5.25 A High Heels Haunting Page 8

  Guilt hit me full force. How could I have been so wrong about him? He’d saved my life. I should have known there was no way he could ever have hurt Angel. “Thank you. I thought I was a gonner.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He attempted a little half smile. It was pretty feeble, truth be told, but I was glad he was even attempting.

  “Let’s go home,” I said, the fatigue I’d been fending off suddenly getting the better of me.

  He nodded, taking my hand in his. It was warm, soft. Comforting.

  “How about my apartment?” I offered.

  Blake nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m never going back to my place again.”

  I didn’t blame him. “Well, in that case, I hope Rufus likes cats.”

  He grinned at me, this one closer to genuine, even showing a little dimple, as he gently brushed a kiss along my lips. “He’ll learn to love them.”

  Chapter Nine

  I sat forward in my cubicle, leaning my elbows on my desk as I moved my mouse to the “next” link and clicked through to the rest of the Yahoo News story about the death of Alec Davis.

  It had been one month exactly since the attack. I couldn’t say I’d really gotten over it, but the bruises around my neck had almost faded. A good thing too, as I’d just about run out of turtlenecks to wear to work. Yeah, I was back at OmniWeb. After my agent tried to kill me, I figured my modeling days were over. While it had been nice to play the center of attention for awhile, Kya Star was no more. Because, honestly, there really hadn’t been anything all that wrong with Kya Bader to begin with. Sure, she’d had ample practice at being a doormat in her lifetime, but that didn’t mean I had to throw her out entirely. She had a lot of good qualities too. And the moment I’d seen death hovering on my horizon, I’d made a promise to myself to discover them all.

  The news page loaded, Alec’s Redford good looks filling the screen. I tried to ignore them, instead focusing on the print beside it.

  According to the reporter, the police’s first order of business had been to go over every inch of records at Parker Models. The conclusion: Alec had been skimming funds. As soon as the detectives confronted the receptionist, Julie, she’d broken down and admitted to everything. Alec had had her draw up two copies of contracts for every model – one with the real amount they were being paid, one with a fake number that left Alec with a commission bordering on 75%. Apparently once his own modeling jobs dried up, he hadn’t been content with a mere 15% of the profits. He’d had the models sign the fake ones, then transposed their signatures onto the real documents before sending them in to his accounts. Poor R.J. had been clueless about the whole operation running right under his nose.

  But Angel hadn’t.

  Apparently, Angel, having been an accounting major, had noticed discrepancies and caught on to the scheme. According to Julie, she’d had a heated argument with Alec just days before her death, but she claimed she had no knowledge of what happened next. The police speculated that Angel confronted him and he’d killed her to keep her quiet.

  That’s when I’d popped on the scene, asking questions about Angel and making Alec nervous that the whole thing would be dragged up again. But what had tipped him over the edge was that R.J. had told him I had proof of her killer. (Little did he know it was in the form of creepy visions – hardly admissible in court.) Alec had freaked, following me to Blake’s, where he’d waited for the right opportunity. Clever me, I’d walked right into it.

  Blake had eventually been cleared of any wrongdoing in Alec’s death, though, according to his tox screen, he’d ingested large amounts of sleeping pills. After going over Blake’s place, police found the half empty bottle of wine he’d drunk that night, laced with enough drugs to put an elephant out. Blake admitted Alec had given it to him before leaving the set that day.

  The police surmised that Alec must have used a similar M.O. in Angel’s murder, first making sure Blake was knocked out, then killing Angel. Though, the reporter finished by saying that whether Alec lured Angel outside or it had been pure opportunity to find her at the pool, we’d probably never know.

  I bit my lip as I stared at the screen. Well, maybe some of us would never know…

  Ever since Alec’s death the dreams, visions, whatever-they’d-been had stopped. I’d like to think it was because Angel was at peace now, but I wasn’t about to try to analyze it. I’d come to terms with the fact that what happened to me didn’t make a whole lot of sense. In fact, it was bordering on a Crossing Over episode weird. But Alec was gone, Angel’s murder was solved, and my life was back to its normal routine of cubicles, web layouts, and cat fur on my black sweaters.

  So, I wasn’t complaining.

  “Kya?”

  I snapped my head up, quickly closing the news window as Danielle ducked around my cube.

  “Oh hey, Danielle. You scared me, I thought you were Peterman.”

