High Heels Are Murder (10 page)

Josie gulped. She was doing a fifty-five-dollar favor for a woman who’d thrown her out of her house. But she looked at Ben’s guileless blue eyes. I’m not doing this for Cheryl, she thought. It’s for the baby.

“Will you take a check?” Josie said.

“Oh, yeah. If it bounces, I’ll beat it out of Cheryl.” Bonnie smiled, but Josie thought she might do that.

Ben wasn’t shy around strangers. He put his chubby arms around Josie’s neck when she carried him to her car. He was a solid little fellow with silky white-blond hair. Bonnie helped get him into the car seat. Ben settled without fuss, looking around quietly and gnawing on a toy. He was such a good boy, Josie thought.

She drove slower than usual, not just for Ben’s safety but because she felt so disconnected. First, there was Cheryl’s house with the perfect show rooms and the chaotic interior. Now there was Ben, who was at the sitter’s four or five times a week—so often he called the woman Mommy.

Wasn’t Cheryl supposed to be a full-time mother? Didn’t Grandma Mueller run over for an afternoon so the child wouldn’t have to be with a sitter? Why was Ben practically living at Bonnie’s house? Not that he was in bad hands. The boy looked clean, contented and well cared for—but not by his mother.

By two o’clock, Josie had delivered Ben to a teary-eyed Mrs. Mueller. Josie felt sorry for the old troublemaker. She seemed smaller, slightly shrunken. Her chins wobbled when she talked. Her iron gray hair was flattened on one side. Mrs. Mueller must have been napping, and she hadn’t bothered to fix her hair. That had never happened before, either. Josie’s world was reeling.

“I appreciate this,” Mrs. Mueller said. Those words alone sent shock waves through Josie’s system. “I know we haven’t been friends in the past, but you’ve helped my daughter and grandson. I’ll never forget this. I’ll do everything I can for you.”

“Just make sure my mom is Maplewood chair of the Flower Guild,” Josie said. “It’s important to her.”

“That I can do.”

“Uh, it was fifty-five dollars for the babysitting and the child seat,” Josie said. “I have the seat in my car. You may need it.”

“No, no, I have my own,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Can I bring the money over later? I don’t have the cash on me and I’m waiting for Cheryl’s lawyer to call back, so I can’t run to the bank.”

“Of course,” Josie said.

She staggered off Mrs. Mueller’s porch, literally thrown off balance by all the changes. Perfect Cheryl had pushed a cop and gotten herself arrested. Mrs. Mueller, the terror of Josie’s teenage years, was in hock to her for fifty-five bucks. Mrs. M’s curtains no longer twitched when Josie left the house. They never would again. Jane’s errant daughter could entertain the Cardinals baseball team, and her nosy neighbor wouldn’t care.

Mrs. Mueller had been watching the wrong daughter.

Randy the bookseller had an engaging grin and hair like an unmowed lawn. “Anything else I can get you, miss?”

“Miss.” Josie liked that. She was getting ma’amed more often these days. Too bad there was no way to rate Randy for that on her mystery-shopping report.

Randy patted Josie’s trade paperback Steinbeck. “
East of Eden
is such a cool book,” he said. “I love Steinbeck. He still has something to say, you know? I’m reading
Sweet Thursday
now. There’s this great line where Mack takes a drink. Steinbeck says he ‘beered his dry mouth and throat.’ “

“That is good,” Josie said. Please, Randy, remember your bookstore questions, she prayed silently.

“That will be fourteen ninety-one,” Randy said. “Hope you like the book as much as I did.”

Randy had failed. Most stores would consider him an asset, Josie thought. He was smart, courteous and helpful. But he got so caught up in selling his books, he forgot the Bookstable spiel.

Josie heard the bookseller at the next register reciting it like a well-trained parrot. “Do you belong to our Bookstable Bookarama Bonus Club? For only thirty dollars, you get bodacious discounts on books, music and coffee.”

The woman customer snapped, “You ask me that every time I come in here, and I give you the same answer. No!”

Josie suspected most customers hated the canned pitches. But the bosses in Bookstable’s Atlanta head-
quarters insisted on them. Now Josie would have to take points off Randy’s evaluation. She felt bad, but she couldn’t lie on her mystery-shopper report, no matter how much she liked someone. It was part of her code.

