Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12)

by Gemma Halliday

  Caitlyn blinked, the sight of Mama breaking through her rage haze and bringing her back to reality a little. "I, uh…"

  Mama Ramirez cocked a bushy eyebrow at her. "You what, huh? Why are you bothering Maddie? Do you want my son to arrest you?"

  "Arrest me?" Caitlyn turned to me. "You're married to a cop?"

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Mama Ramirez beat me to it. "My son is a police detective." She proudly swung her black leather handbag in Caitlyn's direction. It was big enough to contain the kitchen sink and, knowing my mother-in-law, as heavy as one. "And I don't think he'd like you in his home yelling at his wife."

  Caitlyn glanced from her to me. "Fine," she finally said. "But if I find out that you've breathed a word of this to Blakely—"

  "Out!" Mama said sharply and raised the handbag in the air.

  Caitlyn turned and wisely hurried out the front door. Mama Ramirez yelled something at her in Spanish and slammed it behind her.

  I exhaled sharply and slumped down onto my loveseat, my legs giving out.

  Mama crossed the room and sat beside me. "Who the heck was that?"

  "Long story," I told her. "But thanks. You probably just saved me from becoming a cross-fit rage victim."

  She smiled and nodded. "Hey, you don't raise a boy like Jack without learning how to be intimidating at five feet tall." She gave me a wink.

  I couldn't help a laugh. I could well imagine my husband as a young hellion.

  "Well, hopefully we've seen the last of her," I told Mama, still eyeing the closed door as if Caitlyn might make a return.

  "Was she a friend of yours?"

  "No. Definitely not a friend."

  Mama snorted. "Bicho raro."

  I'd never heard her swear before. "Mama!"

  She looked confused. "What? It means a weirdo."

  "Oh, sure. I knew that." Admittedly, my Spanish was a little rusty.

  "You want I make you something to eat before you go?" Mama looked at me hopefully. She would feed the entire world if possible. And normally, I'd never say no to her cooking.

  I shook my head. "Thanks, but I should get going. Mom wants me to be at the studio early."

  I helped my mother-in-law get the kids' booster seats in her car and showed her the complicated buckling system. Then I grabbed my purse and searched around for my car keys, trying to remember where I'd left them. When it dawned on me where they were, I slapped my hand against my forehead.

  Mama Ramirez gave me a funny look. "What is wrong?"

  "I don't have a car!"

  "What happened to it?"

  Eep. "Uh, another long story."

  She cocked her head to the side. "You gonna owe me a novel at some point, girl." She paused. "You want me to give you a ride?"

  I shook my head. "No, you need to pick up the twins. If I wait until you get back, I'll be too late." I reached for my phone to call an Uber. But as I looked down at the screen, I saw that while I might have forgotten my car-less state, someone else hadn't.

  While Caitlyn had been ranting at me, I'd apparently missed a text from Marco.

  Fernando and your mom just left for the taping. Mrs. R is swinging by to pick you up.

  I wasn't sure if I should be grateful or nervous. Mrs. Rosenblatt was nearsighted, lead-footed, and often relied on her spirit guide to navigate rather than GPS. But, for better or worse, ten minutes later, a horn blared from outside.

  I looked out the front window just in time to see Mrs. Rosenblatt's boat-sized El Camino roar up to my curb and screech to a stop less than an inch away from Mama Ramirez's bumper. I called goodbye to my mother-in-law and tried to brace myself for the upcoming ride as I hurried out the door.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt beamed at me from behind the wheel. She was wearing a blue muumuu with a smattering of pink flamingos down the front and a matching headband around her russet colored hair. "I've got my Jeopardy! blue on," she said as I slid into the seat beside her. "Trebek will definitely take notice of me in this, don't you think?"

  "There's no way he couldn't," I said honestly.

  "This car belonged to my fifth husband," Mrs. Rosenblatt explained as she pulled away from the curb, missing my mailbox by a fingernail. "Buck loved big cars. Just listen to that sound. It purrs like a kitten."

  The motor rumbled more like an army tank than any fur baby I'd ever known. Mrs. Rosenblatt quickly grew impatient with a car in front of us going the speed limit on the two-lane road. Before I could react, she dodged into the oncoming lane where a truck was bearing down on us. I gave a squeak as she shifted back into our lane ahead of the offending vehicle.

