Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11)

by Gemma Halliday

  I got up and put the small coffeemaker to work. A few minutes later the room filled with its heavenly scents and my answer buzzed in.

  Didn't want to wake you. Working on getting her arraigned this morning. Will update soon.

  At least that was something. I sent him a quick xoxo before I dragged my tired self into a shower.

  Ten minutes under the hot water, two cups of coffee, and lots of eyeliner later, I was starting to feel human again. Human…and angry. Angry that someone in this moose-laden little town had not only had the nerve to kill Frost but also to let my friend take the blame for it. Dana had been nothing but kind to everyone involved with the movie. She didn't deserve this. And there was no way I was going to let them get away with it.

  As I got dressed in black skinny jeans, my last pair of clean heels, and a long sleeved black top with silver button details, I went over all of our possibilities for just who could be letting Dana take the fall for their crime.

  The only real physical evidence we had pointed to J.R. Ravensberg. Ravensberg admitted to being in Frost's trailer that night. Despite his assertions that it had been a civil argument between Frost and him, he must have been close enough and agitated enough to cause a piece of his hauberk to come apart and lodge itself in Frost's pant leg cuff. Of course, close and agitated weren't exactly guarantees that he'd killed Frost. In fact, Ramirez had said there was no indication of a struggle at the time of Frost's death. Frost hadn't fought his killer off. He'd been stabbed in the back. Which didn't mean Ravensberg hadn't argued with Frost first then waited until Frost turned around to stab him. But I'd seen Ravensberg angry. He wasn't someone I would turn my back on.

  Frost would, however, have felt safe enough with his wife to turn his back on her. Why not? After twenty-four years of marriage, he had to be pretty comfortable with her. Comfortable enough, even, to think he could get away with propositioning young actresses time and time again. Tarrin knew Frost's reputation. Was it such a stretch to believe his wife had heard rumors as well? Rumors that might have been confirmed the moment she laid eyes on Vida Altor's daughter and did the mental math about exactly when Alia had to have been conceived. Had that been the final straw that Selma "couldn't take anymore"?

  One thing was for sure—Selma had been paying off Jaden Plume for something. A payoff she hadn't wanted anyone else to witness. Jaden had worked at a medical office in Beverly Hills, and while I had no idea if it was the same one as Dr. Rabino-something whose letterhead we'd found in Selma's room, it was enough of a coincidence to make me wonder just where the missing Evil Prince had been for the last 24 hours.

  I drained the last of my coffee from the hotel's paper cup and texted Marco.

  You up?

  A moment later his answer came in.

  Heading to the film set. Mrs. R wants to question some Sworfs.

  I paused, said a silent prayer for those poor actors, and responded back.

  Meet you there in ten.

  * * *

  Fewer press were on the set today, though in their place, someone had installed more security. Several guys in black jackets and earpieces roamed the grounds as I made my way through the Elves drinking coffee, the Bobbits on their phones, and a couple of the Queen's minions painting their nails outside the drawbridge. Uni-goat bleated from somewhere nearby, and the snowy white lambs were bouncing playfully through the lighting equipment.

  Elora Paddington took a wide stance behind the camera today, her face pinched and angry as she yelled into her phone. Tarrin flitted nervously between one crew member and another, preparing for the next shot. A brooding Alia Altor stood by herself near the wardrobe trailer, looking every bit the sullen queen. I noticed Selma Frost was on the set today as well, sitting in a canvas chair near the production trailer, idly flipping through the script as if it was a fashion magazine, ignoring everyone.

  The crew worked in virtual silence. Gone was the relaxed, easy camaraderie and left in its place a wary unease. Their director had been murdered. Their star arrested. Once again, no one knew the fate of their positions, yet here they were on the set again, trying to pretend that nothing untoward had happened here.

  I spied Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt, predictably at the craft services table, nibbling scones and chatting with a couple of the peasant women and an uncomfortable looking Sworf. Mom waved as she spotted me but looked too engrossed to walk away.

  Marco stood beside them, wearing skintight black snakeskin pants, a vivid neon green tank top, and matching platform heels, standing out like a West Hollywood fashionista among the serfs. When he spotted me, he carefully picked his way toward me.

