High Heels Are Murder (26 page)

HOUSEWIFE HOOKER: POLICE SAY DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE MURDERED HER WAY OUT OF KINKY SEX RING
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There was a photo of a smiling Cheryl in a sweet pink suit and matching heels. Josie couldn’t imagine her using anything more dangerous than silver sugar tongs.

The story concentrated on the bloody footwear. The paper called them the “murder shoes.” Cheryl was involved in a sex ring for foot fetishists, the story “alleged.” Josie thought that was newspaperese for “we’re covering our behinds so we don’t get sued.”

The murder shoes had been discovered “at an apartment rented by a client.” Hal’s name wasn’t mentioned. Josie wondered if he had enough pull to keep it out of the paper.

Cheryl’s fellow foot soldiers, Paladia and Fiona, weren’t in the story, either. Josie felt a pang of pity for both women. She could see Fiona barricaded behind her china cabinet with her two babies. She wondered if Paladia had called in sick at her office. Josie flashed on the family photos on Paladia’s desk. What would happen to the vulnerable little girl with the braces if her mother was pilloried in the press? How would it affect the teenage boy with the shy smile?

This was awful. How was Cheryl’s poor family taking this public humiliation? Was hardworking Tom at home with the baby this morning? Josie couldn’t see him going to work. Not with that headline.

Josie heard a rumbling noise and peeked out her front window. Another news van was rolling down the street. Stan the Man Next Door was on his lawn, shaking his head at a TV reporter, refusing to be interviewed. Stan was too decent.

But there was plenty of temptation for less noble neighbors. The street was packed with media vehicles. A few bold ones parked on Mrs. Mueller’s lawn. Fifteen or twenty reporters were jammed on her porch. Mrs. Mueller’s shades were down for the first time in Maple-wood history. Josie almost felt sorry for the old snoop.

Josie put her sunglasses on and her head down and charged to her car, dodging reporters with the magic words “No comment. No comment.” She was on a mission from Mrs. Mueller. A paid mission. “Just try to talk to her one more time,” Cheryl’s mother had begged her last night. “She won’t listen to me. She won’t cooperate fully with her lawyer. She’s innocent, but she’s hiding something. I know it. I’m her mother. I can tell. I’ll pay you double if you find out what it is.”

Cheryl was in the county jail, her bail denied. She was considered a flight risk. The police had told her not to leave the state and she’d gone to Illinois to gamble. Her trumped-up arrest also counted against her. The world had turned against Cheryl. It no longer did what she wanted.

Mrs. Mueller wanted Josie at the county jail for the morning visiting hours. Cheryl was behind a Plexiglas shield, like a creature in some enlightened zoo. She didn’t look anything like the pink-suited woman in the newspaper photo. Her dirty blond hair hung loose, her skin was oily, and she had a zit on her right cheekbone.

But her lifelong arrogance survived. Josie picked up the phone, just like in the movies. Cheryl reached for hers. “My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone,” she said. “You’re the last person I’d talk to. Go away.”

So why didn’t you refuse to see me? Josie thought. That’s your right, even in jail. She nearly slammed down the phone. But she remembered Mrs. Mueller’s desperate plea. Josie had Mrs. Mueller’s postdated check in her purse, ready for the bank Monday morning. For that
kind of money, Josie could put up with a few harsh words.

“Your lawyer thinks you are guilty,” Josie said.

Cheryl said nothing.

“Your mother thinks you’re innocent,” Josie said. “She doesn’t even think you had an affair with Hal Orrin Winfrey. She’s the only person in the world who believes that.”

Cheryl’s lower lip trembled.

“I’m here because your mother asked me,” Josie said. “She thinks I can help you.”

Cheryl started sniffling. Please don’t cry, Josie thought. I can handle anything but real tears.

“I want out of here,” Cheryl said, her voice ragged. “Can you get me out of here? I have to get out of here. I can’t sleep. It’s noisy. It’s dirty. It smells bad. There are people here with tattoos and knife scars. The woman in my cell twitches and mumbles to herself. I think she’s on drugs. She’s weird.”

Josie almost laughed. Cheryl walked on men for money, but she had the nerve to call someone else weird. She never mentioned the hurt she’d inflicted on her family. Only Cheryl’s pain was real.

“Cheryl, you’re hiding something, and it’s going to hurt you. You can talk to me,” Josie said. “I’ve been in trouble, too. I know what it feels like. I won’t judge you.”

