Free Find Me I'm Yours by Hillary Carlip Page B

go together after work, or do I go now, come in late, and risk Malcolm’s wrath?”
    â€œWell,” Coco answered, “I have to leave work early today to help Mark set up at the gallery. So I guess since that pesky root canal you got the other morning still looks really swollen, you understandably need an emergency follow-up appointment this morning.”
    Done. In a shout-out to Mr. WTF’s bad puns, it was time to get the shoe on the road. I got on my scooter and headed northeast to Burbank to find my sole mate.

Chapter 17
    DAY 4—MORNING
    I had the claim check. The shoe repair shop had Mr. WTF’s boot. Slam dunk, right?! But as I waited for Sole Mates to open, two things occurred to me that could stand in my way.
    Two Things that Could Stand in My Way at Sole Mates Shoe Repair Shop
    By Mags Marclay
    1). What if someone else (i.e. the Victoria’s Secret S model S ) found another claim check and beat me to it?
    2). What if I had to pay something for the cost of the repair? And I’d have to turn to prostitution to earn a quick buck to get the boot, and do they even have hookers in Burbank?
    At 9:00 on the dot, the door opened from inside with a little chime ringing. So old timey, it was actually kind of comforting in a grandparenty kind of way. But the shoe repair dude was hardly grandpaternal.
    â€œVat do you vant?” the old man growled with a mean, thick German accent like he was ordered from Central Casting. Um… maybe he was?
    â€œI’m picking up my fiancé’s boot. Here…” I handed him the claim check.
    I had my lines all ready to go in this scripted scene. Like, “Oh really? He told me he already paid for it. See, I ran here quickly to pick it up for him, and left my wallet at home. Can you just call him for his credit card number?” And then I’d watch as he dialed the number he had taken down with the order, and BAM! I’d have Mr. WTF’s number. GAME OVER!
    But it went off script the minute I handed him the claim check.
    â€œOh, you. Oh, him. No boot here.”
    WHAT?! My heart sank, and I almost cried, as if the man with the mean accent were really my grandfather and would sweep me up in a hug, telling me everything was OK, and hand me a Pfeffernüsse cookie. Did that damn lingerie model S beat me to the damn boot?
    Before I broke down completely, either weeping tears of defeat, or ranting like a mad girl pushed over the edge, Herr Shoe Repair barked, “This is vat the claim check is for.” And look at what he handed me. For reals!!!!

    Gee. So helpful. NOT. I KNOW I’m on a hunt. I KNOW I’m looking for clues. I KNOW I’m rocking, detective-style. How is a magnifying glass going to help? And what’s next, a Sherlock Holmes double-brimmed hat and curly pipe? Or maybe I’m supposed to get some twigs and leaves, go out in the sun, start a fire with the magnifying glass, like I never learned to do when I wasn’t a Girl Scout, and send smoke signals spelling out, “Here I am, Mr. WTF. In Burbank. Except you know exactly where I am so come and fucking get me already!”
    â€œThat’s it?” I asked the shoe man. “No message? Nothing else?”
    He just shook his head and shrugged so vehemently, he would either need a cranial adjustment or to be recast.
    â€œCan you at least tell me who left this for me?”
    Again with the shrug-shake. Not wanting to fan the flames of his whiplash fire, I just thanked him and left with my magnifying glass. As I walked outside baffled and pondering, I put on my helmet and got on my scooter. But something stopped me. Maybe the magnifying glass was supposed to make me look closer. Maybe there was something else there for me to find.
    I looked around and saw a food truck parked in front of the shoe repair shop. DELHICATESSEN—Jewish-Indian Street Noshes . Clever and unusual, for sure. Suspicious? Not so much—there are food trucks all over