High Heels Are Murder (8 page)

The shoe was definitely on the other foot.

Josie yawned her way into the kitchen to nuke her morning coffee. Amelia was at the kitchen table, washed, dressed, and eating breakfast. Amazing. There would be no “you’re going to be late for school” hassle this morning.

Why should there be? Josie thought, as she poured last night’s leftover coffee into a mug. I’m perfect. I have a perfect daughter. And a perfect working day. I’ll be mystery-shopping bookstores, which means I can dress like a normal woman and wear comfortable loafers.

Josie threw a red wig and a black sweater into her tote. Some clever clerks spotted mystery shoppers and spread the word to the other stores in the chain. It helped to have a change of hair and clothes.

According to the thermometer at the back door, it was sixty degrees, a welcome surprise for November. More perfection.

Josie took a sip of her reheated coffee. Yuck. It was bitter. But she’d stop by Has Beans for the perfect brew after she dropped Amelia at school. She’d also see Josh. A little sugar with her coffee.

Josie and Amelia left for the Barrington School with time to spare. Josie waved to Stan the Man Next Door as she climbed into the car. Mrs. Mueller’s curtains did not twitch.

On the way to school, Amelia talked about her friend’s party plans. “Emma is having a chocolate-and-vanilla cake with purple icing for her birthday, Mom.”

This party was clearly the event of the Barrington social season.

“Purple is Emma’s favorite color,” Amelia said. “If it’s nice out, her dad is going to cook hot dogs and burgers. She’s going to have a helium gas tank for purple balloons, a popcorn machine like in the movies, and DVDs on the big-screen projector in the theater room.

“But mostly we’re going to play games. Emma has her own personal playhouse. It has a game room with three pinball machines, an original Ms. Pac-Man, an air hockey table, and a foosball table.”

“Wow,” Josie said. “Her parents are renting all those games for the party?”

“No, Mom,” Amelia said. “Emma
has
all those games. By the way, I won’t need that gift card.”

“You’re not going to give her a birthday present?” Josie asked.

“Rich kids like Emma don’t want you to bring them presents,” Amelia said, as if she were giving a sociology lecture.

“But you’ve brought other girls Dry Ice gift cards.”

“There’s rich and there’s rich,” Amelia said. “We’re all bringing school supplies, but we’re not giving them to Emma. They’ll go to poor kids.”

Like you, Josie thought. Her daughter showed no envy of her rich friend. How did I have such a good child?

“How did you find out the right thing to bring to the party?” Josie asked.

“I asked Emma,” Amelia said. “She’s my friend.”

“She really is your friend, Amelia. That’s what friends do. They keep you from embarrassing yourself. You’re lucky.”

Amelia shrugged. “Emma’s sweet.”

I’m living in a greeting card, Josie thought, as she kissed her daughter good-bye.

Josie saw Josh’s car in the lot at Has Beans. He was working this morning. Josie expected nothing less in her perfect world. By the time she opened the coffeehouse door, her steaming espresso was on the counter.

That’s when Josie’s cell phone rang. “Come home right away,” her mother said.

“What’s wrong, Mom? Are you okay? Is anything wrong with Amelia?”

“There’s an Olympia Park homicide detective here. She wants to talk to you.”

“What about, Mom?”

“She won’t say. Just come home.” Jane sounded frightened. “Please.”

“Okay, Mom, I’ll be right there,” Josie said. “I’m right around the corner.”

“Something wrong?” Josh said, as she snapped her phone shut.

“It’s Mom.” Josie started to add, “There’s a homicide detective at my house,” but decided that was a romance killer. “She has an uninvited guest.”

“Do you need me to chase him off?” Josh said.

Josie laughed. “Her. Thanks, Josh, but I don’t need a bodyguard. This is a nuisance, not a serious problem.”

Josh poured her espresso into a go-cup. Josie raced out the door with barely a backward wave. Olympia Park, she thought. Must be Mel the dead salesman. She was home in two minutes.

Jane was in Josie’s living room, wringing her hands and looking worried. “The detective is in the kitchen,” she whispered. “She didn’t want coffee, but I gave her a glass of water.”

“Thanks, Mom. Why don’t you go upstairs?” Josie said. “I’ll call you as soon as she leaves.”

“Are you sure?” Jane said.

Josie was sure her mom would be more of a hindrance than a help. “I’ll be fine. It looks better this way.”

