"This amusing whodunit scores big with inimitable characters like psychic Mrs. Rosenblatt, Maddie's tell-all mom and bad-boy Ramirez, who shows up with some surprises in tow. Maddie's winning return, with her bold comical voice and knack for thinking fast on her strappy slingbacks, will elicit cheers from fans of the growing chick mystery field."
- Publishers Weekly
"Killer In High Heels is a humorous, delectable romp you won't want to miss! The very funny Maddie will keep you in stitches and guessing as to what could possibly happen to her next. Mix in the fast-paced, action filled story and you have a very delightful way to spend an evening."
- Romance Junkies
Killer in High Heels
High Heels Mysteries book #2
ISBN 0-505-52712-X
L.A. shoe designer Maddie Springer hasn't seen her father since he reportedly ran off to Las Vegas with a showgirl named Lola. So she's shocked when he leaves a desperate plea for help on her answering machine - ending in a loud bang. Gunshot? Car backfire? Never one to leave her curiosity unsatisfied, Maddie straps on her stilettos and, along with her trigger-happy best friend, makes tracks for Sin City in search of her MIA dad.
Maddie hits the jackpot, all right. She finds not only her dad, but also a handful of aging drag queens, an organized crime ring smuggling fake Prada pumps, and one relentless killer. Plus, it seems the LAPD's sexiest cop is doing a little Vegas moonlighting of his own. In a town where odds are everything, Maddie bets it all on her ability to out-step a vicious murderer. She just hopes her gamble pays off… before her own luck runs out.
Killer in High Heels Video Book Trailer
Excerpt
Chapter One
There are two things in life I hate more than getting shot at. Number one: Birkenstocks, one shoe I am proud to say I did NOT design. And number two: sit ups. The torture routine my best friend, Dana, was currently making me perform on the floor of the Sunset Gym where she worked.
"Come on, two more, you can do it!"
I grunted, giving my personal cheerleader the evil eye as I struggled to a sitting position.
"I (pant) can't (pant) do it." My stomach muscles started to shake, and I could feel an unattractive bead of sweat trailing from my blonde roots down to the tip of my chin.
"Come on, Maddie. I know you've got two more in you. Think of how good you'll look in a bikini this summer."
"I'll buy a one-piece," I grunted.
"Think of how great you'll feel knowing you did something good for your body."
I raised one eyebrow, giving her my best 'get real' look.
"Okay, think of this," Dana said, getting a light bulb moment look in her blue eyes. "Think of how bad Ramirez will want you when he sees your ripped abs."
That did it. With one really unladylike grunt I clenched my teeth together and hauled myself into a sitting position.
"Woohoo! I knew you could do it!" Dana stood up and did an end zone worthy victory dance on my behalf.
I flopped back onto the blue gym mats, breathing heavily. "Please tell me we're done?"
Dana (who, by the way hadn't even broken a sweat yet despite the fact we'd been here nearly an hour) put her hands on her hips. "But we haven't even worked your glutes yet."
"If I promise to have lettuce for dinner, can I skip the glutes?" I pleaded. Even though I was actually dreaming of lettuce sandwiched between a sesame seed bun and a quarter pound beef patty.
Dana let a little frown settle between her strawberry blonde brows. But, since she was such a good friend (and I was still panting like a Doberman) she let me off the hook. "Fine. But I expect to see you back here tomorrow ready to do some lunges and squats."
* * *
I let myself into my studio and checked my machine. The light was blinking.
I hit the play button.
"You have two new messages."
I pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry's out of the freezer (Hey, I just burned off a lot of calories, right?) while I listened to the first message.
"Hi, this is Felix Dunn with the L.A. Informer. We're doing a follow up story to your ordeal last summer. I'd like to schedule a time to interview you about-"
Beep. Delete.
Ever since my ex-boyfriend, Richard's, very public arrest, which at one time had included a charge of murder, the press had hijacked my phone number. Okay, I'll admit there had been a little stabbing incident involving me, a homicidal ex-mistress, her popped breast implant and a stiletto heel in the jugular, which had somehow captured the imagination of the media. I'd been featured no less than three times on the cover of the Informer since then. Twice with my head superimposed over the body of a slasher movie heroine and once as the bride of Bigfoot.
I waited for the next message to start. There was a pause and some heavy breathing. Then, "I, uh, I'm looking for Madison Springer. I hope I have the right number. I saw your name in the paper. This is Larry."
There was another pause.
"Your father."
I stared at the phone. Spoonful of Chunky Monkey suspended in mid air as I blinked like mad at my machine. Did he just say what I thought he said? All I remembered of my father was a hand connected to a slightly more hairy than normal arm, waving goodbye out the driver's side window of his '74 El Camino. Story was that he ran off to Las Vegas with a showgirl named Lola when I was only three.
Then I realized the message wasn't over.
"I know it's been a while. But I, uh, I read about you in the paper. What you did last summer. And I could use your help. I, uh..."
Another pause as I held my breath. There was the sound of movement in the background.
"Oh, God... what are you doing... No!"
I froze as a loud bang rang out from the machine, reverberating off the walls of my tiny studio apartment.
Maybe it was the fact that last summer's run in with Miss Homicide was still just a little too fresh in my mind. Or maybe it was just my over active imagination at work.
But my mind instantly hit on the source of the sound. A gun shot.
The machine clicked over.
Beep. "End of messages."