Killer Heels

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Desk junk,” I assured him.

  “The legacies we leave,” Peter pursued, leaning forward to peek into the box.

  I made myself laugh as I made big shoo-shoo gestures in his face and forced him to sit back into his slouch on the sofa, but I really wanted to smack his hand away. This time, I wasn’t protecting my story or Edwards’ investigation. I just had a sudden urge, maybe a flashback to a life as a temple guard in El Giza, to keep unworthy hands away from what was left of a man’s life.

  Edwards looked at me rather than at the box. I met his gaze with as neutral an expression as those blue eyes would permit and tried my darnedest not to think about the picture and the key. Besides, if he wasn’t going to read my mind and help me out at the restaurant, he didn’t get to leaf through my thoughts now. “This everything?” he asked.

  “Other than some art on the wall,” I answered. “Everything else was files and his assistant Gretchen will have to go through all that. And Brady, his second-in-command. But as far as what belongs to Helen now …” I shrugged.

  “Thank you.” Edwards didn’t stand up. That was nice. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave. Unfortunately, Peter looked like he was settling in for a long winter’s nap himself. That was less nice. Fatigue was catching up with me and I didn’t have the energy to play hostess to competing interests. I wanted Peter to go home.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Peter,” I ventured. “Guess I owe you a raincheck.”

  “Raincheck? It’s early,” he protested, checking his watch. It was only 9:30, plenty of time to still have dinner and really foul things up, but the momentum of the evening was shot for me. I didn’t want to go out again. And I really wanted Peter to go home.

  “The last twenty-four hours have been a bit much. I guess I’m more tired than I wanted to admit.” I glanced at Edwards, but he was studying Peter and again, not receiving.

  “You need dinner. We’ll bring it in.” Peter reached behind the couch to get the phone from the console table without looking. He was showing off for Edwards, demonstrating how familiar he was with my apartment. “What sounds good? Chinese? Italian? Thai?”

  “No. I just …”

  “Pizza?”

  I can normally eat pizza at any hour of the day or night, hot or cold, thin, thick, or stuffed crust, may the spirit of Dr. Atkins forgive me. But at this particular moment, all I could picture was how the grease coagulates in the pepperoni slices as the pizza cools, which led to the picture of the blood coagulating in the office carpet around Teddy’s body, and I wanted to barf. I shook my head pretty emphatically.

  Peter scratched his head with the antenna on the cordless. “Mexican?”

  “She’s not hungry.” Edwards said it quietly, but with such authority that both Peter and I took notice. Peter looked from Edwards to me and back, trying to gauge the depth of the connection, if any. I watched his expression carefully, because a third-party reading would be very helpful about now. Edwards glanced up at me and Peter’s eyes followed.

  “No, I don’t think I am.” I should have quit there, but my deeply repressed inner Martha Stewart leapt up before I could squelch her. “But if you two want to eat—”

  “No, thank you,” Edwards said quietly. He nodded at the phone in Peter’s hand and Peter reached back to set it in the base. But he missed and had to look back over his shoulder to fumble it back into place. I was fascinated by this turn of events. It wasn’t that Peter was intimidated by Edwards, it was simply that Edwards had taken control of the room. He had to be amazing in the interrogation room. Among other rooms.

  Peter sat forward on the couch, still watching Edwards. Edwards stood and Peter did, too. Edwards stuck his hand out and Peter shook it with formal restraint. Then he surprised Peter and me by smiling. “Maybe I’m the one who owes you dinner. Sorry to have busted up your date.”

  From where I stood, the smile was as effective on Peter as it would have been on me. Something about the wattage of the smile, after he’d been so serious so long, was disarming. Peter smiled back in spite of himself. “Official business, I get it. No harm, no foul.”

  “Can I drop you somewhere?” Edwards asked and I chewed the inside of my cheek in disappointment. Peter was going to leave, but so was Edwards.

