Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  And caught one.

  The two others landed on the coffee table with a crack, splat, and gooey yellow yolks dripping down the legs.

  Both twins giggled and laughed.

  "Hey, what do you know, I'm a hit," Big Red said, smiling wide.

  I shot him a glare.

  "Okay, so honestly? I've only been juggling for a few days. I'm kinda new to this clown gig. I used to be a soap actor. You want me to do a monologue for you? I'm really good at that."

  "No," I said.

  "Yes!" Ling and Marco said, clapping their hands.

  "María, yo te quiero, pero tu marido me va a matar."

  We all stared blankly at him.

  "Well, it was a Spanish soap. But they tell me it's really good."

  Mental forehead smack.

  "Hey, you want me to try juggling something else? I could try melons?"

  "No!" I shouted.

  "Maybe you could do something other than juggle? We're having a very classy affair here, so we want a show that sizzles," Macro said, doing jazz hands in the air.

  "Oh, I can sizzle," Big Red said, nodding again. "I got all kinds of sizzling tricks. Check this out—I'm about to disappear before your very eyes."

  I should be so lucky.

  Big Red pulled something round from his bag, did some gesture in the air with his hands, and threw the round thing on the ground. A huge puff of smoke engulfed him.

  I coughed, the smoke overwhelming my cozy room. When it finally cleared, Big Red was gone. Or, almost gone. I could still see the top of his red wig peeking out from behind Ramirez's La-Z-Boy.

  "Where's the big clown?" Ling asked the twins in a sing-song voice.

  They blinked in response, and I had a feeling they were about as confused at why this might be entertaining as I was.

  "Shoot," Big Red called from behind the chair. "There's usually more smoke. I usually have more time to hide. This thing must be broken." He grabbed the round ball from the floor and shook it. More smoke poured into the room. Only this time it was accompanied by a loud bang and sparks that jumped onto the La-Z-Boy.

  "Fire!" Marco yelled.

  Ling grabbed a sippy cup and dumped Livvie's morning apple juice on it. I grabbed a pillow and whacked at it. Big Red threw the remaining egg at it.

  We looked down. There was now a soggy, smoking black hole in the center of Ramirez's favorite chair.

  I looked up at the clown.

  "Oh man. I hate it when that happens," he said.

  "Out," I gritted through my teeth. "Get the clown out now."

  "Uh, maybe you better go," Marco said, pushing Big Red toward the door.

  "Maybe we need a new agency," Ling suggested.

  "No. Clowns."

  * * *

  Once the clown, the stripper, and the queen (who promised me he'd somehow work a new easy chair into the party budget) were gone, I got the kids down for a nap and was just about to attempt cleaning up the living room when Ramirez walked in the door.

  His eyes went from the gooey egg mess on the table to the confetti-strewn carpet to the hole in his chair. "And how was your morning?" he asked,

  "Ha. Ha. Very funny. It's all Marco's fault."

  "I'm not even going to ask," he said.

  "That's a good plan," I agreed, grabbing a wet cloth from the kitchen and attacking the egg yolk first. "So what did Tox have to say?" I asked, turning the conversation from my inability to keep the house as spick and span as Mr. Mom.

  "Well, it was very interesting. Lacey was, as we suspected, poisoned."

  "No surprise there."

  "What was surprising was the type of poison."

  "What was it?"

  "Methylated phenylethylamine."

  I paused. "In English, please."

  Ramirez grinned. "Amphetamines."

  I frowned. "Like, meth?"

  "Close," Ramirez told me. "Methamphetamine has almost the same chemical properties, but it also contains a whole bunch of other crap, too, which does nasty things like rot your teeth and make you see bugs crawling on your skin. What tox found in Lacey's system was more pure amphetamine."

  "So how was it used to kill her?"

  "The best the ME can tell, it was liquefied into a concentrate, then added in high doses to the spray. At the levels the ME found in Lacey's body, he figured she inhaled the spray, and the stimulant caused a massive heart attack almost instantly"

  "Ouch." I pictured Lacey's contorted body lying on the tanning booth floor, immediately feeling sorry for her even if she was a gold digger and a blackmailer. "So how would our killer get his hands on some of this stuff?"

