Unfashionably Dead

Chapter One

My shoe wobbles and my life drains out of me as I realize that most likely, the heel is broken. Normally, a broken shoe wouldn't bend me out of shape, other than the minor inconvenience of having to walk like a drunken sailor, but this isn't a normal shoe; this is my precious, the pair I spent almost two weeks' salary on, the pair that had me subsisting on ramen noodles for a month.

I glance down at the Manolo Blahnik stiletto and let out a whimper. Sure enough, the heel is barely attached.

I take in a deep breath. They're just shoes, right?

The black and white floral mesh isn't scuffed and the bejeweled square embellishment is still intact. The heel is an easy fix.

Not that I can afford having it properly repaired right now, but maybe Lanie will have some glue in her apartment, or better yet, a pair of shoes I can borrow. She's going to freak out when she sees its condition, say the brand holds up well, and without a doubt, she'll ask how it happened.

I eye the shoe with suspicion. How did it break?

I look down at the sidewalk and turn around in search of a culpable gap in the sidewalk, but the sidewalk is smooth, newly repaired. It didn't happen here. If I'd stepped too hard or caught the heel in a crack, I would have noticed before now. Strange.

My attention catches on the red and green flickering of lights strewn around several palm trees in front of Palma D'Oro, the high-rise where my best friend Lanie lives. Garland and trumpet-blaring angels decorate the lampposts and it is quite festive for the season.

"Is she dead?" a woman asks from a crowd gathered several feet away.

"I think so," another says, her voice choking back tears.

Wow! Someone has died? This is awful.

The body is too far away, so I inch forward, trying not to push into the burgeoning crowd, but they don't budge. They're caught up in "Who is she?" and "What do you think happened?" Not that I can blame them. Dead bodies don't just turn up on Harbor Island. Death is ugly, really ugly, and this is where the pretty people of Tampa live in the safety of their gated communities and security guards. With the bulk of the island's population young and working in high-paying jobs, deaths are few and far between. 

It's not like my side of town, where drug overdoses, robberies, or some weird Florida occurrence like the guy who ate the face off another guy seem to happen on a weekly basis. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but it isn't anything like here.

I try to peek over the shoulder of the designer suit-wearing guy in front of me. It fits the man really well and for some reason, it reminds me of something my boss would have worn before he died. But it's not like he was the only one who wore Armani; there are three Armanis in this very crowd.

He steps back and I quickly take his spot. The regrets come quickly as I notice the shoulder-length, greasy, black hair of the guy who lives down the hall from Lanie. I think his name is John, but I've pretty much tried to avoid him in the two years Lanie has lived in Palma D'Oro. He clearly has money since he can afford to live here, yet I have never seen him all cleaned up. He consistently looks like he hasn't showered for ages and he wears geeky t-shirts with the same ratty sweatpants almost every time I see him. Tonight, he's wearing a decade-old coat to keep warm in this cold front that wandered in a couple days ago.

I suck in a deep breath and try not to hurl as body odor wafts into my nose. Yuck.

John turns around and glares at me.

I want to ask him which imaginary friend he's going to talk to tonight, but that's a tad rude. Instead I just glare at him until the silence becomes uncomfortable. "Can you move?" I quickly add a please to it, but his expression only hardens.