  “No, I’m cool. I’ll get a cab.” Peter blinked a moment as it registered that he had just agreed to leave. He looked at me and I forced a yawn, but it didn’t take much effort. “You okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured him. And then we all stood there, silent, everyone waiting for someone else to make the first move. I took a step toward the door, Edwards picked up the box, and Peter fell in beside him as we trekked all the way across the room. I felt like I should open the door and then offer my cheek to each of them for a chaste goodnight kiss as they went past. Doris Day would be so proud.

  I kept my cheek in check as Edwards passed by. “Thanks again, Ms. Forrester. I’ll be in touch.” He stepped out into the hallway and then looked at his feet as though he wasn’t allowed to watch if Peter was going to kiss me good night.

  But Peter was still under the influence of Edwards’ authoritative demeanor and he would’ve sooner kissed me in front of my father than kissed me in front of Edwards. I did my best not to let my amusement show and not to take advantage of his discomfort either. “Sorry again. Talk to you later.”

  “Yeah. Good night.” He stepped out into the hallway, gestured to the elevator for Edwards, and started down the hall.

  Edwards took three steps after him, then turned back to me. “Ms. Forrester, there was one other thing.”

  “Yes?” I said with what I hoped was a proper lack of glee, though glee was trying its best to work its way in.

  Peter paused, looking back curiously. Edwards threw him a quick look. “Thanks again. Pleasure talking to you.”

  Peter wavered a moment, then took the dignified option. He raised his hand in acceptance, said, “You, too,” and punched the elevator button with focused vigor.

  I stepped back, letting Edwards follow me. I closed the door behind him, then hovered near it. Not a time to appear overeager. “Yes, Detective? One more question?”

  He didn’t lead me back into the apartment, but he leaned in close. Deliciously close. “How serious are you?”

  “About Helen being innocent?”

  “About the college crew captain.”

  “He didn’t make captain and it haunts him to this day.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Why?”

  “In my line of work, I’m used to people answering my questions.”

  “Aren’t you also used to people lying to you, calling you names, and threatening you?”

  “Let’s save that for when we know each other better.”

  “Are we going to get to know each other better?”

  “Depends how serious you are with Crew Boy.”

  “How’d we get back to him?”

  “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy and I wasn’t raised by wolves, all rumors to the contrary.” He straightened up, no longer deliciously close. That wouldn’t do.

  Now I leaned in, closing the gap back up. “Not that serious. Teetering on the brink of break-up, in fact.”

  He fought a smile. “Thank you for the clarification.”

  He started to put the box down, but I stopped him. “That was your one question.”

  “I’m sure I have others.”

  “I’m sure you do, too, but even though Crew Boy isn’t the love of my life, I know him well enough to know that he’s sitting down in the lobby, timing you. And while I might enjoy trying his patience, it wouldn’t be very kind of me.”

  To his credit, his smile broadened. “My point exactly. Good night, Ms. Forrester.”

  “Good night, Detective Edwards.” I opened the door for him, he shifted the box under his arm, took my face in his free hand and kissed me. Briefly, but firmly. Coming attractions, indeed.

  9

  “And you let him wal
k away?” Tricia reprimanded me the next morning. She’d been lying in wait for me in the lobby as I trudged into work and was not very happy with the fact that I had neglected to call her to brief her on “dinner” with Peter. She was even less happy when I told her about Edwards’ appearance. But not so unhappy that she refused to hand over the extra vanilla cappuccino that she’d very thoughtfully brought along for me.

  I led Tricia and our candied coffees through the limestone and glass canyon of the lobby and toward the elevator. We needed to get upstairs, not because I was in any hurry to get to work, but because Tricia had a meeting with Yvonne about Teddy’s reception. Yvonne didn’t like to be kept waiting and I didn’t want to be part of anything that was going to upset her. Not that she was going to like being arrested, but that was different.

  But first there was the matter of calming Tricia and finishing my story without divulging all my secrets to my fellow elevator riders. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” I whispered, scanning the still-waking faces around me. No one I recognized, fortunately, but you never know who knows someone you know.

