Deadly in High Heels (3 page)

Marco snickered. "Oh, I know what you mean."

Dana frowned, looking down at her own multi-carat engagement ring on her left finger, courtesy of her movie star boyfriend, Ricky Montgomery. While the sparkling jewelry had been gracing her finger for several months now, Ricky had yet to set
the date
. A fact I knew was beginning to bother Dana.

"If they were really that serious, I can't imagine the boyfriend having anything to do with her death," I quickly changed the subject.

"Well, I don't know if they
were
that serious," Delaware argued.

"Why would you say that?" I asked. I had a feeling that Delaware was holding something back

"Well," she hedged, her eyes cutting to the doorway where a uniformed police officer was posted. She paused, doing some more lip chewing. "Look, please don't tell anyone I said this, but I saw her leaving her room last night."

"What time was this?" I pounced.

Delaware nibbled more lipstick. "Around twelve thirty. Maybe one."

"Impossible," Dana cut in. "She couldn't have gone out after midnight. Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant rules clearly state that no contestants are to leave their rooms after the midnight curfew."

Delaware shot her a look like she'd got her hand caught in the cookie jar. "I—I couldn't sleep, so I went out to get some water from the vending machines at the end of the hall. And I swear I saw Jennifer leaving."

"To meet a man?" Marco asked.

She shrugged. "Why else would she be sneaking around in the middle of the night?"

She had a point. "Did you see which way she went when she left her room?" I pressed, thinking of the men's rooms down the west wing of the hotel.

Delaware nodded. "She got into the elevator."

Dana pursed her lips into a thin line. I could tell that had Miss Montana not already been dead, she'd be losing major points right now.

"So you saw her leaving her room last night about twelve thirty, heading down toward the pool."

But Delaware's eyes cut to mine, her head shaking back and forth. "No, not the pool. When I got back from the vending machines, I looked out the window and saw her heading toward the beach."

I heard my own confusion echoed in Marco's voice as he asked, "Who was she meeting on the beach?"

Delaware did some more head shaking. "I don't know. But whoever it was, I'm guessing it didn't end well."

I had to agree with that one.

I was about to ask New Mexico if her roommate had made any previous middle-of-the-night excursions, when Laforge's voice piped up from the ballroom's double doors.

"May I have your attention please?" he asked, addressing the room at large. Dozens of coiffed heads turned his way. "The police have finished processing the scene and have concluded their interviews for the day. The other directors and I will be convening with the local authorities shortly to discuss the future of the pageant."

Murmurs of speculation ran through the crowd.

"We hope to be able to have more information available for you soon, however in the meantime I would suggest that you enjoy the hotel's many facilities."

I raised one eyebrow in his direction, wondering if that last line had been in their sponsorship contract. In case of unexpected murder, please plug the Tropical Tryst Buffet and the Hula Hibiscus Day Spa.

The three beauty queens excused themselves from our group, whispering together as the crowd in the ballroom began to disperse.

"So what do we think of the Midnight Mystery Man angle?" Marco asked, leading our trio toward the lobby.

I shrugged. "It could be a bit of a leap to say she was meeting a man, but I think there's a good chance that whoever lured her out of her room last night might have had something to do with her death." I knew it was stating the obvious, but I also knew that unless I stated it, Marco was going to keep Sherlocking-it.

"That is, if Miss Delaware was correct in identifying Miss Montana as the woman she saw heading toward the beach," Dana jumped in. "I mean, it was the middle of the night. Delaware might have been mistaken."

"Well, let's go find out!" Marco offered.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "As in…"

"There is a fabu little tiki bar down on the beach. Maybe Montana was heading there? Maybe someone saw her meet up there with her Midnight Mystery Man."

"You're going to keep calling him that, aren't you?" Dana asked.

Marco paused to contemplate for a moment. "Her Randy Rendezvous?"

Dana and I did a simultaneous eye roll.

"Come on," Marco whined. "Surely someone saw her. Right? It's at least worth interrogating the bartender?"

While I was hesitant to get involved, I had to admit that after the morning's events, a mimosa didn't sound altogether terrible.

"Okay, but we're just
asking
a few
questions
. Not
interrogating
," I said, pointedly looking at Marco.

He batted his eyelashes at me. "Whatever you say, Watson."

