Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For by Laura Levine

middle-aged man with sad bloodhound eyes. He looked like he’d seen enough dead bodies to last him a lifetime, although I bet this was the first time he’d ever seen one stabbed to death with a stiletto heel. Then again, this was L.A., land of the strange and home of the weird. Lord knows what the poor man had been forced to witness.
    I explained to the detective that no, I wasn’t a friend of the deceased, but rather a freelance writer, come to pitch my ads. I assured him that I had no idea who could have possibly done such a terrible thing. Which wasn’t totally true. I knew three people right off the bat who would’ve been glad to see Frenchie vanish from the face of the earth: Tyler, whose novel she’d trashed. Grace, whose store she’d stolen. Even sweet little Becky said she wanted to kill her.
    They all hated her guts. But that didn’t mean one of them had actually killed her. And I wasn’t about to point any fingers. Not after they’d all been so nice to me. I’d let the cops figure it out. That’s what they got paid for.
    The hound dog detective asked me if I wanted a ride home. I assured him I’d be okay.
    “Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t look okay.”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    As I got up to go, he picked up a Barbie-sized halter top from a rack behind Grace’s desk and scratched his head.
    “Does anyone really wear this stuff?” he asked.
    “Not in my world.”
    I walked out the back door into the parking lot. By now, the rain had cleared and the sun was shining brightly. I checked my watch. Only 9 A.M . and I’d already discovered a dead body and lost a job. What a ghastly way to start the day.
    Sad to say, things weren’t about to get much better.

    My answering machine was blinking when I walked in the front door. When I pressed the Play button, Mr. Goldman’s voice came rasping out of the machine.
    Jaine? Are you there? Phooey, I hate these damn machines. Listen, cookie. Mrs. Pechter told me you were worried about me and that you feel responsible for my heart attack. Don’t be silly. Just because you yelled at me and I happened to keel over the very next second, that doesn’t mean the two are related. Anyhow, the doctor said I can have visitors, so drop by any time. I’d better hang up now. I’m feeling a little weak.
    I plopped down on my sofa and sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was visit Mr. Goldman. Not after what I’d just been through. No, a dead body and Mr. Goldman were just too much to handle in one day.
    I would’ve killed for a glass of chardonnay, but it was only 9:30 in the morning. Somehow it didn’t feel right pouring myself wine while the Today show was still on the air.
    It suddenly occurred to me that this was no time to be by myself. I desperately needed some company to help me forget the horror of what I’d just seen. I knocked on Lance’s door, but he wasn’t home. I tried calling Kandi at work, but she was in a casting session.
    I thought of calling my parents, but I didn’t want to worry them. I knew they’d have a cow and insist that I come stay with them, or—worse—that they come stay with me. I was desperate, but not that desperate.
    I’d just have to distract myself. I’d write a mailer to drum up some new business. After all, I was in dire need of money, what with having to pay for that damn Prada suit. I’d work up an ad, touting my writing skills, and send it off to prospective clients.
    I booted up the computer and got down to work. I got as far as…

    Mailer Ideas

    …when my mind drifted back to that ghastly scene at Passions. As much as I tried, I couldn’t shake the image of Frenchie with that stiletto heel in her jugular.
    When forty-five minutes had elapsed and I still hadn’t written down a single idea, I gave up on the mailer and tried watching daytime TV. I scooped up Prozac in my arms to keep me company, but the little darling, sensing how stressed I was, wriggled free and wandered to the kitchen to sniff the