  "Hey, girl," he said, giving me a hug. Then he held me at arm's length. "Someone was visited by the puffy fairy last night."

  "Are my eyes that bad?" I asked, hands going to them. "I tried to add extra eyeliner to compensate."

  He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "We might need to do a little cool cucumber intervention at lunch."

  While my puffy eyes were small potatoes compared to my best friend in a jail cell, I had to admit, that didn't sound terrible.

  As if he could read my mind, he asked, "Heard anything about Dana yet?"

  "Ramirez is with her. He's trying to get her arraigned for bail this morning."

  Marco nodded. "Good. She'll be out soon, then."

  I hoped. As I well knew, there was always a chance bail could be denied. Especially if someone were perceived to be wealthy (like, say, a Hollywood actress) and a flight risk (like someone who lived in a different country, two thousand miles away). But I tried to shake that disconcerting thought off, focusing on the positive. Ramirez was with her. And I knew he wouldn't rest until she was home.

  "Have they terrorized anyone yet today?" I asked, nodding toward Mom and Mrs. R.

  Marco shrugged. "Depends on your definition of terrorize. Mrs. Rosenblatt cornered a couple of Bobbits when we first got here, but other than that they've been holding down the snack table."

  "Any sign of Jaden Plume?" I asked, scanning the set.

  He shook his head. "Nope. None of the other actors I've talked to have seen him either."

  I pursed my lips. "Tarrin said he was scheduled to shoot today. He was supposed to be here."

  "So was Dana," he added. "Tarrin's been in a tizzy over it since we got here."

  I glanced up. The new director stood behind one of the monitors, flipping papers on her clipboard and muttering to herself. From the bags under her eyes, it looked as if she'd gotten almost as little sleep last night as I had.

  "Let's go talk to her," I said.

  I caught Tarrin's eye and waved. "Have you got a minute?" I asked her.

  "No." She gave me rueful smile. "I've had to rearrange all our schedules, and my animal trainer is late with our horses. It's only eight, and we're already two hours behind." She paused. "But how's Dana?"

  "Fine," I lied. "I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding and she'll be out soon."

  Tarrin frowned. "I hope so."

  I couldn't tell if she was feeling for a woman she'd worked closely with or worried about her movie finishing on time.

  "We're hoping she'll be arraigned this morning," Marco added.

  "Good," Tarrin answered.

  "I was wondering," I asked her. "Yesterday you said Jaden was scheduled to shoot today. Is he here?"

  Her frown deepened. "No. He hasn't shown up yet."

  "Any idea where he could be?"

  She shook her head. "If I had to guess, sleeping it off somewhere." She sighed deeply. "I just pray he's not on a bender somewhere…"

  She trailed off, and before I could press her for more, a familiar voice boomed behind me.

  "I demand an audience with the director forthwith!"

  Marco gave a start beside me. "Who in the world is that?"

  I stiffened as I saw the scruffy chin, unkempt hair, and scrawny, ill-dressed visual to go with the voice.

  J.R. Ravensberg.

  "Present the director to me imm
ediately!" he yelled, using some sort of affected upper-crust accent of indeterminate origin. In lieu of the chain mail, which I imagined was still sitting in the Moose Haven PD's evidence locker, today he'd donned a pair of cut-off shorts that flapped against his bare, knobby knees. On top of that, he'd added a vest covered in gray fur and a pair of boots to match. He looked like he'd skinned a yeti on his way to set. "I demand audience with the person in charge of this production!"

  Tarrin's face went red, her eyes closed, and I heard her mutter a few choice words. None of which I could repeat around my toddlers.

  "Whosoever directeth this film must immediately avow themselves to me—"

  "I'm the director," Tarrin finally admitted, having run out of swear words.

  Ravensberg paused, giving her an up and down. "This woman is the director?"

  I was wrong. Tarrin found a couple more choice words after all. "Ravensberg, I don't have time—"

  "Listen, young lady," he said, cutting her off. "I demand to be heard. I cannot abide this affront to literature."

