Mayhem in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "Everything is wrecked."

  He wrapped his arms around me again. "Well, not everything."

  I cocked my head at him. "Meaning?"

  "I wanna show you something." He took my hand and led me out into the parking lot where he opened the back of his SUV. He pulled out a plain brown shoebox and handed it to me.

  "Your shoes."

  I hesitated. On top of the day I'd just had, I wasn't sure I could take another disaster. Especially if I had to wear it.

  But the way he was watching me, like a little kid waiting for Christmas, I sucked it up and opened the lid anyway.

  "Eeeeeeee!"

  I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure that girly squeal came from me. Because inside, nestled between folds of delicate white tissue paper, were the most beautiful pair of shoes I had ever laid eyes on in my life. They were white satin with a two-inch heel that did a delicate inward curve to a perfect point. Tiny white beads had been sewn along the edge in an intricate pattern, trailing down the back of the shoe like a cascading waterfall. They were my dream shoes to a tee. I slipped one on. It fit perfectly, like it had been molded exactly to my foot.

  I felt tears back up behind my eyes and I threw my arms round Ramirez's neck.

  "How did you...?"

  He grinned. "Okay, I'll admit, I cheated a little."

  "Well, duh!"

  His smile widened. "You were right. Designing shoes is not easy. My attempt looked like they belonged on an elf. A deformed one. So, I found an old sketchbook of yours and kinda stole one of your designs."

  "Thief. I thought they looked familiar."

  "Forgive me?"

  I looked down at my feet. "Are you kidding? How could I not?"

  I reached up and planted a kiss on his lips. Which he heartily returned, his hands gliding down to my hips, pulling my body tight against his until I feared someone might shout, "Get a room!"

  When we finally came up for air, Ramirez pulled back and looked me in the eyes. "I promise that as soon as we can get this whole mess cleaned up, we'll try again. We'll plan the most beautiful wedding you ever saw. Together. I promise you'll get your perfect day."

  I loved the man, no doubt about it.

  And I realized as I melted into his arms that I couldn't wait for the perfect day. Any day that we were together would be perfect in my book.

  "I have an even better idea," I said.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "How would you feel about a little trip to Vegas?"

  He grinned. All the way from his crooked smile to his wicked chocolate eyes.

  "Honey, anything that gets us to that honeymoon sooner works for me."

  * * *

  The first thing I did was call Dana and tell her to cancel the makeup and hair appointments. The wedding was off. To which she wailed out a long, "Noooooo!" before I could tell her the marriage was definitely still on, we were just eloping. Then she did a squeal so high pitched I was pretty sure she woke up every dog in L.A. County. Of course I should have known that she'd immediately call Marco, who called Faux Dad, who told Mom, who called Mrs. Rosenblatt and Larry, who then called Mama Ramirez who probably put an ad out in the Times because by the time Ramirez and I made it to the gate at LAX for our 3 a.m. flight to Vegas we were eloping with a party of twenty.

  I shrugged. At least it was a "small, intimate" elopement.

  Two hours, one flight, and seven hotel rooms later, we were all crammed into the Little Chapel of Love on Las Vegas Blvd. waiting for the Elvis-impersonating minister to make it official.

  I'd changed into my wedding dress (hey, just because I was eloping didn't mean I couldn't do it in style) and Ramirez was wearing the billowy white guayabera over his tuxedo pants. Which, actually now that I saw the whole effect, was kind of nice. Casual chic even. I had to admit, it suited him a lot better than formal tux tails would have anyway.

  As Elvis asked if we promised to "love each other tender" and "don't be cruel" to one another, my eyes swept over our little wedding party. Mom and Faux Dad sat in the first row of the chapel, holding hands, both of them getting a little misty eyed. Though I had a feeling part of that was due to the fact that Larry and Mom had shown up in the exact same chiffon mother of the bride dresses. Sadly enough, Larry had accessorized it better.

  Madonna sat next to Larry, Marco on her other side giving her the moon eyes. Behind him, Dana had her head on Ricky's shoulder, mumbling the words, "So romantic," every few seconds. Mama Ramirez, the aunts, and BillyJo sat beside her, all dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Mrs. Rosenblatt was blowing her nose loudly into hers.

  "Do you, Madison Louise Springer, take this man as your hunka hunka burning love, to hold tight and be true until you both go to that big 'ol heartbreak hotel in the sky?" Elvis asked me.

  I looked up at Ramirez. I could tell he was trying really hard not to laugh. His dark eyes crinkled just a little at the corners, his lips twisting upward. But as I stared up into his eyes, I could see something else there, too. Something that promised years of laughter. Of friendship and respect, of being challenged at every turn and growing into a better person for it. Of hot stolen moments in the dark, and long, lazy mornings in bed. Of always knowing someone's got your back no matter what kind of trouble finds you.

  And I'd never been so sure of any answer in my life.

  "I do."