  "Well, that's where it gets easy. Actually amphetamines are pretty widely used. They're in some prescription drugs, like the ones used as ADD medication, as well as sold on the street as recreational drugs. They give the user a jolt of energy, sort of like drinking four espressos all at once."

  "Which would be super handy if you were, say, a baseball player in need of a pick-me-up," I mused out loud, my mental wheels turning.

  Ramirez nodded. "Definitely. Amphetamines have been used for years by athletes. Ballplayers called them greenies, and guys have been using them since the earliest days of baseball. Heck, in the eighties, you'd be hard pressed to find a guy not using them. They're officially banned now, but that doesn't stop players from trying to fly under the radar. Rumor has it greenies are making a comeback in baseball lately."

  "So it's likely one of our players could have easily had enough on hand to poison Lacey."

  Ramirez nodded. "It's very likely."

  "Okay, what about this: do any of the current Stars players have a history of using drugs?"

  The corner of Ramirez's mouth quirked up a notch. "I can think of one. John Ratski. He was suspended a couple of years ago after testing positive for PEDs."

  "PEDs?"

  "Performance-enhancing drugs."

  "Like the ones used to kill Lacey?"

  Ramirez nodded again. "But before you get too excited, like I said before, it's likely a lot of players could be using the exact same thing. Just because Ratski has a history with drugs doesn't mean he killed Lacey with them."

  "But it's a place to start," I protested. "Can't the police search his locker or something?"

  "Not without a warrant. And to get warrants, Laurel and Hardy need probable cause. Some sort of evidence pointing to suspicion of our persons of interest before a judge will sign off."

  I pursed my lips. If my one encounter with them was any indication, I had a bad feeling Laurel and Hardy were looking in a different direction for the killer—namely Faux Dad's salon. But, while the police might need a warrant to snoop through Ratski's life, I didn't.

  I was gonna need backup for this one.

  * * *

  An hour later, Dana and I were at the players' entrance to the Stars Stadium where the same security guard stood sentinel with his clipboard.

  If Ratski was using greenies as a way to enhance his on-field performance, chances were he had the stuff readily available before each game—like stashed in his locker.

  I'd called Kendra earlier, asking if there was any way she could put our names on the security guard's list. Unfortunately, I'd heard the suspicion even louder and clearer than when we'd previously talked as she'd asked me just why I needed access to the stadium again. I'd lied and told her that I'd accidentally left my cashmere Magaschoni sweater behind the last time I'd been here and was hoping I could run in and grab it. Considering it was pushing eighty degrees outside, the lie was flimsy. But luckily it appealed to her sense of fashion—no designer label left behind!—and she'd agreed.

  We quickly gave the guard our names and slipped into the cool subterranean part of the stadium.

  "So where are the locker rooms?" Dana asked, our heels click-clacking on the polished floors.

  "Your guess is as good as mine," I replied. "This place is a maze."

  One that, as it turned out, branched off into locker rooms almost 180 de
grees from our starting point. By the time we reached the pair of white doors labeled "Players' Lockers," my pale pink tank was sticking to my back despite the air conditioning, and my poor feet were regretting my decision to pair my white capris with two-inch leather pumps.

  "Wait. Here," I panted. "I need. A lookout."

  "Maddie, you need to come to the gym with me more often," Dana chided. I noticed that despite the fact she was dressed in leather pants and stilettos, she had barely broken a sweat during our indoor hike.

  I shook my head. "Just let me know if anyone is coming," I told her. Then I quickly slipped into the locker room, leaning against the doors to catch my breath as I got my bearings.

  The term "locker" was deceiving, as this place bore no resemblance whatsoever to those rooms full of metal lockers in high school. Instead, it was more like a room full of open closets lining the walls. Each closet was painted in the team's signature orange and blue colors and held a wooden rack, where pressed uniforms hung, shelves for shoes and cleats, and a cupboard for personal items.

