Deadly in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "Well, just remember, while you're in limbo—"

  "I know, I know. I won't get involved. Geez, I'm stubborn, not deaf."

  I could feel Ramirez's grin through the phone. "All right, kid, just stay out of trouble, okay? Go relax. Get a pedicure or something, huh?"

  I was just about to protest that a pedicure seemed a little frivolous in light of the murder investigation going on around us, when I spied a familiar face crossing the lobby. It was Ruth Marie Masters, judge number two, and the former Miss Hawaiian Paradise 1962. Not that it was odd she should be crossing the lobby, but what piqued my interest was the fact she was going into the Hula Hibiscus Day Spa, just off the lobby.

  "You know, a pedicure doesn't seem like a terrible idea," I slowly agreed.

  There was more relieved sighing on the other end, and I almost felt the teeny tiniest bit guilty.

  Almost.

  "Kiss the babies for me, and I'll give you a call later tonight, okay?" I said, detouring toward the spa.

  "Will do. Miss you, babe. Be careful."

  "Always," I promised before hanging up.

  Then I made a beeline for the Hula Hibiscus.

  *

  A woman with long black hair and almond eyes greeted me at the front desk and informed me that, luckily, they did have an opening for a pedicure right then. She led me to a large, luxurious chair seated right next to Ruth Marie Masters, who was just sticking a pair of pale, boney bare feet into a bubble bath of hot soapy water.

  After choosing a nail polish from their rotating display, I took my pumps off and slipped my own toes into what, if my nostrils did not deceive me, was a piña colada scented bath.

  "You're with the pageant too, aren'tcha?" Ruth Marie asked, cocking her head my way.

  I nodded. "Maddie Springer," I offered. "I'm doing the footwear for the contestants."

  Ruth Marie nodded in recognition. "Right, right, right. Laforge said he got some big-name designer from L.A. this year to do the shoes."

  I couldn't help a little surge of pride at anyone applying the term "big-name" to me.

  "Laforge said he picked out some real fancy-schmancy stuff." Ruth Marie paused, glancing down at my simple pumps.

  "I didn't design those," I quickly told her. While they were nice, even I had to admit they were totally off the rack and not exactly "big-name fancy-schmancy."

  "Sure," Ruth Marie continued. "Anyway, who knows if we'll even have a pageant this year now."

  That was just the sort of opening I was looking for to not get involved.

  "Tragic business," I said, echoing Dana's sentiments from earlier.

  Ruth Marie shook her head. "Young girls these days get themselves into all kinds of trouble. Knocked up, naked pictures on Twitter, getting themselves murdered."

  I bit my lip. I wasn't entirely sure that it was Miss Montana's fault she'd been killed.

  But Ruth Marie continued on, undeterred, as a slim woman in a floral printed dress sat down and started working on her bunions.

  "Back when I was on the circuit, mind you, none of that sort of thing was tolerated. We didn't have any young men coming up to see us at all hours of the night."

  "There have been men coming up to see the contestants?" I asked, jumping on the phrase.

  "Well, now, I can't say I actually seen any men with my own eyes," she conceded. "But I heard them girls talking. Boys this, boys that. Think they were a bunch of cats in heat the way they get on."

  I covered an unladylike snort with my hand. While warm and fuzzy was the last way anyone would describe Ruth Marie, I had to say there was something refreshing about her bluntness.

  "I don't suppose you heard anything in particular from Miss Montana?"

  Ruth Marie shrugged her bony shoulders again. "They're all the same. All these girls, year in, year out, all they think about is boys."

  "How many years have you been judging the pageant?"

  "Seven," she told me without skipping a beat. "Before me they had Thelma Bishop on the judging panel. She was Miss Hawaiian Paradise 1959, you know?"

  I didn't, but I nodded for her to continue anyway.

  "Well, Thelma had a stroke a while back. After that she couldn't keep one side of her face from drooping down like eighty-year-old bazongas without a brassiere. Didn't play well on television, I'll tell you that much."

