High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  “And, one more time. Let’s really sprint now. Double time!” If she wasn’t my best friend, I might have killed her. Dana flashed her perkiest smile, bobbing up and down like an energizer bunny on wheat grass-laced speed as she quickstepped up and down her orange stairs.

  I tried to keep up, willing my feet to move as fast as they could. Up, down, left, right. I was almost in a rhythm when I slipped (probably on a drop of my own perspiration) and tipped to the right, knocking into Richard Simmons. Who was midstep and was thrown so off balance his arms flailed wildly in the air, swatting a woman in purple stretch pants in the face. Stretch Pants let out a yelp louder than a Lakers fan watching a free throw.

  “That’s it! Let it out. Wooo!” Dana encouraged.

  I rolled my eyes, mumbling apologies to Richard Simmons as I scooted my stairs to the back of the room and ducked out the door. One midstep collision a day was enough for me.

  * * *

  After ten minutes in the sauna and a long, hot shower, I was beginning to feel human again. I was just stepping out of the shower, towel drying my hair in the ladies’ locker room, when my cell chirped to life, displaying Ramirez’s number. I flipped it open.

  “Hey, you,” I said.

  “Hey. Listen, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do today.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. “Stuff?”

  “Yeah. I had to hit the shooting range this morning, and a buddy of mine called and asked if I’d help him paint his rec room.”

  “Paint a rec room?”

  “Yeah.” I heard traffic sounds in the background, cars honking and the tell-tale rumble of eighteen-wheelers.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked, frowning into the phone.

  “I’m on the 60. Running that guestbook for the reception out to my mom’s.”

  I looked up at the utilitarian clock hanging on the tiled wall. 12:15. Uh oh.

  “You better not be trying to bail on me, mister.”

  There was a short pause. Then, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Hmmm.” I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.

  “But, I am running a few minutes late,” he said. “Why don’t we just meet at the studio?”

  “You are going to show up, right?”

  “Of course!”

  Only the way his voice rose half an octave didn’t reassure me any. “Jack…”

  “I’ll be there. I promise. I’m looking forward to it. I want to be involved in our wedding and I can’t wait to sample the cake.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’m showing up anyway. See you at one.”

  And with that, he disconnected.

  I stared down at the phone, still feeling my forehead do a Botox-worthy wrinkle between my brows.

  As much as I got Ramirez’s whole guy-aversion to white lace and buttercream, it left me with a distinctly unsettled feeling somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I know, I know, it’s normal, right? I mean, he’s a guy, and a cop guy at that. Weddings are about as girly as things come. But the fact that I had to nearly twist his arm into a pretzel to get him to even taste cake (seriously, it’s cake, how bad did he think it would be?) made a small part of me worry that maybe the aversion wasn’t solely wedding related. That maybe it carried over into being married related. I mean, he had proposed kind of suddenly. It wasn’t like we’d ever discussed marriage, we’d just sort of jumped into it. Headfirst. In the shallow end. And I wondered if maybe now that the rosy glow of Paris and stolen café au lait-flavored kisses had turned into the reality of mile-long guest lists, meeting wedding planners, and running a guestbook out to his mother’s in midday traffic, maybe he was regretting that leap.

  “Hey, got time for lunch?” Dana asked, jogging into the locker room, still fresh faced as ever.

  I’m woman enough to admit it. I hated her just a tiny bit.

  “I do now.” I shoved my phone back in my purse, trying to shove doubts about Ramirez and wedding bells to the back of my mind.

  “Great. I’ve got a reading at one for that new DreamWorks cartoon, but I’m free till then. And there’s this new vegan café down the street I’ve been dying to try. They’ve got a whole menu full of negative-calorie foods.”

  I threw on a black sweater tank and pair of dark denim jeans, visions of my mocha frappuccino fading like a mirage. “Negative-calorie foods?”

  “Ohmigod, they’re so cool. Like, they contain less calories than your body uses to digest them. You can eat them all day and actually be losing weight.”

