Shoes To Die For

by Laura Levine

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I threw on some clothes, fed Prozac her morning mackerel guts, and headed out the door, almost tripping over the L.A. Times on my front step.

  Frenchie’s murder was headline news: Woman Slain in La Brea Boutique. According to the story, the cops hadn’t made an arrest, but had a suspect they were investigating. I checked to see if my name was mentioned in the article, but all it said was that an unidentified woman had discovered the body. Good. The last thing I needed was for my parents to get wind of my involvement in the murder.

  I started down the path to my Corolla when Lance came bounding out of his apartment.

  “So, did you take the case?” he asked.

  “Yes. In fact I’m going over to Becky’s right now.”

  “Wait! Before you leave, you’ve got to tell me all about discovering the body. Don’t leave out a single gruesome detail! Is it true what I read in the paper, that she was killed with a shoe?”

  I nodded. “One of her Jimmy Choo knockoffs.”

  “Wow,” he said, whistling softly. “Talk about your shoes to die for.”

  I filled him in on the gruesome details of my discovery, then got in my Corolla and headed over to Becky’s.

  I was tempted to stop off for an Egg McMuffin en route. But no way was I going to do it. Not after last night’s jelly donut fiasco. Instead, I had a hearty breakfast of three Wint-O-Green LifeSavers I found at the bottom of my purse.

  So it was with minty-fresh breath that, fifteen minutes later, I rang Becky’s doorbell. Becky answered the door in shorts and a tank top, those absurd daisies still painted on her toenails. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and her hair was flat on one side of her head from where she’d slept on it.

  “Oh, Jaine,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”

  I followed her into the living room, where she sunk down into the sofa. I sat across from her on one of her black Halloween chairs.

  At which point her roommate, Nina, came bustling out of the kitchen in a sweatsuit, carrying a tray. Even the baggy sweats couldn’t hide her perfect little figure.

  “Here, Beck,” she said. “I brought you some chamomile tea, and a gluten-free muffin.” She looked at the muffin and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. These things are like cement with raisins.”

  Becky took the tea and smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Nina.”

  “I bought some cheese Danishes, too. Sure you don’t want one?”

  Becky shook her head no.

  “How about you, Jaine?” Nina held out a plate of plump cheese Danishes.

  No way was I going to eat a Danish. Not with those jelly donuts already clinging to my thighs. For once, I was going to be strong and say no. Capital N. Capital O.

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing one.

  What can I say? I can’t take me anywhere.

  Nina sat on the sofa next to Becky.

  “So, Jaine,” she said. “I heard you found the body. How awful.”

  “It sure was.”

  “Stabbed in the neck. What a terrible way to die,” she said. “I once heard about a guy who was fatally stabbed by a shish kabob skewer. It was at an all-you-can-eat Iranian buffet, and the poor guy tripped on his way back to his table. Impaled himself on his own shish kabob.”

  My God. First the story about the petrified poop. And now this. The woman was a walking encyclopedia of medical horror stories.

  “Nina, please,” Becky said, shuddering.

  “Sorry, hon. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She put her arm around Becky and gave her a squeeze.

  “Poor kid,” she said, turning to me. “She’s been crying all morning.”

  As if to prove it, Becky’s eyes welled with a fresh batch of tears.

  “It’s all so crazy,” Nina said. “Becky didn’t kill Frenchie. She couldn’t have. Becky wouldn’t hurt a fly. Really, she won’t even kill a spider. She picks them up with a paper towel and sets them free out front on the sidewalk.”

  “What makes you think the cops suspect you?” I asked.

  Becky blinked back her tears.

  “For one thing, Maxine told them what I said at the store yesterday, about decorating the store with Frenchie’s corpse.”

  “But you weren’t the only one who said something nasty to Frenchie yesterday. Everybody heard Tyler threatening to strangle her. How come the cops don’t suspect him?”

  “Because they didn’t find Tyler’s earring at the scene of the crime.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They found my gold hoop earring clutched in Frenchie’s hand.”

  I remembered Becky’s big gold hoop, and how it had fallen off the day I came to the store for my interview.

  “I tried to explain to the police that it’s always falling off, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.”

  “She obviously dropped it in the store,” Nina said, “and the murderer found it and put it in Frenchie’s hand to make it look like Becky did it.”

  “I realized it was missing last night,” Becky said.

  “We looked all around the apartment for it,” Nina said, “but we couldn’t find it.”

  “So then I knew it must be back at the store. I figured I’d wait and pick it up today. But now I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. The cops are keeping it as evi—”

  But she never got to finish the “dence” in evidence, because just then she broke out into a fresh batch of tears.

  “Honey, please don’t cry.” Nina put her arm around her and patted her back, trying to calm her down. Finally, Becky stifled a sob and looked at me with pleading eyes. “So will you help me, Jaine?”

  “Of course I’ll help you.” My earlier doubts about Becky had disappeared. I agreed with Nina. I simply couldn’t believe this little pixie was a killer.

  “Oh, Jaine. Thank you,” she said, throwing her arms around me. She smelled of chamomile tea and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.

