Free High Heels Are Murder by Elaine Viets Page B

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.

Chapter 9
    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 figurinescovered 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.
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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