  I clasped my hands together in prayer. "Please. I have children!"

  "Oh, Maddie, you worry too much," she said cheerfully. "Why, I could drive this car with my eyes closed."

  I gripped the doorjamb with sweaty fingers. "Please don't."

  "So your mother told me that the police think Doggy Z was murdered. Is that true?"

  I nodded. "Ramirez said it's being investigated as a suspicious death." I paused. "But, yeah, he was poisoned. Antifreeze," I told her as she took a sharp left, causing my seat belt to strain against my body.

  Mrs. R tsked her tongue. "What a waste. All that talent. Cut down in his prime."

  I would have argued that Dog's prime had been past several years and several bongs ago, but I didn't get a chance as she took a right, swinging my body the other direction. I'd be lucky if I didn't have whiplash by the time I got to the studio lot.

  "Any idea who killed him?" Mrs. R asked, passing a city bus on the right.

  I tried to focus on the question, but given Mrs. Rosenblatt's lack of driving skills, it wasn't easy. Somehow, I heard myself telling her about Caitlyn's visit and the memorial for Dog. I purposefully avoided telling her about my faulty brakes, afraid that it would get back to my mother, but I did end with the bombshell that Dog had been seeing Aunty Mae on the sly. "She claims her husband had no idea, but I'm not so sure he was as clueless as she thinks."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt sighed wistfully. "Some people have all the luck. I wish I'd known he was into older women."

  I tried to erase that mental imagine before it took hold.

  "You know, those network types are wound so tightly," Mrs. R went on. "My fourth husband Lenny's nephew worked at CBS in the nineties. Ended up addicted to cocaine. Just couldn't handle the pressure."

  "That's terrible," I said.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt screeched the car to a halt behind a motorcycle that had dared to stop for a red light. "For goodness' sake, he could have made that," she complained. "So you think Blick killed Dog to stop him from riding off into the sunset with his wife?"

  "And leaving the network." I paused. "Blick said he and Dog were in negotiations over a new contract. It's possible Dog was planning to leave, effectively taking Mae and the whole show with him."

  My phone buzzed with a text as Mrs. Rosenblatt switched lanes on the freeway without signaling and almost clipped the bumper on a pickup truck. My stomach knotted like a pretzel, and I made all kinds of silent promises to attend church this Sunday if I made it to the taping alive.

  I glanced down at my readout and saw another message from Marco.

  Did you see what Tina did?!

  I bit into my lip. Yes, I'd still go to church on Sunday, but it's possible it would be to Confession for killing Tina.

  What did she do? I quickly wrote back.

  My eyes pinged between the traffic on the 101, thankfully parting for Mrs. R's boat as she zipped between the cars, and my phone screen as I waited for his reply.

  check informer site. Just posted an hour ago

  I did, quickly changing screens and pulling up the homepage for the tabloid.

  "Everything okay?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, laying on her horn as red taillights appeared up ahead.

  "Hopefully," I mumbled, my eyes scanning an article that had been labeled Breaking News next to Tina's press photo. The headline read, Doggy Z Stiffs Son from the Grave.

  Af
ter careful investigation, this reporter has single-handedly identified the person who had the most to gain from the death of bagpipe rap icon Doggy Z.

  Single-handedly? Try piggybacking on others.

  "What's that?" Mrs. R said, leaning over to look at my phone. She swerved just in time to miss hitting a stalled car.

  "You just keep your eyes on the road."

  Mrs. Rosenblatt made a face. "You're all panicky like my second husband. That's what killed him, you know."

  "I thought he had a heart attack on your wedding night."

  "No, it wasn't on my wedding night. It was after. As I drove us home from Vegas."

  Well, that made me feel better. "Anyway, this is an article in the L.A. Informer about Dog's death."

  "What's it say?" Mrs. R asked, thankfully taking my suggestion and keeping her gaze at least 50% on the cars in front of her as she merged right to take the exit.

  I read out loud. "At this morning's reading of Dog's will, the contents of his estate were split among his four former wives. For those keeping track, that's a cool four million apiece."

