Christmas In High Heels Read online

  “Merry Christmas, Mads!” he sang out.

  “Same to you,” I returned. “All of you,” I said, nodding to his merry little band of fashionistas.

  “Maddie, I’d like to introduce you to GAYMAS.”

  “Gaymas?”

  He nodded, his heavily lined eyes taking on a serious look. “The Glendale A Cappella Young Men’s Activity Squad. What do you think?”

  I bit back a giggle. “Very clever.”

  “Thanks. We’ve been practicing for months, right fellas?”

  The men behind him all nodded.

  “We only have one problem,” he went on. “We’re going caroling down Venice Beach tonight, but Aldo, our tenor, got the flu and we’re one short for our big ‘Deck the Halls with Diamond Tiaras’ finale.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, still struggling to keep a straight face.

  “So, we were wondering, I mean, if he’s around, if maybe we could borrow your man for the evening?” Marco batted his enviably long eyelashes at me.

  “Ramirez?” I choked the word out on a laugh.

  Marco nodded. “Pretty please? Just for a couple of hours?”

  “Um, I don’t know that he’s much of a singer.” I looked behind me. Ramirez once again had the TV on, the strains of some sports announcer filling the living room.

  “Oh, all he really has to do is the fa-la-la-la-la parts. I’m sure he can manage those,” Marco pleaded.

  “Well, we actually planned to spend the evening together just the two of us.” I said. Not to mention Ramirez was more of an NFL guy than a fa-la-la-la-la guy.

  “Oh.” Poor Marco’s face looked so crestfallen I felt sorry for him despite how ridiculous his plan had been.

  “Listen, Dana and Ricky were just here and they’re chock full of holiday spirit. Maybe Ricky would be your tenor?” I suggested.

  Marco’s face brightened some. “You think? Okay, I’ll call Dana as soon as we get to Venice. Thanks, Mads. Merry Christmas,” he called as he led his merry troupe back down the drive.

  As I shut the door, I swore I could hear the first bars of “I’m Dreaming of a White Tie Christmas”.

  I was still grinning as I settled myself back on the sofa, curling into the crook of Ramirez’s arm.

  “So… I believe we left off at fashion show,” I said, coyly running my finger down his chest.

  “Uh huh.”

  “You, me, Christmas lingerie, your big bed…” My hand trailed lower, flirting with his belt buckle.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I think that lacey one with the little ribbons might be a good place to start. Maybe you can help me put it on. Or better yet, take it off…” I trailed off, whispering my lips along his neck.

  “Uh huh.”

  I pulled back. His eyes were glued to the guys in little helmets running across the TV screen.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Or maybe I could send you off caroling with Marco and the GAYMAS singers.”

  “Uh huh. Sure, babe.”

  I threw my hands up. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  Ramirez tore his gaze away from the TV and gave me a blank stare. “What?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I was disconnecting the cable through the rest of football season.

  But didn’t get a chance as the doorbell rang.

  Yes. Again.

  I shut my jaw with a click, mumbling a, “Never mind” as I got up and threw open the front door.

  Standing on the front step was my mother’s oldest and dearest friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred pound, five time divorcee, Jewish psychic with Lucille Ball red hair and fluorescent-colored muumuus (currently dotted with pink poinsettias) who talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn’t even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  “Fruitcake,” she said, pushing past me into the room.

  I blinked. “What?” I asked, thinking she’d read my mind.

  She shoved a round, metal tin at me. “I brought you and Ramirez a fruitcake.”

  “Oh.” I took the tin (which weighed at least a ton and a half) and lifted the lid, peeking inside. A round cake dotted with bright red maraschino cherries stared back at me. “Thanks.” I think.

  “No problem. Sally Slovesky and I baked a whole mess of them for the senior center, but only a few of them old folks ate any. Turns out they’re murder on dentures. Go figure.” Mrs. R shrugged her massive shoulders. “Anyhoo, your mom called and told me you weren’t going to Midnight Mass with your grandmother-”

  I rolled my eyes. I was never going to live this one down.

  “- and she said you deserved one of my fruitcakes for Christmas.”

  That’s it, I was totally inspecting the cranberry sauce tomorrow before eating it.

  “Great,” I said, trying hard to hide my sarcasm. “That’s very… nice of you.”

  “So,” she said, sweeping a glance around the living room. “Where’s your menorah?”

  “My what?”

  “Your Hanukkah menorah? I don’t see it.”

  “Oh, uh… I’m not sure we really have one.”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt turned on me, her eyes wide above her pudgy cheeks. “What do you mean you don’t have a menorah? What are your neighbors gonna think?”