  Hey, that didn’t sound so bad. “Are cheese doodles by any chance negative calorie?”

  Dana scrunched her ski-jump nose at me. “Get real. Anyway, what do you say? You game for vegan today? My treat?”

  I thought about begging off, but, thanks to Ramirez’s “running behind,” it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. And besides, who was I to turn down free food?

  * * *

  After making my way through a bowl full of lawn (Sure, Dana had said it was exotic sautéed greens, but it smelled like the grass in Griffith Park to me.), a cold purée of squash soup (Cold. Squash. Two words that should never be thrown together in the same recipe.), and a platter of seared kelp (I’m sorry, anything that washes up onto the beach is not considered food in my world.), I pulled up in front of L’Amore, tired, sore, and still hungry. I parked at the curb, feeding the meter a handful of quarters and scanned the street for Ramirez’s black SUV. Not surprisingly, it was absent.

  I narrowed my eyes, looking down at the readout on my cell. 1:03. He was late. I did a silent curse, swearing that if he didn’t show, I was going to disconnect the cable through all of March Madness.

  I contemplated going in alone, but facing Gigi minus backup was like going into a military zone with only a pop-gun for protection. I was liable to be assaulted with centerpieces, wedding singers, and four-foot ice sculptures of nuzzling swans before Ramirez even showed up.

  If he showed up.

  I tried to shake that disconcerting thought, instead leaning against my Jeep and letting the wisps of winter sun warm my face as I counted off the seconds, tapping one suede boot-clad foot anxiously against the pavement.

  He’d show. I had faith. I mean, he had promised. I’d never known him to break a promise to me.

  Well, except if his captain called.

  Or if he was on an important case.

  Or if some new homicide cropped up that needed his attention.

  Okay, fine. He broke promises all the time. They were like fine china in a bullring to him. Sure, I knew he meant well, but following through was a lot harder in his world. Not that I totally blamed him. Before I came along, homicide was his life. He’d been lucky to remember to eat, let alone make time for a girlfriend. He was trying. I knew that. Deep down, I was sure Ramirez loved and wanted to be with me.

  It was the surface stuff that was still a little murky.

  I looked down at my cell readout again. 1:11. He was officially very late.

  As much as I tired to tell myself he’d show, Panic starting flirting with my gut as the seconds ticked by. I let out a long sigh at the thought of braving iced rosettes, raspberry cream filling and matching bride and groom cake toppers alone. A sigh that ended in a loud hiccup.

  And another.

  I took a deep, calming breath… ending in a hiccup. Crap. I did another deep breath and held it, slowly counting to twenty before letting it out. Nothing. I did a sigh of relief.

  Ending in a hiccup.

  “Shit.”

  All right, fine. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, held my nose, and sucked in my diaphragm as hard as I could. I stood like that until I felt my cheeks turning red and my ears start to pop. Then held it ten seconds longer.

  “What are you doing?”

  I opened my eyes and let out a long whoosh of air to find Ramirez standing in front of me, a look of amusement quirking one eyebrow north.

  I bent over at the mid
dle, sucking in long breaths. “Hiccups.”

  “Ah.” Though his mouth twitched in a grin.

  “What? How do you get rid of them?”

  “Water.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I straightened up, getting my breathing back to normal, and fixed my hair in the reflection from my passenger side window.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Dandy. You’re late.”

  “Traffic.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Ramirez spun me to face him, the grin taking over his whole face this time. “You didn’t think I’d show, did you?”

  “Of course I did!” I protested. Only it came out more like, “Of c-ourse I d-id,” punctuated with two loud, yelping hiccups.

  The grin broke, letting a chuckle flow out as Ramirez shook his head at me. “Come on,” he said, steering me by the elbow toward L’Amore. “Let’s get you that glass of water.”

  I would have protested, but the hiccups were too strong.

