Homicide in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "We're taking you shopping," Marcus said in a voice that broached no argument.

  Not that I wasn't going to try broaching a little.

  "I'm not sure I have time to go shopping right now, Marco." Not to mention the fact that his supersized party meant my bank account was sporting a mini-sized balance.

  "Nonsense," Marco answered. "Dahling, everyone has time for shopping."

  I couldn't help a small grin. "Okay, okay, you're right. What is it I'm shopping for?"

  "Birthday outfits of coooourse," Marco, responded, drawing out the vowels with gusto that would make an opera singer jealous. "Your little darlings will be the stars of the show on their big day, and they need to look it!"

  While I could've argued with him, I had to say that I wasn't entirely opposed. Part of the fun of having babies was dressing them up in little too-cute outfits. And a birthday was a great excuse to do just that. I nodded agreement. "All right, fine. Meet me at the Beverly Center?"

  "Perfect! Be there in ten!"

  I snuck a furtive glance at my half-eaten cheeseburger still sitting on my plate. At least a bouncy jaunt around the mall would burn down some of those calories. Besides, some retail therapy was exactly what I needed to get my investigative muse kick-started. So far I was having a hard time connecting any dots between Lacey's death and the baseball crew. At least any that contained enough evidence for that warrant.

  The truth was, any one of the players or wives could have snuck away to add poison to the tanning solution. Fernando had said Lacey had a regular tanning date. It wouldn't have been a hard thing for someone to have found out when. Which left means and opportunity wide open.

  And then there was motive. Clearly if Lacey had been blackmailing someone, that was great motive to want her gone. However, if Kendra was afraid her husband's game was suffering because Lacey was around, that was a great reason, too. For that matter, any of the Baseball Wives might have wanted Lacey gone if she was signing on to the show and they thought she might upstage them as the top players' girl.

  Which led me back to Bucky himself. While I was having a harder and harder time putting the grief-stricken boyfriend in the role of killer, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility he was faking. Let's face it, he wouldn't be the first killer to fake grief. And Marco and Ling were right—most of the time it was the boyfriend whodunit.

  All of which left me with motive as wide open as means and opportunity.

  I tossed the rest of my burger and made sure I didn't have any little bits of onion rings stuck in my teeth. Then I pointed my car in the direction of the Beverly Center.

  * * *

  After circling the garage a mere fifteen minutes I found a spot near Macy's and, via text messages, quickly located and caught up to Marco at the Little Lovin' baby boutique on the sixth floor, sandwiched between Godiva and The Body Shop. Firmly telling myself that a chocolate dipped strawberry was not the perfect dessert to cap off my burger, I made my way into Little Lovin', where I spied Marco pawing through a rack of christening dresses.

  Standing beside him was Ling, wearing a sequined tube top, hotpants, and platform heels. She was holding up a purple onesie with a fuzzy monster on it. I would've laughed at the juxtaposition if I didn't have a sinking feeling that purple fuzzy thing was going on one of my children.

  Marco looked up and spied me first. "Maddie, my love, you will not believe the fabulous things we've already picked out for your children."

  I glanced at the purple thing. "No."

  Marco waved my dissention off. "But you have to see it on, darling."

  "See it on?" I asked, hoping Marco hadn't kidnapped my children for this excursion.

  "The models." Marco gestured to a row of dolls on a shelf by the dressing room doors.

  "You're kidding?"

  Marco shook his head. "Isn't it clever? Look, they have all different hair colors, eye colors, skin tones. Now you can shop for baby without bringing baby!"

  "It look okay on Caucasian Baby, but I think it look way better on Hispanic Baby," Ling said, holding her purple onesie up against a doll with dark hair and cafe-latte skin. "You think maybe you wanna to spray tan your guys before the party?"

  Marco got a look of glee in his eyes. "Ohmigod, that would be so fabu—"

  "No!" I said, empathically. "I am not spray tanning babies!"

  Marco's shoulders sagged. "Killjoy."

  Ling sighed, putting the purple thing back on a rack. "I guess dying the hair is out then, too."

  "They hardly have any hair!"

