Deadly in High Heels Read online

  "Kale," he corrected me. "It's a superfood."

  I blinked at him. "It's finally happened. Dana's converted you to the healthy side, hasn't she?"

  Marco grinned. "Hardly. I just read an article in Cosmo about how it's supposed to take five years off your skin's appearance." He winked at me. "It may taste like rabbit pellets, but a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do to look this hot."

  I covered a very unladylike snort. "Point taken."

  Marco was dressed today in a pair of white pleather Bermuda shorts, white loafers with no socks, and screaming neon turquoise baby-doll T-shirt that read: Queen. While I recognized it as one of the Miss Hawaiian Paradise promotional shirts, I was pretty sure Marco was enjoying the double entendre.

  I gave my order of a Denver omelet, complete with ham (Aren't diet gurus always tell you to eat more protein?), cheese (What woman doesn't need more calcium, right?), and green peppers (Vegetables! I'm sure these were almost as good for the skin as kale.). My mouth was beginning to water from the heavenly scents as I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  "Good morning, Maddie."

  I turned to find Laforge striding up to the omelet station. In all honesty, I was a little surprised he remembered my name from our brief introduction when I'd first arrived on the island.

  "Good morning," I said, mustering up my most cheerful voice for my boss-for-a-week.

  "I trust there were no more incidents this morning?" While the words were benign enough, the tone in his voice sounded almost as if he blamed me for finding Miss Montana.

  "Not so far," I said, punctuating it with a smile.

  "Hmm." Laforge pursed his lips together. Clearly he did not appreciate my attempt at levity.

  As with yesterday Laforge was dressed in a pair of skintight pants that I could easily see helping him sweat away an extra ten pounds by the time the afternoon humidity hit. He'd topped it off with a pale pink button-up shirt, unbuttoned one too low for my taste, reminding me of a '70s disco king. An image that was further reinforced by the large gold medallion hanging around his neck and the pair of expensive sunglasses perched on his nose, almost completely obscuring his eyes from view. I wondered if they were for fashion or if Laforge was nursing a hangover.

  "I'd like you to meet my good friend, Marco," I said, tactfully changing the subject as I turned to my companion.

  Laforge gave Marco a quick up and down. "I see you're enjoying our promotional Tshirts," he said, just that hint of West Hollywood style bitchiness in his voice.

  "I feel like a diva in it," Marco answered cheerfully.

  "You look like a diva in it," Laforge said, though I wasn't sure it was exactly a compliment.

  I could tell Marco caught the tone in his voice as well, as he squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes, and pasted on a smile more fake than Miss Arkansas's breasts. "It takes a diva to appreciate one, doesn't it, dahling?" Marco asked, gesturing to Laforge’s conspicuous sunglasses. "Indoor shades. Very drama."

  "Hmm," Laforge mumbled through a smile that matched Marco's insincerity. "I'd say Prada is always appropriate, isn't it?"

  "Practically timeless," Marco retorted. "You know, unless they're from last year's collection."

  Laforge's eyes narrowed. Marco's smile grew bigger and sassier.

  I could quickly see this turning into a fashion face-off and decided to intervene before my friend diva-ed me right out of a job.

  "Any word yet on whether or not the pageant will go on as scheduled?" I asked, again using my brilliant subject-changing skills.

  Laforge let out a deep sigh. "Sadly, no. I'm meeting with the detective in charge of the case later this morning, and hopefully they will give me something I can take to the corporate powers-that-be."

  "It would be such a pity if they shut it down. You know, it being your last year here and all," Marco said. He just had to get that last jab in, didn't he?

  Laforge's head snapped up from his perusal of the omelet bar. "What do you mean my 'last year?'"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I was misinformed. I thought I heard you were leaving the pageant?" Marco blinked innocently.

  Laforge's jaw tensed, though his eyes were still obscured behind last year's Prada shades. "I don't know what you think you heard, but, trust me, I'm not going anywhere."

  I raised an eyebrow and silently wondered if Miss Montana's death had anything to do with Laforge's current confidence that he would be staying on as pageant director next year.

  "Who told you I was leaving?" Laforge demanded.

  Marco looked to me.

