Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

The Shoe by Beverly T. Haaf

Denise and Paul were on the road again after stopping for lunch in a restaurant just south of Frederick, Maryland.

“Look at that shoe,” she said, pointing out the front car window, glad for a distraction from her painful thoughts. A man’s black shoe lay abandoned on the gravel shoulder. “I wonder what happened.”

Paul lifted his brow. “Somebody lost it, Denise.”

“I know that. I mean—” She hated it when he made her feel stupid, but she went on anyway. “It looks almost new.” She peered out her window as they rode by. “Was there an accident, or did somebody pull over and open their car door and not notice they had pushed it out, or maybe...” Discouraged by Paul’s lack of response, she allowed her words to trail off. The dark reflection of the shoe faded in her side mirror.

Denise and Paul were on a reconciliation trip. He had moved out of her apartment after picking a fight over nothing — she suspected the real cause had been another woman, only she hadn’t wanted to know for sure. After a week and a half, he had come back, saying he was miserable without her and would she accompany him to a business conference in Knoxville, Tennessee? They would drive down from Baltimore and have a splendid weekend. It would mark a brand-new beginning. Feeling her prayers had been answered, Denise had accepted at once.

That morning, his car wouldn’t start, so they ended up taking hers. All had been fine until lunch, when something he said suggested he had known ahead of time that his car wasn’t working. Was needing her car the real reason behind his invitation? Denise tried to tell herself she had misunderstood, but the awful feeling of being used wouldn’t go away. Had she let him make a fool of her again?

It was dusk by the time they reached Knoxville. “How’s this?” Paul asked with a grin when they entered their hotel room, which had a king-sized bed. He drew her close and Denise decided he had been sincere about a reconciliation after all. “It’s perfect,” she said. He kissed her and went out to register for his conference. She unpacked and bathed, looking forward to the evening.

Instead of them dining alone, Paul invited two male conferees to join their table. “Denise only came along to go shopping,” he explained, introducing her and dismissing her in one stroke. The three men talked shop throughout the meal. Trying not to feel hurt, Denise reminded herself that the purpose of the conference was business. When we’re alone in our room, I’ll have him all to myself.

Feeling out of place at the welcoming cocktail party, she told him she was calling it a night. He nodded distractedly, his attention on a female conferee who appeared to be alone. Then he turned and bathed Denise in a look so glowing that she forgot everything else. “See you later,” he whispered.

His promise held her until the pay-TV movie and the late show were both over. Lying in the big, lonely bed, Denise cried in the darkness. Paul couldn’t be trusted — she had known it almost from the start. They had met five years ago, after her invalid sister, her only family, had died. Back then, Paul had hung on her every word, but as soon as she had surrendered, he turned cold. Yet where would she be without him? She was thirty-two and she seldom met other men. Paul might be a rat, but he was her rat.

She awoke to feel him crawling into bed. Despite her earlier tears, her breath caught in anticipation when he moved close. Maybe things would be all right after all. He reached for her and she smelled the cloying sweetness of another woman’s perfume.

Her stomach clenched and she feared she would throw up. Head spinning, she stumbled from bed, suddenly desperate to escape. Barely thinking, she found her clothes in the darkness and fumbled them on, tucking her short nightgown into her jeans as if it were a blouse, pulling her sweater on over it.

“What the devil are you doing?”

She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’m going home.”

“Like hell you are!” Sitting up, Paul turned on the bed lamp. His naked chest looked pale and vulnerable in the shaded light and his expression showed alarm.

Denise blinked, realizing he had taken her seriously. A sense of power filled her. “It’s my car, isn’t it?” She took out her suitcase, opened the closet, yanked the bureau drawers wide.

“But — what about me?”

His anxious question fueled her newfound power. “Bum a ride with one of your conference friends. Or walk.”

Packed, Denise snapped her suitcase shut. Paul had taken advantage of her for the last time. Burning self-realization swept her from the room, down the elevator, and out to the parked car. Paul had wanted her on the trip for her car; he had wanted her in his bed in case he struck out with somebody else. Paul had been bad news from the start, but out of fear and loneliness, she had bargained away her self-respect. She may have been a fool, but never again.