  "I can imagine," I replied, trying to erase that unpleasant picture from my mind. "What about the other judges?"

  "Well, Dana Dashel's brand-new this year, but you knew that."

  I nodded. "And the third judge?"

  "Jay Jeffries. He's been with the pageant, oh, what, three or four years now? He started the year that his daytime soap started filming out here on the island. You've heard of it, right? Island of Dreams." She rolled her eyes. "Schmaltzy stuff, I tell ya."

  I had to admit that with young twins and a budding career as a fashion designer, I had little time for daytime television. I'd heard of Island of Dreams, but I'd never actually seen it myself.

  "What about Miss Montana?" I asked as a woman in a matching floral dress sat down in front of me and motioned for me to remove my right foot from the tub for her inspection. "Have you seen her before, or was she new to this pageant?"

  "Oh, we get a new crop of girls every year," Ruth Marie told me. "But I never get personally involved with any of them. I just sit back, watch them strut across the stage, and write down my scores."

  "I take it Miss Montana's scores were likely to be good?" I pushed

  Ruth Marie snorted, the sound something between a smokers' hack and a hungry piglet. "Was there any doubt? Look, I know we're supposed to reserve judgment until the end, yada, yada, yada. But, honey, I've been doing this long enough to know who the winners are and aren't in the first five minutes. I grew up in pageants, been doing them since I was this big," she said, hovering her hand down near the top of her pedi tub. "I can spot a winner a mile away. It's in the grace, in the poise, the way they carry themselves. Mark my words, if she hadn't gone to the great crowning ceremony in the sky, Miss Montana would've wiped the floor with these other clowns."

  That had basically been my assessment, even though the entirety of my beauty pageant experience came from watching TLC.

  "It's a shame she didn't make it to the crowning," I commented, almost more to myself than my companion.

  Ruth Marie did the snort-slash-hack again. "Maybe a shame for her, but it's damned good luck for someone else, right?"

  I leaned in close. "You think one of the other contestants killed Miss Montana just to get ahead in the competition?"

  "Oh, honey, you're new to pageants aren't you?" Her drawn-in eyebrows puckered in sympathy.

  "Yes," I said honestly.

  "A girl would eat her own young to win a crown like Miss Hawaiian Paradise. You don't even want to know what I had to do to become Miss 1962."

  The way those drawn-in eyebrows waggled up and down, she was right. I really didn't.

  "Forgive me, but I don't get it. It's just a crown."

  "Just a crown! Ha!" Ruth Marie cackled so loudly that she made the woman diligently working on her calloused feet jump. "You're cute, doll."

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Ruth Marie ran right over me, leaning in close enough that I could smell the Mahi tuna brunch on her breath.

  "Look, all the hoopla may be about a shiny crown, but the reality is whoever gets crowned Miss Hawaiian Paradise is gonna be sittin' pretty. For starters, she's the spokeswoman for the Hawaiian Paradise sunscreen line. And let me tell you, honey, even back in my day that job came with a pile of cash. Then there's the paid speaking engagements, the charity endorsements, the parade and award show appearances." She ticked off items on her fingers, so close to my face that I could tell she was sorely in need of a mani to go with her pedi. "Heck, look at me!" She threw her arms wide. "Fifty years later, I'm still milking it for cash." She finished with a wink before sitting back in her seat.

  I had to admit maybe it wasn't such a f
arfetched idea that one of the other contestants could have gone so far as to kill off the competition. Maybe Dirk had been mistaken, and the figure he'd seen on the beach with Jennifer wasn't a man she'd been meeting for some clandestine interlude, but one of the other contestants who'd lured Jennifer to her death? Which begged the question…who was the competition's front-runner now?

  *

  I left the spa with Papaya Pleasure toes (which were a color somewhere between pink and orange that was just bright enough to feel tropical) and made my way toward the elevators, fully intending to see if Dana was in her room and to strong-arm her into telling me just who might be taking Jennifer's place as top contender.

  Only as I exited the spa and crossed the lobby, a commotion at the checkin desk caught my attention.