  Tarrin pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "Weren't you banned from this set?"

  "Lies! Blasphemy! Insolence!"

  "Security!" Tarrin called.

  Ravensberg glanced my way, seemingly noticing me for the first time. "You again."

  "Do you know each other?" Tarrin asked.

  "No," I said.

  "Yes," he insisted.

  "He has me mistaken for someone else," I told her.

  Luckily considering I was dressed as a person and he was dressed as a Yeti, she believed me.

  "Look, Mr. Ravensberg," she said. "With all due respect, you cannot be here—"

  "What's going on?" Elora Paddington descended on our little commotion, a scowl on her face. "Why aren't we rolling?"

  "For starters, our star is in jail, the Prince is on a bender, and the horses haven't arrived yet for the cave scene," Tarrin said wearily.

  "There are no horses. I canceled them," Elora said in an offhand manner.

  "Wait—you canceled…" Tarrin looked utterly defeated. "How are we going to get the Sworfs to the Bobbit caves now?"

  Elora shook her head. "That scene was unnecessary. And required a tracking shot and a camera dolly that we can't afford."

  "Unnecessary?!" Ravensberg yelled. "It's the pivotal plot point where the hero's character arc comes to fruition!"

  We all stared at him.

  "That's it. This perversion of literature cannot continue, or it will be a plague upon our modern sensibility for all eternity!"

  Elora gave Ravensberg a once-over. "What are you? I thought we cut the scene with the trolls?"

  "I'm not a troll! I'm the writer!"

  "No, I specifically said no scriptwriters." Elora shook her head, turning her icy glare on Tarrin.

  "I didn't hire a writer," Tarrin protested. "He wrote the book."

  "What book?"

  "The Throne Awaits," Ravensberg started listing. "Stealing the Throne, The Prince of Thrones, The Final Throne, The—"

  "Whatever," Elora said, waving him off. "Either get him into a proper peasant costume or get him off the set." She stalked away, putting her phone to her ear.

  Tarrin stared after her for a beat before shaking her head. "Alright, people," she said, clapping her hands halfheartedly to the set at large. "Let's…film some pickups or something. Alia, let's get you touched up for close-ups." She walked off, leaving Marco, Ravensberg, and me standing there.

  Correction—leaving Marco and me, I realized, as I noticed Ravensberg had slunk away while Tarrin's attention had been on her boss. I watched him skirt security and melt into the crowd of actors vaping near the production trailer, blending in with a pair of Bobbits. In fact, he blended so well, I almost wondered if that was the effect he'd been going for all along.

  At Tarrin's direction, the crew moved their equipment closer to the castle—cameras, cranes, and lighting all slowly being reset. Alia stalked toward the hair and makeup trailer for her touch-ups, not looking any happier about the whole thing than the director did.

  I noticed Selma Frost hadn't moved, still hanging back from the activity, script on her lap.

  "I'll be right back," I told Marco. "Keep an eye on Mom and Mrs. R, would you?"

  Marco nodded. "I was going to try to snag a scone before they're all gone anyway," he said, making his way toward the snacks.

  As I approached Selma, I realized that although the script remained in her lap, she'd stopped flipping the pages. She just stared down at it, seemingly lost in thought.

  "Selma?"

  She looked up with a start. "Yes?"

  "Maddie Springer," I supplied in response to the question in her eyes.

  "Oh. Right." I saw recognition dawn on her face, followed by something else that looked a lot like anger. "You're friends with that actress they just arrested."

  "Dana didn't kill your husband," I said with conviction. "The police have the wrong person."

  She gave me a blank look, and I couldn't tell if she just didn't believe me or knew for a fact that I was right…because she'd killed her husband herself.

  "Dana will be released soon." I tried to strike a confident tone, although that was getting harder to do as time passed. "She's innocent."

  Her face was stoic. "Did you need something?"

  I cleared my throat, trying not to be offended by the obvious animosity coming off of her. "Actually, I was wondering if you had seen Jaden Plume recently?"

  "Who?"

  "The Evil Prince. Jaden Plume."

