Spying in High Heels
Read Spying in High Heels Online
Authors: Gemma Halliday
Tags: #General, #cozy mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Weddings - Planning, #Women fashion designers, #Mystery & Detective
MAKING IT®
August 2006
Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2006 by Robin Flury
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN 0-8439-5735-2
The name "Making It" and its logo are trademarks
of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.
Contents
For Mary Ellen Halliday Thompson.
She never wore Manolos, Pradas, or Choos,
but with a style undeniable,
no one will ever fill her shoes.
We miss you, Grandma.
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 percent effective warnings on the sides 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 sixth-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're 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 pickup that had "wash me" carved in its opaque dust, before continuing the 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 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 my 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 State Police 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.
This was 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 who had 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 wood stretched along the back wall of the spacious room, flanked on each side by more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices beyond. The faint clicking of keyboards and muffled conversations billed at four 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 to the extreme, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of five foot six. I'm what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive five foot one and a half 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 of 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 eyes 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 were 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 letting out a little yummy sigh at the sight of him. Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle. He was a religious runner, doing 1Ok'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 twice-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?
Today Richard's blond hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, a la early Robert Red-ford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie. He looked downright delish and I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms, unloading all my worries onto the shoulder of his wool suit.
Another man exited the offices with him, the two of them deep in conversation. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but whatever it was had Richard's sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern.
The other guy was dressed in worn Levis with faded patches along the thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a form-fitting black T-shirt. His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that made you instantly think prizefighter. A white scar cut into his eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn't branching out into criminal defense.
I waited until they'd shook hands and the other guy had walked out of the lobby before approaching Richard.
"Hi, honey," I said, standing on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.
"Hi." He was still staring after the felon, his tone distracted, as if I'd just interrupted him during football season.
"Who was that?"
"Nobody."
The way Richard was still staring after Mr. Nobody led me to believe that wasn't exactly true. However, I had bigger things to think about than Richard's latest client. Like being late.
"You're late."
"Huh?" I whirled around, panic rising like bile in my throat. Good God, could he tell already? Insanely I looked down to my abdomen as if it might have bulged in the last thirty seconds.
"We had reservations for one."
Oh. That late.
"Sorry, there was traffic on the 405. We'll just go somewhere else. How about the Cabo Cantina?"
Richard was still staring at the closed glass doors where Mr. Nobody had exited. I wondered again who the man was. He didn't look like Richard's typical clients and he certainly didn't give off that new-car scent of another lawyer.
"I, uh, don't think I'm going to make lunch today after all. Something's kind of come up."