  * * * * *

  About the author:

  Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, as well as the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries series. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader's Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in 2012.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at www.GemmaHalliday.com

  * * * * *

  BONUS MATERIAL: A "behind the book" interview with author, Gemma Halliday

  When I wrote my last High Heels book, Alibi in High Heels, I had planned it on being the finale to the series. I really loved writing about Maddie' and Ramirez's evolving relationship, so I definitely wanted them to have a happy ending with the series end. Plus, I love a good cliffhanger as much as the next writer (okay, maybe just a tad more), so I ended Alibi with (SPOILER ALERT!!) an unexpected proposal from Ramirez atop the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Romantic ending, no?

  Well, when I turned the book in to my agent, two days later I got an email back form her saying, "Um, you know this means you have to write another one now, right? I mean, did Maddie say yes? Did they get married? Don't leave us hanging!"

  I laughed, glad someone cared so much, then turned the book in to my editor.

  Well, a couple days later I got an email from her. "Um, you know this means you have to write another one now, right?"

  What can I say? I had my arm twisted. So, at the prodding of my first two and most trusted readers, I did sign on to do one more High Heels book. For months it was jokingly called "Wedding in High Heels" by my editor and I before we finally settled on Mayhem as a great way to describe Maddie's wedding.

  While I was writing Mayhem, I knew for sure this time that this book really was going to be Maddie's swan song. Throughout the High Heels series, I'd added in minor characters based on real people in my life. Sort of an inside joke that keep me giggling as I write. This being the last in the series (for reals this time), I went for broke, adding in several characters from my real life.

  The band that Spike belongs to, the Symmetric Zebras, is a real band that has rocked local venues in my hometown for years. They're a Beatles tribute band who, I swear, sound as close to the real thing are you're going to get. All the members of the band (minus Spike, who is completely fictional) were named and modeled after the real band members - right down to the kilt on the lead singer, Alex.

  The name of Allie's teacher is borrowed from the most me
morable teacher in my life, Mrs. Blasburg. (Also the hardest, most homework happy teacher... but, man, can I solve an equation now!)

  And, finally, the pole dancer named Eden at Maddeie' bachelorette party? She's modeled after a good friend and fellow writer, Eden Bradley. No, Eden is not really a pole dancer, but she writes hot, steamy, erotic, so I thought she'd get a good kick out of her alter ego.

  As you can tell, I had a blast writing this book, and a great time writing the series overall. It was sad to say goodbye to Maddie and her gang, but I've been enjoying letting them pop up now and then in the new Hollywood Headlines series, set at the L.A. Informer offices. In fact, if anyone has been wondering what Maddie is up to these days, I highly recommend keeping an eye out for the third Hollywood Headlines book, tentatively titled DEADLINE, coming soon. You may just be surprised... (Look, there I go with that cliffhanger again. ;) )

  ~ Gemma

  * * * * *

  BONUS MATERIAL: Chocolate to Die For recipes

  Like Maddie, I am a big fan of baked goods, and the chocolaty the better. So, inspired by Fauston's Bakery, here are a couple of my favorite Halliday family recipes to satisfy a sweet tooth.

  Grandma Halliday's Chocolate Brownies

  1/2 cup butter

  1 cup sugar

  1 teaspoon. Vanilla

  2 eggs

  2 -1oz. Squares unsweetened chocolate, melted

  2/3 cup flour

  2/3 cup chopped walnuts

  Cream butter, sugar, and vanilla. Beat in eggs. Blend in chocolate. Stir in flour and nuts. Bake in a greased 8X8X2 baking pan at 325 degrees for 25 minutes. Cool, then frost and cut.

  Brownie Frosting

  1 cup sifted confectioner's sugar

  1 tablespoon cocoa

  2 tablespoons heavy cream

  1 tablespoon butter

  Combine all ingredients in a saucepan. Cook until mixture boils around the side of the pan. Remove from heat. Beat until frosting is of spreading consistency.

  Auntie Margaret Halliday's Fudge

  1 cup confectioner's sugar

  1/2 cup cocoa

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  6 tablespoons butter

  4 tablespoons mil,

  1 tablespoon vanilla

  1 cup chopped nuts

  Melt butter in a double boiler. Add cocoa, salt, and milk. Stir in sugar gradually. Add vanilla and nuts. Put in 8X8 pan quickly! When it sets, cut and enjoy.

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the exciting first book in the

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries

  by Gemma Halliday:

  SCANDAL SHEET

  Chapter One

  TEEN SENSATION ON MORAL VACATION:

  LAST NIGHT THE INFORMER CAUGHT EVERYONE'S FAVORITE TEEN ACTRESS, JENNIFER WOOD, AT THE HOLLYWOOD MARTINI ROOM WITH A MEMBER OF A BOY BAND IN ONE HAND AND MARY JANE IN THE OTHER -

  "Shit!"

  "Tina!"

  I swiveled in my chair to face my boss, Felix Dunn, standing in the doorway to his office, hands on hips.

  "What?"

  "Swear Pig."

  I pursed my lips. "That doesn't count."

