Deadly in High Heels (20 page)

"And now we come to you. Little Maddie Springer, the shoe designer. The bit player who just couldn't let it go. I thought for sure my little love tap would scare you off, but you just kept poking and prying to get to the truth." He lifted the gun. "Congratulations. Now you have."

The gun had been horrifying in the dark. It was even worse in the light. Especially when he pointed it at my heart. I'd heard about your life flashing before your eyes in the face of imminent death, but I shoved those thoughts down. I was focused on the fact that the flat iron was almost completely cooled and wouldn't even be able to singe a piece of paper. I needed an alternative, and I needed it fast.

I grabbed the power cord with one hand and the flat iron itself in the other, whipping it toward Jeffries like I was Lara Croft raiding a tomb.

It struck him in the side of the head, catching him completely by surprise. He grunted, his free hand going instinctively to his face.

I charged toward the boxes of shoes stacked behind him against the wall, yanking them down in bunches, as many as I could manage, as fast as I could manage it, hurling them toward him. Lids went flying, and shoes came tumbling out along with their paired gel inserts and leftover anti-slip sole pads that fluttered to the floor like dead autumn leaves.

He staggered backward away from the onslaught, holding up his hands to ward me off. But I was out of shoe boxes. I looked around wildly and spotted Miss Ohio's can of hair spray, still sitting on my work table. I snatched it up and lunged forward, wielding the hair spray straight out in front of me, the nozzle fully depressed. The cloud of hair spray hit Jeffries smack in the eyes. He slipped on a stiletto, losing his grip on the gun, and went down on his back. I watched the air rushing out of him at once, his eyes squeezed shut. Or maybe glued shut by the Extra Firm Hold.

He rolled onto his right hip, fumbling for the gun amidst the dozens of shoes.

I took aim again with the hair spray.

But the thing about beauty queens is that they use a lot of hair spray on a daily basis. At a pageant, they use cases of the stuff. In fact, somewhere beyond the dressing room's closed door I was sure there was plenty of fresh aerosol ammunition. But in this room, I had just the one can.

And it was empty.

I stared at it in disbelief, shook it, and pumped the nozzle. Nothing.

Suddenly Jeffries' leg whipped across my shin, sending a searing pain up my right side and knocking me off my feet. I went down on both knees, my teeth clacking together hard.

His arm was moving, coming out from beneath him. Groping again for the gun.

I grabbed the nearest stiletto and lunged forward on my knees, hammering it at him like I was driving a stubborn nail into wood. He yelped and covered his face with both hands, which would have left vulnerable areas like his heart exposed if he'd had one.

The stiletto broke off.

I gulped in some breaths and reached in the mess for another.

A squishy sort of slap hit me on the arm.

Jeffries was slapping at me with gel inserts, left, right, left, right, in a hard crisscrossing motion, like he was dusting a piece of furniture with a rag. His eyes were still shut, and tears trickled from beneath his lids. Still, he whacked away blindly. Had I not been fighting for my life, it would have been comical.

I grabbed the broken heel and stabbed at him with it, aiming for fleshy, body parts like his face. I was furious. Furious that he'd killed Jennifer and Desi, furious that he wanted to kill me, furious that he'd made me waste months of work and ruin dozens of pairs of shoes.

The heel slashed into one of the gel inserts, slicing it open, and gobs of purple gel bled out onto Jeffries' hands. He threw it aside in disgust and tried to cover his face from my onslaught. But gel was dripping from his fingers, and when he tried to flick his hand to shake it off, the stiletto slipped through his defenses and gashed his cheek. He let out a high pitched shriek and rolled onto his side, away from me.

That was all the opening I needed. I had to get to safety. I needed out of that room like I needed my next breath. I sprang to my feet and scrambled for the door, sliding on the multiple shoes, boxes, lids, and flotsam strewn across the floor, ignoring the pain in my shin as I tried to kick a path ahead of me so I could move faster. I had to move faster—

I was a step away when I felt a strong hand clamp onto my shoulder, yanking me back onto the floor like a rag doll. Jeffries stepped around me, in front of the door, blocking my exit. He smirked down at me, looking like a deranged character from a horror movie, blood mixed with purple goo dripping down his torn cheek, his eyes wild with rage.

