Shoes To Die For

by Laura Levine

  “So,” I said, “how are you doing?”

  “I’ll live,” he said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. He seemed so much tinier than he did in class.

  “Oh, Mr. Goldman. I feel awful about what happened.”

  “Don’t be silly. Like I already told you, just because you yelled at me and I had a heart attack, that doesn’t mean you caused it.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, just name it.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “there is.”

  “What?” I asked. “What can I do?”

  He smiled hesitantly.

  “Well, you see, I told Mr. Perez you were my girlfriend.”

  “Mr. Perez?”

  “The guy in the next bed.” He pointed to the bed next to him. From the rumpled sheets and dent in the pillow I could see someone had been lying there, but it was empty now.

  “He’s in the toilet,” Mr. Goldman explained.

  “Why would you tell him I’m your girlfriend?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have, but he was bragging about his young girlfriend and what a hot number she was, acting like a real Romeo. And suddenly it just popped out of my mouth. I said I had a young girlfriend, too. You’re the only young gal I know so I told him it was you. So would you mind very much pretending to be my fiancée?”

  Are you crazy? I felt like shouting. Of course I mind!

  But then I looked down at those pathetic liver spots. And before I could stop myself, I was saying:

  “Sure. I don’t mind. Not at all.”

  At which point we heard a toilet flush in the adjacent bathroom.

  “By the way,” Mr. Goldman said, “I told him we have nicknames for each other. You’re my Honey Bunny, and I’m your Teddy Bear.”

  Quick. Somebody get me a barf bag.

  The bathroom door opened and an old man the size of a Keebler elf came shuffling out. This was the hospital Romeo?

  “Hey, Perez,” Mr. Goldman said, holding my hand. “Here’s my girlfriend I told you about.”

  “How do you do?” Mr. Perez said, with a wink. “You weren’t kidding, Goldman, when you said she was a hot mama.”

  “She sure is,” Mr. Goldman grinned. “Isn’t that right, Honey Bunny?”

  Where the hell was that barf bag?

  “I like my women with a little meat on their hips,” Mr. Perez said, looking me up and down appraisingly.

  “Personally, I prefer my men ambulatory and not yet on Medicare,” was what I felt like saying. But you’ll be happy to know that I reined myself in and plastered a phony smile on my face.

  We spent the next fifteen minutes in strained chitchat, Mr. Perez filling me in on the details of his hernia surgery. (He had a hernia the size of a grapefruit, in case you’re interested.) All the while, Mr. Goldman held my hand in a death grip, refusing to let go, and peppering his conversation with a rash of Honey Bunnies.

  Just when I thought my face was going to crack from smiling so much, a tiny woman came hobbling into the room on a cane. She wore her bleached blond hair in a towering beehive and had on enough makeup to cover Tammy Faye Bakker and still have some left over for Ivana Trump. But no amount of makeup could hide the fact that she was somewhere in her eighties.

  “Hi, Ramón!” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. “How’s my fella?”

  It turns out that this was Mr. Perez’s hot “young” girlfriend. At last, Mr. Goldman had met his match in the Vivid Imagination Department.

  She may not have been young, but this old dame sure was hot. I watched in amazement as she plunked herself down on Mr. Perez’s bed, and they started exchanging kisses. Yikes. Any minute now, they were going to be necking. I had to get out of there before Mr. Goldman got any ideas.

  “So nice to meet both of you,” I said, “but I’ve got to be running along.”

  “So soon?” Mr. Goldman asked.

  “Yes, Teddy Bear. I’ve got a dentist’s appointment. Root canal. Can’t possibly cancel.”

  I started for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Mr. Goldman said. “Aren’t you going to give your Teddy Bear a kiss?”

  Gritting my teeth, I walked back to his side. I bent down and pecked him chastely on the cheek.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” I said firmly. “Wouldn’t want to get you all excited and give you another heart attack, would we?”

  And then I got the hell out of there. As fast as my meaty hips could carry me.

  Chapter 11

  The minute I came home, I headed straight for the bathtub, tearing off my clothes en route. After all I’d been through, I desperately needed a good long soak. There’s nothing like a soothing bath to make a person forget dead bodies and dirty old men.

  I’d just filled the tub with my favorite strawberry-scented bath oil and was watching the water begin to bubble when the phone rang.

  Like a fool, I answered it. It was Kandi.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” she announced.

  “For what?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot. Tonight we’re going speed dating.”

  “I’m sorry, Kandi, but I can’t possibly go.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve had sort of a bad day.”

  “You’re not the only one, kiddo. It’s been hell on the set. The actor who plays Fred the Flea got busted on an indecent exposure charge, and we’ve been casting new fleas all day.”

  “I think my bad day can top your bad day.”

  I told her about discovering Frenchie’s body.

  “Wow,” she said. “Death by designer shoe.”

  “Actually, Lance says they were knockoffs. But the thing is, Kandi, I’m pretty shaken up.”

  “You poor thing,” she said. “But that’s all the more reason to get out tonight. You need the distraction.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I conceded. I didn’t exactly relish the thought of staying home and thinking about Frenchie all night.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “Good. What’re you wearing?”