  “Oh, you and the right thing. It’s going to get you killed and make me crazy,” Tricia hissed.

  “In that order?”

  “Could be neck-and-neck.”

  A few pairs of eyes moved our way, but didn’t linger. They seemed more annoyed that we were talking than interested in what we were saying. So far, so good.

  Tricia studied her coffee cup in tightly coiled silence, then said, far more loudly than necessary, “Must not have been much of a kiss.”

  Every pair of eyes moved our way. I didn’t have to see them, I could feel them. I could also feel my face reddening in a good old-fashioned, junior-high blush.

  Good manners prevented me from throttling my dear friend in the middle of the elevator with all those handy witnesses, so I gritted my teeth until I could march her off at the eleventh floor.

  “It was amazing,” I corrected as we proceeded to my desk.

  “Then why let him go?”

  “Because I was trying to be a lady.”

  “Because he’s going to call your mother and report on your behavior after he crawls out of your bed?”

  “Tricia, the moment wasn’t right.”

  “Oh.” The fight went out of her instantly and she smiled sweetly. Tricia harbors the heart of a true romantic and understands certain basic concepts, like the moment having to be right. “Why didn’t you say so? That I get.” She tapped her coffee cup against mine in a toast of acquiescence.

  At this point, I had successfully propelled Tricia all the way to Yvonne’s office and I gratefully leaned against her assistant’s desk for a moment. I hadn’t planned to start my day with an interrogation and I needed to catch my breath. “Fred, she’s your problem now.”

  Tricia, ever the good girl, stuck her hand out to Fred, Yvonne’s assistant. “Good morning, I’m Tricia Vincent, I have an appointment with Yvonne.”

  Fred Hagstrom is a sweet little guy in a thankless job and he knows it. He also makes sure everyone else knows it. Not that anyone stood much of a chance of ignoring him anyway. Fred has a Truman Capote fixation that hovers somewhere between endearing and annoying. The glasses actually work on him and I suppose it’s his business if he wants to wear linen suits in New York City year round, but in October, you can get cold just looking at him.

  “Yvonne’s running a little late,” Fred oozed, squeezing Tricia’s fingertips in greeting. He looked at me, waiting for me to escort Tricia to the kitchen and out of his hair.

  “We’ll wait,” I told him, and pulled Tricia behind me into Yvonne’s office. Fred scrambled up out of his chair and tried to block us, but he wasn’t quick enough. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, and scowled at me as I pointed for Tricia to sit on Yvonne’s torture rack of a couch. Wherever Yvonne and Teddy had their rendezvous, it wasn’t there. One of them would have been limping noticeably a long time ago.

  “This just isn’t right,” Fred protested.

  “It’s not like Tricia and I are going to strip down and make 900 calls, Fred. We’re only gonna sit in here and gossip like good girls.” I crinkled my nose at him because he seemed like the sort of guy who’d respond to that and eased him out the door. Normally, I wouldn’t give Fred’s orientation a second thought, but at this moment, I wished he would be deeply interested in going back to his desk and imagining Tricia and me naked, cooing into Yvonne’s phone for $4.99 a minute. Instead, I had no doubt that he was going to stay on the other side of the door, his ear pressed against it, until the moment Yvonne arrived. I’d have to be quiet.

  Yvonne last redecorated her office during her “roots crisis.” Her grandmother died and left her estate to everyone but Yvonne, because Yvonne didn’t seem to need it and didn’t seem to care. Fact is, Yvonne didn’t care, but she’d always thought she’d made a good show of caring, so it burned her that her grandmother had seen through her but never called her on it.

  In retaliation, Yvonne dove into this demented flurry of antique acquisition, sort of assembling the roots she’d been denied. And then tweaking them along the way. As best one could tell from studying her office, Yvonne was descended from a long line of magnificent Mediterranean creatures who had bequeathed her heavy, dark woods and jewel-toned fabrics. Any rumors about their being Scotch-Irish and coming over in the ’40s were just idle chatter.