  "Okay, what do you think of this?" Marco asked, holding up a teeny tiny white suit with Zebra striped lapels and a pair of matching zebra booties.

  "I think it probably belongs to a teeny tiny pimp," I told him honestly.

  Marco swatted my arm. "Maddie, animal print is so in this season!"

  "I like this one better," Ling interjected, holding up a red, velvet suit that looked like it belonged on a dwarf Santa Claus at his junior high school prom.

  Before I could protest, Marco shook his head. "Oh, honey, that will never work."

  I did an internal sigh of relief.

  "It totally clashes with the fuchsia taffeta in Livvie's bloomers."

  So much for relief.

  "Okay, okay," I said, halting the madness. "Marco, I will concede that you are the party planning expert here."

  "Thank you," he said, beaming from ear to ear.

  "However, who among us is the fashion designer?"

  Marco's smile faltered. "You."

  "Correct. Which means I'm taking over choosing the twins' outfits."

  Marco opened his mouth to protest, but must have seen the serious-as-a-heart-attack look on my face, as he quickly shut it. "Fine," he conceded, sending a wistful look toward the teeny tiny pimp outfit. "But just promise me one thing."

  "What?" I hedged.

  "Make sure they coordinate with the peacock's feathers. We can't have our guests of honor clashing with our exotic petting zoo!"

  Heaven forbid.

  * * *

  Once we'd shopped till we'd almost dropped, I had the most adorable pink and blue matching outfit for the twins that were still in the realm of tasteful, yet flashy enough that they didn't "clash" with any of Auntie Marco's plans. We celebrated our fashion victory with iced mochas at the Coffee Bean, where I caught Marco and Ling up to speed on the investigation, telling them about the laughable "interrogation" Laurel and Hardy had done in the fake Bellissima boutique.

  "The real one's on Melrose, right?" Ling asked. "I've been there a couple of times."

  "What did you think?" I asked, only having experienced the "reality" version of it myself.

  "Pricey."

  "That sounds like Melrose."

  "Yeah, but her stuff is way overpriced. Hey, I don't mind paying for quality, but her stuff is junk."

  I felt a frown pull between my brows. The replica version of the store hadn't looked like it was populated with junk. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, my friend, Laquisha, bought a handbag there, and the lining ripped out in a week."

  "What kind of bag was it?"

  "Louis Vuitton."

  Marco choked on his latte. "Dahling, Vuittons are not junk."

  "Yeah, well my grandmother in China sews higher quality 'Vuittons,'" Ling said, doing air quotes with her acrylic fingernails.

  "Are you sure it wasn't a high end replica of some sort?" I asked. "I can think of a handful of designs that are very similar to a Vuitton."

  Ling shrugged. "Laquisha said it was the real deal designer."

  "Well, did she take the bag back?" I asked.

  "You bet your skinny butt she did! Laquisha's no fool. She asked for a full refund. I told her to go for pain and suffering compensation, too. She almost lost an earring down that ripped lining."

  "What did Liz do?" I asked.

  Ling shrugged. "She gave her the refund," she admitted. "She said it must have been a manufacturer defect. But I tell you, L
aquisha wasn't buying it. She said those ladies at that boutique were profiling."

  "Profiling? Like, racial profiling?"

  Ling blinked at me. "What are you talking about? Laquisha is white."

  "Oh, I, uh, didn't mean…" I stammered.

  But Ling waved me off. "No, profession profiling. Like, give the stripper the defective bag 'cause she won't know the difference."

  "Wait—how would they know she's a stripper?" Marco interjected.

  Ling gave him a get real look. "What do I look like I do for a living?"

  Marco and I looked down at her hotpants, hair extensions, and platform shoes.

  "Point taken," he mumbled.

  "Anyway, that's one place I refuse to shop on principle," Ling said, sipping at her coffee.

  I sipped too, making a mental note to visit the real Bellissima soon myself.

  * * *

  By 6 o'clock I was shopped out. I turned my car in the direction of home, tuning in to KIIS FM as I inched my way through the traffic on the 405. Until Ryan Seacrest started talking about the "Tanning Salon Murders." Ugh. I switched it off and cued up an audio book instead.