“How much is she paying you?” Cheryl said, her eyes narrowing. “My mother. How much money is she giving you?”

“Nothing, yet,” Josie said. She’d had enough. It was time to get nasty. “I have something to show you.”

She pulled out three photos she’d printed on her computer that morning. Josie held the first one up to the Plexiglas. “These photos are a little different from the one in the paper. This one shows you entering the Prince’s Palace. Here you are sitting at the slot machines, feeding them ten-dollar bills. But here’s my personal favorite. I call it the Housewife Hooker. You’re on a service call to Hal, dressed for success. Nice high heels.”

Cheryl stared at the photos, but said nothing. Her face was white and drained of life, a death mask.

“How do you think these would look on the front page of the
City Gazette
? A lot different from the photo there today. I’d make far more money selling these to the paper than I’ll get from your mother. But your mother, God knows why, wants to help you and I promised I’d try.

“Here’s the deal: You can help me or you can hang up on me. I don’t care. But I am your last chance. Your attorney’s too busy talking to the TV reporters. He’s supposed to be the best, but he couldn’t even get you bail.”

Cheryl’s head snapped back and she nearly dropped the phone. Josie knew she’d hit a nerve.

“You’re right,” Cheryl said. “My lawyer thinks I’m a housewife hooker. He loves the headlines, but he doesn’t care about me. At least you seem to believe me.”

Her face froze into the death mask again and she shut up.

“So tell me, Cheryl,” Josie said, her voice soft. “How bad can it be? Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than this. Keep quiet and you’ll never go home. You’ll be here forever.”

Josie waited. Other conversations seeped into their silence, each one a little sliver of hell:

“I done tole you, bitch, I need money—”

“And who’s gonna watch my children? Your sister, the crack whore?”

“Mama’s selling her mobile home, but it’s still not enough to pay the lawyer. If I hock the car, how am I gonna get to work? The buses don’t run—”

Josie watched Cheryl take a deep breath. Then the death mask came to life. A few words trickled out, raw and rusty, and then a great gush, as if she were relieved to be talking. “Mel had some women who did things for money. It wasn’t sex, not really. Not for Fiona and me.”

Cheryl stopped and looked at Josie, daring her to deny this. Josie kept silent.

“There were three of us. Fiona and I did the easy stuff. We catered to the guys who liked shoes, who had a thing for fishnet stockings, patent leather or bare feet.

The variations are endless. Paladia—you know about Paladia, right?”

Josie nodded.

“Paladia did the hard-core stuff.”

Josie knew this already. Cheryl had passed the first test. She was telling the truth.

“We bought shoes from Mel. That’s how it started. We all had financial problems. I was in debt from the casinos. Paladia had some stock market losses, and she tried to fix them by taking money from client accounts. She had to replace it before she was found out. Fiona wanted to furnish her house, but she knew it would be years before she could have what she wanted. Then Mel came along, offering us money to do things we couldn’t take seriously as sex.”

“Would your husband?” Josie said, then wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want Cheryl to stop talking.

“Tom?” Cheryl said bitterly. “He doesn’t know I’m alive. I kept my figure after the baby, but I have no idea why. It’s been so long since we’ve had sex, I’d have to look at the pictures to figure out how it’s done. Tom’s too tired. I’ve spent a fortune on negligees and perfume, trying to seduce my own husband.

“The last time I tried, I wore black lace from Victoria’s Secret. I lit candles all over the bedroom. Do you know what he said? ‘That reminds me. We need citronella candles for the back deck. Can you pick some up at Home Depot?’ Then he rolled over and went to sleep. Tom’s not interested in me. He only cares about making money.”

Oh, boy. This was way out of my league, Josie thought. Was this whole sad saga about Tom? If he’d romanced his wife, would she have stayed away from the casinos? Did she get involved with Mel to prove she was sexy to other men? Maybe foot sex was her twisted way of staying faithful to Tom. Maybe Krafft-Ebing could answer those questions. They were too complicated for Josie.

“What did Tom say when you were … uh, taken in?” Josie said.

“He said he’d get me the best possible lawyer. This guy is supposed to be a wizard. He owed Tom’s firm a favor. Tom never asked me if I killed Mel.”

“Did you?” Josie said.

“Of course not,” Cheryl said.

“Why were you at Mel’s house the night he was murdered?”

