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  Gemma Halliday's High Heels series:

  "A saucy combination of romance and suspense that is simply irresistible."

  —Chicago Tribune

  "Stylish…nonstop action…guaranteed to keep chick lit and mystery fans happy!"

  —Publishers' Weekly, starred review

  "Smart, funny and snappy…the perfect beach read!"

  —Fresh Fiction

  "A roller coaster ride full of fun and excitement!"

  —Romance Reviews Today

  "Gemma Halliday writes like a seasoned author leaving the reader hanging on to every word, every clue, every delicious scene of the book. It's a fun and intriguing mystery full of laughs and suspense."

  —Once Upon A Romance

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  DEADLY

  IN

  HIGH HEELS

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

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  Copyright © 2015 by Gemma Halliday

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  SNEAK PEEK

  This book is dedicated to all of the fabulous High Heels Mysteries readers who have written to me over the years. You are why I keep writing, and you are what keeps Maddie jumping into new dangerous, daring, and divalicious adventures.

  A special thank you goes out to Kristine Zepf for picking the name of our island Tiki bar, The Lost Aloha Shack, and to Brandy Dewar Glaser for coming up with the signature drink served there, the Babbling Mermaid.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I was a young girl I dreamed of being on the runways of Paris, Milan, and New York, strutting the most fabulous fashions known to womankind. Unfortunately when my height topped out at a less than impressive 5 feet 1 3/4 inches (yes, the 3/4 inches are important to note!) around eighth grade, it became painfully clear that a career as a runway model was not in my future. However I didn't give up hope on fashion! Instead I turned my hand to designing those coveted couture creations. More specifically, the fab footwear that did the strutting.

  My name is Maddie Springer, and I design women's shoes for a living. And after four years of college at the Academy of Art fashion Institute in San Francisco, several more years paying my dues as the bottom rung designer at Tot Trots children's shoe designers (where I was in charge of not only the Dora the Explorer line of girls' sandals but also the SpongeBob SquarePants rain boots collection as well. I know, let the jealousy commence.), I was finally able to start my own line of designer footwear called High Heels Seduction. While my career as a designer was still in the early stages, not quite rivaling the likes of Choo or Louboutin yet, through lots of hard work and hustling on my part, new boutiques throughout Beverly Hills were displaying my heels in their pricey window displays. And I hoped to take this phenomenon from local to national with my latest client: the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Beauty Pageant.

  Currently my footwear was slated to be worn by all fifty-one of the contestants on the one-week, nationally televised event. And if the exposure wasn't enough to have me happy-dancing in my slingbacks, the pageant had actually flown me out to the island of Oahu to style the contestants in person. Talk about a dream job, right?

  "Miss Arkansas!" A tall, slim guy in a pair of skintight, white leather pants and a neon Lycra shirt shouted toward the group of contestants assembled before us.

  A blonde with man-made breasts creating total side-boob in a tropical print bikini blinked her false eyelashes in rapid succession. "Yes?"

  "How many times have I told you that you need to cross to the left, behind Miss Montana, not to the right, in front of Miss Delaware?" The guy in the leather pants threw his hands up in the air, shaking his head.

  "Oh, sorry. Right. I remember that." The blonde nodded vigorously. I noticed not a single hair on her head moved with her. I made a mental note to ask her what brand of hairspray she used.

  "Let's take it again from the top, ladies. Jackie, the music please!" Leather Pants waved his arms in the air like a conductor.

  Immediately an upbeat 90's dance mix played through the outdoor speakers surrounding the Royal Waikiki Resort's pool, pumping a steady beat as fifty-one long-legged contestants crisscrossed between potted palms, chaise lounges, and mini waterfalls, rehearsing their perfectly choreographed opening routine.

  "Isn't this just the most totes fabu thing evah?!" the guy lounging in the chaise next to me whispered.

  "It will be," I told him. "If Miss Arkansas doesn't trip again."

  "Amen, sister! I have half a mind to take that girl aside and show her how to walk in heels myself," he shot back.

  I stifled a giggle. My companion, Marco, was slim, Hispanic, and more fabulous than a Lady Gaga impersonator at a Cher concert. His hair was a spiked bleached blond with trendy pink tips, his make-up was heavier than any of the Miss Hawaiian Paradise contestants, and his outfit today was a pair of hot pink Daisy Dukes, a white, mesh tank, and a bright, tropical print blouse (yes, blouse), unbuttoned with the ends tied into a little bow right at his belly button. He'd capped off the look with oversized purple sunglasses and a pair of hot pink flip-flops with rhinestones along the sides. I was pretty sure he out-blinged my own flowy, cotton shift dress and white kitten heels by about ten rhinestones.