  “At the moment, nothing. But don’t worry. I’ll choose an appropriate manhunting outfit.”

  And so—one marathon bath later—I gussied myself up in jeans, an Ann Taylor blazer, and my very best Hanes T-shirt. I topped off my ensemble with a pair of dangly silver earrings my mother had sent me from Home Shopping.

  “You don’t look too bad,” Kandi said, when she picked me up.

  “Stop. You’re killing me with compliments.”

  “No, I mean it. It’s sort of the Hip Writer look. It works for you.”

  “I’m so glad you approve.”

  Ignoring my sarcasm, she put the car in gear and took off for the Starbucks where our speed dating was scheduled to take place. As always, Kandi was dressed impeccably. Tonight she had on designer slacks and a cashmere sweater. I’m sure her knee-highs cost more than my entire outfit.

  “Now tell me about that corpse you discovered,” she said. “I can’t believe you found another dead body.”

  “I know. I’m still recovering from the one I found last year.”

  It’s true. Last year I found a body in a bathtub (which you can read all about in Killer Blonde, now available in paperback at a bookstore near you).

  “Who do you think could have done it?” Kandi asked.

  “Just about anyone who ever met her. Frenchie was not a popular person.”

  “Frankly, Jaine, it’s getting a little creepy the way you keep stumbling onto dead people.”

  “I know. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I was a mortician in a previous life.”

  “Just promise me you won’t get involved.”

  “Don’t worry. I can’t afford to spend time on a murder investigation. I’ve got to land a writing assignment before my checking account hits the single digits.”

  Kandi looked over at me, concerned. “You need some money, sweetie? How much?”

  That
’s one of the things I love about Kandi: her generosity. She’s always offering to bail me out of my financial scrapes. But as much as I’m tempted, I can never bring myself to say yes. It’s a matter of pride, I guess.

  “Thanks for offering, hon. But I’ll manage.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I’d be happy to do it.”

  “I know you would. That’s why you’re such a special person.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You know how I feel about you. You’re…the biggest moron I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, hon.” She stuck her head out the window and yelled to the driver in front of her. “If you were driving any slower, you’d be going backwards!”

  With the reckless abandon of a stunt car driver, she pulled out from behind the slowpoke in front of us and wove her Miata in and out of traffic until at last she screeched into the Starbucks parking lot.

  When I finally managed to pry my white knuckles from the door handle, I checked out my hair in the passenger mirror. Not too bad. Curly, but not the dreaded Finger-in-the-Electric-Socket look.

  “Now, remember,” Kandi said, applying a fresh coat of mascara to her already thick eyelashes, “I want to see a smile on your face tonight. Be open and receptive. And sit up straight. No slouching.”

  “For such a special person, sometimes you can be a real nag.”

  “That’s what best friends are for.”

  Then she grabbed me by the elbow and marched me in to Starbucks and the wonderful world of speed dating.

  Speed dating, for those of you wise enough never to have tried it, is like musical chairs. You sit and talk to a guy for three minutes. At the end of the three minutes, somebody blows a whistle, and the guy gets up and moves on to the next victim—I mean, woman. Except that in musical chairs, there’s always a possibility that you won’t find a chair and you can stop playing. No such luck with speed dating. Once the game starts, you’re stuck there till the bloody end.

  For the next hour, I sat in Starbucks, sipping a latte the size of a small rowboat, and answered questions like How would you describe the inner you? (Translation: What do you look like naked?), Do you consider yourself spontaneous? (Translation: Will you sleep with me on the first date?), and What are your favorite hobbies? (Hoped-for response: Watching football and fellatio).

  It was like being trapped in a bad episode of Love Connection. I can’t remember all the guys I met that night. Although, believe me, I’m trying.

  There was the pharmacist with a nose hair problem, and the guy who blathered on endlessly about his boat. There was the insurance salesman who, clearly deciding he wasn’t interested in me, switched gears and tried to sell me a term life insurance policy. For a while I chatted with the manager of a Krispy Kreme donut shop who gave me a coupon for a free jelly donut. (If it weren’t for his bad breath, and the colorful assortment of donut crumbs in his beard, I might have even considered going out with him.)

  But the highlight of my night had to be the unemployed actor who spent our entire time together talking to his agent on his cell phone.

  At last, the final whistle was blown. Questionnaires were handed out, and we were instructed to put a check mark next to the people we were interested in dating. Sad to say, I couldn’t bring myself to make a single check mark.

  After an emergency pit stop at the ladies’ room (which is what happens when you gulp down a latte the size of a small rowboat), I grabbed Kandi and we headed out to the parking lot.

  “So who did you say yes to?” Kandi asked when we got in the car.

  “Nobody,” I confessed.

  I cringed, waiting for the onslaught of recriminations. But Kandi was surprisingly understanding.

  “I don’t blame you. What a bunch of goofballs. Except for Anton, of course.”

  “Anton? I don’t remember anybody named Anton.”

  “He wasn’t one of the speed daters. He was the Starbucks guy at the espresso machine. He asked me out.”

  “You’ve got a date with a Starbucks guy?”