  "Uhh…" I paused, not sure I wanted to rat out Jeffries. While he was definitely bar-slime, I wasn't sure I wanted to make an enemy of the soap star. Especially if he was Miss Montana's secret-lover-slash-killer.

  "It was Dempsey, wasn't it?" Laforge's eyes searched the room, as if expecting to see Dempsey pop up at one of the tables. "That up-start hack has been gunning for a director's position ever since Jennifer's first pageant win."

  "Hack?" I asked, jumping on the word.

  "Listen, Jennifer was winning because Jennifer was good. It had absolutely nothing to do with Dempsey's coaching." He paused, a sneer curling his lips. "Just ask Dempsey how many winners he's coached in the past. Trust me the zero he gives you will be fatter than his bloated gut."

  With that, Laforge turned on heel and stomped out of the room, sans breakfast.

  "Geez, someone's panties are in a bunch this morning," Marco mumbled.

  "Yeah, well, at the risk of them bunching me right out of a job, keep your Prada comments to yourself, Joan Ranger."

  Marco blinked innocently at me. "Who, moi?"

  *

  While Marco and I indulged in our omelets, Dana joined us with a plate of fresh fruit, plain yogurt, and organic granola with little bits of what looked like birdseed in it.

  "Any word on the pageant yet?" she asked, voicing what was clearly on everyone's minds morning.

  I shook my head. "Still up in the air."

  "At least according to La Director La Passé," Marco added.

  Dana arched a questioning eyebrow.

  "Don't ask," I told her. "Marco met Laforge earlier." I quickly filled her in on Laforge's insistence that he was staying on as pageant director and the information he'd divulged about Jennifer being Dempsey's meal ticket.

  "Hmm," Dana said, chewing on this development as her jaw worked on her crunchy granola. "If that's true, Dempsey definitely wouldn't have any reason to want Jennifer out of the way."

  "But Laforge might," Marco pointed out. "Like Jeffries said, if Laforge wanted to tarnish Dempsey's reputation, killing his only successful client might go a long way toward that end."

  "But we only have Jeffries' word for the fact that Dempsey was even in the running for director," I pointed out. "And who knows if Jeffries was just trying to divert suspicion from himself? I still think he's the most likely candidate for Jennifer's lover on the lowdown."

  Dana shook her head. "Honestly, I just cannot believe that a judge would be sleeping with a contestant," she said, doing more crunching.

  "I have to ask—are you eating birdseed?"

  Dana pursed her brow at me. "What?"

  "The little brown flecks in your granola. Birdseed?"

  "Flax seed. It's super high in omega-3 oil," she said around another crunchy bite.

  "It's also stuck in your teeth," Marco kindly told her, gesturing between his own two front teeth with a perfectly manicured pointer finger.

  I was about to point out that the kale hadn't been terrifically kind to Marco's own Pearly Whites, when my cell started Vogue-ing from my pocket. I pulled it out to find a new text from Mom.

  15 a miracle cans were killed overstays list beer

  I blinked at the text. I had no clue.

  What? I reluctantly texted back.

  A couple of seconds later I got: sorry. Auto type not twerking write.

  I stifled a snort. You mean "not working right?"

  There was a pause,
then: Right.

  Try turning autotype off I suggested.

  A few minutes later a new text pinged in. 15 Americans were killed overseas last year

  I barely stifled an eye roll.

  I'm not overseas I texted back. I'm just by the sea I added, looking out the window at the beautiful blue waves crashing on the white sandy shores outside the resort.

  Despite the fact that a girl had died here just yesterday, I had to admit that the scene was the farthest from sinister you could get. To my right sat a family with two adorable young boys and a teenager in a pair of shades and a straw hat, the two boys giggling as they threw pieces of pineapple at each other. To the left I could see Miss California, Miss New Mexico, and Miss Arkansas giggling over breakfast smoothies together. And near the buffet a long line of men in slacks with duck-emblazoned shirts was starting to form. In every way it seemed like your average vacation hub. Except somewhere among its vacationers, a murderer lurked.

  I don't think you're safe! do u have pprspry?

