Shoes To Die For

by Laura Levine

  He pointed to a big round neon clock hanging over the sofa, the kind you see in diners. I wondered if he’d stolen it.

  “I remember it was 10:35,” he said. “Exactly.”

  This from a guy who had trouble remembering his phone number.

  “Were there any other cars there? Like maybe a BMW?”

  “I didn’t see a BMW.”

  My heart leapt. If he didn’t see a Beemer, then Frenchie couldn’t have been there, and Becky couldn’t have murdered her.

  “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there,” he added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come here by the window, and I’ll show you.”

  I tiptoed through the trash and looked down at Passions’ parking lot.

  “You have to be standing right here at the window to see the cars parked directly below, under those jacaranda trees,” R.D. said. “But if you’re standing in the middle of the room, like I was that night, you can’t see these cars. All I could see were the cars parked at the far side of the lot. So another car could’ve been here.”

  I plopped back down in the egg-roll chair, disappointed, and watched as R.D. began rummaging through some papers on his coffee table.

  “Here it is,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. “Our schedule.”

  “What schedule?”

  “For the band. Our gigs.”

  I glanced down at the paper he handed me.

  “This is a pizza take-out menu.”

  “Sorry, I don’t see so hot without my contacts.”

  “You wear contact lenses?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you wearing them the other night when you saw the orange Beetle?”

  “No. But I know I saw that car.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  But here’s the thing: Without his contacts, he could have easily gotten the time wrong. He swore he saw the car at 10:35. But what if—groggy with sleep and without his contacts—he’d seen the hands on the clock reversed? What if, instead of 10:35, it was five of seven?

  “Here, I found the schedule.” He handed me another piece of paper, this time a menu from The Falafel Palace.

  “Great,” I said, heading for the door.

  “You won’t forget to mention us?”

  “Nope. The Dead Rats are going to be page-one news.”

  “Dead Bats.”

  “Right. Dead Bats.” R.D.’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

  “Wait a minute. I thought you said you had a photographic memory.”

  “Guess it went out of focus for a minute. Well, gotta run. Important story breaking at City Hall.”

  Before he could reply, I left him scratching his armpits and scooted out the door.

  If my theory was right, Becky was nowhere near Passions at the time of the murder. Now all I had to do was find out who was there, and I’d catch myself a killer.

  Back downstairs, the stylists at Extreme Hair were busy maiming hair. I silently offered their victims my condolences and headed next door to Passions to have a talk with Grace Lynbrook. Of all my suspects, it seemed that Grace had the most to gain by Frenchie’s death.

  Becky and Tyler were both busy with customers when I walked in the door. Becky gave me a faint smile. Her skin was pale and mottled, and the dark circles under her eyes were a sure sign that she hadn’t had much sleep.

  I waved to her and headed back to Grace’s office. The door was open, and I could see Mrs. Tucker, the recycled teenager, sitting across the desk from Grace in one of Grace’s white wicker chairs. Bessie the mannequin, I was happy to see, was still in her place, propped up against the wall. In spite of Frenchie’s threat to toss her in the Dumpster, Bessie had survived Frenchie’s reign of terror intact, except for one of her arms, which had fallen off and was lying on the floor at the hem of her bell-bottoms.

  “See, Grace?” Mrs. Tucker was saying. “I told you everything would work out.” She looked down at her watch. “Oh, dear. I’m late for my botox shots.” She shot up from the wicker chair. “Gotta run, sweetie. I’ll call you later.” She blew her a kiss, then headed out the back door to the parking lot.

  I waited a few seconds, then poked my head in the door.

  “Jaine!” Grace shot me a bright smile. “Come on in, and have a seat.”

  She looked about 300 times better than the day she “retired.” Her eyes shone brightly, and unlike poor Becky, she was brimming with good cheer.

  I sat down in the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Tucker. I could smell her perfume, one of those overwhelming scents that give people asthma attacks in elevators.

  “Jaine, dear,” Grace said. “I’m afraid I won’t be needing your services any more.” She pointed to the Los Angeles Times on her desk. “We’re getting all the publicity we can handle right now.”

  And it’s true. The story had been front-page news for days.

  “Actually,” I said, “that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Frenchie’s murder.”

  “Such a terrible tragedy,” she tsk-tsked, with an impressive lack of feeling.

  “Did you know that the police suspect Becky?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t. That’s terrible. Becky’s not a murderer.”

  “That’s why I’m investigating on her behalf, to try and find the real killer.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a private eye?” Her eyes widened with disbelief.

  “Part-time,” I nodded.

  “But don’t you have to be in shape to do that kind of work?”

  Ouch.

  Amazing as it may seem, I felt like telling her, I’ve managed to solve a case or two in my queen-size pantyhose.

  She must’ve sensed I was irritated.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that all the private eyes on TV are so incredibly buff.”

  “Everybody on TV is buff. It’s part of the wonderful world of make-believe.”

  She smiled wryly. “You’ve got a point there.

  “So,” she said, clasping her hands on her desk, “how can I help you?”

  “You can start by telling me if you have any idea who could’ve killed Frenchie.”