*

The Royal Waikiki Resort was conveniently located directly ocean side. While all beaches in Hawaii were public property, the Royal Waikiki had several of their resort amenities located just steps away from the Pacific. We walked from the pool area down a small stone pathway that lead to both an outdoor dining area, where the nightly luaus were held, and the "Lost Aloha Shack" tiki bar. The actual bar itself was constructed of native looking bamboo and palm fronds, giving it a classic, rustic feel. To the right of the bar was a stage where I could easily see Don Ho impersonators with their ukuleles or fire dancers lighting up the evening. Currently, however, the stage was empty, and there were a scant, few patrons.

While the look of the Lost Aloha was island-rustic, as we took up stools at the polished wood bar, I could tell that the construction was on par with the rest of the swanky resort. In front of us top-shelf liquor lined the back wall, along with trays of glasses sporting little pink umbrellas and embellishments ranging from classic martini olives and onions, to festive pineapple slices and mango kebabs.

A guy with long, shaggy blond hair and at least a day's worth of stubble on his chin walked up. While he clearly wasn't of Hawaiian descent, from his deep tan I put him as a local who spent a fair amount of time in the warm Hawaiian sun.

"'Sup. What can I get for you?" he asked in an accent that was pure California surfer.

"Mimosa, please, Dirk," I said, reading the nametag pinned to his floral printed Hawaiian shirt. I didn't usually drink before noon, but after having found a dead body, I thought I could justify the alcohol content. Plus, mimosas were
almost
all orange juice anyway. That was healthy, right?

Marco ordered the same, though Dana opted for a mango pineapple smoothie instead, saying she was still "on call" as a judge.

Dirk nodded. "You got it, chicas," he said, then turned to grab three glasses from behind the bar.

"Say, were you by any chance working here last night?" Marco asked, as the guy tossed half a banana and some mango slices into a blender.

I steeled myself, hoping that Marco stuck to "questioning" and not "interrogating."

Dirk nodded, shouting over the sound of his mixer. "Yeah, I pretty much run this place. The only times I'm not here are Wednesdays and Fridays. I teach surfing those days." He gave us a lopsided smile as he set three full glasses on the bar.

I took a grateful sip of mine, enjoying the bubbly sensation on my tongue from the refreshing mixture.

"Hey, if any of you feel like catching some waves on your vacay, give me a ping." Dirk slid his card across the smooth top of the bar toward me. It had a picture of Dirk giving a hang loose sign with his pinky and thumb, the words "surfing with Dirk" below it next to a cell number and Twitter handle.

"Thanks," I said slipping the card into my purse, "but we're actually here with the pageant. So I'm not sure how much downtime we'll have."

Dirk's face suddenly transformed from jovial to solemn. "Oh, man, I heard about that pageant girl. What a bummer, right?"

"Total bummer," Dana agreed, taking a sip of her smoothie.

"One of her friends said she saw the girl heading this way last night…?" Marco fished.

Dirk nodded. "Yeah, that police dude asked me the same question earlier. She was the blonde chick, right? Super long hair?"

I nodded. "Jennifer Oliver. She was competing as Miss Montana in the pageant."

"So she
was
here having a drink last night?" Dana asked. I could see disappointment marring her features, tiny lines she'd yet to give over to Botox forming along her forehead.

But Dirk shook his head, his blond hair whipping back and forth. "No way, man, not drinking here. I know those girls got curfew going on. I see any them down here, and I'm supposed to report right back to Laforge. He left me a good tip for that—you know what I mean?" Dirk grinned.

"But you did see her?" I asked.

He nodded. "Oh, yeah. Like I told Cop Dude, I saw her, but she wasn't drinking here. She was down the beach. There." Dirk pointed to a spot about a hundred yards down the white sand. Currently it was occupied by a pair of little boys making sand castles with plastic buckets.

"What was she doing?" I asked

Dirk shrugged. "I didn't ask. I was slammed with the duck people."

I gave him a blank look, wondering just how reliable of a witness the bartender was. "Duck people?"

"The insurance group," Dirk clarified. "You know, they've got that duck in all of their ads? He's, like, totally funny, dude. Anyway, their annual convention is sharing the hotel with you pageant peeps this week."

Ah. I had noticed a large number of men in suits roaming the lobby of the hotel.

"Anyway," Dirk went on, "like I told the cops, those duck dudes can totally drink. I was slammed last night. Besides, I've learned to keep my questions to myself. Most people checking in here go with the what-happens-on-the-island-stays-on-the-island motto, you know what I mean, chicas?"