  I couldn’t help but be surprised. After all, this was a woman who brought home major bucks writing for a cartoon cockroach. I couldn’t see her dating someone who earned his living steaming milk for cappuccinos.

  “That’s not his real job,” Kandi said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Anton is a performance artist. He’s only working at Starbucks until he gets discovered.”

  (Why is it that 98 percent of the people in Los Angeles are waiting to be discovered? Doesn’t anybody in this town have a job they actually like?)

  “I’ve always wanted to date a performance artist,” she said dreamily. “They’re so bold and imaginative. Not afraid to take artistic chances.”

  By this time, Kandi was mentally ordering the flowers for her wedding. That’s the way she is. She meets a guy and right away she’s convinced he’s Mr. Wonderful. As opposed to yours truly, who understands that behind every Mr. Wonderful there’s a Mr. Blunderful waiting to make an appearance.

  Kandi spent the rest of the ride home babbling about Anton. Then she dropped me at my place and sped off on a cloud of unrealistic expectations.

  Grateful that this horrible day was finally grinding to a halt, I let myself into my apartment, where I had an apple and went straight to bed.

  Okay, so I didn’t go straight to bed. I got in my car and drove over to the nearest Krispy Kreme. I couldn’t let that coupon go to waste, could I?

  Chapter 12

  When I walked into my apartment I had a funny feeling that something wasn’t right. I told myself I was being silly. It was just the stress of the day coming back to haunt me.

  I headed to the kitchen to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay. I was just reaching for the wine when I looked up and saw that the kitchen window was open. I broke out in a cold sweat. I never left the kitchen window open. Somebody must’ve broken in. I raced to the living room and called out for Prozac, but she was nowhere in sight.

  With my heart pounding, I headed for the bedroom. She wasn’t there, either. I was about to go back to the living room when I glanced in the mirror over my dresser and saw the reflection of someone hiding in the shadows of my closet. Before I could stop myself, I let out a terrified yelp, and a man in a ski mask came lurching out into the room.

  Oh, my God. It was Frenchie’s killer. I was sure of it. I’d probably seen something incriminating at the scene of the crime, some detail I hadn’t yet focused on, something that I might remember later and tell the cops. And the killer, taking no chances, was here to make sure that I kept my mouth shut. Permanently.

  I tore out of the apartment down to Olympic Boulevard, my assailant in the ski mask in hot pursuit. By now I was screaming for help, but none of the people in the cars whizzing by stopped to help me. What was wrong with them? Couldn’t they see I was in trouble?

  I looked up and saw that I was approaching Crazy Eel, a popular sushi restaurant. They had a valet parking lot in back. The valets would surely help me. I dashed down the alley to the parking lot. But when I got there, it was empty. No valets. No cars. The only thing there, I saw to my horror, was a coffin. Parked in a handicapped space.

  I whirled around and my assailant in the ski mask was right behind me. In his hand, he held a Jimmy Choo shoe, its long lethal heel glinting in the moonlight like a dagger. I tried to run, but I was frozen with fear. My assailant laughed, a shrill, piercing laugh, then reached up and pulled off his ski mask.

  I gasped at what I saw. The face under the mask wasn’t a face at all—but a jelly donut! With raspberry jelly oozing out of it. Then the creature started laughing again, that awful, piercing laugh, which now sounded just like a phone ringing.

  In fact, it was a phone ringing. My phone. Groggily I woke up and realized that I was safe at home in bed, Prozac nestled on my chest. Thank heavens, it was only a dream, a reaction no doubt to Frenchie’s murder and the two Krispy Kreme je
lly donuts I’d scarfed down at midnight.

  (Okay, three Krispy Kreme jelly donuts.)

  I reached over and answered the phone.

  “Have you heard the news?” Lance’s voice came on the line. “That bitchy salesgirl at Passions got killed last night.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was the one who discovered the body.”

  “My God! I want all the details!—Wait, hold on. There’s my other line.”

  While I waited for Lance to take his other call, I glanced down at the floor and flinched at the sight of an empty Krispy Kreme donut box inches from my bed. Just a few crumbs remained. And I’m ashamed to say I ate them.

  “That was Becky,” Lance said, coming back on the line. “The cops think she killed Frenchie.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said, thinking that maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all. Hadn’t Becky said just yesterday that she wanted to kill her?

  “I told her about the murders you’ve solved,” Lance said, “and she wants you to help her out.”

  Just then I heard a call-waiting click on my line. “Lance, I’ve got another call.”

  “Better take it. It’s probably Becky.”

  And it was.

  “Oh, Jaine,” she wailed. “The police think I killed Frenchie. They came to question me yesterday, and I just know they thought I did it. Anyhow, I was hoping you could find the killer. Lance told me you’ve solved a few murders.”

  “That’s true,” I said, with no small amount of pride.

  “Good. Because I can’t afford a real detective. They’re expensive.”

  She couldn’t afford a real detective? What did that make me? Chopped liver?

  “But I could pay you something,” she said, sensing my hesitation. “Say, two hundred dollars a week?”

  Barely minimum wage, but it was better than the absolute zero I was currently earning.