  “Not a clue.” She went back to her tsk-tsk schtick. “Poor Frenchie. I was so very fond of her. She was a real asset to the store.”

  She tried her best to look sincere, but it didn’t work. She may have once been a model, but she sure as hell wasn’t an actress.

  “Look,” I said, cutting to the chase, “I know that Frenchie was blackmailing you. Maxine told me how she forced you to sell the store to her. Maxine told me everything.” Accent on everything.

  Suddenly all her phony grief vanished.

  “All right,” she said, tossing back her snowy hair. “It’s true. Frenchie forced me to sell her the store. Thankfully, she got killed before we could sign the final papers, so the store was still in my name at the time of her death.”

  “I hate to say it, but you had a pretty strong motive to kill her.” I didn’t really hate to say it, not after that crack about my being out of shape. “Some people might figure that you killed her to get your store back.”

  “Some people would be wrong. I’ll grant you that I was in a state of shock at first. But after I thought about it, I decided I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. I was planning to go to the police and tell them what Frenchie had done. After all, she was the one who broke the law, not me. It was extortion pure and simple, and she undoubtedly would’ve wound up in jail. So you see, even though I can’t say I’m sorry Frenchie’s dead, I didn’t kill her.”

  If she was acting now, she was doing a damn good job.

  “Do you mind my asking where you were on the night of the murder?”

  “Not at all. I was having a late dinner with a friend.”

  I took a stab in the dark.

  “That friend wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Tucker, would it?”

  “As a matte
r of fact, it is. Amanda and I have been friends for years.”

  “So you didn’t come back to the store that night?”

  Her smile stiffened. I’d hit a nerve.

  “I only ask,” I said, “because I happened to notice those jacaranda blossoms stuck to the roof of your car. If you recall, it was raining the night of the murder, and you know how sticky jacaranda blossoms are in the rain. They’re practically like glue.”

  “No,” she said, her smile now frozen on her face. “I was nowhere near the store the night of the murder. Just ask Mrs. Tucker if you don’t believe me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  She put on a pair of steel-rimmed granny glasses and began shuffling papers on her desk. Class dismissed.

  It looked like I wouldn’t be writing any ads for Grace Lynbrook in my lifetime.

  I headed out to the sales floor, lost in thought. I’d be willing to bet a month’s rent that Grace had been at Passions the night of the murder. True, that didn’t mean she killed Frenchie. She might have gone back to get something, like Becky did. Maybe she wanted one of her wicker chairs, or a souvenir pair of spandex bike shorts.

  Then again, it was very possible that she did kill her. Maybe she didn’t really have dinner with Mrs. Tucker. Maybe Mrs. Tucker was prepared to lie for her. Or maybe it was Grace who was lying for Mrs. Tucker. For all I knew, they were in it together. Maybe they drove over in Grace’s car, stabbed Frenchie in the neck with her Jimmy Choo knockoff, then went back home to share a brandy.

  I definitely needed to have a chat with Mrs. Amanda Tucker.

  Back on the sales floor, Tyler was folding tank tops, and Becky was ringing up a customer. I waited till she was free, then hustled to her side. Up close, the dark circles under her eyes were even more noticeable.

  “Hi, Jaine,” she smiled wearily. “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” I assured her with false bravado. “I’m making lots of progress on the case.”

  “Really?” she asked, brightening.

  No, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Do you think you could get me Mrs. Tucker’s address and phone number?”

  “No problem,” she said. “I’m sure she’s here in our guest book.” She rifled through the pages of a guest book on the counter. “Here it is. Amanda Tucker. First on the list.”

  She copied the information on the back of a Passions business card.

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping the card into my purse. “Now try to get some sleep tonight. Everything’s going to be fine. I promise.”

  Then I hugged her and walked out the door, hoping I’d be able to live up to my promise.

  Chapter 16

  I was heading for the parking lot when I heard, “Jaine! Wait up!” I turned and saw Tyler hurrying after me. Like Grace, he looked a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him.

  “I was just going to grab a hot dog at Pink’s,” he said. “Want to join me?”

  The last thing my intestinal tract needed was another gutful of chili cheese dogs. But I didn’t want to pass up this opportunity to talk to Tyler. He was, after all, one of my suspects.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

  Ten minutes later, we were seated outside at Pink’s, scarfing down chili cheese dogs and fries. Tyler ate his hot dog with gusto, wiping the chili sauce from his mouth with the back of his hand. Even with grease dripping down his arm, the guy was incredibly attractive.

  “I love these things,” he said. “But I feel guilty eating them when Becky’s around. She’s right about eating animals. It’s pretty awful when you think about it, but I can’t seem to give it up.”

  “Just keep telling yourself they died of natural causes. That’s what I always do.”

  “I’ve got to try that sometime,” he said, flashing me a heart-melting grin. I could just imagine how many women he’d turned to mush with that one.

  Then the grin disappeared.

  “I’m worried about Becky,” he said. “I’ve never seen her this upset.”

  “I’d be upset, too, if the cops suspected me of murder.”

  “She told me you’re investigating the case.”

  “That’s true,” I nodded.

  “Funny, I’d never in a million years guess you were a private eye.”

