Danger in High Heels Read online

  I turned to Dana for an interpretation.

  "Weird-o," she supplied, getting her sniffles under control.

  "Weird how?" I asked Kaylie.

  "She was, like, all loud and screamy and stuff. She was so not friendly. I mean, ask Shaniqua."

  "Why? Did something happen between her and Shaniqua?" I asked, jumping on the statement.

  Kaylie nodded vigorously, her hair covering her eyes again. "Uh, yeah! She totally laid into Shaniqua the other day."

  "They argued?" I asked.

  She nodded. "Dude, it was like World War three. I caught them backstage after Irina's number in that black, off the shoulder dress."

  "The mambo," I supplied, having DVR-ed the episode myself.

  "Right. Anyway, Shaniqua was like totally yelling at Irina."

  "What was she saying?" I asked.

  Kaylie shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't really pay attention. It was like something about her being a liar."

  "What did she lie about?"

  "Sorry. You'd have to ask Shaniqua."

  Trust me, I intended to.

  "Is that a margarita?" Dana asked, gesturing to Kaylie's glass.

  "Uh, yeah," the teen answered.

  "I could so use a drink right now," Dana hinted.

  Kaylie handed her the glass. "Knock yourself out.

  "Aren't you a bit young to be drinking?" I asked, watching my friend knock back the entire contents of the glass.

  Kaylie did her signature shrug again. "If I'm old enough to shoot a person out of my hooha, I think I deserve a drink."

  I had to admit, I couldn't argue with her there.

  We thanked Kaylie for her time and left just as the pizza guy was arriving. (Who, by the way, was dressed nothing like me.)

  Dana agreed with me that talking to Shaniqua was our next move. Unfortunately, we had no idea where to find the former athlete. Fortunately, I knew of one person who would.

  I slipped on my hands-free earpiece and dialed as I pulled back into traffic.

  Two rings in, it was answered by a female voice.

  "Bender," she barked as a greeting.

  Tina Bender was the gossip columnist at the L.A. Informer and knew everything about everyone who was anyone in Hollywood. And, as much as I hated going to the press for help, Tina and I shared one very important common bond - a mutual distrust of Allie Quick. Tina was everything that Allie was not: brunette, tom-boyish, funky, and outspoken to a fault. Tina had purple hair, drove a motorcycle, and dated a bodyguard with muscles the size of basketballs. When I'd first met her, I'll admit, I'd been a little intimidated. But, after getting to know her a little, I'd realized that not only was Tina softer on the inside than she appeared on the outside, but she was also the most highly connected person in Hollywood. A trait that made her my first choice for tracking down Shaniqua.

  "Hey, Tina. It's Maddie Springer. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a small favor?"

  "Depends," Tina said, and I got the distinct impression she was chewing something. "What kind of favor?"

  "I'm trying to track down the address of a celebrity, and I was wondering if you might be able to help."

  "It's possible," Tina said, definitely chewing this time, then doing a swallowing sound. "Who is the celeb?"

  "Shaniqua Jones."

  There was a pause on Tina's end. Then finally she asked, "This wouldn't have anything to do with the murder on the set of DWC that Allie's working on, would it?"

  I squinted one eye shut, cringing just a little. "Yes?" I said, though it came out more of a question.

  "Sweet. I'm in," Tina responded. "Just promise that you come to me first with the story, not Barbie. Cool?"

  I said a silent thank-you to the gods of mutual distrust as I agreed, and Tina promised to make a few calls and get back to me.

  Dana and I pulled into a Starbucks to wait, though Dana said she was too upset to eat anything. I, on the other hand, was starving. I grabbed a chicken salad from their refrigerated section, ate the entire thing, then contemplated the bakery case. My willpower and I were just having a heated argument over a maple scone when my cell buzzed to life in my purse. I slipped it out, expecting news from Tina. What I saw instead was a text from my mom.

  sale at macys. i have coupons. u in?

  I raised an eyebrow. Macy's was a good few steps up from her last shopping excursion. And I did have some time to kill while waiting for Tina's info. And I was without twins for the next couple of hours. And my wardrobe had just been mistaken for that of a pizza guy.

