Shoes To Die For

by Laura Levine

  I thought about Owen, and what he’d said about being under Frenchie’s spell. Clearly he hadn’t been the only one bewitched by her charms.

  “I knew it wasn’t right,” Maxine said, “but I did it anyway. I stayed late at night and doctored the books. Grace never suspected anything, because I often work late. And then my part of the deal was done. Frenchie took over. She told Grace that unless she sold her the store for a nominal fee, she’d turn her over to the IRS for tax fraud. Grace was blindsided. She knew Frenchie had her over a barrel. She agreed to sell her the store for five dollars and announced her retirement. You were there that day. You saw how stunned she was.

  “Afterward, I went to Frenchie’s office to invite her to lunch. I’d made reservations at the Four Seasons to celebrate.”

  Then she winced, pained by what she was about to say.

  “Frenchie looked at me like I was a cockroach that had wandered in from the sewer. She told me she wasn’t going to have lunch with me that day. Or any day. She said she’d been bored to tears with me all along, that she couldn’t wait to be rid of me. Not only was she not giving me a raise, she fired me. I couldn’t believe my ears. She said that Grace didn’t have a heart condition, that she was healthy as a horse. And that I was a gullible fool for believing her.

  “I told her I’d report her to the police and she just laughed. She reminded me that I was the one who doctored the books, not her. She said that if anything happened to her, she’d make certain I was dragged down with her.

  “Oh, Sparkles,” she said, burying her face in the cat’s fur. “How could I have been so foolish?”

  Then she started to cry, big choking sobs that racked her thin body.

  I hurried to her side and put my arm around her.

  “You mustn’t cry,” I said. “Frenchie was a terrible person. You weren’t a fool for believing her. You were just human.”

  She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Frenchie was a terrible person. And you know something? I’m glad she’s dead. But I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Just for the record, do you mind my asking where you were the night of the murder?”

  “No, I don’t mind. I was home that night. Sparkles and I were watching The Way We Were. It’s one of our favorite movies. Right, Sparkles?”

  Sparkles yawned. I guess she wasn’t a Robert Redford fan.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” I said. “Thank you so much for your time.”

  I gave Maxine the name of my vet and she walked me to the door, still holding Sparkles in her arms.

  “’Bye, Sparkles,” I said, giving the cat one last scratch behind her ears.

  Unwilling to venture onto the elevator from hell, I took the stairs, my footsteps echoing loudly in the empty stairwell. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just shared Mallomars with a killer.

  True, mousy little Maxine didn’t seem capable of murder. I wondered if she even had the strength to ram that shoe in Frenchie’s neck. But it’s amazing what people are capable of in moments of stress. Look at all those stories about ninety-eight-pound women lifting cars to rescue their children. I saw the way she’d mutilated Frenchie in her photo album. How could I be sure she hadn’t unleashed her rage on her in real life, too?

  Driving home from Maxine’s, I had a sudden craving for roast chicken.

  When I was a kid growing up in Hermosa Beach, Daddy cooked us roast chicken and mashed potatoes every Sunday night. Daddy is the cook in our family. He’s really quite good, although he has a thing about washing vegetables. Which is why it’s not uncommon to find a dollop of Palmolive Liquid in your mashed potatoes. But his chickens are delicious—crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside—and every once in a while I get a craving for one.

  So I stopped off at Gelson’s, glitzy supermarket to the stars, where you practically need a cosigner to shop, and picked out a glorious rosemary lemon chicken. Yes, I know that, given the state of my finances, I should’ve been shopping for discount chickens, but I was hungry and I didn’t care.

  I got in the car with my precious cargo and headed home. The aroma of roast chicken filled the Corolla. It was all I could do to keep myself from tearing into it at the first stoplight. But I restrained myself. I was determined to eat dinner the civilized way, at the dining room table, with a glass of chardonnay and Tony Bennett on the stereo.

  “Look what Mommy brought for dinner, sweetie,” I said to Prozac when I got home. “Yummy roast chicken.”

  She sniffed appreciatively and came hurrying to my side. She’s very fond of me when I’ve got a chicken in my arms.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll cut you a nice big piece.”

  She meowed noisily. White meat only, was what I think she was trying to tell me.

  I put the chicken on the counter and poured myself a glass of chardonnay. Then I set the table with a placemat and cloth napkin and put Tony on the stereo. I really had to do this civilized stuff more often.

  I thought briefly of relaxing with my drink before dinner, like civilized types do, but I simply couldn’t resist the smell of that chicken.

  I was just about to tear off the wrapping when the phone rang. I raced to the living room to get it. If it was a telemarketer, I’d scream bloody murder.

  A stranger’s voice came on the line.

  “Hi, it’s Darrell Simms.”

  Damn. It was a telemarketer.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”

  “I’m not selling anything. We met the other night. At speed dating. Remember? I was the one who liked boating.”

  I vaguely remembered some guy blathering on endlessly about his boat.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “From the speed dating people. I was one of the guys you said yes to.”

