Death on Heels (5 page)

The Higher the Heel, the Harder the Fall

Every shoe, like every woman’s dating history, has a heel. They may be tall, short, thin, thick, stacked, or see-through, chunky or stiletto, kitten or Cuban. But
high
heels are in a class by themselves.

With the ability to lift you to new heights, to wound you, to pinch you, to squeeze you, and to bankrupt you, high heels are like a certain kind of man we all know, also known as a heel.

Your foot has a heel. So has your shoe. A shoe may also have a tongue, a vamp, a sole, and a shank. But it is the heel that has seized the imagination, as it sashays through our thoughts and words. Has any other item of apparel achieved so much versatility in our vocabulary?

When someone is “nipping at your heels” or “close on your heels,” you’re being pursued. You can be “head over heels” in love, but you may have to “cool your heels” and wait. Someone with “round heels” is said to be promiscuous. To be “down-at-the-heels” is to be shabby, and to be “well-heeled” is to be well-off. Basically, we all want our shoes to be well-heeled and keep us on our toes.

And we want more. We are all subject to fashion fantasies and lies. And we might be foolish enough to believe that bows on the toes or bright red soles make all the difference.

If only I had those powerful red peep-toe platforms, I’d win that job.

If I had those darling pink slingbacks, I’d live a magical life.

If I had those sexy glass slippers, I’d catch the eye of Prince Charming.

But really, the most you can hope for in a pair of heels is that they complete your outfit, add sizzle to your figure, and won’t injure you by the end of the evening. Or cut your foot when that glass slipper shatters.

Sadly, certain heels—once reserved for those ladies of the night who ply their wares on street corners—have been flogged into a fashion obsession by designers who apparently want to cripple women. Stilettos on steroids with five- or six-inch heels and towering platforms have become the Monster Truck of shoes, something the Bride of Frankenstein might wear to hobble down the aisle. But when heels are so high that fashion models topple while strutting the runway, the shoes are too high, too ugly, too dangerous, and
too stupid
for you!

So a few pointers for the next time a pair of Garden-of-Eden-apple red, snakeskin stilettos whispers your name. Go ahead and try them on. But be aware of their pitfalls:

• If there is an inch of space between your heel and the back of the shoe, cramming your toes into the pointed end as you lurch along in your sky-high heels, something is wrong. What could it be? They don’t fit.
  
• The skinniest heels may call to you, but if you wobble instead of waltz and find yourself stuck in street grates like a deer in a steel trap, close your ears to their flattery and walk on by.
  
• Treacherous cobblestone and brick streets, as found picturesquely in our Nation’s Capital, are the mortal enemy of high heels. You’ll need the grace of a ballerina to navigate these rough surfaces without falling.
  
• Extremely pointed and allegedly fashionable shoes should be reserved for Aladdin and his
  genie, and for witches trapped under falling houses. You might put somebody’s eye out with them, but you should not wear them. The truth about extreme pointy-toed heels is that they will go out of style someday. Soon. And when they do, we will all wonder, “What on earth was I thinking?”
  
• Remember the pumps that you wear all the time, tall but not too tall, the ones that slip on and comfort your feet? They carry you faithfully to the office and the cocktail party after work. Kind of like your favorite guy; he really doesn’t care what you wear on your feet. He thinks pink Reeboks go everywhere. He is wrong, of course, but adorable. When the shoe (and the man) fits, you can frolic happily down the street, past all those poor women staggering on their sky-high, skinny, strappy sandals.
  

So beware of killer heels: The ones you wear and the ones you date. Choose high heels that fit and lift your spirits, and kick those other heels to the curb!

The phone began ringing insistently the moment Lacey let herself into her apartment. The number told her everything she needed to know.

“Lacey? It’s your mother.”

As if I wouldn’t recognize your voice.
“Mom.”

“You heard the terrible news, I suppose,” Rose Smithsonian said.

“News? What news?” She shrugged out of her coat and sprawled on the blue velvet sofa, part of her inheritance from Aunt Mimi.

“Don’t be cute, Lacey. Your old boyfriend was arrested in Sagebrush today. For murdering three women.”

“Oh, that news. I heard.” It was never smart to say too much too soon to her mother. Her mother would eventually say
everything
. Lacey adjusted a pillow beneath her head.

