High Heels Are Murder (4 page)

Josie was the new kid in a strange neighborhood. She felt lost. She was starting a new school at midyear and didn’t know anyone. Their big, bright house in Ladue, which had so many rooms Josie couldn’t count them, was gone. Now Josie and her mother lived upstairs in a creaky five-room flat. An old woman who smelled of mothballs and played the TV too loud lived in the downstairs apartment, but they couldn’t complain about the noise because she paid the rent on time. Josie’s mother cried every night, when she thought Josie was asleep. Josie’s dad had moved to Chicago with his new wife. He never called, not even on her birthday.

Cheryl was seven, just like Josie. She lived in the biggest house in the new neighborhood. It was a three-story redbrick with a white wraparound porch. Josie knew that Cheryl was one of the cool kids. Even after a day at school, Cheryl’s ruffled pink blouse was unwrinkled. Her white-blond hair was straight as a model’s in
Seventeen
.

Josie’s plain brown hair stuck out in six directions, her
shirttail had slid out of her pants, and her socks had rolled down into her shoes. She pulled them up and walked across the lawn to greet Cheryl.

“Hi, I’m your new neighbor, Josie Marcus.” She stuck out her hand, the way Jane had taught her.

“So?” Cheryl said. She stared at Josie’s hand until it seemed small and shriveled. Then Cheryl turned her back and slammed her front door. Their relationship went downhill from there.

Jane never understood why Josie couldn’t make friends with nice Cheryl Mueller next door. “She’d be such a good influence,” her mother would say, and launch into yet another Perfect Cheryl Report.

Josie learned not to complain. “You’re jealous,” her mother would say. Josie knew it was true. But that didn’t stop her from praying that Cheryl would stop being perfect, just for a moment. Please, God, let Cheryl get yelled at by a teacher, get a zit, have a bad-hair day.

It never happened.

In grade school, Cheryl was a Girl Scout who collected a sash full of merit badges. Josie collected detentions and time-outs.

In high school, both were honor students, but Cheryl was class valedictorian with a perfect 4.0. She was also head of the Drama Club, editor of the school paper and had the lead in the school musical. She was a cheerleader, when girls still thought it was an honor to root for the boys. Josie played soccer in the days before young women got big scholarship money for sports.

Worse, Cheryl had real breasts when Josie was still stuffing socks in her bra.

Both went to the prom. Cheryl was prom queen and wore a shimmering blue strapless gown that made her look like a starlet. Josie wore black and looked like a streetwalker.

In college Cheryl was elected to the student council. Josie won the intramural beer-drinking contest, women’s division. The Party Hearty loving cup was not displayed on her mother’s mantel.

Cheryl got engaged about the same time that Josie got pregnant. Josie knew it wasn’t the baby that made
her throw up every morning. Her nausea was caused by listening to the details of Cheryl’s wedding. Just the mention of Alençon lace still made her queasy.

Now Josie braced herself for yet another Perfect Cheryl Report. She knew it would ruin a perfectly good corn-bread-and-chili supper. She secretly hoped Amelia would interrupt the report, even though Josie had told her daughter a thousand times that was rude. But Amelia was busy crumbling crackers and mixing them into her chili. The one time Josie wanted the kid to misbehave, Amelia wouldn’t.

“Cheryl brought her mother a lovely bouquet of star-gazer lilies,” Jane said. “Lilies are so rich-looking, don’t you think?”

Josie stuffed her mouth with corn bread so she couldn’t answer. Jane didn’t seem to expect her to.

“Cheryl baked her mother an English tea cake from a special low-fat, low-carb recipe. It was absolutely delicious. You’d never guess it had eighty-eight calories per slice. Cheryl offered to give you the recipe, but I said it was a waste of time. You can’t cook like Cheryl.”

Josie gulped her chili, which she’d made herself. This dinner was going to give her heartburn.

“It was so nice of her to invite me, too. We had real leaf tea,” Jane said. “Cheryl refuses to use tea bags. She made Earl Grey, which I usually like for breakfast, but it was perfect with the cake.”

Of course it was perfect, Josie thought. Everything Cheryl did was perfect. But Josie knew if she made a sarcastic remark, she’d get a lecture along with the report.

“Cheryl brought the cutest sugar cubes,” Jane said. “Each one was decorated with a tiny pink rose. When you put the cubes in the hot tea, the sugar melted and the rose floated on the top. It was so elegant.”

