dog's killer have been the jilted soap star, Angela Gold? And what about the popular hairdresser to the stars, Fernando? What skeletons does he have in his colorful closet?

  I closed my eyes and thought a few more bad words. While she hadn't outright called Fernando out as the fake she clearly knew he was, this was far from leaving him alone like she'd promised. I silently kicked myself for having trusted anything she'd said the day before.

  That was it—I was so done with her. From now on, the sneaky purple-haired reporter could do her own dirty work.

>   By the time I calmed down enough to be sure any naughty words stayed in thought only and not on my lips this time, the twins were wide awake and chattering away in their bedroom. I went in to help them pick out clothes for the day, comb their hair, and brush their teeth. Once we'd done the breakfast and backpack assembling thing, we were off to school. Their teacher met me on the front steps and waited while I hugged Max and Livvie goodbye.

  When I arrived home, I brewed myself a cup of coffee and carried it over to my drawing table. I was working on a line of vintage inspired pumps, drawing from the elegant lines and feminine shapes of the 1960s era. While, admittedly, Chanel was one of my biggest influences, I was trying to make sure my designs were an homage and not a copy. Currently I was working on the correct angle of the arch for my two-toned pumps, inspired by a pair of vintage shoes I'd recently owned. I wanted to capture the illusion of lengthening the foot the way the originals had, with a more modern, slender heel.

  I was just trying out a peep-toe version when my phone rang. I glanced down at the screen and saw a number I wasn't familiar with. I almost ignored it—expecting more tabloid trouble—but at the last minute I took a chance and swiped to take the call.

  "Hello?"

  "Uh, hi. Maddie Springer?" It was a man's voice, but I couldn't place it.

  "Yes," I said. "May I ask who is calling?"

  "Uh, this is John Delmoore. I met you yesterday at my mom's house."

  Dog's son. "Hi, John," I said hesitantly, not sure why he'd be calling me.

  "I, uh, hope I'm not interrupting," he went on. "I got your number from your website."

  "No, no, it's fine. Was there something I could help you with?"

  "Yeah. Actually, there was." He paused, and I could hear shifting on the other end. "First off, I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. My father and I had a…complicated relationship."

  "No need to apologize at all," I assured him. "I'm sure this has been very difficult on you."

  "Yes," he agreed, his voice strained. "Well, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind meeting me for coffee? I just…wanted to clear up a few things."

  I felt my eyebrows draw down in a frown. "Oh?" I asked.

  "I really won't take up much of your time," he went on. "I can come meet near you?" There was a note of pleading in his voice, and I felt a wave of sympathy for the young man.

  It was clear he and his father had had a difficult relationship, which I could well imagine made the grieving process that much more confusing for him. He'd been at the taping to support his father, which meant that there was clearly some emotional bond there, even if they hadn't been on the best of terms. Something I could sympathize with. I'd spent most of my life estranged from my own biological father, so I knew about complicated family relationships. We had thankfully reconnected in the last few years, even if our relationship wasn't what I'd call super close. Still, if anything happened to him…well, I couldn't very well begrudge a grieving young man a cup of coffee and some comfort, could I?

  I looked down at the drawings on my table. "Of course," I decided quickly. "Why don't you text me an address, and I'll meet you there."

  "Thank you," he said, his voice still holding a strained note as he said goodbye and hung up.

  * * *

  As soon as I stepped into The Beanery on La Brea, the mingling scents of coffee and cinnamon hit me, making me hungry despite the fact I'd already had plenty of caffeine for the day. I ordered a decaf mocha with whipped cream, and while I waited for it, I caved and added a chocolate croissant to my order. I scanned the shop patrons, but it appeared that I'd beaten John there, as I didn't see him among them. Order in hand, I found a table near the windows and settled in to wait. I ate the croissant slowly, savoring its flaky butteriness, as I sipped my decadent drink.

  I was about halfway in when a grey sedan pulled up to the curb across the street and I watched John Delmoore emerge. He was alone, and I studied him as he entered the shop and took a spot in line. He was dressed sharply in a blue and white striped shirt, navy slacks, and black leather loafers. Again I was struck by how opposite to his father John's style of dress was. I wondered if it was just a personality difference or if John purposely dressed conservatively as a sort of rebellion to his dad's street style.

  He glanced around the shop briefly before his eyes met mine and he raised a hand in greeting. A few minutes later, he'd gotten his order of what appeared to be black coffee and slid into the seat across from me. I tried not to feel self-conscious about my thousand-calorie snack next to his plain coffee.

  "Thanks for meeting me here," he said.

  "Sure." I gave him a smile. "How are you holding up?"