  A tall man with dark blond hair and a pair of nylon suitcases at his feet was waving his hands at the chubby guy behind the desk.

  "I don't care how full you are—this is an emergency, and I want a room!" he shouted loudly enough that his voice carried across the lobby, causing multiple heads to turn his direction.

  The clerk behind the desk glanced nervously from side to side, as if looking for backup. "I'm sorry, sir," I heard him say. "We are fully booked. We're hosting an insurance conference and the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant this week—"

  "I know all about the damned pageant," the man shouted. "That's why I'm here."

  I saw the shoulders of the guy behind the counter visibly relax. "Oh, well, in that case, we have a block of rooms reserved specifically for those associated with the pageant. If you could just give me your name and your affiliation—"

  "I am not affiliated with that sham of a competition," the man cut him off again.

  "Oh, sorry I thought you said you were—"

  "I'm here to sue the pants off the Hawaiian Paradise Corporation, this hotel, and anyone else responsible for my girlfriend's death."

  I paused. Could this be the boyfriend Jennifer had been so smitten with? I couldn't help myself. Instead of going toward the elevators I quietly rounded the registration desk, trying my best to get a good look at the man.

  The man behind the desk visibly paled at the boyfriend's words, his round cheeks going a shade pinker as he stuttered, trying to come up with an appropriately sympathetic response.

  "Um, I'm sure that, er, in light of the current situation, we can find something to accommodate you. Name?" The poor man furiously typed on his keyboard, presumably looking for an open room.

  "Xander Newport. And make it fast, would you? It's been a long flight, and I'm tired," the guy said, narrowing his eyes at the clerk.

  Eyes that had me sucking in a breath.

  While this may very well have been Jennifer's boyfriend, he definitely was not the guy who had given Jennifer her so coveted, emerald promise ring that matched her beloved's eyes.

  For one thing, this boyfriend's eyes were brown.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unfortunately, Dana was not in her room once I got upstairs. I texted her, and she replied that she was going over her preliminary score sheets. In seclusion. I had a feeling my friend was taking her judging duties much more seriously than anyone else involved with this pageant.

  She promised, however, to meet up with me for dinner at the luau. I tried texting Marco, who responded that he was catching some rays by the pool, which had been cleared for public use by the crime scene techs. He invited me to join him, but I responded that the pool was the last place he would find me on this vacation. I shuddered just thinking about it.

  Instead, I dodged the myriad of long legged, giggling girls going back and forth between each other's rooms in the east wing, swapping different colors of nail polish, lipstick, and varying scented lotions, and made for my own room. I booted up my laptop, taking the downtime as an opportunity to go back over the photos of the contestants' outfits that the pageant director had emailed me when I'd originally been booked to do the show. While I had painstakingly picked out just the right pair of heels to go with each contestant's outfit, in each portion of the program, I had shipped several alternate pairs, just in case. You never knew when a contestant might not be used to walking in five-inch stilettos and might need a simple pair of kitten heels instead. Assuming the pageant continued, this was a huge opportunity for my brand. Having my designs on sale in exclusive boutiques throughout the trendy L.A. and Orange County shopping districts was coveted real estate that held a certain amount of prestige. However, I knew that the real money would only start flowing once my designs were picked up by a national chain.

  I spent the next few hours double checking each pair of shoes I had chosen to go with each contestant's eveningwear, swimsuits, and talent outfit. By the time I was satisfied, I could already hear the strains of the luau music from down the beach filtering in through my windows. I closed my laptop and took a quick shower, trying to reenergize enough to get my schedule turned around to Hawaiian time.

  I did a quick blow dry and mousse thing with my hair, not totally hating the extra volume that the humidity gave me. Then I slipped into an off-the-shoulder, white dress with a fit-and-flare skirt and a pair of silver slingbacks with purple accents that offset my peachy pedicure.

  By the time I caught up with Dana and Marco, they were already seated at a table near the edge of the outdoor dining area, sipping happy hour cocktails.