  "Whoa. What I could do with that kind of money!" Mrs. R said. "First, I'd buy myself one of those little red Corvettes. You know, like in Prince's song? Then I'd get my own psychic hotline going. It would be way better than Miss Cleo's, and I wouldn't charge nearly as much as she does per minute."

  "You'd be great," I said absently as I read on. "But the surprise in the will was the fifth beneficiary named to receive their four million dollar share. The Informer has obtained exclusive information about the 'G-Money' trust listed in the will. It was created for one sole beneficiary…none other than the former lover and backup dancer for Doggy Z, Angela Gold."

  Mrs. R gasped. "No! Of all the undeserving people in this world."

  My thoughts exactly. I blinked back surprise as I stared at the article. Just like she'd failed to mention that she'd had a past relationship with Dog, Angela Gold had conveniently forgotten to mention that she inherited with the rapper's death. Inherited quite a lot.

  Enough to kill over even.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  My mind was spinning with new possibilities as Mrs. Rosenblatt arrived at the studio lot and we made our way backstage. Faux Dad was sitting in the greenroom with Mom, who was reading questions off index cards that I knew she'd spent all week creating. Faux Dad was in full makeup, a shade darker than his usual tan, and looked even more Mediterranean than usual. I thought I even detected a little eyeliner creating a slight narrowing of his eyes. He looked dapper in a simple dark suit, paired with a plum colored shirt beneath. As if to reiterate his faux European heritage, he wore a large pin on his lapel with the flag of Spain on it, encrusted in rubies.

  He sent me a quick smile, but I could see his mind was elsewhere as he sipped from a bottle of Evian and Mom shot questions at him.

  "Here's an easy one to warm you up," Mom said. She was in a Laura Ashley inspired floral dress paired with loafers and white frilly socks. Luckily she would not be appearing on camera. "He was known as the King of Rock and Roll."

  "Who is Michael Jackson," Faux Dad said without hesitation.

  Mom looked stricken. "No, honey. He's the King of Pop."

  "I thought that was King of the tabloids," Mrs. Rosenblatt joked.

  "It's Elvis," Mom said, shaking her head.

  "Right. Of course." Faux Dad ran a hand through his dyed black hair in obvious frustration. "I-I just can't concentrate. What if someone from the De Moines Register is in the audience?"

  Mom shook her head. "No one will be in the audience except your loving family and friends." She sent him a calm smile.

  Which did little to iron out the frown on his forehead, but at least he stopped running his hands through his hair. Mom automatically leaned over and smoothed it back into place.

  "You're going to do fine. Isn't he, Maddie?" she asked.

  Before I could do more than nod my agreement, I spotted Rupert Blick walk by the greenroom, flanked by two men in dark suits on either side of him. They appeared to be headed for the set. "Who are they?"

  Faux Dad took another sip from his water. "The producers of Jeopardy! They've all been flitting around here like their pants were on fire." He paused. "More press around this tournament than usual, I guess."

  I bit my lip, hoping that was all it was, Angela's threats about accusing Faux Dad of cheating ringing in my ears. "They, uh, haven't been back to talk to you, have they?" I asked.

  Luckily Faux Dad shook his head. "No. Why should they?"

  "No reason." I pulled out my biggest smile. "You're going to do great, Ralph."

  Faux Dad looked as if I'd slapped him. "Don't call me that here!"

  Oops. "Sorry," I mumbled, looking around to see if anyone had heard my gaffe.

  Faux Dad gripped the sides of his chair and then said, "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to snap at you. I-I'm just a little on edge."

  I patted his shoulder. "I know. It's okay. You've got this."

  We all watched in silence as Pippi Mississippi walked by the door, followed by an entourage half a dozen people long. Pippi had been a tabloid favorite since the age of eight when she'd been photographed smoking her first cigarette on the set of her aptly named TV show, Pippi Mississippi. In the years since, she'd been involved in several scandals, including a stint in rehab, a whirlwind marriage that had lasted all of seven days, and most recently an appearance on the VMAs, where she'd performed in a nude suit, ostensibly to protest the objectification of women's bodies. Though the stunt had landed her several offers of work, including a centerfold spread in Playboy.