Unfortunately what had happened on the island to Miss Montana was definitely
not
staying on the island.

"Was she with anyone?" Marco asked. "When you saw her on the beach?"

Good question. I sipped at my mimosa again as I watched him answer.

Dirk's head bobbed up and down, his bangs jumping on his forehead. "Yup, totally."

"Who?" Marco and I asked in unison.

Dirk shrugged. "Search me, man. There's zero light down there after sunset. All I could see from here were two figures."

"But you're certain that one of them was Miss Montana?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. I saw her walking from the resort. I got a good look as she passed by, because we had fire dancers on the stage. Totally lit up the bar, you know?"

"But you didn't see her companion walk by?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, like I said I was slammed. It was just dumb luck I happened to look up when the dead girl was walking by."

"Could you tell if the figure you saw was a man or woman?" Dana asked, clearly still wanting to think the best of her contestant.

Dirk paused for a moment, sucking in his cheeks and staring off into space. "No, sorry. It was too dark to see. I kinda got the impression it was a dude, just by how close together they were standing, but I wouldn't, like, swear on my life—you know?"

A patron at the end of the bar waved a hand, signaling for Dirk.

"Hey, give a holler if you need anything else…" He trailed off, leaving to take the other order.

"So Jennifer was meeting a guy," Marco said slurping noisily through his straw, a note of I-told-you-so heavily lacing his voice.

"We don't know that for sure," Dana hedged. "You heard Dirk. He said he couldn't see who her companion was."

"Okay, but why on earth would she be sneaking around if she was meeting a woman? I mean, if it was anyone associated with the pageant, why not just meet them in the hallway of the hotel? It makes no sense to sneak out to the beach."

Dana bit her lip. "Okay, fine. It was
probably
a man."

"Ohemgee, we have a Murderous Midnight Mystery Man on our hands," Marco said, a gleam of what I could only describe as glee in his eyes.

Before I could rein in his alliterative enthusiasm, I heard my cell trilling out my Madonna "Vogue" ringtone from my purse. I pulled it out and took a look at the screen.

Uh-oh. I recognized that number.

Ramirez.

Is it wrong that I had a moment of hesitation before I actually stabbed the
on
button? Not, mind you, that I normally disliked speaking with my husband. But considering I'd recently given statements to the local police, I had a feeling that this call might not be full of hearts and rainbows.

"Hi, honey," I said into the phone.

"What's going on there?" came his clipped response.

I gulped. No, "Hi, babe." No, "How are you doing?" No, "Gee, I miss you." I knew what this meant. My husband was in cop mode.

"Just hanging out with the girls, having a couple of drinks." Notice I was being completely truthful.

I heard a sigh and what was possibly a grunt on the other end of my connection.

"According to the
L.A. Informer
's website, 'Beauty Queen murdered in Paradise, Los Angeles fashion designer Maddison Springer questioned,'" my husband read off.

"They mentioned I was a fashion designer?" I asked. Hey, all publicity was good publicity, right?

However, clearly my husband did not agree with me, as that grunt was loud and clear this time. "Maddie…"

"Okay, but look, it totally wasn't my fault. I just
happened
to get up a little bit early, and I
happened
to go down to the pool, and I
happened
to find the dead body of a beauty queen, okay?"

Silence greeted me on the other end. I almost preferred the grunting.

"Honey?" I asked.

"Why is it I was hoping you would just
happen
to have an uneventful vacation with your friends and
happen
to not do anything more exciting than get a sunburn on the beach?" My husband's voice dripped with sarcasm.

In Ramirez's defense I did have sort of a habit of finding dead people. I was starting to think of it as my own special talent. Some people could pick winning lottery numbers—other people had an uncanny knack for guessing the weather. It was never actually my fault when I encountered a dead person. I mean, I'd never caused anyone to be dead. I just had a bad habit of finding them that way.

In fact, that was the way I had met my husband, while he was investigating a homicide case. So, if you looked at it that way, my special talent wasn't
all
bad.

Though the way my husband was back to grunting
and
sighing on the other end, that was kind of debatable right now.

"I am not involved," I said very pointedly. "Yes, the police questioned me. But that's all. They just wanted to know what I'd seen."

The memory of the scene must have sneaked into my voice, as it cracked on the last word.

"Are you okay?" Ramirez said quickly.

