Best honorable mention for a first book from the Fresh Fiction pick committee 

Gemma Halliday
Author Book List

L.A. shoe designer, Maddie Springer, lives her life by three rules: Fashion. Fashion. Fashion. But when she stumbles upon the work of a brutal killer, her life takes an unexpected turn from Manolos to murder. And things only get worse when her boyfriend disappears -- along with $20 million in embezzled funds -- and her every move is suddenly under scrutiny by the LAPD's sexiest cop. With the help of her post-menopausal bridezilla of a mother, a 300 pound psychic and one seriously oversexed best friend, Maddie finds herself stepping out of her stilettos and onto the trail of a murderer. But can she catch a killer before the killer catches up to her...

Excerpt

I was late. And I don't mean the kind of late where I spent too much time doing my hair and now I was stuck in traffic. I mean I was late late. The kind of late where the 99% effective warnings on the side 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 6th grade sex ed. I carry just-in-case condoms in a little pink pouch in 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 are 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 pick-up that had "wash me" carved in week old dust, before continuing my desperate pleas into my best friend's answering machine. "Dana, please, please, please pick up? Please?" I paused. Stony silence. "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, than had the audacity to give me the finger. Welcome to L.A. I hit the end button on my flip phone, breaking a French tipped nail in the process. Which did nothing to lighten my mood as I'd just had them done at Faux Dad's salon. (Mom's soon-to-be husband number two was the owner Fernando's, the chichiest place on Rodeo. I'm still not 110% convinced Faux Dad is straight, but I love the discounted manicures.) I merged onto the 10, 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 one thirteen. 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 the rearview mirror to make sure the highway patrol was nowhere in sight. Not that I was speeding. Much. But considering I'd already racked up four six speeding tickets this year, I wasn't taking any chances. I was already on a first name basis with nine out of ten of the Los Angeles County traffic court judges. We didn't need to get any friendlier. As I checked for motorcycle cops, I also did a quick makeup check. Nothing like the stress of being late (in more ways than one) to run a girl's makeup. Luckily I'd piled on Dior Ultimate Lash before leaving my apartment this morning and was still looking relatively presentable. My ash blond hair was still tucked into a flattering half twist. A few flyaways, but the messy look was in, right? Lipstick, just slightly smeared. I pulled out a tube of Raspberry Perfection 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. Twenty-two 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. 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 Calvin tank top, trying like anything to present the appearance of a woman with it all together. And not a woman trying to remember which pregnancy test commercial touted early results with digital readouts. Exactly twenty-four minutes behind schedule, I walked into the law offices of Dewy, Cheatem 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, the maroon printed carpeting yawned across the reception area, muffling the sound of my heels as I made my way to the front desk. It was a large oval of dark woods, stretching along the back wall of the spacious room. Flanking the desk were more frosted doors leading to the conference rooms and offices where clerks were faintly typing away in the background. "May I help you?" asked the Barbie doll behind the desk. Jasmine. 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). Today her bleach blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5'6". (I'm what could be referred to a petite person, toping out at an impressive 5'1 ½" 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 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?" Jasmine's helium perky voice was not my favorite even on a good day, and today it was downright nerve grating. I knew she'd seen me come to lunch with Richard every other day since we'd begun dating five months ago. 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." "Fine, I'll just wait in his office." "I really think it would be better if you waited here." I narrowed my eyes again. I could see she wasn't going to let me past without a fight and, in all honesty, I just didn't have it in me today. "Fine." Instead I settled back into one of the tan, leather chairs and picked up a copy of People from the oak side table. I flipped to an article about Justin Timberlake's newest fling, but my heart wasn't really in it. I watched as Jasmine opened a game of solitaire on her computer and pursed her forehead in concentration. After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine's nails click against the keyboard in agonizing slowness, Richard came through the frosted doors. Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn't help doing a little romance heroine sigh at the sight of him. Richard is six foot one and all lean muscle. He is a religious runner, doing 10k'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 is elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-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, al la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, matched with a white shirt and the Jerry Garcia designed tie I gave him for Christmas. He looked downright yummy 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 perfect brow knitted together in look of concern. The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn in 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 firm build that made you instantly think prize fighter. He had a white scar over his eyebrow, cutting into his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look to his face that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn't branching out into criminal defense. I waited until they 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 grown six inches 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?" "Uh, actually, something's come up." The way he looked after the closed glass door where Mr. Nobody had just exited, had me again wondering who he 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." "Oh, that's too bad." Am I a totally bad person that I was actually a little relieved? At least we didn't have to have that conversation now. At least now I had a little time to come up with a better way of dropping the bombshell than, Richard, we've got to buy stronger condoms. Hmm... I wonder if I could sue Trojan over this? "Sorry, Maddie. I'll call you later, I promise." "That's okay. I understand. I'll talk to you tonight then." "Sure. Tonight." He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing back through the frosted doors and into the bowels of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. Jasmine looked up just long enough to smirk at me before going back to her amazingly difficult solitaire game. Copyright © 2006 by Gemma Halliday.

Mystery and chick-lit delightfully combined in this debut of a new series.

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