Deadly in High Heels (4 page)

That had basically been my assessment, even though the entirety of my beauty pageant experience came from watching TLC.

"It's a shame she didn't make it to the crowning," I commented, almost more to myself than my companion.

Ruth Marie did the snort-slash-hack again. "Maybe a shame for her, but it's damned good luck for someone else, right?"

I leaned in close. "You think one of the other contestants killed Miss Montana just to get ahead in the competition?"

"Oh, honey, you're new to pageants aren't you?" Her drawn-in eyebrows puckered in sympathy.

"Yes," I said honestly.

"A girl would eat her own young to win a crown like Miss Hawaiian Paradise. You don't even want to know what I had to do to become Miss 1962."

The way those drawn-in eyebrows waggled up and down, she was right. I really didn't.

"Forgive me, but I don't get it. It's just a crown."

"Just a crown! Ha!" Ruth Marie cackled so loudly that she made the woman diligently working on her calloused feet jump. "You're cute, doll."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Ruth Marie ran right over me, leaning in close enough that I could smell the Mahi tuna brunch on her breath.

"Look, all the hoopla may be about a shiny crown, but the reality is whoever gets crowned Miss Hawaiian Paradise is gonna be sittin' pretty. For starters, she's the spokeswoman for the Hawaiian Paradise sunscreen line. And let me tell you, honey, even back in my day that job came with a pile of cash. Then there's the paid speaking engagements, the charity endorsements, the parade and award show appearances." She ticked off items on her fingers, so close to my face that I could tell she was sorely in need of a mani to go with her pedi. "Heck, look at me!" She threw her arms wide. "Fifty years later, I'm still milking it for cash." She finished with a wink before sitting back in her seat.

I had to admit maybe it wasn't such a farfetched idea that one of the other contestants could have gone so far as to kill off the competition. Maybe Dirk had been mistaken, and the figure he'd seen on the beach with Jennifer wasn't a man she'd been meeting for some clandestine interlude, but one of the other contestants who'd lured Jennifer to her death? Which begged the question…who was the competition's front-runner now?

*

I left the spa with Papaya Pleasure toes (which were a color somewhere between pink and orange that was just bright enough to feel tropical) and made my way toward the elevators, fully intending to see if Dana was in her room and to strong-arm her into telling me just who might be taking Jennifer's place as top contender.

Only as I exited the spa and crossed the lobby, a commotion at the checkin desk caught my attention.

A tall man with dark blond hair and a pair of nylon suitcases at his feet was waving his hands at the chubby guy behind the desk.

"I don't care how full you are—this is an emergency, and I want a room!" he shouted loudly enough that his voice carried across the lobby, causing multiple heads to turn his direction.

The clerk behind the desk glanced nervously from side to side, as if looking for backup. "I'm sorry, sir," I heard him say. "We are fully booked. We're hosting an insurance conference and the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant this week—"

"I know all about the damned pageant," the man shouted. "That's why I'm here."

I saw the shoulders of the guy behind the counter visibly relax. "Oh, well, in that case, we have a block of rooms reserved specifically for those associated with the pageant. If you could just give me your name and your affiliation—"

"I am
not
affiliated with that sham of a competition," the man cut him off again.

"Oh, sorry I thought you said you were—"

"I'm here to sue the pants off the Hawaiian Paradise Corporation, this hotel, and anyone else responsible for my girlfriend's death."

I paused. Could this be the boyfriend Jennifer had been so smitten with? I couldn't help myself. Instead of going toward the elevators I quietly rounded the registration desk, trying my best to get a good look at the man.

The man behind the desk visibly paled at the boyfriend's words, his round cheeks going a shade pinker as he stuttered, trying to come up with an appropriately sympathetic response.

"Um, I'm sure that, er, in light of the current situation, we can find something to accommodate you. Name?" The poor man furiously typed on his keyboard, presumably looking for an open room.

"Xander Newport. And make it fast, would you? It's been a long flight, and I'm tired," the guy said, narrowing his eyes at the clerk.

Eyes that had me sucking in a breath.

While this may very well have been Jennifer's boyfriend, he definitely was
not
the guy who had given Jennifer her so coveted, emerald promise ring that matched her beloved's eyes.

For one thing, this boyfriend's eyes were brown.

Unfortunately, Dana was not in her room once I got upstairs. I texted her, and she replied that she was going over her preliminary score sheets. In seclusion. I had a feeling my friend was taking her judging duties much more seriously than anyone else involved with this pageant.

She promised, however, to meet up with me for dinner at the luau. I tried texting Marco, who responded that he was catching some rays by the pool, which had been cleared for public use by the crime scene techs. He invited me to join him, but I responded that the pool was the last place he would find me on this vacation. I shuddered just thinking about it.