His gun now firmly in hand and aimed at my head.

I wanted to close my eyes as thoughts of Max and Livvie and Ramirez flooded my mind. As if that would somehow keep those thoughts more private and sacred. But like a train wreck, I couldn't look away, my gaze locked on the barrel of the gun.

I heard a loud bang.

And it took me moment to realize it wasn't a gun ending my life but the door flying open, knocking into Jeffries. He went sprawling one way and the gun flew another.

I ignored his grunt of pain. I dove for the gun just as I saw Maxine rush in.

"Maddie, I'm so sorry I broke your—" Her blue eyes widened comically when she saw the mess, a pump with a broken heel dangling from her hand. "What happened?"

I pointed the gun directly at Jeffries, proud to see my hands weren't shaking a bit. "Call 9-1-1," I told her. "This pageant is over."

Ramirez and Detective Whatshisname took only minutes to show up. Ramirez left the detective to Miranda-ize Jeffries and haul him away in cuffs, bawling and clutching his injured cheek with gel-slicked fingers. Jeffries didn't look my way. I resisted the urge to kick him when he passed, even though it seemed like the least I could do for Jennifer, and Desi, and even Laforge, who'd lost the woman he truly loved.

As other investigators and plain clothed officers trickled in, Ramirez led me to a relatively quiet corner backstage. My bravado dropped away when I fell into his arms. Being held by my husband felt like home, and it was a place I didn't think I would ever be again. I clung to him, buried my nose in his chest, and breathed in his familiar musky scent. I felt as much as heard the low rumble of his voice while he promised me I was safe and it was over. I stayed right where I was until I began to believe it.

"I should have called you," I told him. "I should have sent you a text or tried to call the station—"

"Shh." Ramirez stroked my hair. "I'm just glad you're alright. If he'd hurt you…" I heard him swallow hard. He didn't want to finish the thought anymore than I did. "I should have been here," he finished.

I shook my head. "If I'm not at fault for not calling, you're certainly not at fault for not playing bodyguard." I paused. "But just out of curiosity, where were you all day? I thought you'd be back sooner."

"Waiting on some lab results," Ramirez said. "Turned out as the forensic evidence started coming in, it was pointing straight to a pageant insider. We were actually back here at the hotel waiting for this fiasco to end so we could talk to a few people again. One of them Jeffries. Turns out skin cells underneath Desi's fingernails matched the DNA from his hair sample."

I shuddered. "He kept telling me he's Dr. Calvin Drake."

"Not anymore," Ramirez said. "And by the way, I'll be looking to talk to Marco next. He promised me he'd stay by your side all day."

"Don't blame him," I said. I'd turned my face back into his shirt, and my voice was muffled. "I sent him to sit with Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt. I didn't think anything could happen to me here, with all these people around."

Ramirez snorted. "All what people? Half the audience left after they came back from commercial break. One judge was missing, and Miss Arkansas practically took a header into the first row when the MC tried to introduce her."

Maxine. Her clumsiness had saved my life.

"Doesn't look like he's taking it too well," Ramirez said. I looked up at him, questioning, and he tipped his head toward the wings. I turned to see Laforge slumped in a folding chair, hands on knees, head hanging low. "I don't blame him. Even before the break it looked like a grade school musical out there."

"That bad?" I asked.

Ramirez shrugged. "What do I know about pageants?"

I grinned.

"But," he added, "the woman in a duck shirt sitting next to me called the director there LaFail. And considering the live feed went dead halfway through when the authorities arrived, I'd guess most people are going to agree."

So Laforge might be out of a job after all. I couldn't help but feel sorry for him, losing both his girlfriend and his career in the same week.

Of course, the pageant hadn't gone spectacularly for yours truly. I wasn't sure how it was going to play in the press that one of my stilettos was responsible for catching a homicidal soap star.

We suddenly heard the crash of breaking glass coming from the refreshment table, and I jerked up to find Maxine hovering over a shattered water pitcher. I couldn't help a grin. Maxine could be forgiven for a few dozen broken water pitchers, as far as I was concerned.

