High Heels Are Murder (3 page)

“Tell me about this toe cleavage again,” Harry said.

“Please,” Josie said. “I’m trying to forget. The details are in my report. You read it. I rescued my shoe from a fate worse than death.”

Harry laughed. It was a wild, honking sound, like the mating cry of a Discovery Channel beast. Josie hoped something large, smelly and in love wouldn’t come galloping through his office door at Suttin Services.

“Have a seat,” Harry said, when his laughter finally choked off.

Josie plopped into the beat-up wooden chair opposite his desk. It wobbled dangerously, then tilted to one side. Harry liked to keep his mystery shoppers off balance. She wondered if he’d sawed one chair leg shorter.

“Did you really call Mel a heel?” Harry said. “Where did you get that word? Nobody freaking talks like that. What century are you in?”

“The Soft Shoe was so retro, it seemed to belong,” Josie said. “Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper were playing on the sound track. The store was this ladylike powder pink. It just popped into my mind. Besides, what would you call Mel?”

“An asshole,” Harry said. A small landslide of yellowing paper slid down the north face of his desk.

“Classy,” Josie said.

“Hey, if the shoe fits,” Harry said. “I read about guys like him, but I didn’t think they really existed.”

Most people wouldn’t think Harry was real, either. He looked like a troll in a fairy tale—a Grimm fairy tale. Like his name, he was hairy. He had hair on his head, in his ears and in his nose. The joints of his fingers sprouted hairs like weeds in sidewalk cracks. He was also fat.

Harry was on the Atkins diet, but he’d never be a poster boy for the plan. He ignored most of its guidelines, except the one about eating meat. Harry always had a roast something in one hand when Josie saw him at Suttin Services. Phone conversations came with chomping and slurping sounds that were worse than the visuals.

Today, Harry snacked on a turkey leg. It glistened as he talked. Grease smeared his fingers and glossed his rubbery lips. While he stuffed his face, Harry drooled over an Omaha Steaks catalog the way another man would look at a
Playboy
centerfold. The Omaha headline seemed almost pornographic:
BOLD AND BEEFY BONELESS STRIP SIRLOINS
.

“Look at these beauties,” Harry said. “Man, if I could get my hands on meat like that, the weight would roll off me.”

Josie studied the luscious, dripping meat. It seemed to throb on the page. “Holy cow. Four eight-ounce steaks for sixty-seven dollars,” she said.

“Hey, it’s less than you’d pay in a restaurant,” Harry said through a mouthful of masticated turkey. “How about this? Four eight-ounce prime ribs for seventy-three dollars. Four of those babies, medium rare. Man, that’s living. You want class? Here’s stuffed filet mignons with blue cheese, shiitake mushrooms and—”

“Harry, you wanted to see me?” Josie said.

“Yeah. I wanted to say, ‘Good work.’ You got your bonus.” Harry handed Josie an envelope. His smile was slippery with satisfaction and turkey grease. She’d solved the Soft Shoe problem in one visit.

Josie knew better than to trust Harry. He’d sold her out before. “Thanks,” she said, dropping the envelope in her purse.

“Of course, we’ll keep your name confidential.” Slurp. Chomp. He stripped five inches of flesh from the turkey leg.

“You still have to shop the other three Soft Shoe stores, but Mel is history,” Harry said. “He’s fired. They gave him his walking papers this afternoon.”

“Good. He deserved it.” Sometimes Josie felt guilty when she knew her bad report would get some underpaid employee in trouble. But not this time.

Harry went back to salivating over his catalog, and Josie knew she was dismissed.

She was glad to be out of Harry’s dusty, stuffy office and into the crisp November day. Josie picked her way through the potholes on the Suttin lot, found her anonymous gray Honda and settled into the butt-sprung seat.

“The envelope, please,” Josie said, and ripped open her bonus. Inside was a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Very nice.

Josie wished she could tell her mother about her triumph. She wished Jane would be proud of her. But her mother would be horrified at the way Josie caught Mel the foot fondler. It would only confirm Jane’s opinion that Josie had ruined her life.

In Jane’s world, young women did not spy on slimy shoe salesmen. In fact, they didn’t work at all, unless they volunteered for a committee for a worthy cause. Jane, alas, had lost that life of genteel luxury when her husband walked out on her. She worked long, dull years at a bank to put Josie through school. Jane’s plans for her clever daughter included a college degree, a house in the suburbs, a lawyer-doctor husband, and a country club membership. Josie was supposed to resume Jane’s interrupted life.