  “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars a week,” she said when she finally managed to pry herself away. “Just like I promised.”

  “I can’t let you pay me. You don’t even have a job.”

  Wait a minute. Why couldn’t I let her pay me? I didn’t have a job, either.

  “Oh, but Grace called earlier. She hired me back again. Tyler, too.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “So I can definitely afford to pay you. I don’t actually have the cash, but Nina said she saw a Web site where I can borrow money for only forty percent interest.”

  “Forty percent? I can’t let you do that.”

  Why on earth not? I needed the money just as much as she did. More, probably.

  “Why don’t we see how things work out?” I said. “And you can pay me later.”

  I’d obviously suffered a minor stroke and lost my powers of rational thinking.

  “Oh, Jaine. You’re an angel.”

  An idiot was more like it.

  “What I need from you,” I said, “are some addresses and phone numbers. For Grace, Maxine, and Tyler. I’m going to have to question all of them.”

  Becky’s eyes widened with alarm. “Oh, you can’t possibly suspect Tyler. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Still,” I said, “I’ll need to talk to him.”

  “I’ve got a staff list somewhere,” Becky said. She went over to a telephone table near the front door and started looking through some papers in one of the drawers.

  “Here it is.” She came back and handed me the address list.

  “By the way,” she said, “Grace told me there’s going to be a memorial service for Frenchie tomorrow. At St. Joan of Arc in Westwood.”

  “Are you going?” I asked.

  She shook her head no.

  “I keep telling her she should put in an appearance,” Nina said. “If she stays away, the cops will think she didn’t like Frenchie.”

  “They already know I hated her. I told them myself.”

  “Did you have to be
so darn honest?” Nina asked.

  “You’re right. I was a fool. I practically signed a confession.” She wrung her hands in despair. “They’re going to arrest me. I just know they are.”

  And, as if to prove her right, at that moment the doorbell rang. Two cute young cops stood at the door. If they hadn’t been in uniform, you’d think they were there to pick up the girls for a double date. But they were in uniform, and this was not a social call. The taller of the two cops, obviously the team spokesman, stepped forward.

  “Ms. Kopek?” he asked.

  Becky nodded. “That’s me.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you downtown for questioning.”

  Surprisingly, Becky didn’t cry.

  “I’ll get my purse,” she said, nodding stiffly, then started down the hallway to the bedroom.

  “Don’t forget a sweater,” Nina called out after her. “And put on some long pants. It’s chilly outside.” Then she turned to me, her brow furrowed with concern. “I hope she doesn’t catch the flu. Seven out of a hundred flu cases can lead to fatal complications.”

  Another fun fact from Nurse Nina.

  Minutes later, Becky came back out, in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

  “Why don’t I come with you?” Nina said.

  “Sorry,” the spokesman cop said. “Just Ms. Kopek.”

  Reluctantly Nina let her go.

  “I was just about to leave,” I said. “Do you mind if I ride down in the elevator with you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, his face as impassive as a piece of toast.

  So I rode down the elevator with Becky and the cops. When we got outside I hugged her good-bye.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be back in no time.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, her voice tiny with fear.

  The cops led her away, her flip flops clacking mournfully on the sidewalk. She slid in to the backseat of the squad car, then turned around and waved at me through the rear window, like a frightened kid leaving home for the first time.

  I stood there, watching the car disappear into traffic, hoping the cops would go easy on a girl with daisies on her toes.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: No-Talent Hack!

  Alistair St. Germaine is a no-talent hack who wouldn’t know a good performance if it bit him on the fanny.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Strangest Thing

  Honey, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Daddy didn’t get the part. Mr. St. Germaine cast himself in the lead as Lord Worthington. He gave Daddy the part of the butler. Poor Daddy’s got only one line: “Very good, sir.” Although he does get to say it six different times throughout the play. Needless to say, he’s furious.

  But guess what? Remember how nervous I was about getting up on stage and feeding Daddy his lines? Well, the strangest thing happened. Once I got up there, I wasn’t scared at all. Before I knew it, I was having fun. Anyhow, you’ll never believe this (I still can’t!), but Mr. St. Germaine was so impressed with the way I read the part of Lady Worthington, he cast me as his leading lady! At first I turned it down. After all, it was Daddy who wanted to be in the play, not me. But Mr. St. Germaine was so persuasive, I just couldn’t say no. He said the play wouldn’t be the same without me. So your little ole mom is going to play the part of Lady Cynthia Worthington in the world premiere of Lord Worthington’s Ascot. Isn’t that exciting?

  Of course, Daddy is furious with me, and I probably should have turned down the part to keep peace in the house, but like I said, I just couldn’t say no to Mr. St. Germaine. Who, by the way, insists that I call him Alistair.

  More later—

  Mom

  To: DaddyO

  From: Jausten

  Hi, Daddy. Mom told me what happened at the audition. I’m sorry you didn’t get the lead. But I’m sure you’ll be terrific as the butler.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: The Germ

  The only reason I agreed to play the butler in that stupid play is because I want to keep an eye on Mr. No-Talent Alistair St. Germaine. Or, as I call him, The Germ. Frankly, I think The Germ has the hots for your mom. Why else would he cast her as the female lead? Let’s face it; your mom is a wonderful woman, but she’s no Meryl Streep.

