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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 hisgenie, 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!

Chapter 4
    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