Shoes To Die For

by Laura Levine

  My toilette complete, I said good-bye to Prozac, who was stretched out on the sofa, in a post-Colonel stupor.

  “How do I look, Pro?” I said, twirling around for her approval.

  She looked at me through slitted eyes.

  Give me some more chicken, and I’ll tell you you look great, was what I think she was trying to say.

  “No more chicken for you, young lady. And don’t try any funny stuff. I don’t want to see any paw prints on the refrigerator when I come home.”

  Then I blew her a kiss and headed off for my date with Darrell, the speed-dating yachtsman.

  Chapter 19

  I tooled out to the marina in my nautical togs and enough hair spray on my head to poke a hole in the ozone layer. But as it turns out, I didn’t need the hair spray. It was a glorious low-humidity day. Sometimes when it’s glorious in Beverly Hills, it’s Fog Central out by the water. But today it was magnificent all the way out to the beach.

  I put a Cesaria Evora tape in my CD player and drove with the music blasting. Much to my surprise I was actually looking forward to this date. It felt good to get away from the murder for a while.

  I parked at the slip where Darrell said he’d meet me. There was only one boat moored there. A fabulous yachtlike vessel, a symphony of gleaming wood and polished brass.

  Did this floating bit of heaven actually belong to Darrell? Was my Bad Dating Karma finally about to be broken? Was this an end to the guys who brought calculators to dinner to split the bill? I suddenly felt an enormous surge of hope. Maybe Kandi was right. Maybe underneath it all, I really did want a relationship.

  Then suddenly I heard someone call my name.

  “Jaine!”

  I looked at the yacht but there was no one in sight.

  “Jaine! Over here.”

  I turned and saw a clunky gray hulk of a boat, with a Port of Los Angeles insignia on the side, pulling into the slip.

  And there on deck was a muscular guy with close-cropped sandy hair who I vaguely recognized from speed dating.

  “It’s me! Darrell!” he said, waving eagerly.

  Amazingly enough, he looked like a normal human being. Which just goes to show how you can’t judge a book by its cover. Or in this case, a schnook by its cover.

  “Ahoy, matey!” he shouted. “Welcome to The Trashy Lady!”

  He hurried over to the railing to greet me.

  “We call her The Trashy Lady because we patrol the harbor picking up garbage.”

  “You do what??”

  “We pick up garbage. It’s a garbage boat.”

  It looked like my Bad Dating Karma was alive and kicking.

  “Actually, I just drove out to tell you I can’t make our date. My cat’s having emergency abdominal surgery.”

  That’s what I should have said. But fool that I am, I just smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hop aboard!”

  And he did mean hop. The Trashy Lady was surrounded by a three-foot-high railing. I stared at it, dismayed. The last time I’d done any serious hopping was in sixth-grade gym class. And even then, I wasn’t very good at it.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Climb over.”

  Easy for him to say.

  I spent the next few minutes with my fanny in the air, trying to hoist myself over that dratted railing.

  “Let me help,” he said, grabbing me by the waist.

  “This is awfully embarrassing.”

  “Not a problem. I’m used to hauling heavy objects.”

  After depositing me on the deck like a beached walrus, Darrell introduced me to his partner, Bernie, a grizzly guy with a chewed-up cigar hanging from his mouth.

  “It’s just the two of us on the crew,” Darrell explained. “Bernie mans the boat, and I rake in the garbage.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Bernie said, chomping on his cigar. Then he shot me a pitying look and disappeared behind the controls.

  Bernie revved up the motor, and seconds later, the SS Trashy Lady set sail amid the stench of rotting garbage.

  “Smells pretty stinky, doesn’t it?” Darrell grinned. “Sorry about that. After an hour or so, you’ll get used to it.”

  Then he reached into a filthy knapsack. “I brought us refreshments.”

  He tossed me a can of Orange Crush and a package of peanut butter crackers.

  Yum.

  He broke open his package of crackers and started eating. The man had enough dirt under his fingernails to plant a rose garden.

  “Say,” he said, with a suggestive wink. “Want to see my tool?”

  I wondered if I could possibly leap over the rail and swim back to shore.

  Before I knew it, he’d whipped out his “tool,” the rakelike contraption he used to collect trash.

  “You’d be amazed at the stuff we pick up,” he said.

  Revolted was more like it. For the next two hours, I watched as Darrell used his “tool” to reel in a colorful assortment of condoms, inner tubes, abandoned underwear, and—the highlight of the voyage—a dead sewer rat. All the while, he regaled me with fascinating tales of Amazingly Gross Stuff I’ve Found on My Job.

  “I’ll never forget the time we towed in a bathtub with a decomposing body strapped inside. Wow, talk about stinking to high heaven. Phew!…Hey, how come you’re not eating your crackers?”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “You’re not seasick, are you? Don’t worry if you have to throw up. Most of my dates usually do.”

  After assuring him I was fit as a fiddle, Darrell resumed the saga of his life as a maritime garbageman.

  “Of course, not everything I find is junk. I’ve picked up some very valuable items. Like a Barbie doll I once found. It was good as new, once I got the jellyfish out of her hair. I gave it to my niece. She loved it.”

