Danger in High Heels Read Online Free PDF Page A

been the one to find the body this time. In fact, I'd been yards away, feeding the babies at the time. So, really, I wasn't even sure you could count this as a Maddie Body at all.
    At least, that was the story I was sticking with.
    I quickly pointed the gargantuan stroller past the crowd of make-up people (Okay, maybe quickly was a slight exaggeration since a stroller that size does not move anywhere quickly.) and down the hallway, off of which were a series of closed doors. One read "Shaniqua", another "Kaylie", which I recognized as the Teen Mom on the show, and the last was labeled "Ricky Montgomery". That one, predictably, had a crowd of people standing around it, including several grips, dancers, and more hair and make-up people. They were all watching the scene with undisguised interest, while a pair of guys in white security shirts and black shorts stood at the door, barring anyone's entry.
    I scanned the onlookers for a tall, strawberry blonde. But as it turned out, I heard Dana before I caught a glimpse of her.
    "She was doing what naked in your dressing room?" Dana shouted.
    Uh-oh.
    "Babe, you've gotta calm down," I heard Ricky's voice in response.
    "I don't gotta do anything, babe ," Dana yelled back.
    "Look, I don't know how she got there," Ricky protested.
    "And why was she naked?" Dana asked.
    "I don't know!"
    "And where were you?" Dana countered.
    I stood on tip-toe and caught a glimpse of her. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed into slits, lips pursed. Ears practically spewing steam.
    "I... I... I don't know. It was busy, there was a lot going on. You know how it is on set. Everything crazy..." Ricky's voice trailed off unconvincingly.
    "Oh my God," Dana yelled, throwing her hands up. "I leave you alone for one minute, and the next thing I know you're screwing your co-star behind my back!"
    "I was not!" Ricky protested. "I was just... I mean we were..."
    "You were what?" Dana asked, leaning in close and poking him in the chest with one manicured finger. "You were doing what with a naked dancer in your dressing room?"
    "Look, this isn't really the place to do this," Ricky said, eyes shifting to the growing crowd, no doubt hearing the entire conversation played back in his head through the reporting of paparazzi.
    But clearly Dana didn't care. Dana was freaking, and she was not backing down for anything.
    "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tear you limb from limb right now, pal," she said, her voice low, menacing, and filled with the kind of threat that a woman who engages in cardio kickboxing six out of seven days a week can carry through with.
    As I leaned in closer, waiting for Ricky's reply, I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder.
    "Hey, what's going on?"
    "Fight," I said without turning around. "Ricky's so busted."
    "Busted for what?" came the reply.
    "Cheating on Dana with a dead girl and-" I froze mid-sentence as I turned around to see the speaker.
    And came face to face with a tall, dark-haired, broad chested guy. My husband, Detective Jack Ramirez, LAPD Homicide.
    I gulped.
    Ramirez raised one dark eyebrow at me. "Dead girl?" he asked.
    I nodded. Reluctantly. "But I swear I was nowhere near the dressing room when they found her. I was feeding the babies. Waaaaaaay over there," I said, drawing out the word as I pointed back toward the lounge.
    Ramirez stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "'Way' over there, huh?"
    "Did you hear the part about how I did not find her?" I emphasized.
    "You just can't stay out of trouble, can you, Springer?" he asked, the use of my last name giving me some relief that he wasn't in the livid-pissed range, but more exasperated-pissed.
    "I'm guessing this is your case now?" I asked.
    He nodded, glancing at the dressing room door. "I presume she's in there?"
    "I think so. But," I added, "like I said, I haven't actually even seen the dead body. I'm so out of the loop this time." I held both hands up in an innocent gesture to bring home my point.
    He shot me a