  He sighed, letting the air out slowly. "I'm fine." He raised his eyes to meet mine and gave me a sad smile. "It's going to take us all some time to come to terms with the fact that he's gone."

  I nodded, sending him what I hoped was a sympathetic look. "The death of a parent is never easy."

  "Well, my father wasn't an easy man in life either." He sucked in more breath. "Sorry. I, uh, I don't mean to disparage his name."

  Which was a change from the day before. Either he'd had some time to calm down or someone had clued him in that speaking ill of the dead might not look so good for the family.

  As if he could read my thoughts, he added, "Chloe said holding on to anger now is only going to hurt me, not him."

  I nodded. "Chloe seems like a smart girl."

  "She is." He sipped at his drink. "She's the one who convinced me to try to reconcile with my father in the first place. So much for that now, I guess."

  "I'm sorry." I felt a pang of sympathy for him again. "I wasn't close with my father growing up either. I know it's hard."

  "Fernando?" he asked.

  "Fernando is my stepfather," I clarified. "And he's been wonderful. My own father left my mother and me when I was young."

  John looked surprised at my admission. "Really? Was it another woman?"

  "Sort of," I hedged. I'd always been told he took off to Vegas with a showgirl named Lola. It hadn't been until I was an adult that I stumbled on the real story—he'd actually taken off to Vegas to become a showgirl named Lola. But that was a whole other story.

  "Anyway," I went on, not going into my personal details, "I know these sorts of relationships aren't always easy."

  He nodded, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "No, they're not. My father was…a complicated man."

  I bit my lip. He was obviously trying to choose his words carefully, and I had the distinct feeling someone had put him up to this meeting. "You said on the phone that there was something you wanted to clear up?"

  He nodded, his gaze going down into his paper cup of coffee. "After you left yesterday, a detective came by our house."

  "Oh?" I asked, hoping that detective hadn't been my husband and no one had mentioned a nosy blonde had just been there. "What did he want?"

  "He was asking us a bunch of questions about my dad. About if he had any enemies." His eyes came up to meet mine. "Yesterday when you visited, you asked if the police had been by to see us then. Why?"

  I licked my lips. "I take it you didn't read the L.A. Informer this morning?"

  He scoffed. "After my dad's third very public divorce, I made it a policy never to read the tabloids."

  That I could well understand.

  "Why?" he persisted, eyebrows drawing down. "What did they say?"

  I paused. "It's possible that your father's death was not accidental," I said carefully.

  He nodded, not looking terribly surprised. "I got that impression from the detective too. But he wouldn't share much."

  I hesitated to do the same. However, with Tina's article out there, there wasn't much point in holding back. "From what I understand, it appears your father ingested ethylene glycol before he died. Antifreeze."

  His eyebrows furrowed deeper, the frown lines on his face making him suddenly look much older than his years. "How?" he asked, his voice strained
. "Why?"

  "It was probably put in his energy drink. He wouldn't have tasted it, and we all saw him drinking the Invigorate at the taping."

  John's face was stoic, and I could feel him processing that information, coming to the same conclusion the rest of us had. "You mean someone deliberately poisoned my father."

  I nodded slowly, my heart aching for the man who was no more than a kid, really. "I'm sorry, John," I said, putting a hand over his.

  He bowed his head, and I wasn't sure if he was trying to hold back tears or just taking a moment with his own thoughts. Finally he seemed to pull himself together and looked up again. "Can I ask how you knew this?"

  Again I hesitated about how much to share. I still had my doubts about just the type of terms his mother and her ex-husband had been on. And I was pretty sure that whatever I told John would get right back to her.

  "I have…a friend in the police department," I finally settled on.

  Which seemed to satisfy him, as he just nodded. "Do they have any idea who could have done this? Or why?" he persisted.

  "I honestly don't know." I paused. "I am curious, though…did the police ask you who might have benefited from your father's death?"

  His frown intensified. "What do you mean?"

  "Financially speaking. I mean, I assume you are named in his will?" I asked, watching his reaction carefully.

  "Well, you assume wrong," he said sharply. "I was not in that man's will."

  "Oh?" I ask, honestly surprised by this.

  John shook his head. "It was one of his ploys to try to get me to become his little sidekick once again. When I told him I was majoring in business, he said I had two choices—make sure that business was music or kiss my inheritance goodbye."

  "He really wanted you to follow in his footsteps, didn't he?" I noted.

  "It was almost pathological. Look, it was an easy choice. All I'd had my entire life was his brand of crude music shoved down my throat, the bastardization of our culture, and his disgusting lifestyle."

  He was on a roll now, any attempts to not speak ill of the dead abandoned along with his coffee as his eyes flashed with fire.

  "Like I would throw away my chance to get away from that? For what? His money?" He scoffed again.