Instead, I dodged the myriad of long legged, giggling girls going back and forth between each other's rooms in the east wing, swapping different colors of nail polish, lipstick, and varying scented lotions, and made for my own room. I booted up my laptop, taking the downtime as an opportunity to go back over the photos of the contestants' outfits that the pageant director had emailed me when I'd originally been booked to do the show. While I had painstakingly picked out just the right pair of heels to go with each contestant's outfit, in each portion of the program, I had shipped several alternate pairs, just in case. You never knew when a contestant might not be used to walking in five-inch stilettos and might need a simple pair of kitten heels instead. Assuming the pageant continued, this was a huge opportunity for my brand. Having my designs on sale in exclusive boutiques throughout the trendy L.A. and Orange County shopping districts was coveted real estate that held a certain amount of prestige. However, I knew that the real money would only start flowing once my designs were picked up by a national chain.

I spent the next few hours double checking each pair of shoes I had chosen to go with each contestant's eveningwear, swimsuits, and talent outfit. By the time I was satisfied, I could already hear the strains of the luau music from down the beach filtering in through my windows. I closed my laptop and took a quick shower, trying to reenergize enough to get my schedule turned around to Hawaiian time.

I did a quick blow dry and mousse thing with my hair, not totally hating the extra volume that the humidity gave me. Then I slipped into an off-the-shoulder, white dress with a fit-and-flare skirt and a pair of silver slingbacks with purple accents that offset my peachy pedicure.

By the time I caught up with Dana and Marco, they were already seated at a table near the edge of the outdoor dining area, sipping happy hour cocktails.

As I ordered one myself from Surfer Dirk, I quickly filled them in on my afternoon, chatting with Ruth Marie and running into the boyfriend at the registration desk.

"Wait—" Marco said, holding up a hand. "So you're saying that Miss Montana's boyfriend isn't really her boyfriend?" His eyes blinked at me beneath his heavy eyeliner. A smoky gray this evening, to complement his all-black ensemble. Skintight black leather pants, a black tank top in a formfitting silk, and black high-heeled boots that added at least four inches to his slight frame. He looked like Dominatrix Barbie, minus the flowing locks.

"What I'm saying is that he may have
thought
he was her boyfriend, but Jennifer was seeing someone on the side."

"Someone serious if he gave her a promise ring," Dana added, twirling her own ring again.

I nodded. If what the other queens had told us was true, and Miss Montana really was going on and on about her emerald ring matching the eyes of the man who had given it to her, that man definitely was
not
her hometown boyfriend.

"Maybe he's wearing contacts?" Marco offered, taking a sip of his piña colada through a bright pink colored straw.

I shrugged. "It's possible I suppose, but how many people do you know who cover up bright emerald eyes with brown contacts?"

"Good point," Marco conceded.

"So who do we think Miss Montana was seeing?" Dana asked.

I shrugged. "I suppose it could be anybody," I said as my eyes wandered around the tables.

"My money is on someone connected with the pageant," Marco decided. "You know how much time these girls put into getting ready for these things? I would be highly surprised if she had time for anything else."

Dana nodded beside me. "I hate to say it, but it makes sense. I'm surprised she had time for one boyfriend, let alone two." She paused. "Ohmigod, you don't think that her secret lover is the one who killed her, do you?"

"Maybe," I mused. "What if the secret lover was worried that Montana was talking about him just a little too much to the other beauty queens? What if he was worried he wouldn't be so secret anymore?"

"Or," Marco piped up stabbing a slice of pineapple in the air for emphasis, "what if the boyfriend found out about the secret lover, and
he
killed Miss Montana in a jealous rage."

"But he only just arrived on the island," I pointed out.

Marco pursed his lips together. "Do we know that for sure?"

"Well, no," I admitted. "But I still think our undercover-lover is still more likely."

The three of us looked over the assembled crowd. While the dining area was dominated by the insurance conventioneers, all dressed in slacks and matching polo shirts with their faithful duck mascot embroidered on the back, I recognized a fair number of people associated with the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Pageant as well. A few coaches seemed to be occupying a large table near the stage, where a group of women in short skirts wearing flower leis were moving their hips like rhythmic ocean waves. Some of the behind-the-scenes production crew were occupying the bar. A group of beauty queens danced near the stage to the Hawaiian music, their movements a cross between something you'd see in a Vegas club and an attempt at a hula of sorts. They were giggling and laughing despite the events that had gone on earlier that day, clearly enjoying their last couple of hours before curfew. I spied Ruth Marie bending Laforge's ear about something at a table in the center of the room by a large potted palm tree and the pageant's third judge, Jay Jeffries, sipping a martini loaded with onions and olives by himself at a table that seemed to have the perfect view of the beauty queens dancing near the stage.

"One signature Babbling Mermaid," Dirk said, setting a glass on the table in front me full of something fruity topped with a pineapple slice.

"Thanks," I told him taking a grateful sip. Mmm. Tasty.

"Hey, Dirk," Marco said. "Did Miss Montana attend any of the luaus?"

Dirk nodded. "Sure. A lot of the girls started arriving last week, wanting to be certain they'd shaken all the jet lag off and do a little sightseeing before the competition started. I recognized her as one of the first ones to arrive. She and her friends have been in here every night." He nodded to the girls dancing next to the stage. "Of course, I make sure to shoo them out before curfew." He gave me a wink.

"You wouldn't happen to have noticed if she had any
particular
friends?" Marco asked coyly.

Dirk scrunched up his forehead. "Particular?"

"Male," I interpreted. "We're wondering if you noticed any men paying extra attention to her."