  I walked to the first locker. Above it a name plaque was affixed reading "Zander." The name was vaguely familiar to me. I gingerly tugged on the door to the cupboard, which swung open easily. While they were lockers it appeared they weren't actually locked. Inside was a variety of first aid tapes and creams and a sheaf of papers that looked like coach's notes. Nothing particularly interesting or incriminating.

  Then again, Zander wasn't on my immediate suspect list.

  I quickly moved down the row until I came to on labeled "Ratski."

  I glanced over my shoulder at the doors. While I was alone for the moment, I had no idea how long that would last. Kendra had said the team was taking another practice day to prep for the doubleheader opening their series against the Tigers tomorrow. Which meant that at any minute some player might need to change his shoes or put on more deodorant or do whatever players did in locker rooms.

  Which meant I had to hurry.

  I tugged on Ratski's cupboard door and immediately regretted it. Something reeked to high heaven. If I had to guess, week-old socks. Eww. I gingerly poked around, not really wanting to encounter anything too personal of Ratski's. If I touched a jock strap, I was so leaving this evidence thing to Laurel and Hardy.

  Unfortunately, I found much the same as I had in the other locker—a variety of muscle creams, first-aid braces, and some papers. Nothing that screamed "illegal drugs." No suspicious prescription bottles, no contraband baggies. No smoking gun.

  Bummer. Call me crazy, but I'd really wanted Ratski to be the bad guy.

  I looked down at the collection of papers grabbing one at random and quickly scanning it. Lots of notes in shorthand, some diagrams. If I had to guess, notes for the field. I put it back, shuffling through the stack.

  And an envelope fell out.

  I bent down to pick it up, glancing at the door as I did. Still closed. For now.

  The envelope was unsealed, and I quickly slipped my hand inside, pulling out a single sheet of lined binder paper.

  Being away from you while you're on the road is pure torture. I can't wait for you to get home so I can be with you again.

  I felt my eyebrows rise. While I'd been hoping for a letter of blackmail from Lacey, this looked more like a love letter. I couldn't help myself. I had to read a little bit more. Ratski had struck me as the last type of guy to inspire love letters from his wife. Maybe I'd misjudged him.

  Nobody here understands me like you do, schmoopy. I can't wait to see you again. All my love.

  Schmoopy? I stifled a giggle.

  Just as I heard a sound from the doorway.

  "What are you doing here?" came a low, gravelly voice I knew all too well.

  Ratski.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I quickly ducked behind a row of chairs in the center of the room.

  "Oh, uh, well, I was just…waiting for a friend…" I heard Dana stalling at the door.

  I quickly looked around for any place to hide. Unfortunately, the room was a wide open rectangle, offering precious few pieces of furniture to hide behind.

  "Who are you?" I heard Ratski bark at Dana.

  "Me? Oh, just a baseball fan. A big, big fan."

  "Really?" I heard Ratski's voice soften. "Well, you're in luck, because I'm a fan of pretty baseball fans like you."

  Gag.

  While Dana was doing a bang-up job of giggling like Ratski's line had scored points with her, I knew she couldn't hold him forever. I scanned the room for another way out and spotted a door at the far wall.

  "Hey, I recognize you," Ratski said.

  I froze.

  "You're that actress, right? The one who does the lawyer show?"

  I let out a breath. Right. Of course he recognized her. As the star of Lady Justice, Dana's face was plastered all over the billboards gracing the 5 during sweeps week.

  "You got me," Dana said. "But I am really such a fan of yours."

  She was laying it on thick. Luckily, Ratski was eating it up.

  "Hey, you think maybe I can get an autograph?" I heard Dana ask.

  "I think maybe that can be arranged," he answered.

  Dana did another flirtatious giggle.

  "I've got a pen inside," I heard Ratski say.

  Uh-oh.

  I jumped up from behind the chairs and made a dash for the far door. I heard Dana mumbling something else, trying to keep Ratski at bay, but I knew she couldn't hold him forever. Luckily, the gods of breaking and entering were with me because as my hand grabbed the doorknob, it turned easily. I quickly pushed it open, slipping into a room that looked like a smaller version of the one I'd just been in.