  "Dana, mind a trip to the mall?" I asked my still-sulking companion.

  Her eyes welled up. "Ricky and I used to go to the mall together all the time. We're never going to the mall together again, are we? Our days of together things are over!"

  Oh brother.

  I texted my mom back: yes, in desperate need of retail therapy. b there in 20

  Unfortunately, there was a wreck on the 101, and it took another forty minutes before we were making our way through the Beverly Center to Macy's. Mom was already hard at work in the clearance racks, sniffing out a deal like a bloodhound. Beside her was her best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt, arms loaded with dresses in colors bright enough to require sunglasses. Mrs. Rosenblatt weighed three-hundred-plus pounds, had gone through five husbands, and worked on the Venice Boardwalk on weekends as a psychic medium. Anywhere else, she would have been considered an odd duck. In L.A. she blended right in.

  "Maddie!" Mom called, giving me a cheerful wave from behind a rack of 50% off blazers in bright fuchsia. "I saved a couple of sweaters for you. I think they're perfect for this cool, winter weather."

  "What cool weather? It's seventy-nine and sunny."

  She ignored me, shoving the garments my way.

  I held up the first one. It was yellow with a Dalmatian's face embroidered on the front.

  "I'm not really a big dog person, Mom," I said, trying to be kind.

  She shook her head. "But it's 75% off."

  "Gee, I wonder why?" Dana mumbled.

  "Try the other one on," Mom instructed, ignoring her too.

  I held Number Two up to my torso. It featured orange and black horizontal stripes. "I'm not sure this is exactly flattering," I hedged.

  "Nonsense, you look lovely in anything," my mom said.

  "Um, thanks?"

  "Besides," Mrs. Rosenblatt jumped in, "you're all ready for next Halloween."

  I gently put the sweater back on the clearance table behind her. "I think we'll go check out the petites section," I told her, escaping before she could force a sweater on Dana, too.

  While Dana was far from petite, she tagged along, saying she wasn't really in the mood to buy anything today anyway. I understood, but it was a rare moment out for me without babies. I was going to take advantage of it. (Especially since I had a 15% off coupon from my mom plus an extra 10% off if I used my Macy's card. I was no math whiz, but that equaled a good deal.)

  Two tops, one pair of jeans, and a fabulous pair of boots later my Macy's card had gotten a good workout, and my cell finally buzzed in my purse with Tina's name in the readout.

  I looked down at the text and just barely restrained myself from doing a happy dance right there in the perfume section.

  Shaniqua Jones at the Firefly Gym. 215 Honeywell Street, West Hollywood. Go scoop Allie.

  Chapter Six

  An hour later we were parked in front of the Firefly Gym in West Hollywood.

  Where Hollywood was known for its glamorous stars, footprints in cement, and tourist attractions galore, West Hollywood had a much different vibe. One that was colored in rainbows and sang along to Judy Garland records. The West Hollywood male population outnumbered women five to one and adhered to the strict rules of no white after Labor Day, no loafers with socks, and no closed closet doors. Personally, I thought it was the single most fashion-forward city in the world. At least as far as menswear was concerned.

  The Firefly Gym was located at Hancock and Santa Monica
, across the street from an organic smoothie shop and a salon featuring a special on their gentleman's "Man-i-Cure". Dana and I pushed inside the doors and immediately stuck out like sore, female thumbs.

  The walls were painted a vibrant hot pink, men in spandex lined the walls doing curls, pull-ups and lunges, and an ABBA tune was being pumped in through hidden speakers. I had a feeling that we had just entered a meat market to rival any on Food Network. And we were distinctly not on the menu.

  "May I help you?" asked a slim, African American man sitting behind the front desk. He wore an outfit straight out of Jane Fonda's first work-out video, complete with turquoise leg warmers and matching headband.

  "Uh, we're looking for Shaniqua Jones?" I asked. "We were told she was here?"

  The guy nodded. "Sure. She's with her trainer. Just a minute, honey," he said, then picked up a phone receiver from the desk in the shape of a pair of lips. "Shani has visitors at the front desk," he said. Then he addressed us. "She'll be right out."