"Not that I can think of. Why?" he asked

"Just curious," I quickly covered. "We heard she might have had a close friend here."

My explanation seemed good enough for Bartender Dude, as he shrugged. "Yeah, sorry. Wish I could help you."

I felt my shoulders droop. Then again if Jennifer had been having a secret affair with someone, chances were she would be trying to keep it
secret
.

"But," Dirk added, "you know if I had to put my money on someone…"

"Yes?" Marco and I leaned in closer as one.

"I'd bet on that dude, right there." Dirk narrowed his eyes and pointed toward the loan drinker at the table near the ladies.

"Jay Jeffries?" I asked.

Dirk nodded. "That dude has totally been hitting on every woman who's come through here in the last week. Thinks he some sort of Don Juan 'cause he's on that soap."

"But he's one of the judges!" Dana protested. "It's expressly forbidden for judges to have private personal contact with any of the contestants before the pageant is over."

Dirk shrugged. "I don't know about all that, but I know this dude has had a lot of contact with those beauty pageant chicas. In fact, there were even rumors that he slept with one of the contestants a couple of years ago."

Dana gasped beside me. "It can't be true. The pageant never would've asked him back."

Dirk just shrugged again. "Hey, all I know is what I heard."

As Dirk walked away, I turned to take a closer look at Jeffries. He'd been joined at his table by a tall blonde, who I recognized as Miss California. We were too far away to hear what they were saying over the ukulele music, but the body language was very telling. Jeffries: leaning both elbows on the table toward her, talking rapidly, eyebrows moving up and down in a suggestive pose. Miss California: leaning back, eyes darting for an escape, arms crossed over her chest in a protective pose. Clearly Jeffries was trying to make a move, and clearly the blonde was trying to make a move
away
from Jeffries.

"Check out the eyes," Marco said, his gaze honed in on the same scene as mine. "Green."

"Lots of people have green eyes," I pointed out.

"I just can't believe a judge would be involved with the contestant," Dana said, still shaking her head. "Talk about impropriety."

I watched as the blonde pulled out her cell, pointed to it, then got up and walked away, the look of relief unmistakable on her face. I had to giggle a little to myself. Back in my single days, there were times when I too had used the my-friend-just-sent-an-emergency-text excuse to get away from a smarmy guy in a bar.

Only today I wanted an excuse to talk to the smarmy guy.

"I'm going to talk to him," I said.

Marco's face lit up like Christmas. "What are you going to say?"

I shrugged. "I guess I'll just introduce myself. We haven't officially met yet."

"Just be sure not to mention anything about our theory of Miss Montana having been the front-runner," Dana cautioned. "He still needs to be an impartial judge."

I held up two fingers. "Scouts honor."

I grabbed my Babbling Mermaid drink and threaded my way through the tables to Jeffries' lonely one. As I approached, he gave me a full head-to-toe once-over. I immediately felt like I needed a shower.

"Jay Jeffries, right?" I asked, putting on my biggest, brightest smile.

He nodded, his eyes resting on the fruits of my push-up bra.

"That's right. It's Dr. Calvin Drake in the flesh."

I blinked at him. "Huh?"

Jeffries cleared his throat, a small flash of insecurity darting through his eyes. "From
Island of Dreams
. You are a fan, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Right."

The insecurity vanished, and Jeffries' smile widened again as he leaned back in his chair to get a better look at me. Or at least my breasts. "I know, it's a little intimidating meeting a famous television star in person. But I assure you, I'm just like any other guy."

"That's great," I said, trying really hard to keep that bright smile on my face. "I'm Maddie Springer." I held out a hand.

He grabbed it and shook, hanging onto it just a little too long for my comfort. Was it possible to get hand cooties?

"Care to join me, Maddie Springer?" he offered. I noticed as he gestured to the seat beside him that his balance in his chair was wobbly. Along with his bloodshot eyes, it was a clue that the drink in front of him was not his first of the evening.

Awesome. Liquor loosened lips faster than a jar of Vaseline on a beauty queen.

"Thanks," I said settling into the chair beside him.

"You know something, young lady, you are in luck today," he said, his voice dripping with innuendos I couldn't—or didn't want to!—put my finger on.

"I am?"

"Yes you are, honey," he said, still holding onto my hand. (Ick!)

"Because I just happen to have one autographed picture left tonight, and I'm going to personalize it just for you." He gave me a wink and finally let go of my hand, reaching into a small black case at his feet. He emerged with a 4 x 6 postcard sporting a glossy photo of himself as his alter ego soap star doctor. Though, if I had to guess, the picture was at least a few years old and had undergone extensive Photoshopping. Jeffries pulled a pen from his case as well and began scrolling something across the bottom of the picture.

"Wow, that's very generous of you," I said trying to sound appropriately enthused.

Jeffries finished, slid the autograph across to me, and gave me another wink.

I looked down. He had written his name, cell number, and room number at the resort, followed by the phrase
Let's play doctor
. Ew.

I was still trying to get my gag reflex under control as Jeffries addressed me over the rim of his olive and onion martini. "So what brings you to the paradise of the islands, Miss Springer?"