  "In the locker room?" I heard Dana say, unfortunately much closer. "Wait, is it okay for a woman to be in here?"

  "Honey, I've had lots of women in here," Ratski crooned back, his footsteps echoing just on the other side of the door.

  I quickly scanned the room. In the corner I spotted what looked like part of a Charlie Chaplin hat. I must be in the mascots' changing room. I opened one of the lockers, and sure enough there was the Marilyn Monroe outfit.

  "Look, dollface, I gotta get changed. But, you can stick around for the show if you like," I heard Ratski say.

  Eww. Unless I wanted to subject Dana to Ratski au-natural, we had to get out fast. I grabbed Marilyn's cheap polyester replica of her famous seven-year itch dress and threw it on over my tank-top and capris. Then I plunked the heavy foam head on top of my own, blinking to adjust my eyes so I could see out of the mesh hole that was Marilyn's mouth.

  "Uh, wow, look at the time. I gotta go," I heard Dana say on the other side of the door.

  "What's your rush, doll?"

  It was now or never. I opened the door and quickly wobbled my way into the players' locker room, bouncing off the doorframe a little as I did. Marilyn's head must've weighed fifty pounds, easy.

  "Hey, watch it," Ratski shouted as I tipped toward him. I noticed his right eye still bore a purple-ish ring around, courtesy of my husband.

  "Sorry," I mumbled. Then I grabbed Dana by the arm. "Come on, you're late for practice," I told her, hoping she played along.

  "Practice?" Dana asked

  "You know, for the celebrity halftime show."

  Dana blinked at me. "Uh…seventh inning stretch?"

  "Yeah that's what I meant," I said, feeling Ratski's eyes on my back. "Come on, let's go." I shoved her ahead of me, almost knocking her over with my giant head as I waddled toward the door.

  We made it into the hallway without incident, and several wrong turns and collisions with the corridor walls later, we finally made our way to a door marked "West Parking Lot Exit." I ditched the costume in an empty office, and we made a break for it back into the warm sunshine.

  Unfortunately as I blinked against the natural light, I realized we'd lost our way in the underground maze.

  "Crap," I said scanning the vast empty parking lot on the west side of the stadium.

  "
I don't see our car," Dana stated.

  "Yeah, that would be in the east lot."

  * * *

  After a half-mile hike back to the car, both Dana and I were sweating and panting. We both agreed that our first order of business was cold drinks. We drove to the nearest Jamba Juice—me ordering a Peach Pleasure with frozen yogurt on the side, and Dana ordering a fresh squeezed orange juice with a wheatgrass shot on the side.

  "You were so right about Ratski, Mads," Dana told me sipping her OJ across from me in the blessed air conditioning of the Jamba bar. "He is a total pig. Please tell me you got something on him?"

  I shook my head. "Sorry. Nothing in his locker screamed drug use. The only thing I found was a love letter from his wife which was interesting but hardly a smoking gun.

  Dana scrunched up her nose. "Poor Beth. Here she's writing him love letters, and he's asking me out."

  I raised an eyebrow. "He asked you out?"

  "Oh yeah." She nodded. "He slipped me his card and said his wife has a book club meeting tonight, so if I met him for dinner he'd make me his 'MVP' all night long." Dana made a gagging motion with her index finger then shook off invisible Ratski cooties.

  I bit my lip, that teeny tiny little light bulb going off in the back of my head again. "What would I have to do to persuade you to keep that date?"

  Dana shot me a horrified look. "Maddie, what would I tell Ricky?"

  Ricky Montgomery was Dana's fiancé, who, like her, was an actor. Only Ricky had already achieved movie star status and was currently shooting an action movie starring as a Marvel comic book character. And the only thing hotter than Ricky's shirtless pecs on a thirty-foot tall movie screen was his jealous temper where Dana was concerned.

  I shook my head. "I'm not saying you should date date him. But it could be a great way to pump him for information about whether or not he's using."