“Did you see this coming?”

“How could I see this coming? I haven’t seen Cole in years. I might not even recognize him.”

“When exactly are you coming home?” Rose asked. “You are coming to Colorado, aren’t you?”

Lacey stared at her suitcase, standing ready by the door. “I’m not sure.”

“Does all this hesitation mean you think he
is
a killer?”

“Cole Tucker is not a killer. He’s a rancher.”
I’m not up for a long chat, Mom.

“In other words he kills cows, not people, but never mind,” Rose said. “What are we going to do about it?”

“‘We’?” Lacey’s voice rose. Rose Smithsonian and Lacey’s sister, Cherise, had discovered an unexpected taste for crime fighting when they visited Lacey the previous fall, and now they were proving entirely too willing to help out as freelance crime solvers. Lacey loved her mother and her sister, but they could be so
enthusiastic
about things. So perky, so exhausting. Although their last visit had turned out surprisingly well, Lacey didn’t want to jinx it. “
We
are not going to do anything.”

“You’re not coming to Colorado to get to the bottom of this? That doesn’t sound like you. Do you want people to think you dated a maniac?”

“I have dated maniacs. Tucker wasn’t one of them. Trust me.” Her mother waited. Lacey sighed. “I’m flying to Colorado, but I’m just going to Sagebrush for the arraignment. I’m going there
alone
. To assure myself that he’s innocent. The law is going to handle this one. I’m not getting involved this time. I’m serious, Mom.”

Her mother was silent for a moment. “But you
are
stopping in Denver first, aren’t you? There are no direct flights into Sagebrush. We can spend some time together. You could borrow the station wagon. I’m sure it will make it over the mountains. Pretty sure.”

Dad’s old Oldsmobile station wagon? Across the Continental Divide? I’d be better off in a covered wagon.

“I’ve already rented a car.”

“We
will
see you, then? Good! What an unexpected pleasure!” Rose purred with satisfaction.

“Yes, Mother.” Lacey groaned silently. “You’ll see me. Briefly.”

“You don’t need to drive to that awful place until Sunday anyway, so you can spend the night here. Won’t that be fun?”

Lacey closed her eyes. “Fun. Of course, I’ll stay one night, Mom.”

“That’s wonderful. Your room is all ready, and Cherise said she’d come over. It’ll be fun. Just us girls.”

She already arranged everything before she called. Naturally
. “What about Dad?”

“Oh, he’s around. Somewhere,” her mother said vaguely. “He’s fine. He said to have a safe flight.”

Lacey said her good-byes and hung up.
Some things never change. Mom. Dad. My sister. And the station wagon
.

Lacey always seemed to forget how drab the Colorado landscape was in winter, at least the dusty High Plains side of it. She already missed the green of Virginia, even though the snow-capped Rockies on the horizon were stunning in their drama. Lacey retrieved her little econobox rental car—the rental agent swore it would make it over the mountains—and wondered again whether she’d made the right decision to travel here. She ticked off the miles as she drove over the brown and yellow plains east of Denver, past the steel and glass skyscrapers of downtown, and finally down the Valley Highway and Speer Boulevard to the middle-class neighborhood where she grew up.

The family manse, a brick midcentury ranch-style house with a “modern” vibe that had been gussied up by some wacky would-be architect, looked the same. Her parents loved that house. They’d been living in it since Lacey was a little girl, even before Cherise, her little sister, was born.

Lacey never warmed to the house, never liked it. The architecture was chilly, all sharp angles and harsh lines, with a preposterous roof that met at a peak in the middle and swooped over the rest of the house and the carport like black-tiled bird wings. A row of windows under the roofline let in too much light and too much cold. The house was poorly insulated, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. The thrifty environmentalism of her parents prohibited one and all from ever turning up the thermostat. And forget about air conditioning. It simply wasn’t
green
. The Smithsonians had been discussing solar panels on the roof for at least ten years, but had yet to take action.

As a child, Lacey lived in fear that the house, with its
winged roof, might really be a spaceship, though not the flying saucer kind, which would take off in the middle of the night for another galaxy, never to return.