  Instead, I followed Ramirez through the glass front doors of Gigi’s studio, hearing the little bell chime above the door as we walked in.

  “Hell-(hiccup)-o?” I called. The place was dark, the only light coming in from the two back windows as the sun struggled to maintain its precarious hold on the weather. All the overhead lights were switched off. “Gigi?” I tried again, scanning the interior of the studio for any sign of her.

  “Maybe she’s late?” Ramirez suggested.

  “Ha! Obviously you haven’t met Gigi yet. Precision is her middle name.”

  Ramirez shrugged. Then nodded toward the conference room. “Maybe she’s in there already?”

  I followed his lead, crossing to the room.

  But only got as far as the doorway.

  That’s where I froze, my boots suddenly encased in cement, refusing to move. I opened my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a sort of strangled cry in the back of my throat. I felt Ramirez’s arm go around my waist. A good thing. Because, at the moment, my legs were doing their Jell-O imitation, threatening to crumple into a heap on the floor as I took in the scene before me.

  Sitting at the sleek black conference table in the middle of the studio, surrounded by thick tulle, embossed invitations, and centerpieces made of delicate baby’s breath, was Gigi. Facedown in the buttercream frosting of a carefully sculpted wedding cake.

  A knife sticking out of her back.

  Chapter Three

  It’s a terrible thing for a girl to have to admit, but the fact was this wasn’t the first time I’d ever found a dead body.

  Not by a long shot.

  In the months since Ramirez and I had first met, I’d been, as he put it, a bit of a magnet for trouble. (Okay, he’d used stronger language than that, but I put it down to stress.) In fact, that’s how Ramirez and I had originally met, when he’d been investigating the disappearance of my last boyfriend, which had ended in a double homicide and my ex behind bars.

  And that proposal in Paris? It had come right after I’d landed myself in a wee bit of trouble with a homicidal European fashionista. And that was right after I’d been involved with a Hollywood strangler. Which was right after getting mixed up with a group of Prada smuggling drag queens and the Vegas mob. (You can see where Ramirez’s stress comes from.)

  So, I guess you could say death was something I’d become more acquainted with in the last few years than I’d ever thought possible. And, after bearing witness to victims of drowning, falling off buildings, strangulation, gunshot wounds, and, most recently, stabbing by stiletto heel, you’d think I was immune to the sight of another dead body.

  You’d think.

  Despite Ramirez’s arm around my waist, I felt myself going limp as he pulled me back outside. He gently lowered me to the sidewalk as he grabbed for his cell, shouting codes at the dispatcher and calling for backup.

  I dragged in deep breaths, scented with car exhaust and pepperoni from the pizza joint across the street. I willed my lawn lunch not to make a repeat appearance as tears of hysteria backed up behind my eyes. Instead, I tucked my knees up close to my chest, hugging them to me for warmth, despite the sunshine beating down on my bare shoulders.

  “You okay?” Ramirez asked, flipping his cell shut.

  I nodded.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded again, bobbing my blonde hair up and down. Which would have been a whole lot more convincing if a pair of tears hadn’t picked that moment to slide down my cheeks, probably taking a generous helping of mascara with them.

  “Come ‘ere.” Ramirez crouched down next to me, running the pad of his thumb along my wet face. “You look a little pale.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You gonna throw up?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Ramirez shook his head, hauling me to my feet. “Come on. Let’s walk for a minute, you’ll be all right.”

  He slipped an arm around me, propelling me forward as I continued the deep breathing thing. A few steps to the right, and then we turned around and stepped back to the left. The whole time Ramirez keeping a close eye on the door to L’Amore. After a few paces, feeling started to seep back into my limbs and my stomach stopped rolling like a Six Flags coaster. I took in a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Better?” he asked, loosening his hold on me to brush an errant strand of hair from my forehead. “You gonna be okay?”

  I put on my best brave face. “Eventually.”