  I stared at the text my mother responded with, mentally sounding out the last word with a myriad of different vowels. Finally I gave up.

  What?

  A few seconds later her response came in PEPPER SPRAY

  I rolled my eyes with abandon this time. Hey, she couldn't see me, right? Not allowed on the plane.

  what??!! ur unarmed?!!

  Easy on the exclamation points. you don't wanna hurt yourself

  There was a pause, then: r u tryin to be funny?

  I smirked. did it work?

  ur stepfather is not laughing

  How she could type out the entire word of "stepfather" but couldn't type out "pepper spray," I had no idea. Trying to decipher how my mother texted was like trying to decipher Kesha's dress code.

  i'm safe, luv u, gotta go, I typed, then I strategically set my phone to silent.

  *

  After breakfast Dana, Marco, and I wandered around the gift shop, took a leisurely walk through the gardens on the grounds, and generally meandered about, not quite sure what to do with ourselves. Finally we found ourselves back at the Lost Aloha Tiki Shack. While it was a little early in the day for imbibing, the three of us ordered pineapple Mango smoothies and sipped them as we strolled down the beach.

  Again I was struck by the dichotomy of the tragedy that had occurred at the resort the day before and the seemingly serene landscape before me. The beach was clean white sand stretching as far as the eye could see, broken only by rock formations covered in various tropical foliage at random intervals. The ocean was a perfect crystal blue like some sort of painting. And not a cloud dared mar the sky above us as the warm sun beat down on my bare shoulders.

  About halfway down the beach Marco grabbed my arm in a vice grip, shaking me out of my admiration for the tropical landscape.

  "There he is!" Marco stage-whispered to me.

  "Who?" I asked, scanning the beach. A smattering of tourists filled it, both patrons of the resort and locals from the looks of them.

  "There!" Marco pointed an arm straight ahead to where a large, rotund man lay sunning himself on a beach chair, his ample shoulders pinking under the sun as they peeked out of a white tank top straining against his beach-ball-sized belly. "Isn't that Dempsey?"

  I had to admit, I'd only caught a glimpse of him before. I honestly couldn't be sure.

  However it seemed Dana could. "That is definitely Dempsey." She frowned. "How can he be sitting out here enjoying the beach when his client was just killed?" she asked.

  I shrugged. Though I supposed there was no law against mourning in the sunshine.

  "Let's go interrogate him about the director position," Marco said.

  My turn to grab his arm. "Whoa there Fablock. You almost interrogated me right out of a job at breakfast. I say we let the poor man enjoy his day in peace."

  Marco looked at me as if I'd grown two heads. "You're joking, right? What if he knows something about who killed Jennifer?"

  "Then he would've told the police."

  Again with the two-headed look.

  "Okay, fine," I gave up, throwing my hands in the air. "We can go offer our condolences."

  "And interrogate him!" Marco said.

  "And talk to him," I amended.

  "You're no fun," Marco mumbled.

  Dana wisely kept quiet during the exchange, sipping at her smoothie as the three of us made our way over to Dempsey.

  It wasn't until we were blocking his sun that he opened his eyes and squinted in our direction.

  "May I help you?" he asked. Up close I could see that Dempsey's hair was a dyed black and he almost looked as though he were wearing a layer of makeup over his face. (A face which held a pair of eyes that were brown, I noted, not emerald green.)

  "I'm so sorry to bother you," I started. "But I wanted to offer my condolences. Maddie Springer." I stuck my hand out toward him. "I'm doing the footwear for the pageant."

  "Oh. Right." Dempsey struggled to a sitting position while he reached one sweaty hand out to shake mine. "Right, I recognize you. And you're Dana, right? One of the judges?"

  She nodded, sipping at her smoothie. "I'm so very sorry about your client. She was a very talented competitor."

  Dempsey's jaw clacked shut, though I didn't know him well enough to say whether it was due to grief, guilt, or coveting that smoothie as he sweated in the sunshine.

  "Thank you. It's true, Jennifer was very talented."

  "Do the police have any leads on what happened to her?" I asked.

  He shook his head, his jowls wavering with aftershocks. "None that they're sharing with me. Though, who am I? Just the person she spent twenty-four seven with for weeks leading up to every competition," he said, heavy on the sarcasm.