  I finally pulled up to our little bungalow in West Hollywood almost an hour later. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and sat there staring at the front door of my house. How wrong was it that I almost wished to hear sounds of screaming children or see sticky handprints all over the windows? Why I dreaded coming home to a clean, tidy house and happy children was a heavy enough question to make me consider therapy. I shook it off and got out of the car, forcing my pumps up the front walkway.

  "I'm home," I called turning my key in the lock and walking across the threshold. As expected the living room was clean, the play yards organized, and nary a stray crumb or toy was in sight. I was beginning to worry Ramirez was keeping the twins caged up all day.

  "That you, babe?" I heard Ramirez's voice from the kitchen. Which, as I stepped toward it, smelled suspiciously like tamales.

  "Yep. Where the kids?" I asked.

  "Playing in their room."

  I paused, listening for sounds of shrieks, squeals, or screams. Nada. "Did you drug them?"

  "What?" Ramirez gave me a funny look.

  "Nothing," I mumbled. I peeked in the oven and found two trays of delicious smelling Mexican food. "You cooked, too?"

  Ramirez grinned at me. "Oh, I'm not brave enough to take on tamales," he said. "Mama stopped by with a couple of trays earlier."

  Ramirez's mother was known as "Mama" to everyone, young and old alike. She was round in the middle, wrinkled in the face, and had the skills to cook a feast for a crowd of a hundred on twenty minutes notice. If this woman ever went on a cooking show, she'd mop the floor with the competition.

  "Smells like heaven," I told him honestly.

  "Heaven will be ready in ten minutes." Ramirez crossed the kitchen and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "How was your day?"

  "Well, let's just say I feel like I'm spinning my wheels and not much closer to knowing much of anything." I told Ramirez about our busted visit to the stadium, and our conversation with Beth, pointing out an excellent reason Kendra might have wanted Lacey dead. Unfortunately I didn't have any excellent evidence to procure any kind of excellent warrants. "And," I added "I have a sinking feeling Laurel and Hardy aren't finding any either."

  "Why's that?" Ramirez asked.

  I recounted the almost comical scene Dana and I had witnessed on the set of the Baseball Wives. Only when I finished Ramirez certainly wasn't laughing. In fact he turned to the fridge, pulled out a beer, popped the top, and downed half of it in gulp. "And I'm the one on suspension," he mumbled. I could see that tell-tale vein in his neck threatening to bulge, so I quickly changed the subject.

  "On the upside, I did get some super cute outfits for the twins' for the birthday party," I told him.

  He shot me a look. "Yeah, speaking of the birthday party…"

  Uh-oh. What had Marco done now?

  "…take a look in the backyard," Ramirez directed me.

  I walked to the back door and peered out the sliding glass. While our bungalow was what could be described as cozy-sized, the upside of being in an older home was that we were one of the lucky few in Los Angeles to still have a yard. Ours was a decent size, bordered by a high fence, with a couple of mature trees and some low maintenance hedges flanking the perimeter. In the center was a lawn that Ramirez had hinted on more than one occasion would be ideal for a swing set in a year or two.

  At the moment, however, it was occupied by a giant inflatable waterslide, a five-foot ball pit, and a grass covered tiki bar.

  I turned to Ramirez. "What is this?"

  He shrugged. "They told me Marco ordered them."

  Mental forehead smack. "No wonder he was keeping me busy at the mall today," I mumbled.

  "Crafty fellow," Ramirez said, though I noticed the vein was going down and the twinkle was returning to his eye.

  "Well at least there will be alcohol," I said pointing to the tiki bar

  Ramirez's face broke into a grin. "Let's hope there's lots of it."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After I'd practically consumed my weight in tamales (which, by the way, was rapidly climbing after the cheeseburger luncheon and a decadent dinner) all I wanted to do was snuggle on the couch with my husband and watch DVRed episodes of American Idol. Unfortunately, Dana and I had a date with Ratski.

  "You sure this is a good idea?" Ramirez asked, his eyebrows furrowing together when I told him about it.