“I made a video with Fiona,” she said. “Actually, it’s a DVD. Mel was using it to blackmail us. He didn’t want money. He wanted us to keep working or he said he’d sell it on the Net. I was desperate to quit. Fiona was, too, but she wouldn’t do anything to help herself. I went to Mel’s house to try to get the DVD back.”

“What kind of DVD?”

“An embarrassing one,” Cheryl said. Fiona had used those same words.

“It’s pretty hard to embarrass me,” Josie said. “Did you have most of your clothes on?”

“All of them,” Cheryl said.

“What about your shoes?”

“Those, too,” Cheryl said.

“Were they kinky shoes?”

“No.”

“Was there another man?”

“No!” Cheryl almost shouted.

“Another woman?”

“What do you take me for?” Cheryl said.

“If you were fully dressed and you didn’t have sex, then what’s so bad?” Josie asked.

“I was—” Cheryl took a deep breath, and the words rushed out like air from a deflating balloon. “I was pedal pumping.”

“Huh?” Josie said.

“It’s one of the more benign foot fetishes. A lot of fetishes are fantasies of female helplessness. That’s why so many fetish men love women in spike heels. They’re difficult for women to walk in. Others go for Mary Janes, little-girl shoes. Pedal pumping carries female helplessness a step further.”

No pun intended, Josie thought. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of it,” she said.

“They are videos of women in cars,” Cheryl said. “The cars are usually on a deserted road or in a dangerous neighborhood. The cars won’t start, so the women pump and pump the gas pedal. The women wear sexy stockings and high heels. That’s a real turn-on for a certain kind of man.

“I made the DVD with Fiona. You can’t see our faces clearly, but our husbands would recognize us. Fiona wore Trip’s favorite black dress. My husband will know it’s me when he sees the mole on my ankle.”

“Lots of women have moles on their ankles.”

“Not like mine,” Cheryl said. “It’s a perfect red heart. It’s very distinctive.”

Of course, Josie thought sourly, even her imperfections would be uniquely perfect.

“He can’t see that mole,” Cheryl said. “I don’t want him to know I did this.”

“Where is this DVD? Do the police have it?” Josie asked.

“I don’t know,” Cheryl said. “I don’t think so. That’s why I was at Mel’s the night he died. I drugged his drink. I was going to search his house when he passed out. Instead, I was the one who blacked out. I think Mel saw me slipping something in his wine and switched glasses.”

“What were you using to drug him?” Josie said.

“Sleeping pills. They’re legal. The doctor prescribed them for me.”

“In your name?” Josie asked.

“Of course,” Cheryl said. “Oh. I see. That doesn’t look good, does it?”

Josie said nothing. She didn’t have to.

“I had to get that DVD,” Cheryl said. “I wasn’t going to hurt him. I wanted to steal it and destroy it. Mel lied to us. He blackmailed us. That scumbag! I’m glad he’s dead.”

Josie hoped the jury never saw the look on Cheryl’s face. They’d convict her for sure.

“I ground up the pills in my Cuisinart so they’d dissolve. I put the powder in a Ziploc bag,” Cheryl said. “Afterward, I threw the bag away. The police never found that.”

That was one bit of luck, Josie thought. Cheryl was a terrible criminal.

“So you had some wine with Mel,” Josie prompted. “You think he switched the glasses so you got the drugged one?”

“Yes. Probably when I went to the bathroom. I was so nervous, I had to go. I came back and gulped down my wine. I wanted to get it over with. He wouldn’t drink his wine unless I drank mine. When I woke up he was on the floor at the foot of the stairs, dead. There was blood everywhere. I did a quick search, but I didn’t find the DVD.”

“What time did you wake up?” Josie said.

“It was about ten till nine o’clock.”

“Did you look in his pretend shoe store?” Josie said.

“That was the first place. It wasn’t there. I checked his bedroom, too.”

Josie longed to ask what Mel’s bedroom looked like, but she didn’t dare.

“I couldn’t spend too much time searching,” Cheryl said. “When I first woke up, I was woozy and not thinking clearly. I thought Mel had fallen down the stairs and hit his head. Then I saw that the house had been ransacked and realized someone had probably killed him.”

“Ransacked how?” Josie said. The killer’s search had been kept out of the news. Zinnia hadn’t mentioned it, either.

“The place was a mess. Chairs were overturned, drawers pulled out, shoes tossed everywhere. Mel’s shoe boxes were open and scattered over the floor. I looked in a few more possible hiding places, but I had to get out of there.”