  Dana and I thanked him, then took a seat on two of the yellow plastic chairs lining the reception area. Another ABBA song later, Shaniqua emerged, making her way from the back of the gym.

  Shaniqua had exactly the type of physique you'd expect when you heard the word "linebacker." She was tall, broad, and meaty. Thick shoulders, a thick neck, and wide set eyes that were sunken back from her forehead. It was a look that had intimidated many a man on the gridiron, but, unfortunately, made for one of the ugliest women I'd ever seen. While she'd done her best with thick eyeliner and contouring bronzer, her features were still distinctly male, and there weren't enough Spanx in the world to help her achieve an hour-glass shape. Today she was wearing a spandex leotard in lemon yellow, matched with a pair of black yoga pants and lemon yellow sneakers. Her forehead was shiny with perspiration and her blonde wig was slightly askew, speaking to the difficulty of the personal training session we'd interrupted.

  As Shaniqua made her way into reception, the headband-wearing guy nodded in our direction. Shaniqua's eyes shifted our way, and I could feel her mentally sizing us up like she had her opponents on the field.

  "Uh, hi," I said, waving. "We haven't formally met, but I saw you on the DWC set yesterday. I'm Maddie," I said, extending my hand.

  She took it, shaking it in a grip that was nearly crushing.

  "Dana," my best friend added, doing a repeat of my shake.

  Shaniqua nodded. "Yeah. I recognize you. Ricky's girl, right?" she asked. Her voice was deep, making no effort to conceal the gender it had been born into, and had an East Coast tinge to it. Not surprising since he'd spent several years playing for one of the NFC East's best teams.

  "Right," Dana agreed. "We were wondering if we could ask you a couple of questions?"

  "About?" Shaniqua asked, raising one artfully drawn eyebrow.

  "Irina," I jumped in.

  She shot me a look that said she was trying hard to muster up the socially acceptable level of sympathy. "A crying shame what happened to her."

  "You were close?" I asked, noting the distinct lack of crying.

  "Well, I wouldn't say close, but we were colleagues of a sort, now, weren't we?"

  "Did you get along?"

  He grinned. "It would be stupid of us not to. The press would eat that sort of story up."

  Hmm. I couldn't help but notice she was expertly not answering any of my questions.

  "They're currently busy eating up a story of Ricky being called a killer," Dana pointed out.

  "Yeah, that really sucks. I feel for the guy, you know? The press can be brutal." The suddenly soft look in his eyes told me he had first-hand knowledge of that fact.

  "Did you happen to see anything the day Irina died?" I asked.

  "What sort of anything?"

  I wished I knew. "Anyone on the set who didn't belong there? Anything odd or suspicious? Anyone going into Ricky's dressing room?"

  "Other than Ricky," Dana clarified.

  But Shaniqua shook her head, the wig falling another inch to the right. "No. Sorry. I was rehearsing in the dance studio while they set the lighting and music for Ricky and Irina's number.

  "Did you see Irina at all that day?"

  She nodded. "I passed her in the hall a few times."

  "Did you talk to her?"

  She shrugged. "I guess. But just chit-chatty stuff. What color dress was she wearing, what song was she using. Normal stuff, you know?"

  "So, you didn't argue with her?" I asked, slowly, watching her reaction.

  "No. Why would I?"

  "We heard that you had a disagreement with her last week," Dana supplied.

  Shaniqua crossed her arms over her broad chest, her eyes guarded as they shifted from Dana to me. "Where did you hear that?"

  I shrugged. "Around," I said, non-committally. Not that I felt any particular loyalty to Kaylie, but if Shaniqua had anything to do with Irina's death, the last thing I wanted to do was provide her a motive for a second one.

  "Damned press," Shaniqua mumbled under her breath. "See, I knew there was a leak on the set. Who is it, huh? Grip? PA? That damned lighting guy?"

  I bit my lip. By the way the news of Irina's death had hit the Informer website at lightening speed, I was pretty sure there was a press leak, too. However, since this particular tidbit hadn't actually come to me from that leak I redirected her back to the original question. "So it's true? You and Irina did fight?"

  "Yeah, so what? We argued. Big deal."

