High Heels Are Murder (5 page)

Josh whistled when she came in the door. “Nice outfit,” he said. “You look like a rich guy’s third wife.”

“That’s exactly how I’m supposed to look,” Josie said. “I may seem harmless, but I’m deadly. Fix me an espresso and I’ll tell you how I ruined a man’s life.”

“Fatal attraction,” Josh said. “I love it. It’s the element of danger that draws me.”

He looked around the coffeehouse. The older woman was finishing her decaf and giving them looks as black as her dyed hair. Josh would have to rein it in, or Mrs. Black would report him for sure. He started fixing Josie’s espresso.

Josie loved to watch Josh work. His arms were strong and his hands were quick, which led to pleasant thoughts that had nothing to do with coffee. She had a fine back view of Josh in his well-tailored khakis. Buns and coffee. Amelia was right. Definitely sweet.

The black-haired woman slammed her empty cup on the counter and left.

“Finally,” Josh said, and vaulted over the counter with one hand. “When do I see you again?” He wrapped his arms around her.

Josie could feel his hard body. She ached for his kiss. But Josh backed away suddenly and said, “Damn, the Vulture is here.”

The Vulture could usually be found hunched over the coffeehouse computer. With his sloping, skinny shoulders and long beak of a nose, he looked like a bird of prey. The Vulture bought one cup of coffee, the limit to use the computer, and loaded it with so much sugar the spoon could stand up in the cup. The Vulture hunted for odd scraps on the Internet to put on his blogging site.

Josh went back to the other side of the counter, this time through the service gate. Josie could feel the tension radiating between them.

“So,” Josh said in a strained voice, “you were going to tell me how you ruined a man’s life. Besides mine, I mean.” He lowered his voice. “I may die of frustration.”

Josie told him about Mel the foot freak. When she described the salesman crouched behind the shoe boxes with her helpless high heel, Josh laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes.

“Tell me this didn’t really happen,” he said. “This Mel guy really attacked your shoe?”

“He did and it wasn’t funny,” Josie said, then burst out laughing. It
was
funny, in a disgusting way. “What kind of person has an affair with a high heel?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Josh said. “My mom married a loafer.”

Josie groaned.

Five caffeine fiends flooded through the door, jittery as any junkies in need of a fix. Josie knew better than to get in their way. She took her espresso to the coffeehouse
couch. She should drink up and leave. She had to work.

“You gotta paper?” a half-decaf, half-regular asked Josh.

Josh reached under the counter for a much-read
City Gazette
. But Josie saw him stop and stare at the front page. Odd. Josh was always a blur of motion behind the counter.

“Here’s your paper. Excuse me a minute,” Josh said to the half-and-half. He put a chocolate biscotti on a plate and brought it to Josie. “Don’t go yet. I may have something to show you.”

This should be interesting, Josie thought. She sipped her espresso, munched her biscotti, and fidgeted on the hard coffeehouse couch, but that didn’t make the customers leave any faster. It was ten minutes before Josh could see Josie without the crush of coffee hounds.

Finally, the last shaky-handed customer left with his coffee. Josh came over, carrying a creased and wrinkled newspaper. “What was that kinky shoe salesman’s name again?” he said.

“Mel,” Josie said. She didn’t like Josh’s worried look. “Mel Poulaine. Why? Is something wrong? Is Mel going to sue Suttin Services because he was fired?”

“No. Mel’s not going to bother anyone ever again.” Josh stopped and looked at her. “He’s dead, Josie.”

“He didn’t kill himself, did he?” Josie felt sick. Please don’t say he committed suicide because I got him fired, she prayed, but Josie was too afraid to say that out loud. I had to report the pervert. Didn’t I?

“Somebody else killed him,” Josh said. “Mel was murdered.”

OLYMPIA PARK SALESMAN SLAIN
, the
St. Louis City Gazette
headline screamed.

Josie saw the picture underneath, gave a small shriek and sloshed her espresso on the coffeehouse couch. Why did the paper use that photo? It was Mel, all right, with that strange oily smile, as if death was some secret pleasure.

The caption said, “Olympia Park resident Melvin Poulaine in happier times, as Soft Shoe salesperson of the year.”

“Omigod,” Josie said. “That’s him, right down to the carnation in his buttonhole.”