  "I just heard you say 'shit.'"

  "It was computer related. Everyone knows computer-related swearing doesn't count."

  He narrowed his eyes. Clearly my argument wasn't cutting it.

  "It's your own fault, you know," I protested, changing tactics. I'd been typing up a juicy tidbit about the It teen actress, who'd been caught with a joint in her hand at last night's after-party, when my backspace button stuck, taking out one very cleverly worded line, even if I did say so myself. "I mean, how many centuries old are these things anyway?" I went on. "Would it kill you to buy some new hardware once in a awhile?"

  He shook his head. "Swear Pig, Bender," he repeated, then disappeared back into his office.

  "Shit."

  "I heard that!"

  I stuck my tongue out at his door and dropped two quarters into the purple piggy bank on my desk. Somehow our newly appointed editor in chief was under the impression that yours truly swore too much. I have no fucking idea where he got that impression. But he'd set up the Swear Pig as a way to break my bad habit. Personally, I was fine with my bad habit. It's not like I was shooting heroin or anything.

  Which brought me back to my story.

  I swiveled around, pushing my glasses back up onto my nose and put my fingers to keyboard, recreating my perfect line.

  IT MAY BE ONE JOINT TODAY FOR OUR FAVORITE FAIR-HAIRED TEENY-BOPPER, BUT WITH THE WAY HER LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL, CAN COCAINE, METH, OR EVEN HEROIN BE FAR BEHIND? HOW MANY BLONDES DOES IT TAKE TO SPELL "REHAB?"

  I sat back in my chair, surveying my work. Okay, so it was a little mean. And the truth was Wood claimed someone had thrust the "stinky cigarette" into her hand just before the paparazzi flashbulbs went off, after which she'd promptly threw it out. But, seriously, she played the perky "Pippi Mississippi" in a tween cable show. This was tabloid gold.

  I hit "send" letting my daily gossip column zip through the L.A. Infomer's network to Felix's inbox, then gave my knuckles a satisfying crack.

  I glanced at the clock. Quitting time. And somewhere there was a big beefy burrito dinner with my name on it. I grabbed my Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox that doubled as my purse and made for the exit.

  Unfortunately, not before Eagle Eyes Dunn could catch me.

  "Bender?"

  I thought a dirty word and turned around to find him leaning against his office doorframe. "Did you want something, chief?"

  "You finish up that Wood piece yet?" he asked.

  "Just emailed it to you." I loved it when I was one step ahead of the boss.

  "What about Pines?"

  "Pines?"

  Edward Pines was the director who'd recently been arrested when police found a stack of pornography under the seat of his car during a routine traffic stop. Not that naked bodies were a novelty in Hollywood, but these particular magazines had included photos of thirteen-year-old boys in the buff. I don't care how much his last action pic grossed, that guy was total Hollywood roadkill now.

  "What about him?" I asked.

  "Being arraigned today. It's your story, right?"

  Damned straight. My headline the morning after Pine's arrest had read: PINES PINES AFTER PINT-SIZED PRE-TEENS. What can I say? I have a thing for alliteration.

  But as much as I was relishing the story, I wasn't thrilled with the timing.

  "He's being arraigned now?" My stomach growled. "It's dinner time."

  "The news waits for no one, love. Cam's meeting you at the courthouse," he said, ducking back into his office.

  So much for my burrito. "Shit."

  "Bender..."

  "I know, I know." I reached into Strawberry Shortcake, pulled out another quarter, and dropped it into the ceramic pig on my way out.

  At this rate, I'd be broke by Christmas.

  * * *

  The Beverly Hills courthouse was located on Burton, just a block south of Santa Monica. An unimpressive building, it had a sixties glass-and-concrete esthetic going on that made me think of a Doris Day movie. Totally outdated, totally utilitarian, totally at odds with the rows of Jags and Beemers in the parking lot.

  I slipped my Honda Rebel into a space near the entrance. Yep, that's right, I ride a motorcycle. A bitchin' hot pink motorcycle. With yellow flames. I'll admit, it was no Harley, but for a gal my size, 5'3" on a good day, it fit just right. And with L.A. gas prices shooting through the roof, it was the only way I could afford my rent and my regular Swear Pig deposits.

  I pulled off my helmet, locked it to the handlebars with a metal chain, and shook out my hair. Luckily when your hair is as stick straight as mine helmet head isn't much of a problem. I gave it a good fluff and felt the shag cut fall back into place. Currently it was auburn with deep purple highlights. Though, I've been through so many shades in my lifetime, I'm not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.
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  I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below 70, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.

  A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.

  "Hey, Tina," she said, raising a hand in greeting.

  "I see Felix gave you late shift too, huh?" I said, gesturing to her camera.

  She nodded. "Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too."

  Cameron Dakota was the Informer's only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer's pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I'd shoot myself.

  Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.

  "Pines in there yet?" I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.

  Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. "He's up next. Right now he's in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I'm waiting for a walk-of-shame shot." She gave me a wink.