  "About what?" Dana asked.

  Shaniqua shifted her attention to Dana. "She was cheating."

  I felt Dana tense beside me.

  Uh-oh. I almost hated to ask…

  "Cheating?"

  "With the votes."

  I paused. That wasn't the kind of cheating I'd been bracing against. "You mean, the votes to stay on the show?"

  She nodded. "Yeah. She was totally stacking them in her favor."

  "Wait, how was she doing that?" I asked. As a weekly voter myself, I was familiar with the way the voting went. At the end of the show, the host flashed phone numbers for each pair of dancers. Fans could either call in or text for their favorite. Whoever had the most calls was safe, and the pair with the least went home on the following night's live elimination show. It seemed pretty straightforward, and I didn't quite see how one could cheat the system.

  "Irina was buying votes," Shaniqua told me.

  "From whom?"

  "The Russians, for one. But who knows, maybe several countries."

  "And how do you know this?"

  "I overhead her talking to a guy in her dressing room last week. Most of it was in Russian. But then I caught part of it in English. She said that the show didn't air in Russia, so no one would know. Then the guy said something back in Russian, and she told him that with those votes, she could guarantee that she'd win."

  "Then what happened?" I asked.

  "Then I got called to set, so I didn't hear anything else. But I think it was pretty straight-forward what was going on. She was buying Russian votes from this guy. I mean, the producers don't care where you call from to vote, they just care that it's between the two hours after the show ends. She could have had the whole of Europe calling in for all I know."

  I pursed my lips. While it sounded like Shaniqua was making a few leaping conclusions with the partial conversation she'd heard, they didn't seem all that far-fetched.

  "Did you confront Irina about the conversation?" Dana asked her.

  She nodded. "You bet I did! Hey, I've spent my whole life playing fair. I wasn't going to lose now because some Euro-trash tart was stacking the deck. I called her out. Said she was going to play fair, or I was going to report her to the producers."

  "And what was her response?" I asked.

  "She said if I knew what was good for me I'd keep my mouth shut." Shaniqua laughed. "Can you imagine that? This little five-foot-nothing thing threatening me?"

  I had to admit, that would take some cojones. I was feeling a little i
ntimidated just standing next to Shaniqua's hulking frame, never mind being on her bad side.

  "Anyway, I told her she better not try it. That I was on to her and her voting scheme, and I would tell all."

  "And did you?"

  She shook her head. "Never had the chance. We didn't get to dance this week, so I had nothing for the producers to investigate yet. She got off lucky," she said, the threat still hanging in her voice.

  I wasn't all that sure that being bludgeoned to death in the buff was what I'd call "lucky." And while I was inclined to believe Shaniqua about that being the end of her altercation with Irina, if there was one thing I knew about Shaniqua it was that she knew how to play a role. She'd played the macho jock her whole life as Shawn. So was she telling the truth now or was she playing the role of the innocent bystander when really she'd killed to keep the playing field fair?

  "The Russian guy with Irina. What can you tell me about him?" I asked, shifting focus.

  Shaniqua shrugged. "Not much. I didn't actually see the guy, I just overheard the conversation."

  "Any idea who he was? Or how Irina knew him?" I grasped.

  But she shook her head. "Sorry. Trust me, if I knew who the guy was, I'd pay him a little visit myself. Give that cheating bastard a piece of my mind," she said, clenching her fists.

  I gulped, hoping I was never in a position to receive any part of her mind. I thanked Shaniqua for her time, then Dana and I made our way back out to the parking lot.

  "So, you think she was telling the truth about Irina buying votes?" Dana asked hopefully as we walked back to my car.

  I nodded. "I can't see why she would lie about it now."

  "You think maybe it had something to do with her death?"

  "I think," I cautiously answered, "that we should talk to that Russian guy."

  Dana nodded. "Agreed."

  Then I looked down at the time on my cell phone readout. "But it may have to wait until tomorrow. It's almost six."

  She gave me a blank look.

  "Ramirez will be home soon."

  "And..."

  "And, if he finds out I've been looking into Irina's death on my own, he'll kill me."

  "That's never stopped you before."