Fearless in High Heels Read online

  I clenched my teeth together. “For your information, I am drinking. A cranberry juice. So there.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever, Shamu.”

  For a full second the world turned red, my face was filled with lava, and my tongue got stuck somewhere between my throat and my toes.

  “What did you just call me,” I hissed through my teeth, feeling all three tons of my weight clenching for a fight.

  “Maddie,” I heard Dana behind me. I felt her hand on my arm, tugging me in the opposite direction. “Honey, let’s just go.”

  “I think this stick figure just called me a whale,” I said. “I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna sit on her. I’ll suffocate her,” I yelled even as I felt Dana drag me away from the bar. “How do you like that, Stick Figure? Ever been suffocated by a whale before?!”

  Skinny Bitch Chick just shrugged again, sent me a look that said I was clearly the pathetic one, and slipped her emaciated little self toward the bar.

  “You okay?” Dana asked, handing me my cranberry juice.

  “Did you hear her? Did you hear what she called me?”

  Dana nodded. “She’s a twit. Ignore it.”

  Easy for her to say. She was still a size two. I sipped at my cranberry juice, willing the cool drink to cool me down even as I watched the Skinny Bitch walk triumphantly away from the bar, a red and blue cocktail in one hand and her equally smug sidekick a step behind.

  “Come on,” Dana said, watching my eye line nervously. “She’s not worth spoiling our evening over. Let’s go dance.”

  Normally The Bump and dancing don’t mix well, but considering the anger still seething through me, I had some extra energy to burn off, so I let Dana lead me up a flight of stairs to the main dance floor.

  * * *

  As with downstairs, up on the dance floor it felt like everyone in Hollywood was at Crush. At least everyone who was anyone. We spotted a couple of Kardashians drinking in the corner, a couple of Disney Channel faux-teens dancing near the DJ, and a couple of current Dancing with the Stars contestants trying to tango to a Madonna re-mix. And along with Hollywood’s elite were a few non-elite’s that Dana and I recognized as well. Namely a slim, Hispanic guy in zebra printed, vinyl Daisy-Dukes and a red mesh tank with a boy toy in one hand and a martini in the other.

  He waved the moment he saw us, wiggling his plastic clad butt our way. “Maddie, dahling, what are you doing here?” he gasped in an accent that was 50% Valley Girl and 50% San Francisco.

  Marco worked as the receptionist at my step-father, Fernando’s, salon while cultivating his budding career as a party planner. He was known for wearing more eyeliner than Lady Gaga, owning more pairs of leather pants than any other man (or woman) on the west coast, and having enough drama-queen in him to single handedly keep Broadway in business for the next decade. His current look included dying his hair bright yellow and drawing in a large, black beauty mark on his cheek, just above the cheekbone.

  I greeted him with a couple of air kisses, before answering his question. “Dana’s boyfriend is a part owner of the place.”

  “Fabu, honey!” Marco exclaimed, giving Dana a shoulder bump before he turned back to me. “But what I meant was what are you doing here? You know… in your condition?” he asked, pseudo whispering the last word as if saying it out loud might suddenly make pregnancy a catching disease.

  “I’m having a good time,” I hissed.

  He scrunched up his nose. “Is that allowed when you’re… you know?”

  “I’m pregnant, not dead,” I shot back.

  Marco threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, geeze, sorry for asking.” He turned to Dana. “The hormones are making her a little touchy, no?”

  “Who’s your friend?” Dana asked, wisely changing the subject lest she need to pull the hormonal woman off another unsuspecting skinny person that night.

  Marco’s face brightened up immediately. “This,” he said gesturing to the boy toy, “is Gunnar.”

  Gunnar was tall, blonde, tanned, and built like he’d just escaped from the set of Baywatch.

  “Nice to meet you,” Dana said.

  Gunnar flashed a bright white smile at her and nodded.

  “Gunnar’s Norwegian,” Marco said. “He doesn’t speak a word of English. Isn’t that precious?”

  Gunnar smiled and nodded again.