“He looks like a forties gigolo,” Josh said. “What’s that on his hair—Crisco?” He looked at Josie. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a little shaky. I don’t know a lot of dead people. Mel was awful, but he didn’t deserve to die. When was he killed?” Josie grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser and scrubbed at the thick brown stain on the couch. Her efforts only smeared it around the gray upholstery.

Josh skimmed the article while she scrubbed. “I think he was killed the same day he was fired. You killed him, Josie. You wanted to avenge his assault on your sole.”

Josie gripped the paper napkins so tight she squeezed them into a ball. “That’s not funny, Josh. I’ve been mixed up with the police before. What if they come after me again?”

“Did you see that man after you left the store?”

“No,” Josie said.

“You can account for your time?”

“I guess so,” Josie said. “After I left the shoe store, I went to the office, then I had lunch with my friend Alyce. After that I picked up my daughter at school and spent the evening at home with Mom and Amelia. But nobody else saw me once I was home.”

“What about Mrs. Mueller?” Josh said. “She’s better than a spy satellite.”

Josie laughed with relief. “I never thought I’d be glad to have a nosy neighbor.” She went back to rubbing the coffee stain into the couch. Josh gently pried the napkins from her hand, sprayed something from a plastic bottle on the upholstery and made the stain disappear.

“I do magic,” he said, kissing her fingers. “Let me get you another espresso.” He was up and heading for the counter.

“No! Wait! I don’t need more caffeine,” Josie said.

“Yes, you do,” Josh said. “Your brain cells should be on full alert. This Mel story doesn’t make sense. How could a shoe salesman afford to live in Olympia Park? Have you ever been in those houses?”

“I’ve never even been on the streets,” Josie said. “Olympia Park has armed guards everywhere. My mom went to a big party there when she was still married to Dad. She said it made the newer gated communities look like trailer parks.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t put up a sign:
OLYMPIA PARK—EXCLUDING ST. LOUISANS SINCE
1905,” Josh said. “Did you know Olympia Park had a written covenant that Irish, Jewish and people of color could not be homeowners? They still have ways to prevent people they don’t like from moving in. Ten years ago, the homeowners association refused to sell to Bigtime Barney.”

“The used-car salesman with the awful cable TV ads?”

“That’s the one. The association bought the house from the owner for the same amount Barney offered him, then held it until they found a suitable buyer. They sold it to a partner in an old-line St. Louis law firm.”

“These people don’t sound like they’d want a shoe salesman for a neighbor,” Josie said.

“Exactly,” Josh said. She could hear him clattering around, preparing her espresso. “Bigtime Barney wanted to pay seven mil for the place. Olympia Park houses start at two million dollars. Start.”

Josie whistled. “That’s a lot of shoes. Does the article say how Mel made his money?”

“Drink this.” Josh was back with a double-shot espresso, thick and dark. Josie took a sip and felt a hot zing—unless it came from being so close to Josh. He sat down next to her on the couch. Another zing. Nope, it definitely wasn’t the caffeine.

Concentrate, she told herself. Mel’s death has you rattled. It must have stirred up some hormones. Josie gathered enough thoughts to ask a semi-intelligent question. “How did a killer get inside a community with guards at the gate?”

“Let’s see what it says here.” Josh scanned the news story. “Hmm. The housekeeper found the victim.”

“Housekeeper?” Josie said. “Mel the shoe salesman had a housekeeper?”

“If you live in a two-million-dollar house, you don’t mop your own floors,” Josh said.

He cleared his throat and read: “‘The housekeeper, Zinnia Ellis of Maplewood, found the victim, Melvin Aubrey Poulaine, forty-nine, at about nine forty-five Monday evening. Miss Ellis called paramedics, who were unable to revive Poulaine. A police spokesman said Poulaine was apparently struck and killed.’ “

“Struck and killed with what?” Josie said.

“That’s it. The story doesn’t say how he was killed or when. I can’t figure out if he died inside or outside of his house. There’s no mention of suspects and no quotes from the neighbors about how they saw a one-armed man running into the night. Judging from the number of ‘no comments’ in this story, it sounds like Mel’s neighbors flat-out refused to talk to the reporter. People in Olympia Park keep a low profile. You rarely read anything about them in the newspaper, not even in the society pages.”

“What else would you expect of Olympia?” Josie said. “Gods don’t talk to mortals. Does the article say if Mel had any family—an ex-wife, maybe, or children?”

Josh studied the story. “His only surviving relative seems to be an aunt in Long Beach, California. There’s nothing else about his family. Don’t you wonder where Mel got the money to live the way he did?”