  "She looks in the zone," Faux Dad mused, biting his lower lip.

  "Have you seen the other contestant yet?" I asked as Pippi disappeared into a dressing room down the hall. "Angela Gold?"

  "She's in makeup," Faux Dad answered. "Been there for the last hour."

  I wondered if she'd seen Tina's article yet.

  My mother dropped the index cards onto her lap and then shuffled them like a dealer in Vegas while Mrs. Rosenblatt watched with interest. "I should have brought my tarot cards," she said. "We could have found out how much you'll win by."

  Faux Dad covered his ears. "Don't say that. You'll jinx me!"

  I felt a text buzz in and glanced down at my screen. "Marco says good luck."

  "Don't say that either! It's bad luck to wish someone good luck before a performance."

  "That's only if you're performing Macbeth. I don't think that counts for game shows," Mom reasoned.

  A crew member stuck his head in. "Contestants, we're on in twenty. Any family members and friends should find their seats in the audience."

  "We're rooting for you," I said to Faux Dad as I kissed his cheek.

  "Break a leg," Mrs. Rosenblatt told him.

  He grimaced. "Heavens, I hope not."

  "I need to use the ladies' room," I told my mother. "I'll meet you and Mrs. Rosenblatt in the audience."

  She gave me a worried look. "Don't be long. They might not let you in if the taping's already started."

  "I'll hurry," I promised, watching them join Pippi's entourage as they all made their way to the audience. I stole a quick glance out at the seats and spotted Laura sitting in the second row, talking to John and Chloe. They were all still wearing the same clothes they had been at the memorial, and I couldn't help but scrutinize Laura for any signs of guilt. If she'd made any plans for the four million she was now worth, they weren't apparent yet. She just looked tired—as if a long day of mourning had taken its toll on her.

  Or perhaps it was guilt.

  I turned away from the audience and backtracked down the hallway. Faux Dad was still in the greenroom, joined now by Pip, the two chatting amiably. Angela was still missing. I headed toward the dressing rooms, realizing my time was limited if I wanted to get her alone.

  I passed a couple of open doors and spotted Blick and the other execs in a room, serious expressions on their faces as they talked in low tones.
Standing off to the side was Aunty Mae. She had her back to the men and was guzzling from her pink "water" bottle. Her eyes were still puffy and red, and I wondered if she too was experiencing regret that Dog was gone or regret that she'd had something to do with it.

  I quickly hurried on past and knocked on the door of the last dressing room, marked with a paper sign as belonging to Angela Gold. After a few seconds, a muffled voice called, "Come in."

  Angela was sitting in front of a vanity table, her long dark locks pulled into a French twist. A woman with short, spiked pink hair was applying bronzer to Angela's cheeks. They both looked up at me expectantly, and Angela's mouth twisted into a frown when our eyes met.

  "Hi, Angela. Could I have a quick word with you?"

  She glared at me. "What do you want?" she seethed. "Come to try to get in my head before the match, huh?"

  "Actually, I came to apologize," I lied.

  That softened her expression some. "Oh. Well, yes, you do owe me an apology."

  I gritted my teeth and smiled. "Do you have a moment?"

  She eyed me suspiciously, but as I'd hoped it would, ego trumped common sense, and she glanced up at the woman who was now styling her bangs. "Uh, I think I'm good, thanks. Could we have a minute alone?"

  Pink Hair nodded as she picked up her tray. "Sure, but that's about all the time you do have. They'll want you on stage soon." She nodded at me then left the room.

  Angela continued to eye me from her chair. She was wearing a tight white dress that hit midthigh. On any other woman, the unforgiving material would have shown off every lump and ripple, but on Angela it looked like an elegant second skin. She crossed one shapely leg over the other. "So. Go on. Apologize."

  I sucked in a deep breath. "I'm sorry." Man, that hurt. "I apologize for deceiving you and for causing a scene earlier today at the memorial."

  Angela grinned, looking positively triumphant. "Yes, you did cause quite a scene. Alex Trebek was very disappointed in you."

  I cleared my throat. "It was unkind of me to take advantage of a woman in your state," I continued.