  By now I realized Darrell didn’t expect me to keep up my end of the conversation. He was perfectly happy reeling in trash and performing his monologue. So I just kept on nodding, like one of those stuffed animals with wobbly necks you see in the rear windows of cars.

  “Hey, here’s an interesting find,” Darrell said, picking up something from the garbage hold. “A dead starfish.”

  I watched as he plucked a condom from one of its tentacles.

  “Would you like to keep it? As a souvenir of our first date?”

  “No, thanks. It’s lovely, but my cat is allergic to starfish.”

  “You have a cat? I’ve got a pet, too. A snake. Betsy. I found her on garbage patrol. Poor thing was barely alive but I nursed her back to health.”

  And so it went, on and on for two mind-numbing hours. I just sat there, an idiotic grin plastered on my face, breathing in the bracing sea air laced with the scent of decomposing garbage. What more could a girl want?

  It was toward the end of our cruise, when the sun was starting to set, when Darrell said, “Darn. I almost forgot. I brought you a pair of binoculars, so you could see the sights.”

  He handed me a pair of germ-ridden binoculars.

  “Go ahead. Take a look. There’s lots of interesting stuff to see on shore.”

  Praying I wouldn’t catch some deadly eye disease, I began looking through the binoculars. On the plus side, at least I didn’t have to look at the garbage.

  “Look! Over there!” he said. “Behind the oil rigs. If you look really hard, you can see our sewage treatment plant.”

  I pretended to be engrossed in the scenery, trying hard to shut out the sound of Darrell’s droning voice, when I saw a ship come into view—one of those dinner and dancing cruise ships that sail around the marina. I watched the lucky people on deck, laughing and sipping champagne, the sinking sun a glorious red ball behind them.

  I was thinking about how life wasn’t fair, and how I’d like to kill Kandi for getting me into this mess, when I saw something that grabbed my attention. There on deck, clinking champagne glasses with his date, was a guy who looked an awful lot like Tyler. I sharpened the focus on the binoculars.

/>   It was indeed Tyler.

  But the woman he was with wasn’t Becky. It was a sweet-looking older woman with round apple cheeks and her hair caught up in a bun at the top of her head. It was hard to believe she was his date. Maybe it was his mother. How nice of Tyler, I thought, taking his mom on a dinner cruise.

  But then, much to my amazement, Tyler put down his champagne glass and took the woman in his arms. He kissed her, a high-suction steamy lip lock. Whoever the woman was, it sure as hell wasn’t his mommy.

  The rest of my adventure on the high seas passed by in a blur. All I could think of was Tyler and his mystery woman. Before I knew it, we were back in the marina and Darrell was hoisting me over the rail onto terra firma.

  “Thanks for a lovely time,” I managed, with great effort, to say.

  “My pleasure.” Darrell smiled a big goofy grin.

  Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let him ask me out again.

  “So, Jaine. How’d you like to get together sometime?”

  “Well….” I began, wondering if he’d believe me if I told him I was moving to Tasmania.

  “Maybe I’ll give you a call,” he said, “once I work my way through my list.”

  “Your list?”

  He nodded. “So far, I’ve lined up seventeen dates through speed dating. I want to see how the others go, and then maybe I’ll call you.”

  It’s nauseating, isn’t it? Just think of all the wonderful women you know who can’t land a date to save their souls. And guys with barnacles on their Barbie dolls are running around with lists.

  Then Darrell winked and said, “Here’s a little something to remember me by.”

  For a frightening instant I thought he was going to leap over the railing and kiss me. Or worse, show me his tool. But no, he just tossed me another package of peanut butter crackers.

  Then he and Bernie went sailing off into the sunset.

  I didn’t envy the sunset.

  The first thing I did when I got home was head for the shower, to wash off the stench of that damn garbage boat. As I stood under the spray, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tyler. Clearly he was cheating on Becky. But with who? Just who was that older woman I’d seen him kissing?

  And then I remembered Tyler’s alibi. He said he was with his writing professor at the time of Frenchie’s death. He said her name was Ms. Garrett. Maybe Ms. Garrett was more than just a friendly advisor. Maybe she was also his lover, so much in love she’d be willing to give him an alibi for the night of the murder.

  Chapter 20

  The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of tap-water coffee and cold fried chicken, I drove over to the Westwood offices of UCLA Extension, home of hundreds of adult education courses.

  Down in the lobby, I checked out the catalogue and found four courses in novel writing. One of them was taught by a Kate Garrett. Now all I had to do was find out if Kate was the same woman I’d seen smooching with Tyler.

  I headed upstairs to the Writers’ Program and approached the receptionist, an earnest young man with horn-rimmed glasses and eyelashes to die for.

  “May I help you?” he asked, looking up from his copy of How to Write a Screenplay in 21 Days.

  “I hope so,” I said. “A friend of mine told me about a novel-writing course she took here. She said it was just fabulous. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the woman who taught it.”

  “All of our instructors are wonderful. You can’t go wrong, no matter whom you choose.”

  Note the correct use of the word “whom.” Obviously an ex–English major.