See why I loved the big lug? In two seconds flat he could go from Bad Cop to Concerned Husband.

Honestly, the quick switch took me off guard, and I felt unshed tears back up behind my eyes. Just because this wasn't the first dead body I'd ever seen didn't mean I ever got used to it. Maybe someday I'd figure out how to do that detached thing like a medical examiner might, but today was clearly not that day.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I lied, sniffing back those tears. I turned my head away from my friends, heading out of the Lost Aloha Shack and back toward the hotel. Even with the tears mostly unshed, I was going to need to do a mascara reapply before I was fit for human eyes again.

"Did you know her?" Ramirez asked, his tone softening.

I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see me, as the tropical breeze blew my hair side to side. "Not really. But I'd seen her practicing. Everyone seemed to agree she was the front-runner of the contest."

"You think that's why someone killed her?" my husband asked, always the homicide detective.

"I don't know. It's possible, I suppose." I didn't mention that was one of Marco's current theories. The last thing that would reassure my husband as to my noninvolvement was to mention Fablock Holmes.

"Well, I'm sure that the local detective in charge of the case will figure it out."

I could read between the lines as well as any Rhodes Scholar. Ramirez didn't want me to get involved. Which was fine. I had no intention of getting involved. Okay, yes, I asked a few questions with Marco, but I was sure that Detective Whatshisname was perfectly capable of figuring out who had killed Jennifer. And I wasn't involved. I was just asking a couple of questions.

Questions any person who might've
happened
to find a dead body would want answered.

"Maddie…" I heard Ramirez's voice through the phone. "Please tell me you will leave the investigating to the professionals."

"Fine," I agreed. I made my way up the front pathway to the lobby doors of the Royal Waikiki. Just outside, this time well within the twenty-foot radius security had given her, the same protester from yesterday was flashing a sign that read:
Fashion Is Death
. On any other day, I might think that was a little extreme—I mean, I'd
suffered
for fashion, and sometimes, if the heels where high enough, fashion did
hurt
—but I'd never seen it kill anyone.

Until today.

"So, I have your promise that you will not get involved, right?" Ramirez pressed on the other end of the line.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not getting involved,
warden
."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I got that."

"Maddie, repeat after me: I, Maddison Louise Springer—"

I rolled my eyes so far I could see my blonde roots "You're joking."

"Do I need to get on a plane and fly out there?" Ramirez asked

While he was being ridiculous, I could clearly picture his face right now. Black eyebrows drawn down, lips pinched together, that vein bulging in the side of his neck. In a way it was touching that he cared so much about my well-being. And I knew it was probably killing him that he was an entire ocean away, and there was nothing he could do to personally ensure my safety.

So I let the Neanderthal act go and played along.

For now.

"Fine. I, Maddison Louise Springer…"

"Promise not to get involved."

"Promise not to get involved," I repeated. The fact that I was crossing my fingers behind my back was something Ramirez did not need to know.

Ramirez let out a sigh that could only be interpreted via cell phone as relief. "Good. So, where are you off to now?" he asked

"Well, everything having to do with the pageant has been put on hold," I said glancing around the lobby and spying at least two plainclothes officers still milling around, talking to employees. "Honestly I'm not sure if it's even going to go on as scheduled or not. We're sort of in limbo, waiting to see what the police tell us."

"Well, just remember, while you're in limbo—"

"I know, I know. I won't get involved. Geez, I'm stubborn, not deaf."

I could feel Ramirez's grin through the phone. "All right, kid, just stay out of trouble, okay? Go relax. Get a pedicure or something, huh?"

I was just about to protest that a pedicure seemed a little frivolous in light of the murder investigation going on around us, when I spied a familiar face crossing the lobby. It was Ruth Marie Masters, judge number two, and the former Miss Hawaiian Paradise 1962. Not that it was odd she should be crossing the lobby, but what piqued my interest was the fact she was going into the Hula Hibiscus Day Spa, just off the lobby.

"You know, a pedicure doesn't seem like a terrible idea," I slowly agreed.

There was more relieved sighing on the other end, and I almost felt the teeny tiniest bit guilty.

Almost.

"Kiss the babies for me, and I'll give you a call later tonight, okay?" I said, detouring toward the spa.

"Will do. Miss you, babe. Be careful."

"Always," I promised before hanging up.

Then I made a beeline for the Hula Hibiscus.