She angled away from the table and made wild arm gestures to the young police officer at her side, probably describing how she'd barged into the dressing room, knocking Jeffries over. The officer nodded, took notes, and sneaked furtive glances at her. I couldn't blame him, either. Maxine had been in the middle of her intro number, and she was a knockout in her tightly fitted sequined minidress.

I took Ramirez's hand and pulled him along with me as I went over to thank her.

"Maddie!" She turned away from the officer to wrap me in a bear hug. "I'm so glad you're alright! I wouldn't be able to stand it if something had happened to you!"

I felt a little ashamed that I'd ever suspected her of anything. She was probably the most genuine participant in the pageant. "Well, your great timing saved the day."

She grinned from ear to ear. "That's the first time anyone has ever said
I
have great timing."

*

"They're killing Dr. Calvin Drake," Dana said the next morning at breakfast. We were outside under a brilliantly blue sky. The full heat of the day hadn't settled in yet, and the mild ocean breeze took the edge off the warmth while carrying the heady scent of the flowers in its wake. Finally, Hawaii felt like the paradise I'd expected it to be.

"Who is?" Mom asked, buttering a croissant.

"The
Island of Dreams
writers. When Ricky called this morning, he told me it was in
Variety
. They're killing off his character by having him accidentally fall into an active volcano while hang gliding."

"Ouch. What a way to go," Marco mumbled around his mimosa.

"I lost a husband that way once," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, nodding solemnly.

All heads at the table turned to her.

"Into a volcano?" Ramirez asked.

"Well, not
exactly
that way, but Lenny did have a nasty accident with a hot barbeque one summer while flying a box kite."

I stifled a laugh.

"Anyhoo," Dana said, changing the subject, "as of this morning, my judging duties are officially over. The Miss Hawaiian Paradise Corporation had Ruth Marie and me pick a winner based on our preliminary scores. And, you'll never guess who won the crown." Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Miss Vermont," Mom said. "She had the most beautiful carriage."

"Miss Pennsylvania," Marco said. "She had the most beautiful skin."

"Miss Arkansas," Ramirez said. "She had the biggest—"

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"—heart," he answered, giving me a mock innocent look.

"Ramirez got it!" Dana cut in. "It was Maxine, Miss Arkansas. Can you believe it?"

I almost couldn't.

"How on earth did that happen?" Marco asked.

"Well, since the top three contenders were all either killed or disqualified, and also because she saved our Maddie, Miss Arkansas won the crown." She bit her lip and frowned. "Of course, it's probably the last one ever. No network will touch the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant after this kind of scandal. It's become the laughingstock of the pageant world."

Didn't I know it. The first thing I'd done that morning was check the online tabloids for their take on the pageant debacle. While just about every single one had some take on the mess, the
L.A. Informer
's site had called it "the best reality TV scandal since the latest Real Housewives arrest." The only bright spot in the article had been that they'd called my shoes "killer fashion," citing that if women wore a pair of my stilettos they wouldn't need their mace for protection. Already this morning, my online orders had doubled. Who knew that fashion as a weapon was such a selling point?

"Well, good for Maxine," Mom said, popping a mango chunk into her mouth. "She seemed like a sweet girl."

"Even better for her, Ashton Dempsey has agreed to stay on permanently as her coach. He told me she might even have a shot at Miss America next year," Dana added.

I took a sip of my fruit smoothie. It tasted wonderful. Everything seemed to taste or smell or sound wonderful after my brush with death the night before. "Wait, did you say one of the top contestants was disqualified?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Didn't you hear?" Dana put down her spoon. "Turns out Whitney
had
been lying about her age to stay in the pageant, and somehow Jeffries found out about it. But because she looks like that and Jeffries is, well…"

"We know what he is," Ramirez said flatly.

Dana nodded. "Let's just say she used her feminine wiles to convince him to let her stay on and compete."

"Wonder how she did that," Marco muttered.

"Ruth Marie told me that she broke down and admitted everything when the police questioned her," Dana continued. "She even admitted to trying to sabotage the other contestants before the pageant started."