Homicide Detective Kate Causeman looked like the girl next door—in a bad neighborhood, since she was carrying a gun. She had long, curly blond hair, tied back to keep perps from pulling it. Her tailored beige suit and flat lace-up shoes were smart but no-nonsense.

“This is just a routine interview,” the detective said.

She smiled, but Josie watched her eyes. The girl next door had twin blue lasers.

“We’re trying to reconstruct Melvin Poulaine’s last
day,” Detective Causeman said. “I understand that you mystery-shopped his store.”

Josie could do girl-next-door pretty well herself. She smiled back, took a seat and said, “Yes, that’s right.”

“It was your report that led to his firing?”

“Yes,” Josie said. “But that happened after I left the store. Terminating Mr. Poulaine was a Soft Shoe management decision.”

“When you surprised him in the back room, what did he say?” Was that a smile lurking at the corners of Detective Causeman’s mouth?

“He didn’t say anything. I yelled at him to let go of my shoe.” Josie could not bring herself to say she’d called Mel a heel. It sounded too ridiculous. “I left and faxed my report to Suttin Services an hour later. I didn’t have any further contact with Mr. Poulaine.”

“What did you and Mr. Poulaine talk about when he waited on you?” the detective said.

“We discussed shoe styles,” Josie said.

“Did he say what he planned to do later in the day?”

“No,” Josie said.

“Did he mention any problems with anyone?” Detective Causeman asked.

“No.”

“Did he have any money issues?”

“No.”

“What was the state of his mind?”

Warped, Josie thought. “He seemed fine,” she said.

“Did he have boyfriend or girlfriend issues?” Detective Causeman asked.

He wanted to elope with my shoe, Josie thought. “We didn’t talk about anything personal,” she said.

“Was he suicidal? Homicidal?” the detective asked.

“I tried on shoes for an hour. It’s the only time I met the man. I don’t know anything about him,” Josie said.

But I’d better find out fast, she thought.

“Thanks for the water,” Detective Causeman said.

Josie noticed she didn’t drink any. She showed the detective to the door and leaned against the hall wall. Josie felt like she’d been slammed in the stomach. Suddenly, Mel and Cheryl didn’t seem so funny. Mel was
really dead. Cheryl was really in trouble. A homicide investigation had a way of reaching out and ruining all the lives it touched—and Josie’s was within its cold grasp.

Mrs. Mueller was right to be worried about Cheryl. She knew her daughter could go to prison. But Josie bet Cheryl was still sheltered by her invincible ignorance. The problem with people like Cheryl was they didn’t know they were in trouble until it was too late. Nothing bad had ever happened to them. They felt entitled to their fabulous luck.

Josie had seen this on a smaller scale at the malls, when store security pulled in well-heeled shoplifters. The light-fingered rich didn’t believe those
SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
signs were meant for them.

“I can pay for it,” they would say, as if that solved everything. But it didn’t. They never understood that the stores wanted to make an example of them, to scare away other rich folks getting five-finger discounts. Even as they were being hauled off to jail, they still thought they could talk their way out of the mess. Only the humiliation of a strip search convinced them.

Josie did not like Cheryl. She wouldn’t mind if the cops scared her a little. But the woman didn’t deserve to go to prison. Her little boy needed his mother. And Josie’s mother needed her committee.

Josie had to act fast. She ran upstairs to tell her mother that everything was all right.

But it wasn’t. The day had changed. An icy wind whipped gray clouds across a lead sky. Brown leaves crackled like bones underfoot as she marched to her car.

There was no time to waste. Josie could shop the bookstores later. She had to see Cheryl now. Mrs. Mueller’s perfect daughter might be too smug to understand how much trouble she was in, but Josie knew. Maybe she could convince Cheryl. At the very least, Josie might learn something that could keep Cheryl from going to jail. Mrs. Mueller was right. Josie did have good mall contacts. A security guard or someone at a nearby store might have seen someone following or threatening Mel.
Josie had to see Cheryl before the police showed up at her house again.

Josie hit the highway hard, heading for the West County suburb of Ballwin. Her mother was not going to lose her dream committee chair.

Josie was on a mission. She had to save the woman she hated to help the woman she loved.

Cheryl and Tom’s big beige two-story house had spindly trees in the yard and too many Pella windows. Cheryl answered the door wearing a camel pantsuit two shades darker than her caramel hair.