“You bet,” Josie said. “If Mel had money, why was he working in a shopping mall? I wouldn’t traipse around the malls if I didn’t have to. He probably made minimum wage plus commission. That won’t get you in the gate at Olympia Park. I don’t think he could make that kind of money legally.”

“Mel doesn’t strike me as a cocaine cowboy or a hit man,” Josh said.

Josie giggled. The caffeine had her keyed up. It couldn’t be because Josh was sitting so close to her. He was surprisingly muscular. She’d discovered that on her front porch. Hard in all the right—Get a grip, she told herself. Mooning around like a lovesick teenager won’t help you when the cops show up on your porch asking questions. And don’t kid yourself—they will talk to you.

“Maybe Mel was into blackmail,” Josie said. “But he’d still need millions. Can you make that much money blackmailing people?”

“It would have to be something really big,” Josh said. “Big enough to get him killed.”

Josie finished her espresso.

“Can I get you another one?” Josh said.

“No, I’d be awake until next Thursday,” Josie said. “I’m not going to worry anymore about Mel. He’s not my problem. He’s not a problem for Soft Shoe, either. The company must be relieved he’s dead, especially if they had complaints from customers. They can’t sue a dead man.”

“Maybe the company put out a contract on him,” Josh said.

“Nah,” Josie said. “They’re not killers. They use too much pink.”

Josh laughed. Josie looked around the coffeehouse and realized it was empty. So did Josh. The air around
them was suddenly charged. Josie noticed everything about him—his blond hair, his cool goatee with the soul patch, his strong shoulders and long legs.

Josh took Josie in his arms and groaned. “I can’t stand this,” he said. “When do I get to see you alone?” He gave her small, feathery kisses along her neck.

“The weekend after next,” Josie said. “Amelia has her first sleepover. It’s her best friend Emma’s birthday party.”

“Cool,” Josh said. He undid her top blouse button. She sighed and unbuttoned his top two shirt buttons. What a great chest that man had.

“It’s a big deal for Amelia,” she said, breathing faster. “Some of her classmates have been doing sleepovers since they were in kindergarten. This is her first one. I know Emma’s mother and I can trust her to lay down the law, so I said yes. Amelia is all excited.”

“Me, too,” Josh said, and kissed her hard.

“You certainly are,” Josie said, and reached for his belt.

The door banged open. Josie jumped. A skinny woman in a beige raincoat marched up to the counter. “Is this a coffeehouse or a whorehouse?” she said loudly.

Josie blushed and pulled away from Josh. She quickly buttoned her blouse.

“I’ll be right there,” Josh said. He whispered, “Martha is a jerk. She’s also a lawyer, so that’s probably redundant. Martha is back for her third double espresso. She’s wired like the scoreboard at Busch Stadium.”

“I’d better go,” Josie said.

“Don’t,” he said. It was a plea. “Martha will be gone in a minute. Here, read the Mel story.” He handed her the battered front page. It had been folded more times than an old road map.

Josie read the story twice and didn’t learn another thing. The few facts seemed to slide out of her head. Only the picture of the grinning Mel stayed with her. Two days ago, he’d been swanning around the poshly pink shoe store. Now he was in a morgue drawer.

The coffeehouse door slammed shut. Martha was gone. They were alone again. But now Josie was acutely
aware of the store’s big plate-glass windows and the constant stream of coffee lovers. It was too public here. She wandered over to the counter.

“I gave Martha a free coffee and calmed her down,” he said. “The decaf is going bitter. I need to brew some more. Two extra-large decafs will be coming here in about five minutes.”

Josh poured the coffee in the half-full pot down the sink, then busied himself with changing the filter and spooning in fresh-ground coffee.

“Did I ever tell you I dated a girl from Olympia Park?” he asked.

“When was this?” Josie said.

“The summer I turned sixteen. I met her at the Clayton swimming pool. Muffy—”

“Get out of town. She wasn’t named Muffy,” Josie interrupted.

“I swear,” Josh said. “She looked like a Muffy, too. Anyway, I was sitting in her living room, which looked like a museum, trying to make conversation. Muffy’s father was there in this big old wing chair, treating me like something his darling dragged in from the Dumpster. He even wrinkled his nose as if I smelled bad. I was so nervous. ‘I like your house,’ I blurted. ‘I’ve never seen one with a marble carport.’