  But I hadn’t said yes to anyone, as those of you paying attention will surely remember. Those idiots at speed dating must have given out my number by mistake.

  “Anyhow,” he said, “I was wondering if you’d like to get together and go for a sunset sail on my boat.”

  I was just about to say no when I flashed on the image of Maxine sitting in her oatmeal recliner with Sparkles on her lap. Did I really want to wind up like her, a sad, lonely lady with only a cat for company? Here was a perfectly nice guy asking me to go sailing. On a sunset cruise. How sweet was that? So what if he’d seemed a tad boring the other night? Maybe he was nervous. Kandi was right. I couldn’t let my disastrous marriage to The Blob turn me off men forever. I had to start giving guys a chance.

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  We agreed to meet Sunday at 4:00 at the marina, and I hung up, feeling quite proud of myself. In addition to being more civilized, I had to start opening myself up to new adventures. And maybe lose ten pounds while I was at it. But I’d worry about those ten pounds later. Right now, I had a roast chicken to demolish.

  I was just heading back to the kitchen when the phone rang again.

  Isn’t that always the way it is? When you’re in the middle of a writing assignment and you’re totally blocked and you’d give a million dollars to be interrupted by a call, the phone refuses to ring. But just have a roast chicken on your kitchen counter, and you’re more popular than a blue-eyed blonde in a sports bar.

  “Yes,” I barked. “Who is it?”

  “Don’t bite my head off. It’s me. Kandi.”

  “Kandi, the strangest thing just happened. One of the speed dating guys called and asked me out. I guess they must have given out my number by mistake.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Kandi? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Actually, the people at speed dating didn’t give out your phone number. I did.”

  “What?”

  “When you went to the ladies’ room, I changed all your no’s to yeses.”

  “Why would you do that? You said all the guys were losers.”

  “I d
id not say they were losers. I said they were goofballs.”

  “Losers. Goofballs. Whatever. Why did you give them my number?”

  “I figured in your case, a goofball was better than nothing.”

  “What do you mean, in my case?”

  “I just wanted you to get out of the house, that’s all. You spend way too much time with Prozac.”

  “I do not,” I said, plucking cat hairs from my bra.

  “Besides,” Kandi said, “even though they all seemed like goofballs, that doesn’t mean they really are goofballs. It was only three minutes per guy, for heaven’s sake. We didn’t really get a chance to know them.”

  I had to admit, she had a point. But I was still pretty annoyed. For all she knew, one of those guys could be a goofball mass murderer. And I was just about to give her a serious scolding when I heard my call waiting beep.

  “Look, I’ve got another call. I’ll yell at you later, okay?”

  I switched to the other call. It was Becky.

  “Oh, Jaine. I’ve got bad news. The police have a witness who saw my car parked outside Passions the night of the murder.”

  “But that’s impossible. You weren’t there.”

  “Actually,” she said, somewhat sheepishly, “I was there. I went back to get my dress designs. I’d given some of them to Grace. I was afraid Frenchie might not give them back to me, so I went back around seven o’clock. The store was closed by then, and I figured Frenchie would be gone.

  “Now some guy says he saw my car in the parking lot. Only he swears it was there later that night, about ten-thirty. And the cops say Frenchie was murdered some time between nine and eleven.”

  “How can the police be so sure that it was your car in the parking lot? Did the witness write down the license plate number?”

  “My car’s pretty easy to identify. It’s an orange Beetle. I got it to match my hair. The license plate says ‘Becky’s Bug’.”

  Oh, great. She might as well have left a business card.

  “Who is this witness, anyway?” I asked.

  “All I know is that the cops said he lives above the store next door to Passions. Oh, Jaine. What are we going to do?”

  Her voice was screechy with panic.

  “Do you have anything you can take to relax? A valium, maybe?”

  “I’ve got some Sleepy Time Herbal Tea.”

  Sleepy Time Herbal Tea? That was the strongest sedative she had, in a town where people pop mind-altering drugs like M&Ms?

  “Okay, try that,” I said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  I assured Becky that everything was going to be okay and got off the phone. But I was lying. I sincerely doubted everything was going to be okay. Not with an eyewitness who placed Becky’s car at Passions at the time of the murder. Surely, the guy got the time wrong. First thing tomorrow, I’d track him down and have a talk with him.

  In the meantime, though, I had a chicken to eat.

  Taking no chances, I took the phone off the hook and made a beeline for my roast chicken. I couldn’t wait to dig in.

  But Prozac, the little monster, had beaten me to it. There she was on the counter, her pink nose buried in the white meat.

  “Prozac!” I wailed. “How could you?”

  It was easy, she seemed to say, licking her lips. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m very good at jumping up on counters.

  I grabbed the bird and surveyed the damage. It’s amazing how much chicken a ten-pound cat can eat. For a minute I considered eating what was left. But as hungry as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to eat a chicken covered with cat spit.