“Hi, I’m Josie Marcus.” She extended her hand. “Your mom asked me to stop by and see how you were doing.”

Cheryl’s handshake was limp as old celery. “Come in,” she said. Her smile was brittle.

She doesn’t want me here, Josie thought. Well, we’re even. I don’t want to be here, either. But Cheryl doesn’t understand she’s in trouble. I do.

Josie nearly went snow-blind in the living room. Everything was white—the rugs, the couch, the lampshades, the marble-and-wrought-iron coffee table. It was a show room, designed to impress visitors. Pale seascapes chilled the walls. Josie sneaked a peek at the closest one. It was signed.

Cheryl firmly steered her out of the room. Josie was not important enough to sit on that frigid furniture. The dining room was as dark as the living room was light. It featured mahogany furniture and murky landscapes. On the table was a silk flower arrangement. The bowl looked old.

“Pretty flower bowl,” Josie said.

“It was Mommy’s,” Cheryl said. “She gave it to me.”

Mommy?

A lighted china cabinet filled with ghostly Lladro figurines
covered one wall. The top of Cheryl’s wedding cake was displayed on a shelf like a trophy. The tiny bride and groom were garlanded by silk flowers. Josie knew from her mother’s Perfect Cheryl Report that the little couple were “real bisque china.”

Josie followed Cheryl down a narrow hall and caught a glimpse of another dark room. More landscapes in heavy gold frames. A few lonesome paperbacks and dull textbooks huddled together in a nearly empty bookcase. Josie figured the other shelves would be filled later. With its dark wood, green leather and glass-shaded banker’s lamps, the room looked like a gentlemen’s club. Was it a lair for the husband or a place to hold the overflow of networking parties?

The kitchen was as big as Josie’s flat. The shiny stainless-steel appliances had the warmth of an autopsy room. The counters had none of the clutter of a real cook. This was a place to microwave. French doors led to a patio with a gas grill. Josie bet most of the summertime cooking went on out there.

They bypassed the kitchen’s lonely splendor for the family room. This was where Tom and Cheryl really lived, Josie thought. The floor was cluttered with magazines and toys. A scrapbook was open on a card table, surrounded by shoe boxes crammed with photos. A Danielle Steel paperback and an afghan were flung on the couch.

Josie was sure the monster La-Z-Boy belonged to Tom.
Wall Street Journals
were piled untidily next to it. Cheryl moved a stack of children’s books and a jelly doughnut with one bite out of it from a chair. Josie sat down gingerly, hoping she missed the oozing jelly.

“Would you like some coffee?” Cheryl said.

“That would be nice,” Josie said. “May I use your rest room?”

“Better use the one upstairs,” Cheryl said. “Ben jammed a toy and heaven knows what else in the downstairs toilet. The plumber is supposed to come today to fix it.”

“Sounds expensive,” Josie said.

“It’s not as bad as when Ben shoved a peanut-butter sandwich in the VCR,” Cheryl said. “They don’t call this age the terrible twos for nothing.”

“Been there, done that,” Josie said.

She followed the framed photos of Cheryl and Tom up the stairs. The first photos showed Tom in his wedding finery. He had thick dark hair, broad shoulders, and the smile of a man who’d won the grand prize. Cheryl was a picture-book bride, but she smiled for an unseen audience, not her new husband.

In each photo, Tom’s hair grew progressively thinner and his body pudgier. By the time baby Ben was born, Tom was fat and his hair was thin. His smile had turned tentative, as if he wasn’t as sure of his prize. But Cheryl never changed, and she never smiled for Tom.

The photos of baby Ben with a two-candle birthday cake brought Josie to the top of the stairs. The bucks stopped here, she thought. The upper rooms were nearly empty. No one saw them. Nothing brightened the beige walls, not even family photos. Cheap miniblinds covered the windows. Pricey wallpaper and window treatments would come after the downstairs show rooms were furnished.

I am so full of venom, if I bite myself, I’ll die, Josie thought. What is wrong with me?

But she knew. This was the life she was supposed to have. She’d rejected her own accountant and lighted china cabinet for a wild romance, a child out of wedlock, and a flat in Maplewood with her mother.

And I’m glad, she thought defiantly. But Josie couldn’t resist a short tour. The master bedroom was a mess. The king bed, in a rather battered modern style, was probably from Tom’s bachelor days. The dresser was heaped with perfume, earrings, hairy brushes and crumpled tissues.