Josie ate while Jane raved on about Cheryl. Josie had thought her chili would be a special treat on a cool November night. Dinner had smelled delicious when Josie first dished it out. Now it tasted odd. Josie knew where the bitter taste came from. The more Jane talked about Cheryl, the more Josie felt like a failure. She was being childish, but Josie couldn’t help it. Cheryl had been a
mean little kid. She grew up into a spoiled snob. Why couldn’t Jane see that?

Because Cheryl had the life that Josie’s mom wanted for herself—and her daughter.

Jane could never get into bragging matches with Mrs. Mueller. Today was a fine example. After Perfect Cheryl treated her mother to a tea party worthy of Buckingham Palace, what could Jane say? “My daughter busted a shoe salesman who wanted a close personal relationship with her Prada”?

Josie couldn’t tell her mother most of what happened at Soft Shoe. The details would send Jane shrieking upstairs with a headache. All Josie could say was that she’d mystery-shopped it. An upscale store was a safe subject.

“I’ve heard about that place. Cheryl shops there,” Jane said.

That gives it the final stamp of approval, Josie thought nastily.

“Cheryl bought the most beautiful Bruno Maglis there,” Jane said.

“The open-toed mules?” Josie said. “They cost two hundred fifty dollars.”

“Imagine paying that for a pair of shoes.” Jane said it with the wistful wonder normally used for movie stars who wore couture. Josie’s mom bought her shoes on sale at Marshalls. Josie didn’t think Jane had paid more than twenty-five dollars for footwear since her father left them.

Poor Jane. Mystery shopping wasn’t anything for a mother to brag about. Josie’s pay was lousy. The job seemed glamorous, but trudging through stores rating service was hard work, and occasionally downright demeaning. But mystery shopping gave Josie something more precious than money—time. She could work on a flexible schedule. Josie could take Amelia to school in the morning and pick her up each afternoon. Although her daughter showed signs that she’d soon turn into a sulky teenager, for some reason she liked to talk to her mother in the car. Josie wouldn’t trade those quirky conversations for a six-figure salary.

Amelia wasn’t ashamed to be seen with her mother, at least for now. Mystery shopping gave Josie time for
unplanned expeditions to the zoo while Amelia still enjoyed her company. At night, she helped Amelia with her homework. These were luxuries many working moms didn’t have. They were caught in the guilt trap of long days at work and not enough time at home.

“Two hundred fifty dollars was my whole week’s salary when you were in grade school,” Jane said, startling Josie out of her reverie. “Imagine spending it on a single pair of shoes.”

Josie thought of her mother’s bunioned feet in her black flats, and felt a rush of guilt and love. Jane was only sixty-eight, but she looked work-worn and tired.

Would she have aged as well as her dieted and face-lifted Ladue neighbors if Jane hadn’t had to bring up a young daughter by herself? Jane had seen the photos of her mother as a young woman. She was softly pretty, with big brown eyes and curly brown hair. Could Jane have remarried another lawyer or doctor and had the life she’d craved? Josie had dated enough men to know how a small child could kill a budding romance.

Her resentment over the Perfect Cheryl Report vanished. Josie put down her chili spoon and went to her mother’s chair. “GBH, Mom,” she said. That was the family code for Great Big Hug. Jane tensed at first, then hugged her daughter. As Josie folded her mother in her arms, she saw Jane’s thinning gray hair.

I turned most of those hairs gray, Josie thought, and kissed her mother’s head. You don’t truly understand your mother until you are one.

Josie sat down again and gave Jane an edited version of her visit to Soft Shoe. “You would have loved the store, Mom,” she said. “The decor, the music, everything. The salesman even had a pink carnation in his buttonhole. It was so nineteen fifties.”

“Those were civilized times,” Jane said. “A man who wears a suit and a boutonniere is different from the salespersons you normally encounter.”

“That’s for sure,” Josie said fervently.

Jane looked at her daughter sharply. Josie was glad when Amelia interrupted them.

“Did you go to the Soft Shoe at Plaza Venetia? They
have a Dry Ice store there,” Amelia said. “Can we go?” She had cracker crumbs everywhere, even in her hair.

“You want to go shopping again?” Josie said.

