Danger in High Heels Read online

  Irina snapped to attention, concentration taut in her face as she arched her body around Ricky's.

  I stole a quick glance at Dana. Her mouth was set in that grim line again, her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched. Poor thing. We were only three episodes in. She had a lot of watching her man dance with someone else ahead of her.

  The rumba was over surprisingly quickly, ending in the same air-lifted pose we'd seen before. As soon as the music stopped and Ricky placed his partner back on the floor, Irina's face broke into a frown.

  "Too slow," she said, a thick accent coloring her speech. "We'll do it again."

  Ricky sighed. "We've done it four times."

  "We'll do it until you have it right!" she snapped, then turned on heel and walked back offstage again, down a hall leading to the left. "Re-set the music," I heard her yell as she disappeared.

  Ricky turned Dana's way, sent her a grin, then rolled his eyes before grabbing his water bottle.

  And in the carriage, Max started squirming and making little mewing sounds.

  "I think I better go feed the animals," I reluctantly told Dana.

  She nodded, her face relaxing in direct proportion to the distance now between Ricky and his hot co-star. "Sure. There's a lounge just behind the bleachers. It's usually empty."

  I nodded. "You coming with?"

  She shook her head. "If you don't need me, I think I'm going to stay and watch them practice."

  Which I interpreted to mean she didn't want to leave Irina and her man alone.

  "'K. Be back in a sec," I promised, popping the brakes up on the stroller and heading toward the lounge.

  I found it easily enough, a plain, square room filled with non-descript sofas, a microwave, and a water cooler. Again, it reminded me of an office building much more than the glamour of Hollywood. I plopped myself down in one of the chairs, then grabbed the bottles from the diaper bag and mixed their powdery stuff with some bottled water.

  While I'd honestly tried to breast feed at first, I'd learned very quickly that with twins, that meant ninety percent of the time I had a small person attached to my chest. Kinda made it hard to do anything but make milk. By week two I'd felt so much like a cow that the wheat grass juice Dana drank daily was starting to look appetizing. I'd made the wise decision to switch to pumping half time, and going formula half time. Honestly, the twins seemed just as content with a baby bottle in their mouths, and I was way more content. And less prone to grass cravings.

  After a couple of suck downs and a quick burp on the back for each, we were once again settled into the carriage. I pushed the little ones out onto the set, hoping to grab Dana and go track down Lana.

  But as soon as I turned the corner, I realized something much bigger than wardrobe malfunctions was going on.

  The stage was abandoned, grips and PA's were running in every direction shouting into their walkie-talkies. A new addition of about half a dozen security guards was swarming the set. And dancers in sweats and tiny T-shirts were waving their arms and shouting loudly enough that even if the twins hadn't been fat and happy at the moment, they would have been totally drowned out.

  I pushed the stroller down toward the hallway I'd seen before, craning for a glimpse of Dana or Ricky. A group of hair and make-up people were crowded together, talking in hushed tones, shaking their heads.

  Anxiety began to rise in my gut. Something about the scene did not feel business-as-usual.

  "What's going on?" I asked a girl in an apron loaded with cosmetics.

  She whirled around, eyes wide. "They found Irina," she told me.

  "Was she missing?" I asked, trying to play catch up. Last I'd seen, she was setting to rehearse again. How long had I been gone feeding the babies? Twenty minutes? Half hour tops?

  The girl nodded, her sloppy bun bobbing up and down on top of her head. "When they went to set the music again, no one could find her. She wasn't in her dressing room, or wardrobe, or anywhere."

  "But you just said they did finally find her," I reminded her, knowing there was more to the story, or else everyone would be wearing looks of relief, not the frowns of anxiety marking their faces now.

  She nodded again. "They found her in Ricky Montgomery's dressing room. Naked," she added.

  Oh lord. Dana was going to freak!

  But what I heard next made me realize that Dana was the least of the girl's problems.

  "She's…" The make-up girl paused, her face paling. "Dead."