  “I’m sure they are all wonderful,” I said. “But I’d like to take the course my friend told me about. She said the teacher was a sweet-looking woman, a little chubby, wears her hair in a bun.”

  “Oh, that must be Kate Garrett.”

  Bingo. So I was right. The woman on the boat was Tyler’s writing instructor. And it looked like Tyler was one hell of a teacher’s pet.

  “Her course is terrific. I can sign you up right now if you give me your credit card.”

  I pretended to check my wallet, then slapped my forehead in frustration. “Drat. I must have left it at home.”

  He shot me a funny look. Maybe the forehead slapping was a bit over the top.

  “If you’re really interested in the course,” he said, “you can register by phone. Or enroll on the Internet. All the information is on the back of the catalogue.”

  Then he lowered his incredible eyelashes and went back to finding out how to write a script in less time than it takes some people to get over the flu.

  I hurried home and looked up Kate’s name in the phone book, but there was practically a whole page of Garretts—no Kates—and I didn’t feel like getting carpal tunnel syndrome from making phone calls all day.

  Then I had a brainstorm.

  I called the UCLA payroll department.

  The woman who answered sounded like she was counting the seconds till her coffee break.

  “Payroll,” she said, her voice oozing boredom. “Wanda speaking.”

  “Hi,” I said. “My name is Kate Garrett. I’m an instructor at UCLA Extension, and I haven’t received my last paycheck. It’s way overdue, and I’m calling to make sure that you have my correct address.”

  “Social?” Wanda said.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s your social security number?” she asked, with an impatient sigh.

  Damn. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might ask me that.

  “Gee,” I said. “My card’s downstairs in the kitchen, and I’m up here in the bedroom. I sprained my ankle yesterday and it’s so difficult for me to get down the steps. Can’t you look me up by my name?”

  “Oh, all right.” Wanda sighed again. In the background, I could hear her tapping on her computer. “Here it is. Kate Garrett. We got you down at 1724 Glendon Avenue in Westwood, 90024.”

  “That’s right,” I said, frantically jotting down the address. “I don’t understand why I didn’t get the check. Probably some mistake at the post office.”

  I thanked Wanda profusely for her time and grabbed my car keys.

  I was off to Westwood again.

  Kate Garrett lived in a modest yellow stucco house not far from the university. She came to the door in a flowing batik caftan and wood bead necklace. With her round face and matronly bun, she looked like a beatnik Aunt Bea.

  “Kate Garrett?” I asked.

  “That’s me,” she said, smiling a warm Mayberry smile.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Frenchie Ambrose’s murder.”

  Suddenly, the smile vanished.

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No, I’m a private investigator.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk right now,” she said, fingering the beads around her neck. “I’m a writer, and I’m in the middle of a very difficult chapter.”

  She was about to close the door when I said, “Tyler’s been cheating on you.”

  “What?”

  “Your boyfriend, Tyler. He’s been cheating on you.”

  The color drained from her cheeks.

  “Tyler is seeing someone else?”

  I nodded.

  “Come in,” she said.

  I followed her into a small living room lined with bookshelves. I couldn’t help noticing that there was a lot of Kate under that caftan. A far cry from Becky and her elfin figure.

  She waved me to a seat on the sofa and sat down opposite me in a large overstuffed armchair. Up close, she looked a lot younger than she had through Darrell’s binoculars, but still, she had to be somewhere in her forties, way older than Tyler.

  “How do you know about me and Tyler?”

  “That’s not important,” I said. “The important thing is that he’s been cheating on you with my client, Becky Kopek.”

  “Becky? He told me Becky was his cousin.”

  “And before Becky, he was having an affair with Frenchie Ambrose, the murder victim.”


  She reached into her caftan pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Her fingers shook as she lit one.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Ask anyone at Passions. Ask the cops, for that matter. They know.”

  If I’d expected her to melt down into a puddle of scorned womanhood, I was in for a surprise.

  “I knew all along Tyler was too good to be true,” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Why would a handsome young guy like him be interested in someone like me?”

  She took a drag of her cigarette and let out the smoke with a sigh.

  “He was using me, of course. Deep down, I knew it, but I couldn’t admit it to myself.”

  “Using you?”

  “It’s been more than five years since my last book was published.” She picked up a slim volume from the coffee table and handed it to me. “But I still have a lot of connections in publishing. Tyler was obviously willing to do anything to get his book published. Including sleeping with me.”

  I looked down at the author’s picture on the back of the book and saw a younger version of Kate smiling that same sweet Mayberry smile.

  “You can have it if you like,” she said.

  “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I’ve got a hundred more out in the garage.”

  I guess it was safe to assume Kate never made it onto the best-seller lists.

  “Did Tyler really stay after class the night of the murder?” I asked.

  “For about five minutes. Just long enough to kiss me and tell me he loved me.”

  “So he could’ve been at Passions when Frenchie was killed?”

  She nodded.

  “The next day he called me, frantic. Told me Frenchie had been murdered. He told me how he’d threatened to kill her within earshot of a store full of customers. He was terrified the cops would arrest him. So I agreed to lie and say he was with me.”

  “If you keep lying to protect him, you could wind up in jail.”