  “Yeah, you’re on his shit list for taking three weeks vacation in a row.”

  I shrugged. “I was due.”

  “Hey, Maxine and I are cutting out early to go to Club Ecstasy. You wanna join us again?” She poked me in the arm. “I know how much fun you had last time.”

  “Oh, uh, sorry, not tonight”

  “Ah, come on, Kya, you’ve got to learn to live a little, girl.”

  I grinned. “Actually I’ve already got plans.”

  Danielle cocked her head to the side, fingering a corkscrew curl. “Oh yeah? With who, your cat?”

  I should have been offended, but instead, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. “Nope.” I nodded behind her. “With him.”

  Danielle spun around just in time to see Blake walk off the elevator.

  Okay, so maybe there was one thing about Kya Star’s life that I wasn’t totally ready to give up. Could you blame me?

  After Kojak and Dragnet had cleared Blake of all charges, he’d gone back to his place only briefly to pack up a few things and collect Rufus from the neighbor's before moving in with me. I’ll admit, it was an adjustment for both Tabby and me to not only have a man, but also a ninety-five pound Saint Bernard, suddenly in our space. But so far we were adjusting nicely. Okay, maybe Tabby was a little more reluctant than I was, but the first morning I’d woken up in Blake’s arms, I’d known there was no other place I’d rather be.

  “Ready, gorgeous?” he asked as he approached my cube, giving a cursory glace to Danielle who looked like her eyes were about to pop out of her head.

  “Ready.” I flipped off my monitor and grabbed my purse from the floor beside my tower.

  “See you tomorrow, Danielle,” I called, waving over my shoulder at her.

  She did a feeble little wave back, shaking her head in disbelief as a smile crept across her face. I knew I was going to have to give her mega details tomorrow in the break room.

  “So, what do you feel like doing tonight? Movie? Dinner?” Blake asked, taking my hand in his.

  “Hmmm…” I bit my lip. “Or, we could spend the night in?”

  He grinned down at me, showing off both dimples. “Oh yeah? And, just what did you have in mind?”

  “My shaman kicking your elf hunter’s butt. He is so weak.”

  Blake threw his head back and laughed as he hit the elevator button. “Hey, that elf hunter saved your pretty little shaman behind last week, if I recall. Remember that troll? With the rampant crossbow?”

  “Damn. You got me. I guess I owe you then, huh?”

  He nodded. “Big time.”

  “Okay, tell you what? We’ll order in Chinese, lock the animals in the bathroom, turn down the lights, and I’ll let you play with my spells.”

  “Your spells, huh? Hmm…” he said, getting a wicked gleam in his eyes. He leaned in and grazed his lips along the nape of my neck. “It’s a deal.”

  I giggled and went warm all over.

  Blake squeezed my hand as the elevator doors slid open and I stepped one shiny red patent-leather heel over the threshold of the elevator.

 
Oh, yeah.

  I guess there was one other tiny part of Kya Star’s life I was keeping, too. What can I say? They were hot shoes.

  * * * * *

  About the author:

  Gemma Halliday is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, and the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries. Her previous 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.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com

  Connect with Gemma on Facebook at:

  http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor

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  OTHER BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  High Heels Mysteries:

  Spying in High Heels

  Killer in High Heels

  Undercover in High Heels

  Alibi in High Heels

  Mayhem in High Heels

  Fearless in High Heels

  Christmas in High Heels (short story)

  Sweetheart in High Heels (short story)

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

  Hollywood Scandals

  Hollywood Secrets

  Hollywood Confessions

  Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thrillers:

  Play Nice

  Young Adult Books:

  Deadly Cool

  Social Suicide

  Other Works:

  Viva Las Vegas

  A High Heels Haunting (novella)

  Watching You (short story)

  Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit (short story)

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  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.

  I narrowed my ey
es at her. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do.”

  “And you are?”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months. She knew who I was and by the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying this all too much.

  “Maddie Springer. His girlfriend. I’m here for a lunch date.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait. He’s with someone in the conference room right now.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area. Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy. I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford. Or fit into if I was actually pregnant. Oh God. What a depressing thought.

  After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the charities in his spare time. Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the breast cancer run last April. When we first started dating he tried to get me to run with him once. Just once. My idea of a cardio workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly super sale. Running was something I didn’t do. Besides, I figured if the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running, right?