Denise drove through the night, taking a different route from the one coming down. Paul had wanted to avoid the Washington traffic so they had traveled west from Baltimore to Frederick before going south on 1-81. Now, she aimed to cut east to Richmond, then follow 1-95 straight to Washington, taking pleasure in a course he would disdain.

A cloudy day dawned. Denise stopped for gas and a snack. She sipped dark coffee and smugly envisioned Paul ducking out of meetings to see if she had returned to their room. He wouldn’t be able to believe she had actually left him.

By afternoon, however, she was weary from driving and suffering second thoughts. Her apartment would be so lonely. Suppose Paul had had good reason for having come to bed so late? She had been half asleep — maybe she had imagined the perfume. He might have been able to explain. Shouldn’t she have at least given him the chance? She gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands. Leaving Paul had been a mistake. The week and a half without him had been hell.

That’s when she saw the shoe, sitting exactly where she had seen it before. Her car was past it when she realized it couldn’t be the same shoe. She was traveling north, not south, and miles to the east. This wasn’t even the same road!

Two shoes placed so similarly at least seventy-five miles apart excited her imagination. She eased her foot from the accelerator and pulled off onto the shoulder. The shoe showed in her rear-view mirror, the toe pointing toward the highway.

“Come on, mister, I’m waiting.” She spoke as if picking up a hitchhiker. A chill shivered through her. This is silly. I should drive on. But since she was already stopped, what harm would it do to take a closer look? Backing her car, she felt a bump. The shoe must have been closer than she had thought. She got out and found it lying in front of her rear tire.

Being run over had caused it no apparent harm. She turned it in her hands. It was for a right foot. There were no scrapes, no scuffs, no signs of weathering — as if it were made of indestructible stuff. The smooth black leather, cool in the sunless afternoon, wasn’t even dusty. It held an unusual luster, giving the impression of patent, yet seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. There were no size markings or manufacturer’s stamp. Everything about the shoe seemed odd, right down to the lace tips, polished black bone instead of plastic or metal. It dawned on her that it was handmade. Fascinated, she slipped her hand inside. Her arm jerked. The inside of the shoe was body-heat warm.

Denise felt a sudden impulse to drop the shoe and flee. Nervously, she glanced around, feeling on stage. What’s wrong with you, spooked by a lost shoe. She breathed deeply, calming herself. The shoe was warm because hot exhaust had blown in when she had run over it. Simple enough once she figured it out.

With sudden inspiration, she loosened the laces and lifted the tongue. Printed on the inside was a wiggly red design, a stylized letter Y. The owner’s initial? Her face twisted. The shoe was quality, but worthless. Just like people, shoes were only good in pairs.

Her thoughts went to the shoe she had seen the day before. Suppose they were a match? No, what a dumb idea. What sort of freak accident could separate them so widely? Someone would almost have to do it on purpose. I lost a shoe on a trip traveling south, so I tossed out the other one on a different trip, traveling north. Denise smiled at the farfetched scenario. They couldn’t be a pair. Still, it seemed wrong to leave a perfectly good shoe behind. Back in her car again, she placed the shoe beside her on the passenger seat.

Could the first shoe be its mate? As she headed toward Washington, the notion persisted. Maybe she should go and find out, just to satisfy her curiosity. Reaching the Beltway, she tossed the idea back and forth. Was the detour worth another hour and a half when she was already so close to home? Home to her lonely apartment. The entire notion was ridiculous. What did she have better to do? She was exhausted. Not anymore. The idea of hunting down the other shoe was exhilarating.

The sign for Frederick appeared. That settled it. Wild-goose chase or not, she was going. The shoe slid to the floor and landed in the same position as if someone were wearing it. Amused, Denise imagined the attire of an imaginary companion. To go with his handmade shoe, he needed a custom-tailored suit. The kind a diplomat or the heir to a vast fortune would wear. He would be handsome, that went without saying. Suave and darkly handsome.

Shortly before Frederick, she refilled the gas tank. Once she found the shoe — if she found it — she would drive straight home without stopping. At least she wouldn’t go home alone. She passed the restaurant where she and Paul had eaten lunch. Her pulse quickened. Almost there.