  As I ordered one myself from Surfer Dirk, I quickly filled them in on my afternoon, chatting with Ruth Marie and running into the boyfriend at the registration desk.

  "Wait—" Marco said, holding up a hand. "So you're saying that Miss Montana's boyfriend isn't really her boyfriend?" His eyes blinked at me beneath his heavy eyeliner. A smoky gray this evening, to complement his all-black ensemble. Skintight black leather pants, a black tank top in a formfitting silk, and black high-heeled boots that added at least four inches to his slight frame. He looked like Dominatrix Barbie, minus the flowing locks.

  "What I'm saying is that he may have thought he was her boyfriend, but Jennifer was seeing someone on the side."

  "Someone serious if he gave her a promise ring," Dana added, twirling her own ring again.

  I nodded. If what the other queens had told us was true, and Miss Montana really was going on and on about her emerald ring matching the eyes of the man who had given it to her, that man definitely was not her hometown boyfriend.

  "Maybe he's wearing contacts?" Marco offered, taking a sip of his piña colada through a bright pink colored straw.

  I shrugged. "It's possible I suppose, but how many people do you know who cover up bright emerald eyes with brown contacts?"

  "Good point," Marco conceded.

  "So who do we think Miss Montana was seeing?" Dana asked.

  I shrugged. "I suppose it could be anybody," I said as my eyes wandered around the tables.

  "My money is on someone connected with the pageant," Marco decided. "You know how much time these girls put into getting ready for these things? I would be highly surprised if she had time for anything else."

  Dana nodded beside me. "I hate to say it, but it makes sense. I'm surprised she had time for one boyfriend, let alone two." She paused. "Ohmigod, you don't think that her secret lover is the one who killed her, do you?"

  "Maybe," I mused. "What if the secret lover was worried that Montana was talking about him just a little too much to the other beauty queens? What if he was worried he wouldn't be so secret anymore?"

  "Or," Marco piped up stabbing a slice of pineapple in the air for emphasis, "what if the boyfriend found out about the secret lover, and he killed Miss Montana in a jealous rage."

  "But he only just arrived on the island," I pointed out.

  Marco pursed his lips together. "Do we know that for sure?"

  "Well, no," I admitted. "But I still think our undercover-lover is still more likely."

  The three of us looked over the assembled crowd. While the dining area was dominated by the insurance conventioneers, all dressed in slacks and matc
hing polo shirts with their faithful duck mascot embroidered on the back, I recognized a fair number of people associated with the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant as well. A few coaches seemed to be occupying a large table near the stage, where a group of women in short skirts wearing flower leis were moving their hips like rhythmic ocean waves. Some of the behind-the-scenes production crew were occupying the bar. A group of beauty queens danced near the stage to the Hawaiian music, their movements a cross between something you'd see in a Vegas club and an attempt at a hula of sorts. They were giggling and laughing despite the events that had gone on earlier that day, clearly enjoying their last couple of hours before curfew. I spied Ruth Marie bending Laforge's ear about something at a table in the center of the room by a large potted palm tree and the pageant's third judge, Jay Jeffries, sipping a martini loaded with onions and olives by himself at a table that seemed to have the perfect view of the beauty queens dancing near the stage.

  "One signature Babbling Mermaid," Dirk said, setting a glass on the table in front me full of something fruity topped with a pineapple slice.

  "Thanks," I told him taking a grateful sip. Mmm. Tasty.

  "Hey, Dirk," Marco said. "Did Miss Montana attend any of the luaus?"

  Dirk nodded. "Sure. A lot of the girls started arriving last week, wanting to be certain they'd shaken all the jet lag off and do a little sightseeing before the competition started. I recognized her as one of the first ones to arrive. She and her friends have been in here every night." He nodded to the girls dancing next to the stage. "Of course, I make sure to shoo them out before curfew." He gave me a wink.

  "You wouldn't happen to have noticed if she had any particular friends?" Marco asked coyly.

  Dirk scrunched up his forehead. "Particular?"

  "Male," I interpreted. "We're wondering if you noticed any men paying extra attention to her."