When she was five or six years old, Lacey came to hate the glass block windows in the bathroom. In her nightmares a monster with an extraordinarily long neck would crash through the glass blocks with his head. It didn’t matter how often her mother said it would be impossible for a monster to crash through the thick block windows. Monsters can do
anything
, Lacey would remind her.

Last, but not least, Lacey suspected the crawl space, with its tiny door hidden in the bottom of the linen closet, might lead to another dimension entirely, just waiting to pull her in. Rose Smithsonian told Lacey she had a too-active imagination and she would grow out of it. But in the meantime, no more late-night television for
you
, young lady.

The floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and dining room were another source of anxiety for young Lacey. There weren’t enough walls. People looking in could see everything, and Rose liked to keep the sheers open to let in the light. Not to mention the stares of curious neighbors. The one floor-to-ceiling brick wall had an opening at the bottom that they called a fireplace, though no wood was ever burned there, which frustrated Lacey no end. She would have given anything for a two-story, center-hall colonial, roaring fireplaces with ornate mantels in every room, and bathrooms with actual curtains over the windows. And no glass blocks to tempt the monsters.

Then there was the furniture. The weird furniture that changed with Rose’s redecorating schemes. It always seemed to be square or angular and made of blond wood (except for her chrome-and-glass phase). It was never comfortable. Lacey didn’t care if it was an authentic Eames chair if you couldn’t sink down into it. Rose adored the modern, the new, the hard-on-your-bottom. That may have been why Lacey loved visiting Aunt Mimi in Washington, D.C., where there were comfy plush velvet couches,
deep-pile colorful Chinese carpets, and a traditional dining set carved out of splendid dark cherrywood.

It was funny how her parents’ house now looked harmless and much smaller than the one that loomed in her memory. Lacey pulled the rental car to the curb. She wasn’t out of the door before Rose and Cherise came racing out of the house to greet her.

Cherise grabbed her bag and Rose gave her a quick hug. The three evaluated each other in a split second. Lacey assumed she passed muster or they would have said something. Or they were saving it for later.

Her mother was fit, trim, and attractive. Her dark hair had grown out a bit since Lacey had seen her last, just a few months before. Rose was wearing purple corduroy pants and a baby blue V-neck sweater. She looked like anybody’s semi-harmless mother. Prettier. But with a suspicious gleam in her eye, full of questions and curiosity.

Cherise was younger, taller, skinnier, and about three hundred percent perkier than Lacey could ever hope or want to be. Cherise rocked on the balls of her Nike-shod feet as if ready to take off on a marathon. She wore tight, faded blue jeans and a pink turtleneck. Her blond hair was in its inevitable ponytail.

“I just painted. I hope you like it,” her mother said.

“I’m sure I will,” Lacey said, trying not to sound either sarcastic or amused. She and Rose disagreed on so many things, and décor was just one of them. Rose loved projects and painting and improving things—things like her daughters. However, Cherise, a former high school cheerleader, was light-years ahead of Lacey in the mother-pleasing category. She needed less improving.

In her spare time, aside from golf and tennis and improving her daughters, Rose devoted herself to her home, which Lacey felt didn’t deserve all the attention. But there was only so much that could be done with a dumpy midcentury modern ranch-style home, even one with their house’s odd architectural quirks. Lacey didn’t know how she had lived through Rose’s Neon-Orange-
and-Lime-Green Phase, the Eye-Popping-Primary-Colors Assault, and the Dismal-Eggplant-and-Ochre Period.

Lacey took a deep breath and stepped into the living room, gazing at the carpets and the half wall dividing the living and dining rooms. “Mom? It’s—wow.”

“I’m glad you like it. I thought you would.” Rose beamed at the fresh paint, a suburban riff on a Southwestern theme. The half walls were painted a sand color with wide stripes of turquoise and coral. The brick wall with the useless fireplace had been stuccoed over to look more “native,” and it was guarded by Hopi kachina dolls. Wildly patterned Navajo blankets upholstered the rock-hard sofa and chairs. Individually, every piece was eye-catching. All together, they made her eyes ache.

“Oh, my.” Lacey didn’t know where to look. The clash of patterns was giving her a headache. “Takes my breath away, Mom. Hey, I feel a nap coming on. Maybe a light coma.”