  Apparently it wasn’t that brave, as he pulled me in tight again. Not that I minded. The solid warmth of his chest was settling my stomach better than any antacid could.

  “Was she…” I trailed off, not wanting to put the obvious into words but needing to know all the same.

  I felt Ramirez nod. “No question. DOA.”

  I pulled back, looking up at him. He was in full-on cop mode. His eyes scanning the street for possible evidence, his body tense with nervous energy, itching to get at the crime scene, his face set into those grim, unreadable lines that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

  “Jack, our wedding planner is dead.”

  He looked down at me, attempting (poorly) a smile. “Well, at least I got out of cake tasting.”

  I kicked him in the shin. “Not funny.”

  I knew he was just trying to make me feel better, but at the moment nothing about this was going to feel good. A woman I’d just spoken to yesterday was dead, her entire life over in one brief moment, leaving a lifeless heap where her sharp-as-a-tack personality had just been.

  I shivered again, wrapping my arms around my sides as I heard the distant wail of sirens approaching.

  As soon as the boys in blue got there, Ramirez handed me off to a uniformed officer whose nametag read “Hobbs” and told him to take me home. I started to protest, but as much as I wanted to know what happened to land Gigi facedown in my bridal cake, I really didn’t have the energy to stick around and watch them wheel the human Hefty bag that was her final legacy out the front door. Besides, the press vultures were already starting to circle and the last thing I wanted was my mascara streaked face on the 5 o’clock news. Thanks to one tabloid reporter in particular, I had a distinct love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with the press. Instead, I let Hobbs follow my little red Jeep home, making sure I got all the way up the stairs to my studio before his cruiser took off down the street.

  Once inside, I immediately flipped on the TV. So far the death of Beverly Hills’ most prominent wedding planner had yet to make the airwaves. But I knew it was only a matter of time. A story like this didn’t chill for long. Obviously Gigi hadn’t expired from natural causes. And last I checked, it was pretty hard to stab one’s self in the back. That only left murder. Murder in a Beverly Hills wedding studio! The paparazzi would have a field day with this one.

  And here I was, smack in the middle of it. Again.

  I fought another round of nausea at that disconcerting tho
ught as a knock sounded at my front door.

  I flipped off the TV and crossed the room to open it. Only to be attacked in a rib-crusher hug that knocked the air out of me.

  “Oh, baby,” Mom said, squeezing me like a boa constrictor. “It’s just too awful. I can’t believe this is happening to you.”

  “Karma. Karma’s a nasty bitch sometimes,” said the large, muumuu-clad woman wedging her way into my apartment behind Mom. Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three hundred-pound, five-time Jewish divorcee, who read tarot cards and talked to the dead. Eccentric didn’t even begin to cover Mrs. Rosenblatt. 90% of the time, she could be found wearing either Birkenstocks or Crocs, and the only thing louder than her Lucille Ball hair color was her muumuus. Today’s was no exception. Hot pink with neon blue polka dots all over.

  Next to her, Mom’s outfit almost seemed subdued.

  “Mom, can’t breathe,” I choked out, my face squished up against her boobs.

  Mom eased up and stood back. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how this could happen but-”

  I held up a hand. “Wait. Before you say anything else, let me just assure you that this was totally not my fault. I was just minding my own business, going to taste cake and then Ramirez was late, and then I was worried he wouldn’t show, but he did, but I already had the hiccups by then, and when we tried to go inside to get a glass of water, there she was with a knife in her back.”

  Mom blinked. Then her face drained of all color, going a shade of pale even Casper couldn’t attain. “Knife?” She swayed on her feet, leaning on the back of my futon for support. “What do you mean, ‘knife’?”

  Oh hell. “Uh… exactly why were you so sorry a minute ago?”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt put a steadying hand at Mom’s elbow. “We were sorry that the restaurant we booked for the rehearsal dinner cancelled. Said the health inspector came in and found a roach in the kitchen, shut the whole place down. So, we gotta have it someplace else.”