"So she was the one who stole Jennifer's bikini top," I said. I'd mostly moved beyond anger at Whitney to something more like pity. She must have known the pageant world was moving on without her and had been desperate to compete one more time.

Dana nodded. "She said she stole it and hid it in Maxine's dresser drawer while she was asleep. Talk about catty. Poor Maxine didn't even realize it was there, although I can't imagine how."

I could. I'd seen Maxine's dresser drawer.

"Whitney played dirty, for sure," I said, "but she didn't actually have a hand in killing anyone, right?"

"No, that was all Jeffries," Ramirez said. "I called the station earlier. He confessed to everything last night. Didn't even bother to ask for a lawyer. He said he wanted to get it over with so he could get to a plastic surgeon about his cheek before his career was ruined." He leaned over to give me a kiss. "Good job there, by the way."

I smiled at him. "I'm just glad it's all over with," I said. "This pageant has been a nightmare from the start."

There were murmurs of agreement around the table.

"While we're playing guessing games," Marco said, "you'll never guess what my plans are for today." He pushed aside his cantaloupe with a huge smile. "I'm taking our little fashion tragedy Donatella Curcio out for a salon day." He held up his juice glass in a toast to his own genius.

Forks and spoons clattered to the table. Except for Ramirez, who kept eating his pancakes with serene indifference. I gave him a pass. Ramirez hadn't met Don and couldn't appreciate the enormity of Marco's accomplishment.

Marco nodded. "I ran into her while I was shopping the other day. Honestly, I almost didn't recognize her. She was wearing something that used to be a dress back in the '90s and shoes to die for.
Women's
shoes. At least our Don has impeccable taste there. Who knew?" He frowned. "Anyway, turns out my subtle hinting—"

I stifled a laugh. There was nothing subtle about Marco, especially when it came to fashion.

"—struck a nerve with her. I mean, I doubt she'll be rejoining the pageant circuit any time soon, but we did end up doing a little shopping tour together and picked out some uber cute stuff."

"So she was your 'project?'" I grinned at him, realizing now that Don hadn't been absent due to guilt but a change of heart. Or, change of clothes, as the case may be.

He nodded. "She's still got that unibrow thing going on, though. We've gotta do something about that today." He shrugged. "Anyway, she decided that there was nothing wrong with a happy medium where femininity is concerned. I'm kind of proud of her, actually. She's like a new woman. Or she will be, when I'm through with her."

"Good luck with that," I told him.

"I don't need luck, dahling," he said. "Underneath that corduroy and polyester, there's a diamond waiting to be polished. I've seen the proof."

He had a point there. I just hoped he had the patience.

"I like this game," Mom piped up. "Guess what Dorothy and I are doing this afternoon?"

"They'll never guess," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "You'll never guess," she told us.

"Cleansing someone's juju?" I asked, trying not to be snarky about it. Especially since I could taste my food again.

"Oh, no, dear." Mom did a little dismissive wave. "We're clear in that department now. This is much better. We're taking a private surfing lesson with Dirk from the Lost Aloha Shack!"

Mrs. Rosenblatt nodded. "He's cleared his whole afternoon to work with us."

"He's going to teach us how to wax our boards and everything," Mom added.

This time Ramirez was the one to drop his fork. He looked up in alarm. "Don't they wear wetsuits to surf?"

Marco did a wolf whistle. "You go, girls!"

"That's why our lesson is this afternoon," Mom said. "He said he'd need some time this morning to scare up the right sizes for us. Can you imagine how darling we're going to look in wetsuits?"

I didn't want to imagine. I didn't even want to
think
about Mrs. Rosenblatt in a skintight wetsuit. But I knew
darling
wasn't the way I'd describe it. Poor Surfer Dirk didn't know what he was getting himself into.

"This year, our first lesson," Mom said. "Next year, we hang ten at the Pipeline!"

"Well, I don't have that kind of energy," Dana said. "This experience has been exhausting. I plan to park it on the beach all afternoon and work on my tan. Without judging a soul." She pushed aside her bowl of brown rice and raisins. "I'm done with the pageant world for good. I'm sticking to kinder, gentler Hollywood, where all the violence is make-believe."