  I looked to Ramirez for help, but he was either a) deeply engrossed in the game or b) pretending to be deeply engrossed in the game so he didn’t have to deal with Mrs. Rosenblatt.

  “Uh, well, we’re not really Jewish, Mrs. Rosenblatt,” I said.

  She waved me off, her underarms jiggling with the effort. “Nonsense. This is L.A. You live here longer than three years, you’re Jewish by default. I guess we’ll have to improvise. Where do you keep your candles?”

  I blinked at her. “Uh…”

  But she didn’t wait for an answer, charging into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers until she came up with four tapered dining candles, two votives, a citron mosquito repellent candle, and a Glade scented oil light.

  “This oughtta do it,” she said, huffing the entire group over to the front window. She arranged them in a line, then proceeded to light two of the tapered candles and plug in the Glade light. Immediately the room started to fill with Tropical Tryst air freshener.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt cocked her head to the side. “Not strictly traditional, but I like it.”

  “Great.” I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, bubbee. Just don’t forget to light that mosquito candle tomorrow night, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Now, as much as I’d like to stay and visit with you young folks, I’ve got other stops to make.” She headed for the door, her muumuu swishing around her ankles. “Happy Hanukah, kids.”

  “Thanks for the fruitcake,” I said, quickly getting the door for her.

  “You betcha. And you just let me know when you’re ready for a New Year’s aura cleansing. It pays to start the year off with a clean slate, karmicly speaking, you know,” she called, as I let the door click shut behind her.

  Then locked it.

  Then, just for good measure, turned out the porch light.

  Praying we were done with visitors for the evening, I made my way back to the sofa.

  Where I found Ramirez, slumped in front of the game. His eyes shut, his jaw slack, a soft snoring sound vibrating from his throat.

  I felt a deep sigh seep through my limbs. Not exactly the romantic Christmas Eve I’d had planned.

  Resigned, I grabbed an afghan from the armrest and covered his sleeping form with it. Then flipped off the TV and dropped a soft peck on his cheek.

  “Merry Christmas, Jack,” I whispered. Then tip-toed off to bed.

  * * *

  Bright sunlight filtered through the curtains, invading my deep, dreamless sleep. I sighed and stretched, rolling over to find Ramirez beside me, still snoring slightly.

  I grinned. I couldn’t help it. It was C
hristmas.

  I quietly slipped out of the bed, throwing on a robe as I padded into the kitchen to make coffee. I contemplated the fruitcake for a moment, but, luckily, as the scent of French roast filled the kitchen, I came to my senses and dropped the tin in the trash instead. Never trust a food that’s been delivered as punishment. Instead, I took my “I Heart My Cop” mug over to the Christmas tree and flipped on our sparkly red and gold lights. Never mind that I was flirting with thirty, I suddenly felt like a little kid again as I watched the colored lights chase each other around the tree.

  “Morning, beautiful.” Ramirez’s arms went around my waist, snatching me in a warm hug.

  “Morning.”

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You?”

  “Like a baby.” He leaned in close, nuzzling my neck. “Sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

  “Sorry my friends kept showing up.”

  “Not really the evening alone you had planned, huh?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” And right then, as I leaned into his warmth, it didn’t. So, it hadn’t been the picture perfect romantic evening I’d envisioned. But, we had spent it together. That was what mattered.

  Hopefully the first of many we’d spend the same way.

  I sighed out loud at the pleasant thought.

  “What’s that?” Ramirez asked.

  I followed his gaze to a red envelope shoved under the tree.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

  I bent down, retrieving it from the floor. On the outside was scrawled both Ramirez’s and my names.

  “Should we open it?” I asked.

  “It is Christmas,” he replied.

  As I may have mentioned, where gifts are concerned, I don’t need to be told twice. I ripped the sucker open and slipped my hand inside… pulling out two airline tickets. To Hawaii. For an entire week’s stay.

  I felt my breath catch in my throat.

  “Whoa,” Ramirez said, voicing my sentiment. He grabbed the envelope, looking inside. “There’s a hotel voucher in here, too.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  Ramirez pulled a little slip of red paper out of the envelope, then smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he read it. “S. Claus. He says, ‘Enjoy your first Christmas alone together with a quiet, romantic vacation just for the two of you.’”

  I took the paper, examining it even as I felt my lips curving into a matching smile. I flipped it over, wondering just which one of our visitors last night had slipped this little goodie under our tree.

  “Well, what do you think?” Ramirez asked, his eyes twinkling.

  “I guess we can’t very well disappoint Santa, now can we?” I replied coyly.

  “That doesn’t sound wise,” he agreed.

  “Tell you what, you pack and I’ll call Mom and tell her we won’t be making it for that turkey dinner after all.”