  I wrapped the remains and put them in the refrigerator. They’d be leftovers for Prozac, although Lord knows she didn’t deserve them.

  Then I fixed myself a bowl of Cheerios, which I ate standing over the kitchen sink.

  So much for the civilized life.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Your Father Is Impossible!

  Well, rehearsals have started and all I can say is: Your father is impossible! I swear, he’s driving everyone crazy. He has one measly line: Very good, sir. But he refuses to say it. Instead, he keeps making up his own dialogue. He says, “Anything you say, sir.” “Your wish is my command, sir.” “Indubitably, sir.” Anything but “Very good, sir.”

  And every gesture he does with a flourish. He practically does a backflip when he opens the door. In one scene he’s supposed to light Alistair’s cigarette. He makes such a production over it, waving the lighter like it’s a baton. By the time he finally lights the darn cigarette, Alistair could have already smoked it.

  The worst part is when Alistair and I have our love scene. We don’t really kiss, of course. We just fake it. But every time Alistair comes near me, your father starts coughing and shooting Alistair dirty looks. Oh, honey, it’s just so embarrassing. Daddy is convinced Alistair has a crush on me. All because he sent me those roses. As it turns out, Alistair sent flowers to all the ladies in the play. But still, your daddy is convinced that Alistair has “the hots” for me. Which is totally absurd. Our relationship is strictly professional!

  Your stressed out,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Wolf in Wolf’s Clothing

  Can you believe the gall of The Germ sending your mother a dozen roses? True, he sent flowers to the other women in the cast, but he sent them carnations! What does that tell you, huh? The man is a wolf in wolf’s clothing.

  And you wouldn’t believe the fuss your mother is making over that damn bouquet. You’d think she never got any flowers before. Didn’t I just give her a dozen gorgeous roses last Mother’s Day?

  To: DaddyO

  From: Jausten

  Actually, Daddy, I think you gave her a dustbuster.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: It’s the Thought That Counts

  Really? I could’ve sworn I sent her roses. Oh, well. It’s the thought that counts. And besides, when I do give your mother roses, I give her good ones. Not the puny little buds The Germ sent. I bet they don’t last a day.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  P.S. Daddy did something to those roses, I’m sure of it. They’re wilting already. He swears he went nowhere near them, but I think I smell gin in the vase.

  Chapter 15

  The store next to Passions was a hair salon called Extreme Hair. And they weren’t kidding. The window was filled with pictures of gaunt young models with what looked like antelope horns on their heads. I don’t care what the folks at Extreme Hair say, it’s not a good idea to walk around with antelope horns on your head. Especially during hunting season.

  But I wasn’t there to critique haircuts. I was there to pay a call on the witness who’d seen Becky’s car on the night of the murder. Luckily there was only one apartment above the salon. The name on the mailbox was R.D. Butler.

  I headed up a narrow flight of steps and rang the bell to R.D.’s apartment. A skinny young guy opened the door. His greasy blond hair was braided in dreadlocks that stuck out from his head like spikes. An Extreme Hair customer, no doubt. He wore nothing but pajama bottoms, exposing a painfully thin chest studded with nipple rings.

  I wondered if R.D. stood for Really Dirty.

  “Whaddaya want?” he said, peering out at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.

  “You sure did,” he snapped.

  “Sorry about that. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the murder next door.”

  “I already told the police everything I know. What are you—some kind of reporter?” He squinted at me appraisingly. “You are a reporter, aren’t you? From the L.A. Times, I’ll bet.”

  I was just about to assure him that no, I wasn’t a pesky reporter, when he said: “I’ll talk to you on one condition. You make sure you
mention the name of my band in the paper.”

  “Absolutely,” I nodded. “No problem. I’ll be sure to mention your band’s name.”

  “Okay,” he said, scratching his scalp between the dreadlocks. “We got a deal. Come on in.”

  It’s a good thing I wasn’t from the Board of Health, or his apartment would have been condemned on the spot. What a pigsty. The place was practically buried in beer cans, fast food wrappers, and petrified pizza crusts.

  I plucked what looked like a decomposing egg roll from a chair and sat down, making a mental note to have my jeans fumigated.

  “My sources tell me that you’re a witness in the Giselle Ambrose murder case,” I said, doing my best to sound like a reporter.

  “That’s right,” R.D. said, scratching his underarms.

  “Can you tell me what you witnessed?”

  “Dead Bats.”

  “Dead bats?”

  “That’s the name of my band. Aren’t you going to write that down?”

  “No need,” I said, tapping my forehead. “Photographic memory.”

  “Really? That’s great. I have trouble remembering my phone number.”

  “You should try laying off cocaine. I hear that helps.”

  Of course, I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “So what did you see the night of the murder?”

  “Like I told the cops, at 10:35, I saw an orange VW Beetle out in the parking lot.”

  “You sure of the time?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I was sleeping off a hangover and got up to pee. I happened to look out the window and saw the Beetle. Then I checked the clock over there.”