  Chapter Four

  There are two things that everyone knows about me. One: I live for fashion. As a child I spent more hours than I care to count dressing my dolls for every special occasion under the sun. In fact, I spent so much time dressing my dolls that they never actually attended any special occasions. When I ran out of pre-made doll fashions, I started using whatever I had on hand to create my own. Socks, handkerchiefs, scarves - all were fair game to my pair of safety scissors and glue stick as I cut, wrapped, draped, and stuck the items to my uniquely styled dolls.

  As soon as I got to high school, and my dolls went the way of the yard sale, I started experimenting with my own clothes. Very seldom did I buy an outfit off the rack and wear it as-is. Normally my scissors (sharp sewing ones this time) did their magic first, creating one-of-a-kind custom garments. After graduating, I was accepted to the Academy of Art Fashion Design School in San Francisco, where I found my true fashion passion - shoes. No matter how tall you were, how short, how fat, how thin, every woman could fit into a fabulous pair of shoes. I started designing Paris-worthy pumps then and never looked back.

  That was the first thing people knew about me. The second thing? I'm ashamed to say I'm a bit of a dead body magnet.

  Know how some people have all the luck when it comes to bingo or sweepstakes? I have all the murder luck. I swear I do nothing on my own to incur this sort of luck, but it seems to follow me everywhere I go. My first run-in with death was back when I met Ramirez, and we were tracking down my MIA ex-boyfriend. Since then, I'd had the fortune - or misfortune - of being involved with several of his cases. But to be fair, I'd even helped solve a few.

  So while the word "dead" uttered by the make-up girl churned my stomach, I was not altogether as shocked as one might think.

  Like a good friend, my first thought was of Dana. She must be hysterical that not only had a dead woman been found, but a naked dead woman in her boyfriend's dressing room.

  But I'll admit that a close second thought was much more selfish and closer to home. My husband was going to be so pissed. I consoled myself with the fact that I had not technically been the one to find the body this time. In fact, I'd been yards away, feeding the babies at the time. So, really, I wasn't even sure you could count this as a Maddie Body at all.

  At least, that was the story I was sticking with.

  I quickly pointed the gargantuan stroller past the crowd of make-up people (Okay, maybe quickly was a slight exaggeration since a stroller that size does not move anywhere quickly.) and down the hallway, off of which were a series of closed doors. One read "Shaniqua", another "Kaylie", which I recognized as the Teen Mom on the show, and the last was labeled "Ricky Montgomery". That one, predictably, had a crowd of people standing around it, including several grips, dancers, and more hair and make-up people. They were all watching the scene with undisguised interest, while a pair of guys in white security shirts and black shorts stood at the door, barring anyone's entry.

  I scanned the onlookers for a tall, strawberry blonde. But as it turned out, I heard Dana before I caught a glimpse of her.

  "She was doing what naked in your dressing room?" Dana shouted.

  Uh-oh.

  "Babe, you've gotta calm down," I heard Ricky's voice in response.

  "I don't gotta do anything, babe," Dana yelled back.

  "Look, I don't know how she got there," Ricky protested.

  "And why was she naked?" Dana asked.

  "I don't know!"

  "And where were you?" Dana countered.


  I stood on tip-toe and caught a glimpse of her. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed into slits, lips pursed. Ears practically spewing steam.

  "I... I... I don't know. It was busy, there was a lot going on. You know how it is on set. Everything crazy..." Ricky's voice trailed off unconvincingly.

  "Oh my God," Dana yelled, throwing her hands up. "I leave you alone for one minute, and the next thing I know you're screwing your co-star behind my back!"

  "I was not!" Ricky protested. "I was just... I mean we were..."

  "You were what?" Dana asked, leaning in close and poking him in the chest with one manicured finger. "You were doing what with a naked dancer in your dressing room?"

  "Look, this isn't really the place to do this," Ricky said, eyes shifting to the growing crowd, no doubt hearing the entire conversation played back in his head through the reporting of paparazzi.

  But clearly Dana didn't care. Dana was freaking, and she was not backing down for anything.

  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tear you limb from limb right now, pal," she said, her voice low, menacing, and filled with the kind of threat that a woman who engages in cardio kickboxing six out of seven days a week can carry through with.

