Excerpt of Deadly in High Heels by Gemma Halliday

The air was just starting to turn warm by the time I awoke the next morning. I rolled over on my side to look at the alarm clock. 7 AM. Normally I wasn't what you would call a morning person, but I was still on California time. I closed my eyes, pulled the blankets over my head, and tried to tell myself there was no reason to be up at dawn while I was on a working vacation in tropical paradise in Hawaii.

When I was a young girl I dreamed of being on the runways of Paris, Milan, and New York, strutting the most fabulous fashions known to womankind. Unfortunately when my height topped out at a less than impressive 5 feet 1 3/4 inches (yes, the 3/4 inches are important to note!) around eighth grade, it became painfully clear that a career as a runway model was not in my future. However I didn't give up hope on fashion!

Instead I turned my hand to designing those coveted couture creations. More specifically, the fab footwear that did the strutting. While my career as a designer was still in the early stages, not quite rivaling the likes of Choo or Louboutin yet, through lots of hard work and hustling on my part, new boutiques throughout Beverly Hills were displaying my heels in their pricey window displays. And I hoped to take this phenomenon from local to national with my latest client: the Miss Hawaiian Paradise Beauty Pageant.

Currently my footwear was slated to be worn by all fifty-one of the contestants on the one-week, nationally televised event. And if the exposure wasn't enough to have me happy-dancing in my slingbacks, the pageant had actually flown me out to the island of Oahu to style the contestants in person. Talk about a dream job, right?

I pulled myself out of bed and contemplated joining my best friend and current Miss Hawaiian Paradise judge, Dana, downstairs in the gym. For about half a second. My feelings on going to the gym were about what they were on wearing Crocs—if a gun was to my head, I'd do it. But no way would I like it.

However as a concession to the mai tais I'd had last night (not to mention the pineapple teriyaki pork kebabs and the chocolate lava cake that went with them) I decided swimming a few laps in the pool might not be a terrible idea. I slipped into my new purple one-piece with turquoise hibiscus flowers along the front and tossed on a white-cover up round my hips. In lieu of heels, I grabbed a pair of wedge sandals in a white wicker that would be moisture resistant and made my way to the elevators.

At this time of morning, the pool area was largely deserted, the lingering scents of sunscreen in the air only hinting at what the day ahead would bring. In fact it looked as though there was only one other patron at the pool this morning, lying on a chaise lounge a few feet away.

I immediately recognized the long legs and pale silver-blonde hair of Miss Montana. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes, her head lulling to the side under a big floppy hat as if she'd dozed off.

I looked up at the sun. Even this early in the morning it was already starting to get warm, and I could easily imagine Miss Montana's pale limbs turning an unsightly pink if she snoozed too long.

I wondered if I should wake her. Being of Irish decent myself, I knew how quickly fair skin could burn in the harsh sun. That was the last thing a beauty queen wanted before going on stage. There were many flaws that one could hide with makeup, but a deep sunburn was a toughie. I paused, contemplating the cool water or the burning queen. In the end my own fair skin wouldn't let me walk away, and I made for Miss Montana.

"Excuse me?" I called quietly, not wanting to startle her awake. "Did you put on sunscreen?"

Only the girl didn't answer.

I reached out to gently shake her shoulder, but instead of rousing her, the movement served to jar her sunglasses to the ground.

And that's when I realized something was wrong.

I blinked, my pre-coffee brain slow to register what I saw as I looked into the wide, unseeing stare of Miss Montana's glazed-over eyes.

This beauty queen wasn't sleeping. Miss Montana was dead.