  “Think she’ll be mad?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure by Easter she’ll have forgotten all about it.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’re going to Hawaii.” He leaned in and planted a soft, warm kiss on my lips.

  “Hey,” I mumbled. I reached toward the sofa and grabbed our ‘gifts’ from last night. “Don’t forget to pack these.”

  His eyes went dark and liquid, his lips twitching into his trademarked wicked grin.

  “Trust me, they were the first things on the list.”

  * * * * *

  About the author:

  Gemma Halliday is the author of the High Heels Mysteries, as well as the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries series. Gemma’s books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, a National Reader’s Choice award and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she is hard at work on several new projects, including a mystery series for teens debuting in 2011, and a new mystery series for adults, set to be published in 2012.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at www.GemmaHalliday.com

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  of the first book in the

  High Heels Mysteries

  by Gemma Halliday:

  SPYING

  IN

  HIGH HEELS

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  I was late.

  And I don’t mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and was now stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side of condom boxes flashed before my eyes as I white knuckled my way down the 405, silently screaming, why me? Why, oh why me? I’m a new millennium girl. I took copious notes in 6th grade Sex Ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in the zippered section of my purse. And, after that first singularly awkward experience in the back of Todd Hanson’s ‘82 Chevy after junior prom, I have been meticulously careful. Me. I was late. And I was not taking it well.

  “Dana?” Silence. “Dana, I need to talk to you.” Silence. “I swear to God if you are screening me I am never speaking to you again.”

  I switched my cell phone to the other hand as I changed lanes, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pick-up that had “wash me” carved in opaque dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend’s answering machine.

  “Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?” I paused. Nothing. “All right, I guess you really aren’t there. But please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I mean pronto. This is a serious code red, 911 emergency. I need to talk to you now!” I punctuated this last word by laying on my horn as a bald guy in a convertible cut me off then had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A.

  I flipped my phone shut, breaking a French tipped nail in the process, and counted to ten, trying to remember some of that calming yoga breathing from the one class Dana had dragged me to last month. Unfortunately, at the time I’d had my full attention focused on not falling flat on my face during a downward facing dog, and I think I was beginning to hyperventilate.

  I merged onto the 10 freeway, glancing down at the digital readout on my dashboard clock, and realized with a twist of irony that I was now not only late, but late. As in not on time to meet my boyfriend, Richard Howe, for lunch. He’d made one o’clock reservations at Giani’s and it was now twelve fifty-eight. I eased my suede ankle boot (which had maxed out my Macy’s card, but was so worth it!) down just a little harder on the accelerator, after checking the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering the day I’d had so far, an encounter with the CHP was not on my list of to-do’s.

  As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also gave myself a quick once over in the mirror. Not bad considering I was having the freak out of my life. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist, a few flyaways but the messy look was in, right? I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection lip-gloss and applied a thin swipe across my lips, ignoring the obscene gestures from the guy behind me. Hey, if a girl in a crisis doesn’t have her lipstick, what does she have?

  I’m proud to say I only got flipped off two more times before pulling my little red Jeep (top up today as a concession to my hair) into the parking garage on the corner of 7th and Grand. I fastened The Club securely on my steering wheel and prepared to hoof it the two blocks to my boyfriend’s firm where I was supposed to meet him… I looked down at my watch… damn. Twelve minutes ago. Well, on the up side, as soon as I told him about being late, I had a feeling he’d forget all about my being late.

  A conversation I was seriously dreading. In my mind it went something like this: Hi Richard, sorry I’m late, by the way I may be having your child. Insert cartoon sound of Richard hitting the door at roadrunner-like speeds. Ugh. There was just no good way to ease into information like that. We’d only been dating for a few months. We hadn’t even made it to the shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond stage yet, and suddenly we had
to have this conversation? I adjusted my bra strap as I walked, tucking it back under my tank top, trying like anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together. And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial touted early results with digital readouts.

  Exactly fourteen minutes behind schedule I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. In reality the firm was called Donaldson, Chesterton, and Howe. But I couldn’t resist the nickname. Considering the type of clientele they represented (the Chanel and Rolex crowd) it fit like an imported, calfskin glove.

  Beyond the frosted front doors maroon carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. The large oval of dark woods stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on either side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at three hundred dollars an hour filled the background.

  “May I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. Or as I liked to call her, Miss PP. As in plastic parts. Jasmine spent two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures. This week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards. Last month it was new boobs, double D of course. As usual, her bleached blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”. I’m what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on a good day. I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the rides at Six Flags.

  “I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?” Her blue eyes blinked (with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent gesture that I knew was anything but. Jasmine’s sole entertainment here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the sacred offices beyond the frosted doors.