Josie destroyed those hopes the night she lit a hundred candles and fixed a pitcher of margaritas for Amelia’s father. She wound up pregnant and he wound up in jail.

But, Lord, what a night, Josie thought. At least I ruined myself in style. Josie didn’t believe that night was
a mistake. She liked her life as a mystery shopper. She loved her freedom and her daughter with equal fierceness.

If only Mom could see that I’m happier the way I am, Josie thought. If only Mom would be proud of me. But that was never going to happen.

Josie gave her mother credit. Jane worshiped respectability, but she had stood by her pregnant, unmarried daughter. She adored her granddaughter, Amelia. She helped Josie with emergency babysitting. She let her and Amelia live on the first floor of Jane’s two-family flat at reduced rent. But she never quite forgave her daughter. Occasionally, Jane’s resentment at her ruined plans would flare up, like an attack of rheumatism.

Only one woman could appreciate Josie’s special moment with Mel—her best friend. Alyce Bohannon lived in the Estates at Wood Winds with a lawyer husband who worked late, a fat-cheeked toddler, and a living room that belonged in
Architectural Digest
. Alyce had everything Josie should have had, except excitement.

Alyce went along on some of Josie’s mystery-shopper assignments because she was bored with her perfect life—an irony Josie’s mother never saw.

Josie called her friend on her cell phone. “You won’t believe what happened today,” she said.

“I’m sure I won’t,” Alyce said. “Are you hungry? Have you had lunch?”

“I watched Harry dismember a turkey leg,” Josie said. “I lost my appetite.”

“That man is disgusting,” Alyce said. “You need to eat properly. I’ll make us a nice salad, pop in some fresh rolls, and open a bottle of wine. Come out and tell me everything.”

Alyce lived in far West County, one of the newest and richest parts of the metro area. Not long ago, her subdivision had been woods and farms. Josie drove the winding back roads to the Estates at Wood Winds, dodging the long, skinny tree branches that clutched at her car. Something small and gray with a pink hairless tail ran in front of her Honda. Josie slammed on her brakes, heart pounding. Did she hit the creature? There was no
small squished corpse on the road. No bloody thump on the bumper. Josie sighed with relief and restarted her car.

Alyce loved to tell Josie about the charming wildlife she’d seen near her home—baby fawns, brown cotton-tailed bunnies, rollicking raccoons. Josie never saw any of these Disney animals. To her, the woods were a lonely place with gray, ratlike creatures and trees with branches like dead claws. They made her think of serial killers, shallow graves, and horror movies.

I’m a city kid, she thought. I need concrete under my feet.

The bored guard at the Estates at Wood Winds waved Josie through the gate. She pulled into the double drive of Alyce’s Tudor mansion. Even the half-timbered garage had mullioned windows. Josie gave the three-knock signal on the side door.

“Come in!” Alyce met her at the door with a glass of white wine. “Drink,” she commanded, handing Josie a fat, cold glass. “And sit.”

Josie obeyed. She was always slightly stunned by the perfection of Alyce’s home. In Josie’s city flat, the floors sloped and sagged, the plaster walls had cracks, and the woodwork was thick with old paint.

Alyce’s home glowed with newness. Everything was fresh, clean and shiny. The kitchen was paneled with luscious linenfold oak and hung with copper pots. The air was perfumed with baking rolls and fresh coffee. Alyce stood at a granite-topped cooking island the size of Bermuda, slicing strawberries for the salad.

Josie pulled up a wrought-iron chair. She knew better than to ask if she could help. Josie couldn’t operate most of the Williams-Sonoma appliances in Alyce’s kitchen. She hadn’t even heard of half of them. Josie thought the stainless-steel mandoline was a musical instrument, not a fancy French chopper. She’d never seen a breading tray before. She’d managed to live without the Carrara marble mortar and beech pestle that Alyce swore were “indispensable for crushing herbs and spices.” The canned spices Josie bought at the supermarket seemed pretty well pulverized.

The kitchen was Alyce’s personal heaven and she was its golden-haired goddess. Alyce didn’t walk. She floated, as if on a cloud. She was six inches taller than Josie and generously built, but she had an unearthly, gliding walk. Even her fine silky blond hair seemed to float.

“So tell me what happened,” Alyce said.