  I nodded back and did a universal “hello” wave. “He doesn’t understand any English either?” I asked.

  Marco shook his head, beaming. “None. He’s an exchange student staying with your mom and Fernando,” Marco explained. “They asked me to show him around. Some days, I love my job.” He sighed, eyeing Gunnar’s biceps.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gunnar,” I told his blank expression. “But I think I have to go find the ladies’ room. Cranberry juice overload.”

  Dana looked down at my glass. “But you only took a couple sips.”

  My turn to sigh. “I know. Peeing has become my hobby lately. You dance, I’ll catch up to you,” I told her, heading back toward the stairs.

  It took a good twenty minutes to shove back through the crowded club again before I finally reached a door near the back with a little blue stick figure in a dress pasted on it signaling my Mecca. I quickly pushed through, instantly assaulted by the scents of hairspray, body spray, and something else that was lightly less aromatic. Three young, annoyingly slim, and fashionably dressed so-used-to-be-me women stood at the mirror primping, while two stalls sat behind them. Even in here the noise from the DJ was still deafening as I bent down and tilted my head under the stall doors, trying to peek for tell-tale feet. Just my luck, a pair of stilettos stared back at me under the first door. Next to a pair of loafers. I heard a moan from behind the metal door and it didn’t take much imagination to realize what was going on in there. I think I blushed as I moved on to the second stall, and did a repeat.

  Again, shoes. This time black, satin with tall, metal spiked heels. Great. Bitch Chick was in the second stall. Just my luck.

  I crossed my legs, leaned against the hand dryer, and waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  Three minutes into it, I thought I was going to explode.

  “Um, you going to be long in there?” I called out.

  No response.

  “There’s a pregnant woman out here about to burst,” I warned.

  Again, nothing.

  I moved to bang on the door with my fist, but the second my hand made contact, the door swung open.

  And that’s when, for the first time in five months, peeing dropped to number two on my priority list.

  Sitting inside the stall, slumped backward on the toilet seat was the dark-haired girl I’d had words with earlier. And while she wasn’t doing what one might think a person in a toilet stall would be doing, it was clear she was not going to be getting up any time soon. Her head lulled to one side, a trickle of blood dripped down the front of her dress, and her eyes stared at the ceiling, wide and unseeing. And totally dead.

  Chapter Three

  Had the music not been so loud, it’s possible I might have heard myself scream. As it was, the first sign I had that I was freaking out was a wave of nausea and a swaying of the room in front of my eyes. I blinked, took in a deep breath, willed my stomach contents to stay put as I grabbed onto the side of the stall, then took another deep breath.

  Once I was pretty sure I remembered the mechanics of breathing again, I tried to force some logical thought into my brain.

  Here’s the thing: I’m ashamed to admit this is not the first dead body that I’ve found. Through no fault of my own, I seem to be some kind of dead person magnet. In fact, that’s how I originally met my husband, the homicide detective. I’d like to think it’s just bad luck on my part, but the truth is my dead-body-finding luck is beyond bad. It’s downright disastrous.

  I gingerly reached into the stall and put one finger to the side of Bitch Chick’s neck to feel for a pulse. Her skin was still wa
rm but had a distinctly rubbery feel that gave me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. Not surprisingly, no blood pulsed there.

  I pulled my hand back and instinctively wiped it on the seat of my pants to get rid of the dead person cooties. Yep, she was definitely gone. I mentally debated between calling the cops and grabbing the attention of one of the burly security guys Crush had roaming the floor. Considering calling the cops probably entailed lots of hanging out in the bathroom with a dead woman while on hold with 911, I went with option two.

  I shut the stall door, said a silent prayer that no one else stumbled in here in the next two minutes, and backed out of the restroom.

  The strobe lights and lasers from the dance floor immediately assaulted my eyes as I scanned the crowd for one of the guys in a black t-shirts with “security” printed on the back. I finally found one near a grouping of tables to the right and shoved my way through the crowds toward him.