  "Honestly it's a wonder she hasn't been disqualified already," I noted, watching poor Miss Arkansas try to keep up as the girls broke into a dance number. While she was a striking blonde with model-worthy features that I could easily see beating any of the other contestants in the beauty department, she had the grace of a water buffalo. In stilettos.

  "You know Dana's too charitable for that. That girl would have to take out the entire first row of viewers in the auditorium before she would disqualify her."

  Marco was right. My best friend Dana Dashel was a television actress, girlfriend to one of Hollywood's hottest movie stars, and currently making enough of a name for herself in the entertainment industry that the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant had jumped at my suggestion to have her as one of their celebrity judges. With Dana judging the pageant, and my footwear front and center, w
e had agreed that the one week in Hawaii from the start of the preliminary judging to the pageant's live televised show, would make the perfect girls' vacation away. Something we both sorely needed. Dana had lately been working long hours on the set of her television show, Lady Justice, and I had been running on fumes, juggling my budding fashion career with raising my pair of twin toddlers, Max and Olivia. Luckily my husband had some vacation time coming, and he'd agreed to take the time off to spend with the kids while I took the time off to spend my days lounging in the sun and awaiting the mai tai cocktail hour. (You can see why I married him.)

  And of course Marco, being one of the girls himself, had insisted on cashing in his vacation hours at his job as a swanky salon receptionist and tagging along.

  I shot a glance to the judges' table, where Dana's eyebrows were pulled into a frown of concentration, her eyes focused on the contestants' steps as her pen hovered over her scoring tablet. Beside her sat the two other celebrity judges: Ruth Marie Masters, whose claim to fame was being Miss Hawaiian Paradise 1962, and Jay Jeffries, a daytime soap opera actor.

  "No, no, no!" The man in the tight leather pants threw his arms up in despair again. "Honey is there something wrong with your ears? Can you not hear the beat?" he shouted at Miss New Mexico.

  The leggy brunette with hair that was almost as tall as I was blinked at him, shaking her head no at first, then re-thinking that answer and nodding instead.

  "It's one-two—three, one-two—three. Emphasis on the third, got it?"

  Miss New Mexico nodded her head up and down like a bobble doll.

  "Take five, everyone, while we re-set. Again," he yelled, waving his hands in the air.

  I'd only just arrived in Hawaii that morning and had been afforded the briefest of introductions to the exasperated pageant director, Simon Laforge a.k.a. Mr. Leather Pants. He had given me my official itinerary and the pageant personnel contact and informed me that footwear fittings were not scheduled for two more days, at which time he would instruct me on what I "needed to know." I suddenly felt like I was in a bad Bourne movie parody, but considering he was my boss for this job, I went with it and made myself scarce, lounging by the pool until fittings.

  "Geez, he's being a little hard on her, dontcha think?" Marco whispered to me.

  I nodded in agreement. I hadn't actually seen anything wrong with Miss New Mexico's steps.

  While the choreographers wrangled all of the girls back into their starting positions, powder compacts and lipsticks came out, and Dana stretched her legs, sauntering over to our chaises on the edge of the action.

  "Oh, man, is it happy hour yet?" Dana sighed, eyeing the sleek glass bar in the far corner of the pool area.

  "Want me to order you something?" I offered.

  But Dana shook her head. "Not until we're done with this segment. I have to stay sharp and focused. You know the dance number is one-third of the first half of the preliminary score."

  I couldn't help but grin. If Dana was talking fractions, she was taking her job very seriously.

  "Well hopefully we're almost finished with this number," I agreed. I'll admit, I'd been eyeing the bar myself.

  "If Miss Arkansas can ever get her steps right," Marco snarked. "I swear that girl is as clumsy as—"

  "Stop!" Dana immediately stuck her fingers in her ears and started shaking her head. "I can't hear this! I need to be objective to judge."

  Marco rolled his eyes. "You can be objective, but you don't have to be blind," he mumbled to me with a grin.

  "Places! We're going again in thirty seconds!" Laforge shouted from across the pool, waving his neon-clad arms about him.

  Even with her fingers in her ears, there was no way Dana could miss the signal. "Duty calls," she said turning back toward the judges' table.

  "All right everyone. I want you to watch Miss Montana," Laforge shouted over the click clack of heels returning to their positions. He gestured to a tall, willowy girl with alabaster skin, big blue eyes, and hair so pale blonde that it almost shone silver in the bright sunlight. She gave him a dainty smile then executed the choreographed steps around the tropical birds of paradise, lava rocks, and waterfalls with the grace of a trained ballet dancer. With moves like that, and looks like hers, it wasn't hard to imagine Miss Montana taking the title.

  Not to mention it seemed as though she was the director's favorite.

  "See? Is that so hard?" Laforge asked, shooting pointed looks at the other contestants. "All right, let's take it from the top. And one, two, three…"

  I groaned. It was going to be a while before I got to those mai tais.