  Tricia perched on the edge of the sofa, which was designed for creating lower back problems. She looked around uncomfortably, but the deécor had nothing to do with her unease. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “It’s an event, Tricia. You do great events.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about the reception. I’m not sure I can sit here and talk to Yvonne like it’s just another client meeting.”

  I threw open the door to check on our surveillance system, but to my surprise, Fred was back at his desk, ear far from the door. He glanced up, annoyed that I dared emerge and taunt him. I flashed him a smile he didn’t buy. He went back to work and I closed the door again.

  Tricia was lost in her own thoughts and didn’t even notice as I pulled the little key on the red ribbon out of my pocket and started prowling through the office. “I’ve never been in a room with a murderer before,” she said.

  “That you know of?”

  “Meaning?”

  “That sculptor, two summers ago.”

  “Jean-Luc?”

  “I was always convinced his next piece was going to feature his mummified mother, front and center.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “Are you looking for the music box?” Tricia let a whole boatload of opportunities to snipe at the dubious character of many of my past loves go sailing right by and jumped to her feet to assist me. I was sniffing around Yvonne’s shelves, trying to find anything that looked receptive to the little key. If it was a music box, so be it. If it was a Barbary buccaneer bobblehead, that was fine, too. As long as it helped me nail Yvonne.

  “How will we know when we’ve found the right piece of evidence?” Tricia asked, kindly hopping onto my wavelength.

  “I’m figuring it’s like the Supreme Court and porn. When we see it, we’ll know.”

  “Try this.” Tricia took a small porcelain box off the end table nearest the office door. It was rectangular, with little claw feet and a hinged lid that was locked with a tiny, heart-shaped padlock. It was way too cute for Yvonne to have bought for herself, especially in her Mediterranean phase, so it was perfectly plausible that it was a love token from Teddy. Love softens your definition of keepsake.

  But the key didn’t fit. It also didn’t fit any of the drawers in any of the furniture in the room, desk and credenza included.

  I was poised on the brink of thinking I’d actually been wrong when I saw it. It was on the lower shelf of the end table, the one where Tricia had found the cute box. At first glance, it looked like a woo
den cigarette box, but it was deeper and more rounded than you’d expect a cigarette box to be. And a little golden keyhole glinted in the bottom panel.

  I slid the box out and put it on Yvonne’s desk.

  “How lovely. It deserves better placement,” Tricia said, eyes scanning the room for an open shelf.

  “We’re snooping, not redecorating, remember?” I slid the key in. It fit. It turned. The lid lifted slightly of its own accord as the catch released. I eased it open the rest of the way and tinkly calypso music began playing.

  “Told you it was a music box,” Tricia smiled.

  Inside the box, a tiny ceramic woman dressed in a wild, multi-hued outfit of strategically placed feathers and a matching headdress pivoted before a series of mirrors attached to the inside of the lid. I’ve never been to St. Maarten—the men who want to take me away to some tropical paradise are rarely talking farther than Cape May—but I’ve heard they have a pretty cool Carnival, like the one in Rio de Janeiro. This little lady looked like she’d fit right in. But did she hold any secrets?

  “There’s no drawer,” I hissed at my music box expert, suddenly feeling the need for absolute stealth.

  “Poke around on the bottom.”

  I poked and was delighted when the poking at one end caused the other end to lift up. The box had a false bottom. Half of one, anyway. The floor of the box was cut into two pieces, probably to allow access to the mechanism that spun the little dancer. But it also created a very nice hiding place.

  “For your real valuables.” I fished the little plank out to be able to view the compartment fully and we were staring at a cardkey. One of those disposable cardkeys hotels use. And if I could just fish it out and turn it over, I could see that this one was from—

  “What makes you think? I? Care?” Yvonne shrieked outside her door. Tricia and I nearly impaled each other with our heels, scrambling to our feet. I shoved the music box back together and onto its shelf, flipping the lid down as I straightened up and jammed the silver key into my pocket. The lid on the box didn’t catch and it inched back open as I shoved Tricia across the room, but at least the music didn’t start up again.