*

A woman with long black hair and almond eyes greeted me at the front desk and informed me that, luckily, they did have an opening for a pedicure right then. She led me to a large, luxurious chair seated right next to Ruth Marie Masters, who was just sticking a pair of pale, boney bare feet into a bubble bath of hot soapy water.

After choosing a nail polish from their rotating display, I took my pumps off and slipped my own toes into what, if my nostrils did not deceive me, was a piña colada scented bath.

"You're with the pageant too, aren'tcha?" Ruth Marie asked, cocking her head my way.

I nodded. "Maddie Springer," I offered. "I'm doing the footwear for the contestants."

Ruth Marie nodded in recognition. "Right, right, right. Laforge said he got some big-name designer from L.A. this year to do the shoes."

I couldn't help a little surge of pride at anyone applying the term "big-name" to me.

"Laforge said he picked out some real fancy-schmancy stuff." Ruth Marie paused, glancing down at my simple pumps.

"I didn't design those," I quickly told her. While they were nice, even I had to admit they were totally off the rack and not exactly "big-name fancy-schmancy."

"Sure," Ruth Marie continued. "Anyway, who knows if we'll even have a pageant this year now."

That was just the sort of opening I was looking for to
not
get involved.

"Tragic business," I said, echoing Dana's sentiments from earlier.

Ruth Marie shook her head. "Young girls these days get themselves into all kinds of trouble. Knocked up, naked pictures on Twitter, getting themselves murdered."

I bit my lip. I wasn't entirely sure that it was Miss Montana's fault she'd been killed.

But Ruth Marie continued on, undeterred, as a slim woman in a floral printed dress sat down and started working on her bunions.

"Back when I was on the circuit, mind you, none of that sort of thing was tolerated. We didn't have any young men coming up to see us at all hours of the night."

"There have been men coming up to see the contestants?" I asked, jumping on the phrase.

"Well, now, I can't say I actually
seen
any men with my own eyes," she conceded. "But I heard them girls talking. Boys this, boys that. Think they were a bunch of cats in heat the way they get on."

I covered an unladylike snort with my hand. While warm and fuzzy was the last way anyone would describe Ruth Marie, I had to say there was something refreshing about her bluntness.

"I don't suppose you heard anything in particular from Miss Montana?"

Ruth Marie shrugged her bony shoulders again. "They're all the same. All these girls, year in, year out, all they think about is boys."

"How many years have you been judging the pageant?"

"Seven," she told me without skipping a beat. "Before me they had Thelma Bishop on the judging panel. She was Miss Hawaiian Paradise 1959, you know?"

I didn't, but I nodded for her to continue anyway.

"Well, Thelma had a stroke a while back. After that she couldn't keep one side of her face from drooping down like eighty-year-old bazongas without a brassiere. Didn't play well on television, I'll tell you that much."

"I can imagine," I replied, trying to erase that unpleasant picture from my mind. "What about the other judges?"

"Well, Dana Dashel's brand-new this year, but you knew that."

I nodded. "And the third judge?"

"Jay Jeffries. He's been with the pageant, oh, what, three or four years now? He started the year that his daytime soap started filming out here on the island. You've heard of it, right?
Island of Dreams
." She rolled her eyes. "Schmaltzy stuff, I tell ya."

I had to admit that with young twins and a budding career as a fashion designer, I had little time for daytime television. I'd heard of
Island of Dreams
, but I'd never actually seen it myself.

"What about Miss Montana?" I asked as a woman in a matching floral dress sat down in front of me and motioned for me to remove my right foot from the tub for her inspection. "Have you seen her before, or was she new to this pageant?"

"Oh, we get a new crop of girls every year," Ruth Marie told me. "But I never get personally involved with any of them. I just sit back, watch them strut across the stage, and write down my scores."

"I take it Miss Montana's scores were likely to be good?" I pushed

Ruth Marie snorted, the sound something between a smokers' hack and a hungry piglet. "Was there any doubt? Look, I know we're supposed to reserve judgment until the end, yada, yada, yada. But, honey, I've been doing this long enough to know who the winners are and
aren't
in the first five minutes. I grew up in pageants, been doing them since I was this big," she said, hovering her hand down near the top of her pedi tub. "I can spot a winner a mile away. It's in the grace, in the poise, the way they carry themselves. Mark my words, if she hadn't gone to the great crowning ceremony in the sky, Miss Montana would've wiped the floor with these other clowns."