She arranged two mounds of spinach salad loaded with goat cheese, caramelized onions, walnuts and strawberries on cobalt blue plates. The rolls were hot. The wine was cold. Josie nibbled, sipped and talked about how she bagged Mel.

When she finished, Alyce said, “Josie, that story sends chills down my spine. I don’t even want to think about that creepy guy. I bought shoes at that store. I wonder if he waited on me?”

“I think you’d remember,” Josie said.

“Thank God you caught him,” Alyce said. “But how can you wear those Prada heels after what Mel tried to do to them?”

“I haven’t much choice,” Josie said. “They’re part of my Fashion Victim disguise.”

“Aren’t you afraid Mel will come after you?” Alyce said. “You got him fired. He has to be furious.”

“Harry says he’ll keep my name and address confidential,” Josie said.

“Hah. We know how quickly your boss sold you out last time there was trouble,” Alyce said.

“Harry is a spineless rat,” Josie said. “But I’m not worried about a shoe salesman. Besides, it’s over.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s also two o’clock. I’d better pick up Amelia at school. Thanks for giving me some graciousness in a grungy day.”

“I appreciate the excitement,” Alyce said. She sounded wistful, but Josie knew Alyce wouldn’t live in a world without garlic peelers.

Josie made it back to Clarkson Road without any critters throwing themselves under her car. She had half an hour to get to the Barrington School for Boys and Girls. Josie had one thing in common with her mother. She wanted the best for her daughter. In this case, the best
was the Barrington School. Amelia was a scholarship student.

Josie waited in the long driveway until her car pulled in front of the school and the principal called, “Amelia Marcus.” Amelia came running out the school door, her straight black hair flying out behind her. Her shoestrings were undone, but Josie wasn’t sure if that was the current style or her kid was a slob. She liked to watch her daughter move. She had her father’s physical confidence and his bright intelligence. Amelia had inherited everything but his facility for languages, and Josie was glad of that. If Nate hadn’t been so good at Spanish, he might not be in prison.

Amelia plopped onto the car seat and dragged her backpack in after her.

“So what did you do at work today, Mom?” she asked. Her lapses into adult conversation amused Josie, but she always answered them seriously.

“I shopped Soft Shoe. Spent the day trying on designer shoes,” Josie said.

“Sweet,” Amelia said. It was her favorite word of approval. “Did you get to keep any?”

“No, I had to give them all back.” Josie steered the car down the school’s long driveway.

“Bummer,” Amelia said.

“For sure,” Josie said. “Especially the open-toed Bruno Maglis.”

All the way home to Maplewood, they talked about shoe shopping. As their car turned off Manchester Road onto their street, Amelia rolled down the window and waved frantically at a slender man in his vigorous early seventies. He was tall and slightly stooped, with a long nose and a handsome head of gray hair. “There’s Grandma’s boyfriend, Jimmy,” Amelia said.

“That’s Mr. Ryent to you, Amelia. Grandma says he’s just a friend.”

“I saw them kissing on the front porch the other night,” Amelia said.

Did you now? Josie thought. That information might come in handy later. She wondered if her nosy neighbor,
Mrs. Mueller, watched her mother, too. Then Josie remembered she was supposed to be the parent.

“Why weren’t you in bed, young lady, instead of spying on your grandmother?”

“I wasn’t spying. They woke me up,” Amelia said. “They were talking and laughing real loud. I looked out the window and saw them. Mr. Ryent said Grandma had skin like a rose, but she’s all wrinkled, Mom.”

“There are different kinds of beauty, Amelia,” Josie said. “The beauty of a mature woman is special, and so is the man who can appreciate it. It’s nice that Mr. Ryent is so romantic.”

“He asked her to go bowling with him. Said he had two good balls. Grandma thought that was funny. Why is that funny, Mom?” Amelia said.

“I don’t know,” Josie said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m not a bowler.” Well, that much was true.

As she parked in front of their flat, Josie saw the curtains twitching at Mrs. Mueller’s house and absent-mindedly waved.

Mrs. Mueller did not wave back.

“Mrs. Mueller’s daughter, Cheryl, came to visit her mother today,” Jane said.

Josie braced herself. She knew what was coming—another Perfect Cheryl Report. Jane got this look of dazed envy when she talked about Cheryl, as if she were recounting the adventures of a saint or a superhero. According to her mother, Cheryl was both.

Josie had endured the Perfect Cheryl Reports since age seven. That’s when she and Jane had moved to Maplewood.