She left the store with her Steinbeck book, shoulders slumped. She had a job to do, but she didn’t always like it. Maybe if Randy got a bad report, he’d find a job at a place that appreciated him, she told herself. Right. And maybe my boss, Harry, will give me a ten-thousand-dollar raise.

In the parking lot, Josie filled out her report. She was tired. That was it. It was only one thirty in the afternoon. Josie had had a month’s excitement packed into one morning, but she still had to do her mystery shopping. This was her final bookstore report. She deserved a coffee break at Has Beans before she picked up Amelia at school.

It seemed light-years since she’d been in Has Beans this morning. Josh had her double espresso waiting for her then. He had another one now, with a chocolate-chip biscotti on the side.

“How’s your mom?” he asked.

“Mom?” Josie said, then realized that was three crises ago when she’d sprinted out of the coffeehouse to rescue her mother from the homicide detective. “Boy, have I got news for you.”

“Spill,” Josh said. “While I clean up the spills on the counter. My district manager is due in ten minutes.” He brandished a spray bottle.

“I like to watch men clean,” Josie said.

“I don’t do windows,” he said.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do,” Josie said.

Josh leaped across the counter in a single fluid motion, like the hero in a pirate movie. He took her in his arms and said, “What exactly won’t you do?”

Practically nothing, Josie thought, if you keep holding me like that. “I left the list at home,” she said. “What happens if your boss catches us like this?”

“He’ll kill me,” he said. “But I’ll die happy.”

He kissed her soundly, then leaped back over the
counter. Josie felt pleasantly dazed. If this was a preview of their date, this man was definitely worth waiting for.

While Josh scrubbed the coffee stains with intense precision, Josie told him about Cheryl’s arrest.

“You’re right,” he said. “It was a setup. The cops wanted her fingerprints. They couldn’t find them in any official records. The only other way they could get her prints would be a court order—and if they got the wrong judge that could be difficult. So the detectives had to arrest her for another reason.

“My guess is they’d already sized her up as someone with a temper. They figured she’d take the bait and try to push around a cop. If that didn’t work, they’d stop her on some trumped-up traffic charge. They might even arrest her for littering. One way or another, if the cops want you, they’ll get you.”

“How do you know this?” Josie said.

“The hard way.” Before Josh could say any more, a tall man in a black Has Beans shirt appeared at the door.

“The boss,” Josh whispered. In a louder voice he said, “Can I give you a refill on that coffee, ma’am?”

“No, thanks. I have to go,” Josie said.

Josh’s hint that he’d been in trouble with the police worried her all the way to the Barrington School. He was the first man she’d been interested in since her fling with Amelia’s father. She’d made a bad choice then. Was she doing it again?

Josie picked up her daughter, who started in with her annoying ass game. Amelia, like most other nine-year-olds in her class, was fascinated with cuss words. She knew better than to say the f-word, the b-word, or even the s-word. They were completely off-limits, punishable by revoking computer and phone privileges, even grounding. But the a-word offered intriguing possibilities.

Zoe, the annoying midget adult in Amelia’s class, had invented the ass game. The idea was to see how many times a kid could get by with using “ass” legally around her parents. Words that had “ass” in them also counted, but not as much as the actual a-word. Josie hated the ass game, but at least it kept Amelia searching the dictionary.
Tonight, Josie was in no mood. She ended the game after one try.

“Justin said Hilary was sitting on all her assets,” Amelia said. She hit the first syllable hard.

“That’s enough,” Josie said. “I don’t want to hear you talk like that again.”

“Like what? It’s in the dictionary,” Amelia said.

“‘Sitting on her assets’ has a double meaning,” Josie said. “I don’t want you to say that about any woman, ever. It’s demeaning.”

Amelia stuck out her lower lip. Josie sighed. She wished she could sound as wise as the people in the parenting magazines.

Dinner was fast and sullen. Amelia dropped silverware and slammed plates on the table. Homework wasn’t much better. Amelia had to memorize the Gettysburg Address. She stumbled over the same section again and again.

“But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hollow” she said, in a singsong voice.

“It’s ‘hallow’,” Josie said for the umpteenth time. “It means we cannot make it sacred.”

“It’s stupid,” Amelia said.