  "Oh." She focused on something over my shoulder. "No. I don't think I have."

  "Neither has anyone else," I said. "Any idea where he could be?"

  She let out a humorless laugh. "I can't imagine why you think I would have an idea. I hardly know him. Casting was my husband's bailiwick. I had nothing to do with that."

  Was it my imagination, or was she going out of her way to distance herself from Jaden? Next I expected her to claim she didn't know even how to spell Jaden Plume.

  "You have had some interactions with him since you've been in Moose Haven, though, right?"

  "It's a small town. We're all in close quarters here."

  All true. All very noncommittal.

  "Did you know him before arriving on location?" I pressed.

  "What?" she asked, pretending to be distracted.

  "Before you saw him in the Lord of the Throne set. Did you know him? Maybe run into him back in LA somewhere?"

  She blinked at me. "I meet a lot of people. My husband is well known." She paused, wincing slightly. "Was well known."

  I couldn't tell if the pain was real or put on to try to gain sympathy that would derail me. In either case, I was getting tired of her ducking my questions.

  "Selma, I saw you with Jaden the other day. In the woods," I said, laying out all my cards.

  She scoffed, shaking her head, as if unconsciously denying it. "That's ridiculous. What on earth would I be doing in the woods?"

  "That's what I'd like to know."

  She narrowed her eyes at me. "I'm not sure what you're implying, but—"

  "Selma, I saw you. You handed Jaden a wad of cash, and he gave you an envelope."

  Her face went pale. Her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed hard. "You're mistaken."

  I couldn't help the get real look that escaped me. "There's no use denying it. I was there. I watched you pay him off."

  "That is a flat-out lie." The words were clipped and icy.

  "Selma—"

  "And if you repeat such a vicious rumor to anyone," she added, "I will sue you for defamation. Do you understand me?" She threw down the script, jumped up, and stormed off into the production trailer. No doubt to talk to someone about having the best friend of that arrested actress removed from set.

  I let out a long breath, feeling like I was getting nowhere fast. And my last chance to help Dana was slipping away rapidly.

  While I'd been with Selma, t
he camera crew had finished prepping their equipment near the castle, looking like they were shooting some establishing shots of the faux brick structure. Tarrin was nowhere to be seen—possibly off somewhere trying to rearrange their script once again in the wake of Elora's budget saving tactics. I spotted Alia exiting the hair and makeup trailer alone. I spied Elora and her ever present phone near the edge of the clearing, possibly trying to find a hot spot with clear reception. Mom, Mrs. R, and Marco were chatting with two Sworfs on folding chairs near a cart of hay, cups of coffee in hand.

  I was about to join them, when something at the edge of the woods near the drawbridge caught my eye. A metallic glint among the trees.

  I froze. Then took a step closer, and saw it again—this time accompanied by a shadowed figure. Tall, dark-haired. My breath caught in my throat.

  It looked a lot like Jaden Plume.

  Heart racing, I watched him disappear again into the thick foliage. I glanced over my shoulder at the set, where it seemed to be business as usual. No one else had seen him.

  I made a quick decision and followed. I didn't love the idea of going alone, but with dozens of people within earshot, I figured it worth it not to lose the missing Prince again.

  I quickly jogged toward the edge of the clearing, stepping into the woods where the tangle of underbrush slowed me some. I stepped over fallen branches and crunching leaves, moving as fast as I could before he got too big of a head start. There was a noticeable drop in temperature under the thick canopy of trees, and I shivered.

  Whatever I'd seen glinting in the sunlight had vanished, the moving figure along with it. I made my way to the area where I thought he'd been, but there was no sign of him. I couldn't even detect footprints on the forest floor. Pausing, I scanned the woods ahead of me.

  No glinting metal. No shadowed figure. No missing Prince.

  I felt desperation at failure settling in my belly. I'd lost him.

  And I was far enough from the set now that I didn't think it was wise to push ahead with no clear target in sight. I could easily see getting lost in these woods, my sense of direction already fading as one tree looked just like another.

  Blowing out a disappointed sigh, I turned to go.

  Only that was as far as I got.