  As I leaned in closer, waiting for Ricky's reply, I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder.

  "Hey, what's going on?"

  "Fight," I said without turning around. "Ricky's so busted."

  "Busted for what?" came the reply.

  "Cheating on Dana with a dead girl and-" I froze mid-sentence as I turned around to see the speaker.

  And came face to face with a tall, dark-haired, broad chested guy. My husband, Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD Homicide.

  I gulped.

  Ramirez raised one dark eyebrow at me. "Dead girl?" he asked.

  I nodded. Reluctantly. "But I swear I was nowhere near the dressing room when they found her. I was feeding the babies. Waaaaaaay over there," I said, drawing out the word as I pointed back toward the lounge.

  Ramirez stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "'Way' over there, huh?"

  "Did you hear the part about how I did not find her?" I emphasized.

  "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Springer?" he asked, the use of my last name giving me some relief that he wasn't in the livid-pissed range, but more exasperated-pissed.

  "I'm guessing this is your case now?" I asked.

  He nodded, glancing at the dressing room door. "I presume she's in there?"

  "I think so. But," I added, "like I said, I haven't actually even seen the dead body. I'm so out of the loop this time." I held both hands up in an innocent gesture to bring home my point.

  He shot me a look. "This time."

  "Exactly."

  He took a deep breath. "Okay." He paused, looked down at the babies gurgling with happy, full stomachs in the stroller. "I'd ask you to go home, but that's not gonna happen, is it?"

  I gave him an apologetic look. "Well, I can't just leave Dana here..."

  "All right, all right. Tell you what: wait with Dana. But once we get her statement you both go right home. Capice?"

  I nodded and did a mock salute. "Scout's honor."

  Ramirez shot me a look that said he didn't really believe I'd been a scout, let alone was going to keep clear of the murder scene. But he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling out his badge and pushing his way toward Ricky's dressing room.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ramirez's entire crew of backup arrived, including CSU in black jackets carrying rolls of crime scene tape, a coroner with a stretcher, and a bunch of guys in uniforms who spread out to question people like a well-organized army.

  Dana and I sat on the bleachers, watching the scene unfold almost as if we were the audience witnessing a crime drama play out. Only as we watched two guys in plainclothes question Ricky, it hit home how very real this all was.

  Ricky gestured wildly with his arms as the first guy tried to calm him down (obviously Good Cop) and the second gave him a hard stare (clearly Bad Cop).

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and pulled it out to see a text from my mom.

  omg. dead grl in rm's dressin room?

  I cringed. "Looks like the media has already gotten hold of this story." I showed Dana the text.

  She did a mirror image of my cringe. "Fab."

  true, I texted back to Mom. Where did u c the story?

  informer website, she typed back.

  I whipped my head around, half expecting to see the perky blonde head of Allie Quick bobbing through the crowd. It took me a second to remember, duh, no press were allowed on set. Which meant Allie must have an informant on the set. I scanned the assembled grips, PA's, dancers, celebrities and various other scattered crew, wondering just which one of them was feeding her info.

  "I missed the end of your fight," I told Dana, as I tucked my phone back in my pocket. "I'm guessing Ricky had no explanation for Irina being in his dressing room."

  "Nude in his dressing room," she added. Then shook her head, her face a blank as she watched Ricky. "And, no. Three years. You spend that kind of time with someone, and you think you know them."

  "You really think he was cheating on you?" I asked.

  Dana blew out a big breath. "I don't know what to believe."

  "How long did you leave him alone?" I asked.

  "Just a few minutes," Dana said. "Or, I don't know. Maybe a little longer, I guess. I got a call form my agent about the Lover Girl shoot next week. I stepped outside to take it, and when I came back in, everyone was looking for Irina. It wasn't until they found her that I saw Ricky again."

  "I hate to be the one to point this out," I said, watching as Bad Cop took his turn grilling Ricky, "but it really doesn't look good that she was found in Ricky's dressing room."