“It is not,” Josie said. “It’s one of the greatest speeches of all time. It’s also the shortest. It’s about honoring the people who died before us, so that we can live in freedom. It’s about—”

Josie realized her speech was longer than Lincoln’s. Amelia looked tired. “It’s about eight thirty,” she finished and stroked her daughter’s glossy dark hair. “Why don’t we call it a night? We’ll go over it again in the morning.”

Amelia raced down the hall to her room, her phone, and her computer, grateful to be free. Josie flopped on the couch and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, the doorbell was ringing, loudly, insistently. Josie jumped up and shook herself like a sleepy pup. What time was it?

The wall clock said nine thirty, late for visitors in this
neighborhood. Something must be wrong. She cautiously peered out the peephole on the front door.

Mrs. Mueller was standing on Josie’s porch, looking like her old formidable self. Her hair was once more sprayed into submission, her back was straight, and her chins were firm.

Josie opened the door cautiously. The great Mrs. Mueller never went to anyone’s house on this street. Important committee meetings were held at her home. She swept into Josie’s living room and chose the best chair as her throne.

“Mrs. Mueller,” Josie said in surprise. “I’ll go get Mom.”

“No, I need to talk to you,” Mrs. Mueller said. “Sit down.”

Josie sat in her own living room on the second-best chair. “Can I get you some coffee or a soda?”

“No,” Mrs. Mueller said. There was a long silence.

Josie finally said, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s Cheryl. She’s in trouble.” Most mothers would burst into tears at those words. But Mrs. Mueller had subdued countless unruly boards of directors. Her eyes were drier than Arizona.

“The police arrested her, as you know. Cheryl’s attorney said it was a sneaky way to get her fingerprints. They got a search warrant for her house, too. The police are trying to pin a murder on my little girl.”

Josie blinked. She would have voted Mrs. M least likely to say those words.

“Do you know why?” Josie asked.

“Not officially. But my nephew George is a police officer in Richmond Heights. He called in some favors and got a little information. It’s not good, Josie. It’s just not good.”

“I don’t even know how Mel died,” Josie said. “I haven’t seen anything about it in the paper.”

“George says when the police arrived, they first thought Mel Poulaine had been drinking and was killed in a fall down his stairs. Then they realized he’d been murdered. Something about the blood-spatter patterns
being too high. Someone hit him on the head and tried to make it look like an accident.’

“The police think it was Cheryl?” Josie said.

“Yes. The police have a witness who saw her in that Mel person’s house the night he was murdered. They found Cheryl’s fingerprints on a wineglass. There are just smudges on the other glass. It has traces of some kind of drug in it. They’re saying Cheryl bashed in Mel’s head and tried to make it look like he died of a fall.”

Josie winced, but said nothing.

“The police took some of Cheryl’s clothes and shoes, but they didn’t find any blood on them.”

“What was the murder weapon?” Josie said.

“The warrant said it was ‘a heavy, rounded object, possibly a paperweight.’ The housekeeper told the police there’s a heavy blue Tiffany paperweight missing from a hall table. They searched Cheryl’s house, but they didn’t find it.”

“So there’s no murder weapon or bloody clothes connected to Cheryl. What do they have?” Josie said.

“Nothing else. Cheryl admits she was in Mel’s house. She says she was a good customer and he invited her for a cocktail. She had one drink and left. Mel was alive and well when she left.”

Mrs. Mueller said that last part a little too quickly. Josie was pretty sure that Mrs. M ranked unchaperoned drinking right after murder in her personal list of sins. Josie didn’t mention Cheryl’s little slip about Mel lying at the foot of the staircase. She’d save that if she had another talk with Cheryl.

Josie was surrounded by another long silence. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Mrs. Mueller heaved a great sigh. “The police found forty-eight thousand dollars in Cheryl’s closet.”

“She kept that much cash in her closet? Where?”

“In her shoe boxes,” Mrs. Mueller said.

That explained all the shoes on the floor, Josie thought.

“Cheryl won’t tell me where she got the cash, but the police found the dead man’s fingerprints on the boxes and the paper bands around the money.”

“Are Mel’s prints on the money itself?”

“I don’t think so. My nephew George says you don’t usually get prints off money. It’s handled by so many people, it’s one big smear of body oils. But it doesn’t look good with that Mel person’s prints on the money bands.”