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Shoe Shopping, Skylark, P.I., Style

<strong>Nightwriters </strong>
By Susan Tuttle

We walked into the eighth shoe store of the day, Mackenzie no longer excited to be shopping in San Francisco, me pissed as hell that I had to be there at all. The last thing I needed was a pair of heels; didn’t I have the right to be comfortable on my own feet? Whoever invented shoes with heels higher than an inch-and-a-half was a misogynist who should have been stood up against a wall and shot. More than once.

So what if it was a formal affair? That didn’t mean I had to ruin my feet, not that any store we’d yet been in had dress heels in my size. Nice comfortable running shoes or boots—that was my choice, but Mackenzie’d put the kibosh on that. She insisted I had to have some stilt-heeled girly-girl footwear to go with the thrift shop designer dress she’d picked up for me. If she could have, she would have bought the shoes without me, too.

We browsed for all of thirty seconds before a skinny guy with a bad comb over and a sweater vest approached us, a grin splitting his long, narrow face.

“May I help you ladies? Do you see anything that appeals to you?”

When would we have had time? I wanted to say, but Mackenzie beat me to it.

“My friend needs some party shoes. Skylark’s being honored at the Private Investigator Association Ball next week. Investigator of the Year.” The two of them grinned at each other and I almost lost my lunch at the sight. Mackenzie leaned in and lowered her voice. “She’s got the most delicious Faviani gown in deep emerald silk. What would you suggest?”

The salesman rubbed his hands together. I swear I saw dollar signs in his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, his voice soaring up an octave, “I have some fabulous Pradas that just came in. So perfect. Please, sit.”

I plopped onto a chair. The guy knelt at my feet. Then he froze, staring at them.

“Uh.” He took a breath. “Oh, my. What size are these, do you know?”

“I think about an eleven,” I said. I tried to signal Mackenzie that it was past time to leave, but she’d been captured by a display two aisles over and had left me on my own. “Maybe eleven-and-a-half?”

The guy coughed, then reached for what looked like a medieval torture device, shiny steel with sliding bars and handles. He pulled off one of my running shoes and had me stand up, then trapped one foot in the ice-cold contraption while he fiddled and hemmed and hawed and muttered under his breath.

“Ah, yes,” he said at last. “Size eleven. Extra wide.” He sat back on his heels and gaped up at me. “I don’t think Prada even makes that size.”

“Good,” I said as Mackenzie rejoined us. “I’ll just wear my boots, then.”

“No!” they both practically shouted at the same time.

I was so startled that I sat down with a thump. The salesclerk stared at me until I felt like the subject of a science experiment. Then he snapped his fingers.

“We have some wonderful shoes over in the Specialty Department.” He gestured to the theatrical section on his left. Mackenzie turned to look; I couldn’t be bothered. Then Mackenzie grinned and clapped her hands.

“Yes, that’s perfect! Why didn’t I think of looking for shoes in the female impersonator section? They would definitely have your size!”

If I’d had my Glock with me, they’d both be dead.

Susan Tuttle is a professional freelance editor, writing instructor, and the award-winning author of six books on writing and six suspense novels. Sassy, opinionated P.I. Skylark is the main character in an upcoming paranormal mystery series set in Los Osos that includes mind reading, clairvoyance, ghosts and time travel. Susan is a board member of SLO NightWriters, for writers at all levels in all genres. Find them online at slonightwriters.org.

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