Now that she’d turned nine, Amelia was interested in shopping. That made Josie uneasy. Josie worked as a mystery shopper, a job she hoped her daughter would never have. Jane was a shopaholic, addicted to the Home Shopping Network. A few months ago, Josie had found her mother’s closets stuffed with unopened boxes of jewelry, cosmetics and exercise equipment. Jane was seeing a counselor now, and there were fewer visits from the UPS man, but Josie worried that her daughter had inherited a twisted shopping gene.

“Can we, Mom, can we?” Amelia begged.

“What do you need from the mall?” Josie said.

“I don’t
need
anything. All the girls at school go to Dry Ice. Please, Mom.”

“I’ll think about it,” Josie said.

Amelia was shrewd enough to shut up.

Once the Perfect Cheryl Report ended, Josie waited for the kicker. She wanted to see if Mrs. Mueller had ratted her out to Jane. But her mother never mentioned her romantic interlude with Josh on the front porch. That was a relief.

The next morning, Josie set off for work wearing her yard-sale Escada suit and her rescued red heels. The whole outfit cost less than thirty dollars, but Josie thought it was a success. She could pass as a trophy wife with a chest full of implants and a purse full of plastic at the upscale malls.

Mrs. Mueller’s curtains twitched as Josie hurried to her car. That nosy old woman was hiding behind the white lace. Josie hoped she was making notes on her outfit. The needle-toed shoes would kill her feet, but at least Mrs. Mueller would consider her properly dressed. When Josie wore a tube top and short shorts for one down-market shopping assignment, Mrs. M complained that Josie made the neighborhood look bad.

Amelia herded her mother to the car like an anxious sheepdog. “Hurry, Mom. We’re going to be late,” she said.

They almost escaped. But Stan the Man Next Door, their neighbor on the other side, ran toward their car.

“It’s your boyfriend.” Amelia sniggered, with the casual cruelty of the young. Stan never missed an opportunity to talk to Josie.

“I don’t have time for this,” Josie muttered as she fired up the engine. But it was too late. Stan was blocking her exit. She had to either talk to Stan or run him down. The second choice was tempting, but it would make her even later.

Stan was wearing a limp short-sleeved shirt that was gray with age. One side sagged from the weight of a pocket protector. His powder blue necktie was snagged polyester. Stan dressed like a pensioner of eighty instead of a thirty-five-year-old man.

“Josie,” he said. “Your porch light is out. That’s not safe. Do you want me to get a new bulb and change it for you?”

Josie blushed. She’d unscrewed the porch light the night of her date with Josh, so they’d have some privacy from the permanent neighborhood watch. One twist and the bulb would be back in action.

“Thanks, Stan,” she said. “I’ll fix it tonight. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

She hoped he hadn’t looked out when she’d been making out with Josh. She knew Stan was in love with her and made excuses to repair things at her place. Josie could never love a man who wore a pocket protector. It was shallow and she knew it, but that didn’t change her mind.

“He really likes you, Mom,” Amelia said seriously as they drove off.

“I really like him,” Josie said. “He’s a good friend.”

“Grandma thinks you should go out with him again,” Amelia said. “She thinks you didn’t give him a fair try.”

“I like Stan, but not as a date,” Josie said. Once was enough.

“He’s not a hottie,” Amelia said. “He’s got droopy buns.”

“Amelia! Where did you get that talk?” Josie said.

“Zoe says her older sister, Celine, bun-watches at the mall. She won’t let Zoe go with her because she’s too young. Celine says some boys have hot buns and some don’t.”

Zoe was the bane of Josie’s existence. The kid was nine going on thirty-nine, and destined for the Future Sluts of America. But Josie had to admit the bun-watching bit was pretty funny.

“Amelia, you shouldn’t talk about men like that,” Josie said, trying not to giggle. “It makes them into sex objects. Men don’t like that treatment any better than we do.”

“But it’s true. Guys who wear pocket protectors never have good buns,” Amelia said.

Josie gave up the fight for men as persons in their own right. She burst out laughing. “At least if you’re watching their shirt pockets, you won’t be staring at their behinds.”

“Josh has sweet buns,” Amelia said.

“That’s quite enough,” Josie said, as she turned into the driveway of the Barrington School.

But her daughter was right. Josh had sweet buns, a firm chest and unprotected pockets. Josie was half crazed with longing after their date the other night. She craved him almost as much as her morning coffee at Has Beans. She had time for both before her first stop at the mall.

The coffeehouse customers seemed to come in waves, and right now the tide was out. There was only one older woman at a back table.