  “Dead girl,” I panted as I reached his side, realizing I was out of breath.

  The security guy squinted down at me. He was at least a foot taller than I was, at least a hundred pounds heavier (which was saying something, given my current condition), and his skin was two shades darker. He had intimidating bad-ass written all over him.

  “What are you talking about, girl?” he asked.

  I paused, took in a deep breath, willed my heart to slow down a couple of hundred beats per minute. “In the women’s restroom. There’s a dead body.”

  “You high?” he asked, his eyes narrowing further as he checked my pupils.

  I shook my head so hard blonde hair whipped my cheeks. “No. I swear. Go look. She’s really dead,” I managed in a choppy breath.

  He stared at me for another beat, still not convinced I was for real. Then finally said, “Show me.”

  While going back in there was the last thing I wanted to do, I was left with little choice. So I did, leading him toward the restroom. There was still a crush of girls primping at the mirrors, though thankfully Pumps and Loafers had finished their business, leaving one stall empty. I pointed with a noticeably shaky hand at the other one.

  “In there,” I said, hating how high and squeaky my voice was.

  Security Guy knocked on the stall door. But, just as it had for me, it swung open before anyone could respond. Not that anyone in there could respond. I gulped back a wave of nausea again, looking away.

  Security Guy was silent for a moment, his face unreadable as he stared into the stall. Then he finally said, “Oh yeah. She’s definitely dead.”

  * * *

  Forty minutes later I had finally relieved myself (in the men’s room), the strobe lights were off, the lasers gone, the DJ’s station silent, and the crowd assembled in hushed groups of three and four as uniformed officers questioned potential witnesses. Including yours truly. Dana, Marco, the silent Gunnar and I were all slumped in a booth near the back, awaiting round two of questions as officers huddled near the door to the ladies’ room, whispering, pointing, calling in higher ranking detectives to do the dirty work.

  One of whom I unfortunately recognized immediately.

  “Uh oh,” Dana said her eyes honing in on him as she voiced my thoughts exactly. “Isn’t that…”

  “Yep.” I gulped down a ball of dread.

  “You know what?” Marco said, spotting him too. “I think I’m just gonna go use the little boys’ room…” he trailed off, sliding out of the booth, Dana and Gunnar a quick step behind him.

  Traitors. Though, as I watched the reason for their quick getaway spot me, scowl, then make purposeful strides toward my booth, I kinda didn’t blame them. I’d flee if I could, too.

  He was tall and built like a boxer – all tight muscle and tough attitude. A faint scar ran through his left eyebrow, a black panther tattoo snaked down his left bicep, and his eyes were a deep, dark brown, so intense they were almost black as they bore down on me.

  I cleared my throat and did a little one finger wave his direction. “Hi, honey.”

  My husband did not wave back. No smile, no hint of amusement whatsoever. In his defense, I guess finding your wife at your crime scene wasn’t every detective’s dream. But, in my defense, you’d think he’d be used to it by now.

  I cleared my throat again and shifted nervously in my seat.

  Ramirez crossed his arms over his chest. He looked from me to the yellow tape being stretched across the ladies’ room door. Back to me. Then he slowly shook his head.

  “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do. Again.”

  I gulped. No kidding.

  “Look, it wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “I just had to pee.”

  “You always have to pee. You don’t always find dead bodies.”

  “I’d like you to remember that statement in the future.”

  He shot me a dark look. “Just tell me what happened, Springer.”

  Ouch. Last name. He was serious. I shifted again, then spilled it in the best so-not-my-fault way I could, telling him how I’d encountered Skinny Bitch Chick in the ladies’ room.

  When I was done he gave me a long, hard stare. “What on earth possessed you to take our unborn baby to a club in the first place?” he finally said.

  I blinked at him. “Excuse me, last time I checked this was still my body.”

  “Carrying our baby.”

  “Well for another four months she goes where I go, and if I want to go to a club, I’m going. Besides, it’s a club not a shooting range. What danger could she possibly be in?”