  I shrugged. "No, but it's the only idea I got."

  The brows furrowed further, my candor clearly not upping his confidence in his "eyes and ears."

  "Look, we'll be perfectly safe," I assured him. "Dana is meeting him in a public place, and she's only there to get him to spill the kind of info one might let slip to a hot movie star and not the LAPD."

  Eyebrows were joined by a downturn of his mouth. Clearly my reference to Ratski not talking to the LAPD was also not doing much to lighten his mood.

  I cleared my throat, trying again. "It'll just be a couple of drinks, maybe an appetizer. Dana will pump him for information, then we'll head home."

  "And what if Ratski recognizes you?" Ramirez asked.

  I perked up. "Trust me, I've got that covered." While out shopping with Marco and Ling earlier I'd had the forethought to pick up a very sneaky disguise. I'd be going to La Pastaria Italian restaurant in a sliming, navy blue Donna Karan dress, a brand-new pair of grey Grecian style platform heels, and a cute little brunette bobbed wig. After I added some smoky eye makeup and a few fake lashes, there'd be no way Ratski would recognize me.

  While I could tell my husband wasn't 100% convinced of our plan's success, it was, as I'd mentioned, the only plan we had. So twenty minutes later I was parked in front of La Pastaria, adjusting my adorable (even if I did say so) bob and watching in my rearview mirror as Dana emerged from her sleek little black sports car and handed her keys to the valet. I wasted no time, locking my own car and following her through the front doors.

  La Pastaria was one of those trendy little restaurants that seem to pop into the L.A. nightlife scene and pop out just as quickly. It had a tiny little storefront featuring lots of sleek chrome glass and natural woods, a menu with very few choices, servers who were incredibly slow, and prices that were incredibly high. It was no wonder it was currently one of the hottest spots in L.A. Though, in six months, the space would probably be a Chipotle Grill.

  I spotted Dana giving her name at the hostess stand and watched as she was quickly led to a table near the back where Ratski was already waiting. If the empty glass in front of him was any indication, he'd gotten there early. Good. Liquor loosens lips, and loose lips were all we were banking on.

  Ratski stood and kissed Dana on the cheek as she approached. I credited her great acting skills to the fact she hardly even cringed.

  As soon as the hostess returned to the stand, I slipped her a twenty and as
ked her to please seat me near the baseball player.

  She shot me a look. "You're not a reporter or something, are you?"

  "Do I look like I'm with a tabloid?" I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes at me, doing an up and down.

  "It's Donna Karan," I told her.

  More eye narrowing.

  "Look, I'm just a really big baseball fan."

  "We value our customers' privacy," she said.

  "I'm not going to disturb him. I just want to sit near him."

  The hostess looked down at the twenty in her hand. "I don't know if we have any empty tables near him…" She trailed off, staring pointedly at the lonely bill.

  I rolled my eyes and slipped her another one.

  "Right this way, ma'am," she said.

  I followed her to a clearly empty table two over from Ratski and Dana. While it might have cost me, it was perfect. I was close enough to hear them but far enough away that I was pretty sure Ratski wasn't going to notice me.

  Though in all honesty, I had a feeling he wouldn't be taking his eyes off of Dana at all. She'd arrived in a silver sequined mini dress with a racer back tank that showed off her broad gym-built shoulders. At a good six inches taller than I was, she'd accentuated her long legs with four-inch heels that had her almost eye-to-eye with Ratski when she stood. She was playing pure movie star tonight, and if the look on his face was any indication, Ratski was loving it.

  "Well don't you look nice tonight?" Dana said, arranging a napkin on her lap.

  He leaned back in his chair, a slightly buzzed grin snaking across his face. "I could say the same for you, doll."

  Dana shot him a wide smile. "It was so fortunate running into you earlier. All I was hoping to get was an autograph, and now here I am with the opportunity to learn all about you."

  "I guess it's your lucky day that my wife had a book club meeting, isn't it," Ratski said, his grin widening.

  I cringed, picturing poor Beth. Even though she was still on my list of snarky Baseball Wife suspects, nobody deserved to be saddled with a guy like this.