  I jumped on the opening. "It sounds like you probably knew Jennifer as well as anyone."

  "I should say so."

  "I don't suppose you know if she'd made any enemies? Why anyone would've wanted to hurt her?" I fished.

  I half expected him to deny it and talk about how perfect Jennifer had been like everyone else, but instead he shrugged. "Well clearly somebody wanted to hurt her, didn't they?"

  "There's a rumor running around that you might be the next director of the Miss Hawaiian Paradise competition," Marco jumped in.

  Dempsey grinned, showing off what a great set of veneers could do. "It's a lovely rumor."

  "How long were you Jennifer's coach?" I asked.

  His smile immediately faded, his expressions sagging in a way that added ten years to his age. "Two years," he said. "Ever since she started going for the national titles."

  "How long had she been doing pageants?"

  "Oh, honey, she'd been in pageants her entire life. Started off as one of those tiny-tot things before she moved on to bigger and bigger titles. They were paying her way through nursing school."

  "I hadn't realized she was going to school." I guess I sort of pictured all of these girls as professional pageant women.

  Dempsey nodded. "She had big dreams." The catch in his voice was unmistakable. If Dempsey was faking grief, he was doing a darn good job of it. He cleared his throat. "Most of the girls are in school, though they sometimes take a semester off here and there for a really big pageant like this one. It's worth it to most of them. Pageants are for the young. They all know that at some point they will be aging out of the competitions where there's any real money to be had."

  "But Jennifer was a long way from that, wasn't she?" Marco jumped in.

  Dempsey paused. "She was twenty. She had a couple of good years left."

  "Wow, I didn't realized 'aging out' happened so young," I mused.

  Dempsey nodded. "Like I said, it's a young woman's game. The end comes quickly."

  I bit my lip, mental wheels turning. "Were any of the other contestants closing in on that end?"

  Dempsey shrugged. "Sure. I can think of a couple who have been circling the drain, so to speak, for at least a couple of years."

 
I cringed at his metaphor. "Who?"

  "Well," Dempsey hedged. "Whitney Lexington for one."

  "Miss Delaware."

  He nodded, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "She's been competing in the eighteen-to-twenty-five category for at least eight years now."

  I raised an eyebrow, doing the math. "That would make her twenty-six. I thought the cut off for this pageant was twenty-five?"

  "That's what I thought too," Dempsey said with a knowing nod.

  Dana did a strangled little gasp beside me. "But don't pageant officials check to make sure the contestants fall within the age range?" she asked

  Dempsey shrugged. "Sure, but there's always a way around that. Fake a birth certificate, bribe the judge…" He trailed off.

  Dana gasped again, and I caught Marco elbowing her out of the corner of my eye

  "Is that what Whitney did?" I asked.

  Dempsey put his hands up in a surrender motion. "I'm not pointing any fingers at anyone. I'm just saying that some of these older girls are desperate to hit that big title while they still can. Desperate."

  I pursed my lips together. If I didn't know better, I'd say that Dempsey was pretty pointedly not pointing any fingers. I wondered if it was because he truly thought Whitney had something to do with Jennifer's death, or if he was trying to deflect attention from someone else.

  "I have to ask…you don't know if Jennifer was seeing anyone, do you?"

  He raised one eyebrow. "Her boyfriend just came in from Montana."

  I sucked in my cheeks, trying to find a way to put this delicately. "I saw him arrive yesterday. I was wondering if maybe Jennifer was close with anyone else? Possibly associated with the pageant…?" I left the question hanging there like last season's mullet-cut dress on a clearance rack.

  Dempsey's eyebrows drew together as he tried to read between my lines. "Like who?" he finally asked.

  "Well…" I said drawing out the word. Quite frankly Dempsey himself was in an excellent position to be Mystery Boyfriend. Who spent more time with a contestant than her coach? However I had a hard time putting him in the role of leading man. I knew young girls often had a thing for older men, but Dempsey was hardly the distinguished rolling-in-dough type. In fact if I had to categorize him, I would say he was the midsection-looks-like-dough type. Besides, Dempsey's eyes were brown.