  “Besides his mother getting in an altercation with a woman just before she’s murdered?”

  I bit my lip. “Oh. You heard about that, huh?”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah. I heard. Apparently witnesses said you threatened to kill her? To suffocate her to death?”

  “She called me fat!” I protested.

  Ramirez closed his eyes. He did a silent two count, and I could see him employing a couple of those deep Lamaze breaths I’d been learning.

  “Let’s get back to the body,” he finally said, opening his eyes again. “You said you found her in the restroom, correct?”

  I nodded. “She was in a stall.”

  “Who else was in the restroom at the time?” he asked.

  I scrunched my nose up, trying to remember specifics. “There were some girls in front of the mirror, but they were just hanging out there. And there was a couple getting busy in the stall next door.”

  The corner of Ramirez’s lip quirked up. “’Getting busy’?”

  I felt myself blush. “Doing… you know. Anyway, no, I didn’t see anyone fleeing the scene with a knife in hand.” I paused. “Or a gun?” I asked, realizing I wasn’t exactly sure how Bitch Chick had met her demise. Admittedly, I hadn’t done a thorough examination of the body in the stall.

  Ramirez shook his head. “No evidence of a gunshot so far.”

  “How did she die then?” I asked.

  Ramirez looked past me to the crime scene. “We’ll have to wait for the M.E.’s report to be sure. But it looks like exsanguination.”

  “She bled to death?” I clarified.

  Ramirez nodded.

  I felt a frown pull between my brows. “But there didn’t seem to be that much blood,” I pointed out, remembering the thin trickle I’d seen earlier. “I mean, I saw a little on her dress, but not much.”

  He nodded. “I know. We’re looking into it. It’s possible she was killed elsewhere then dumped here.”

  I felt my frown deepen. Sure, that might have been possible… but only half an hour earlier she’d been at the bar insulting me. That didn’t leave a lot of time for the killer to rush her somewhere else, bleed her to death, then rush her body back.

  “What makes you think she bled to death?” I asked, wondering if maybe their theory had some holes in it.

  Ramirez pursed his lips. “There were lacerations on her neck.”

  “Lacerations?” I asked. “Like, cuts? Stab wounds?”

  He frowned. �
�Sort of. More like puncture wounds.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Puncture wounds. On her neck. How many?”

  Ramirez cleared his throat. “Two of them.”

  “Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Are you telling me that she has bite marks on her neck?”

  Ramirez’s mouth took on a pinched look. “Puncture wounds.”

  “Holy shazbah, she was killed by a vampire bite?”

  Ramirez shot me a look. “That’s it. No more Moonlight for you, Springer.”

  “But you just said she was drained of blood.”

  “She bled out. I didn’t say she was drained.”

  “And she had bite marks.”

  “Puncture wounds. And beyond that, I’m waiting for the M.E.’s report before speculating further on how or why the marks are on her neck. And,” he added giving me a stern look, “I suggest you not speculate either.”

  Right. Only, how could I not? Pale skin, long black hair, bite marks, and death by blood sucking. It all added up to one thing as far as I was concerned.

  Death by vampire.

  * * *

  “No way! Skinny Bitch Chick was a vampire?” Marco gaped at me across my kitchen table the next morning, almost spilling his mug of coffee.

  I shifted in my seat. “I’m not sure we should continue calling her that now that she’s dead. And, no, she wasn’t a vampire, she was bitten by a vampire.”

  “Lord have mercy, this is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me,” Marco said. “Real life Moonlight hotties walking among us.” He practically drooled at the thought.

  Dana scoffed. “Come on. You don’t really believe the vampire thing, do you?”

  Marco shrugged. “A boy can dream,” he answered.

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t really believe there are vampires roaming among us. But here’s the thing: even if there is no such thing as a vampire, someone clearly tried to make it look like she was bitten by a vampire. Bite marks, blood drained. Someone either thinks they are a vampire or wants us to think they are.”

  “What do we know about Bit-” Marco paused, catching himself just in time. “About the victim?” he amended.