  And by the way, I checked out The Germ on Google. It turns out his “Off Broadway” plays were off Broadway, all right. All the way off Broadway, across the river in Hoboken, New Jersey. What a scam artist.

  To: DaddyO

  From: Jausten

  Don’t be silly, Daddy. I’m sure Mr. St. Germaine doesn’t have “the hots” for Mom.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: You’ll Never Guess What Happened!

  Oh, honey! You’ll never guess what just happened. The doorbell rang, and it was the florist. With a dozen roses from Mr. St. Germaine! The card said, “Congratulations, to my new star.” Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?

  Chapter 13

  The sun shone brightly on the day of Frenchie’s memorial service. Birds were chirping, flowers were blooming, and fluffy white clouds scudded across a deep blue sky. Clearly Mother Nature didn’t give a flying fig that Frenchie’s corpse was cooling in the L.A. County Morgue.

  I got in my Corolla and headed for St. Joan of Arc church, pondering the latest bombshell from my parents.

  So Mom had landed the female lead in Lord Worthington’s Ascot. Somehow I had trouble picturing her as a British aristocrat. I mean, this is a woman whose idea of a formal event is the opening of a new Safeway.

  I wondered if Daddy was right. Could the director possibly have a crush on her? After all, Mom was a very attractive woman. But then, Daddy was a confirmed paranoid. So it was hard to tell. One thing I knew for sure. Daddy would be hell to live with now that he’d been passed over for the male lead. I was just glad I was three thousand miles out of their orbit.

  The first thing I saw when I drove up to the church was a marble statue of Joan of Arc glittering in the noonday sun. I looked at the noble young girl and couldn’t help comparing her to Frenchie, who had about as much nobility as a swamp rat.

  I parked my car in the parking lot and hurried inside. Only a handful of people were scattered in the large sanctuary.

  I slid into a pew and scanned the mourners. I spotted Grace and Maxine, sitting on opposite ends of a pew. Maxine kept looking over at Grace, as if to catch her attention, but Grace sat ramrod stiff, staring straight ahead. A few of Frenchie’s fashionista friends sat together whispering in another pew. The only man at the service was a paunchy middle-aged guy in the front row, sobbing into a Kleenex.

  The priest, a stocky man who looked like he could have been a football quarterback, was giving a eulogy for Frenchie. I could tell he didn’t know her very well because he was talking about what a swell person she was.

  “Although Giselle has left us, she will always be with us in spirit.”

  Not exactly a comforting thought. Did we really need Frenchie’s spirit hovering over the planet? Couldn’t she just go and aggravate people in the afterlife?

  “And now,” the priest said, “Giselle’s husband, Owen, would like to say a few words. Mr. Ambrose?”

  The paunchy guy in the front row got up and headed for the microphone. I blinked in amazement. This was Frenchie’s husband? I’d just assumed he was her father. He had the dissipated look of a man who’d spent far too much time alone at the end of a bar nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. Tall and barrel-chested, his thick black hair was riddled with gray. Maybe at one time he’d been a studly guy, but now he looked like an aging Fred Flintstone.

  He hadn’t gotten more than three sentences into his eulogy when he started sobbing. He tried to calm himself, but he couldn’t talk without breaking down. Finally, the priest had to lead him back down to his seat.

  “Who
else would like to say a few words about the dearly departed?” the priest asked.

  No one wanted to say a few words, so the service broke up. From start to finish, it took all of about six minutes.

  The priest handed out directions to Frenchie’s apartment, where her husband was hosting a “memorial buffet,” and the mourners got up to go. As we headed up the aisle, I heard snippets of conversation from Frenchie’s fashionista buddies.

  “I hear they’re shipping the body back to her parents in New Jersey. After the autopsy, of course.”

  “Want to go to the memorial buffet?”

  “Nah, let’s have lunch at the beach.”

  “Oh, yes. That sounds so much nicer.”

  I hoped Frenchie’s spirit wasn’t hanging around to hear how breathtakingly fast her friends had gotten over her death.

  And then I heard a snippet of conversation that caught my attention.

  “Grace, can you ever forgive me?”

  It was Maxine. She and Grace were standing on the steps of the church. I stopped and pretended to be reading the directions to Frenchie’s apartment while I listened in on their conversation.

  “I can’t believe I behaved so horribly,” Maxine said. Her frizzy brown hair was wilder than ever, and her tiny face was pinched with unhappiness.

  What horrible thing, I wondered, had Maxine done?

  “I don’t suppose you want me working at the store any more,” she said, staring down at her support pumps.

  “I don’t know, Maxine. I’ll have to think about it,” Grace said.

  Unlike Maxine, Grace looked amazingly chipper in a black Prada suit. I knew it was Prada because I’d seen it at Barneys. With her perfectly coiffed white hair and wraparound sunglasses, she looked good enough to hit the runway in Milan.