  "I know. I know. I mean, what else would she be doing there au naturel, right?"

  I shifted uncomfortably on the bleachers. "No, I mean... well... I didn't exactly hear an iron clad alibi back there when you asked where he was earlier?"

  Her eyes went big and round. "Oh, no. No way. Ricky did not kill that girl. I mean, there's a big difference between cheating and killing."

  I nodded. "I know. But I'm just saying it doesn't look good. To the cops. Or the press," I added, gesturing to my phone. "Or anyone else."

  Dana turned to watch Ricky again. "He needs a lawyer, doesn't he?" she asked.

  I nodded. "If I were in his shoes? I'd want one."

  "This is such a nightmare."

  "Sorry," I said, rubbing her shoulders.

  Just then Livvie started whining and squirming in her seat. I picked her up, and a certain odor wafted up to my nostrils.

  "Uh-oh. Nature calls."

  "Go ahead," Dana waved at me. "I'll be fine."

  "I'll be right back," I assured her, turning the stroller in the direction of the lounge again.

  Dana nodded, her eyes still on Ricky. "God, the Informer is going to crucify him, aren't they?"

  I bit my lip. I had a bad feeling that if Bad Cop's scowl was any indication, the media was going to be the least of Ricky's problems.

  * * *

  Predictably, it was late when Ramirez finally got home that night. I'd already dropped Dana off at home, fed the babies again, microwaved a Lean Cuisine for myself (baby weight, thou art my mortal enemy!), and put the little ones down for the night, settling myself in front of a DVR-ed episode of Project Runway by the time he made an appearance at the front door.

  He looked tired, hungry, and like he needed a hug. I started with the third one.

  "Long day at the office?" I asked when I finally broke the embrace.

  He grinned down at me. "You could say that. Ever take the statements of nine different media-hungry celebrities in one day? I swear they gave the term 'drama queen' new meaning."

  I couldn't help but smile. "There's a cold six-pack in the fridge."

  Ramirez raised an eyebrow at me. "You're not trying to butter me up for somethin
g are you?"

  "Who me?" I asked, blinking innocently. "Of course not. I just thought you might like a cool drink while you tell me what happened to Irina today."

  Ramirez paused, one hand on the refrigerator door. "Uh-huh. I knew the six-pack came with a price."

  "Oh, come on." I swatted him on the shoulder. "She was found in Ricky's dressing room. That's my friend we're talking about. You can't keep me in the dark."

  Ramirez twisted the top off a bottle of beer and took a long swallow before answering. "Okay. I can tell you the basics."

  I leaned my elbows on the kitchen counter, giving him my full attention. "How did she die?" I asked.

  "Subdural hematoma."

  "Bump on the head?" I asked, translating.

  He nodded. "A big one." He paused, examining the refrigerator contents. "You eaten?"

  "I had a Lean Cuisine."

  "So, that's a no?"

  I shot him a look. "Unless you want a wife with a butt the size of the Hollywood Bowl, you're on your own for dinner."

  He stole a glance at my back end. "Looks good to me."

  "You," I responded, reaching up on my tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek, "are a very wise man. But you're still on your own for dinner."

  He shrugged, grabbing some lunch meat and a jar of pickles.

  "So, someone hit Irina on the head hard enough to kill her," I said steering the conversation back on track.

  Ramirez nodded. "Uh-huh. Back of the head. She would have been out cold instantly. Probably never even saw it coming." He grabbed a pickle from the jar and munched down on it.

  "Hit with what?" I asked.

  Ramirez shrugged. "M.E. hasn't determined the murder weapon yet. Nothing obvious was left at the scene."

  "So the murderer took the weapon with him," I mused out loud.

  Ramirez paused, pickle dangling in mid air. "Oh, no."

  "What?"

  "No way, Springer. I know that look in your eyes."

  "What? What look?" I asked innocently, stealing a sip of his beer to cover any unwanted "look".

  "The 'I'm thinking about sticking my nose in my husband's murder case' look. Not this time. You're supposed to be on maternity leave, being a stay-at-home mom, enjoying our babies, and relaxing."