  *

  By the time all fifty-one girls had finally executed their steps to Laforge's satisfaction, the sun was starting to burn a bright orange just above the blue Pacific, my arms were starting to get the first pink tinges of sunburn, and Marco, Dana, and I were quickly making our way from the pool area back up to our rooms to change. We followed the landscaped trail around the back of the resort to the hotel's main lobby.

  Only we didn't get much farther than that, as a woman in faded denim jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt that read "Fashion Kills" stepped in front of us, blocking our way to the elevators.

  "Shame on you!" she cried.

  "Excuse me?" I asked, hoping she had accosted the wrong person.

  "You and your so-called 'beauty' pageant." She thrust a Barbie doll, clutched in one un-manicured hand, toward Dana. (Summer Beach Barbie, if the likeness to my daughter's toy was any indication.) "This is what you're teaching young girls is the ideal woman. Fake parts, sticky tape, and spray-on tans. A completely unrealistic version of womanhood."

  "Uhh…" Dana's eyes bounced side to side, looking for an escape route.

  "Do you know what the anorexia rates in the United States are?" the woman asked, shaking Barbie hard enough to knock a tiny plastic shoe loose. "One in four! Thanks to these shams of competitions where one living doll tries to outdo another, girls in this country are starving themselves to death!"

  "I—I'm sorry?" Dana squeaked.

  Only the apology didn't seem to calm the angry protester any. She opened her mouth to argue further, lunging Barbie-first at Dana.

  Luckily she didn't get far, as a guy in a Hawaiian shirt with the word "security" stitched next to the lapel suddenly appeared at her side.

  "All right, you've been warned already. Take it outside and off hotel property."

  "You're afraid to hear the truth?!" the woman shouted. "The truth about what's really happening to our young girls!"

  "Oh, you can tell us all about it," the guard said. "From the twenty feet away from the door that's on your permit to protest peacefully." The guard sent us an apologetic smile over her head as he steered her toward a pair of glass double doors at the front of the lobby.

  I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "That was scary."

  "Seriously," Marco agreed. "I mean, did you see how thick her eyebrows were? Ever heard of tweezers, dahling?"

  I shot Marco an elbow to the ribs.

  "She might be right, though." I noticed that Dana's forehead had pulled into a little frown as we stepped onto the elevator.

  "Right?" I asked.

  "Well, I mean I know she was a little over the top. But…she has a point about the contestants creating unrealistic expectations."

  This coming from the 5'7", 110 pound, strawberry-blonde movie star who had spent the better part of the last ten years in the gym.

  "Everyone knows how much goes into looking like a beauty queen," I assured her. "I can't imagine anyone thinks these contestants haven't put a lot of work into their appearance." Though I had to admit, that anorexia statistic niggled at the back of my head when I thought about my own perfectly pudgy little toddler girl at home.

  "I guess," Dana agreed, though her frown remained.

  "Puh-lease," Marco said, smacking the button for the twelfth floor where our rooms were located. "You cannot tell me the world would be a better place if we
all dressed in combat boots and decided to forgo eyebrow threading!"

  I sent him another elbow. However I had to agree that I would not be giving up my own grooming rituals anytime soon.

  We split off when we hit the twelfth floor, Dana and I heading to our rooms in the east wing, while Marco made a sharp left to his room. The pageant coordinators had secured the entire twelfth floor of the hotel for the contestants and the various staff, such as yours truly, associated with the pageant. All of the male staff were currently residing in the west wing, presumably to maintain the chaste standards of the Miss Hawaiian Paradise reputation.

  I keyed my card into my door then quickly showered and did a blow dry and mousse thing with my hair before putting on a fresh round of eyeliner, mascara, and Raspberry Perfection lip gloss. While it was nearing evening, it was still a balmy eighty-one degrees outside, so I slipped into a pale blue sundress with a halter neck, pairing it with low-heeled silver sandals with a cutout detail along the straps. I still had a few minutes before meeting Marco and Dana downstairs, so I grabbed my cell and dialed home.

  Three rings in I heard my husband pick up.

  "Hey, babe."

  I smiled at the sound of his voice. As much as I was looking forward to our girl time, I had to admit a part of me had hated the idea of an entire week away from my guy.

  "Hey, yourself."

  "How's paradise?" he asked. I could hear him shifting the phone as a small, toddler-pitched voice squealed for attention in the background.

  "Fabulous. It's…" I looked out my window at the view of the waves gently crashing against the white, sandy shore, the setting sun creating a dusky pink wash over the entire scene. "Horrible. Ugly. You'd hate it."

  My husband chuckled on the other end. "Nice try."

  I grinned back. "And how was your day?"

  "Piece of cake," he said. Though the squealing in the background had turned up a notch, so I wasn't sure if I 100% believed him.