  Amazing, isn’t it, how everyone assumed I couldn’t solve my way out of a crossword puzzle?

  “So who do you think did it?” he asked.

  “It’s too early to tell,” I said, thinking it might possibly be Tyler. Sure, he seemed like a nice guy, but so did Ted Bundy. And I’d seen that murderous look in his eyes when he had his hands around Frenchie’s neck. He’d said he wanted to kill her, and in fact, he almost did. Maybe he came back later that night to finish the job.

  “I hope you won’t be offended,” I said, licking the last of the chili sauce from my fingers, “but where were you the night of the murder?”

  “I’m not offended. Not at all. Detectives have to suspect everybody, right? Otherwise they’re not doing their job.”

  “So where were you that night?”

  “Actually I was at my writing course at UCLA.”

  I’d taken night courses at UCLA, and I knew they ended about ten. Becky said Frenchie’d been killed some time between nine and eleven. Which meant Tyler could have easily driven over to Passions and done the dirty deed.

  “The class broke up around ten,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “but I stayed afterward to have a conference with my writing instructor. Ms. Garrett’s been a real mentor to me. She’s great with all her students. Last year, one of her students sold a book to Random House and dedicated it to her. Anyhow, Ms. Garrett could tell how upset I was, so she stayed after class to help me put things in perspective. She got me to see that it was only my novel that was destroyed, not my life. We worked on reconstructing the outline and were there till close to midnight.”

  I stared at a dollop of chili sauce on his chin, and suddenly I had an irresistible urge to reach over and wipe it off. I didn’t, of course, but there was something about Tyler that brought out the maternal instinct in me.

  Frankly, I was glad he had an alibi.

  “Look,” he said, “for a crazy moment, I really did want to kill Frenchie. After all, she’d destroyed three years of hard work. But I didn’t do it. Honest. Besides, things aren’t nearly as bleak as they seemed at first. Ms. Garrett still has copies of chapters that I submitted to her in class. Between those chapters and my outline, eventually I’ll be able to piece the book together again.”

  He looked at me with such open, trusting eyes that it suddenly seemed absurd to suspect him of murder.

  “If there’s anything I can do to get Becky out of this mess,” he said, “just let me know. I hate seeing her like this.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “My money’s on Grace. She seems nice on the outside, but there’s a cold streak in her. I wouldn’t put it past her. Especially since she had so much to gain by Frenchie’s death.”

  Exactly what I’d been thinking.

  “Here’s my card,” I said. “In case you think of anything that might help. You can contact me anytime. Day or night.”

  “Absolutely,” he said, putting my card in his wallet.

  We finished our dogs and started walking back to Passions. I was grateful for the exercise. By the time we got back, I figured I’d burned off at least a hundred chili cheese dog calories.

  Great. A hundred down. Only eight zillion more to go.

  As we approached Passions’ parking lot, we saw Becky coming out the back door.

  “Hey, Beck,” Tyler said. “Where are you off to?”

  “Grace wants me to get her car washed.”

  No doubt to get rid of those incriminating jacaranda blossoms.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she said, giving Tyler a peck on the lips. “Wait a minute. Is that a chili cheese dog I smell on your breat
h?”

  Tyler grinned sheepishly. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that expression,” Becky said, wincing. “I’m afraid I’m going to be hearing it in a courtroom one of these days.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Tyler said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Jaine’s going to find the killer. Isn’t that right, Jaine?”

  I nodded weakly, wishing I shared his confidence.

  Tyler hugged Becky, one of those hugs that, had I not been there, might have easily led to some hanky-panky. But I was there, so he reluctantly broke away and headed back into the store.

  “Does Grace often ask you to get her car washed?” I asked, as Becky and I walked to Grace’s Jaguar.

  “Yes, but usually on Mondays. For some reason, though, she wanted me to do it today.”

  I knew the reason, and it was called destroying evidence.

  “I hate driving her Jag,” Becky said. “I’m always afraid I’ll get into an accident. Now where did I put the keys?”

  She began rummaging through her purse, a large felt bag shaped like a monkey.

  “Interesting handbag,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I designed it myself.”

  Only a sprite like Becky could get away with wearing a monkey on her arm.

  “Oh, here they are.” She pulled out the car keys, and as she did, something clattered to the pavement.

  I looked down and saw Frenchie’s Maltese cross.

  “Oh, gosh,” Becky said, quickly snatching it up. “I forgot I had this in my purse.”

  Then I guess she must have noticed my gaping jaw.

  “This doesn’t look good, does it?” she said.

  “No, it doesn’t. Do you mind my asking how you got it?”

  “I found it on the sink in the ladies’ room a few days before the murder. Frenchie used the ladies’ room at Passions to change outfits before she went out on her dates. Anyhow, I saw it on the sink, and I don’t know what came over me, but I took it. I knew Frenchie’d stolen it, and I’d be darned if I was going to let her keep it.”

  “What did you intend to do with it?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I’d try to track down the customer she’d stolen it from. Or maybe I’d turn it over to Grace. All I knew was that I didn’t want Frenchie to have it. So I put it in my purse. And then, what with the murder and everything, I forgot all about it.”