The shoe appeared. Denise laughed in a giddy way, feeling almost as if she had conjured up the image. From a distance, it looked a match to the one she had already. Only, of course, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Eyes bright, she pulled to the shoulder and coasted up to her prize.

Leaving her engine running, she got out and rounded the front of her car. The shoe sat several feet in front of the bumper. Her nerves hummed. It was a man’s black dress shoe. For a left foot. Hands trembling, she picked it up. It was a perfect match to the one in her car. Identical, right down to the black bone lace tips and the stylized initial on the underside of the tongue.

The implausibility stunned her. What had happened was totally outside the normal nature of things. She struggled for breath. If she put her hand inside the shoe, would she find it warm, as if its wearer had just shucked it off?

Something screamed inside her head: Drop it. Throw it away. She was about to do so when the sound of her engine rose above the rush of passing traffic. Denise stared at her car. Someone was at the wheel. No, she was mistaken — it must be her own reflection staring back. Yet in her mind’s eye she saw a foot moving to the accelerator, pressing down. With a cry, she jumped from the car’s path. An air horn blew as a truck swept by. Wind swirled and grit stung her face. She cowered against her fender. Had she been a few inches farther into the roadway, she would have been struck.

Unconsciously clutching the shoe, she scrambled into her car and slammed the door. She collapsed against the seat, eyes closed, cradling the shoe to her breast. Almost hit by a truck. Her narrow escape overwhelmed everything else. I could have been killed.

The frantic pounding of her heart slowed and her thoughts cleared. Why had she thought she had heard her engine revving? In any case, the car couldn’t have moved unless thrown into gear. She had been frightened by a trick of sound. Tired, I’m overtired. Her attention shifted to the shoes. They were a match, no question. How had they ended up seventy-five miles apart on completely different roads? She must be right in thinking someone had separated them on purpose. Only, why? It made no sense. Maybe the shoes were haunted. They’d been separated because it was the only way to break their spell.

Such an incredible idea. Haunted shoes. Imagine. She didn’t believe it, not for a minute. Yet, wasn’t it even more incredible that she had come along and matched them up? Denise shuddered violently. It suddenly seemed imperative to hide the shoes. Outside again, she opened the trunk. She tucked the shoes into a paper bag and stuffed the bag between her suitcase and the spare tire. Returning to the driver’s seat, she felt foolish. What had she been thinking — that someone would come along and demand his shoes back?

She was punchy from so much driving and from strain. Leaving Paul, the steady driving, the nutty hunt for the shoes... After all that, how could she be expected to think straight? Time to head for home.

It was dark when she reached her apartment. Inside, she turned the two door locks and slid the safety chain across. The neighborhood was fairly quiet, but no sense taking chances. Her apartment was tiny, with a kitchenette off the living room and a wide archway that left her bed visible from the door if she didn’t pull the curtain. She carried her suitcase and the shoes into the bedroom.

Had it finally sunk into Paul’s head that she had left him? To her surprise, she found she no longer cared what he thought or didn’t think. Paul no longer mattered. There were more interesting things to occupy her mind. Denise drew the shoes from the bag.

They must have rested against a part of the trunk that conducted heat, for the inside still radiated a soothing warmth. She caressed the lustrous surface of the left shoe with a fingertip. So smooth, so perfect. Lifting the tongue, she studied the red marking. Was it really the letter Y? It looked more like an insignia. Forked lightning? Or maybe, a forked tongue. The thought of a forked tongue made her shiver. Silly, I’m being silly.

Closing her eyes, she stroked the smooth leather of the shoe against the flesh of her throat and envisioned the man for whom the shoes had been made. A man of purpose, but one who could also be gentle. A man she could totally trust. On impulse, she knelt and placed the shoes side by side on the floor and pushed them under her bed.

“Anytime,” she said with a soft chuckle.

It suddenly seemed important that everything in her apartment be tidy. She unpacked, although it was a chore she usually left for the day after a trip. As she worked, her gaze kept straying to the shoes, their smooth black tips projecting from under the coverlet. They looked so right, as if they had found the place where they belonged.

In her bath, she used a fragrant oil reserved for a special occasion. Why hadn’t she taken it on her trip with Paul? Ah, but she had known all along he wasn’t worth it. Anticipation shivered over her scented skin as she slipped into her nightgown. She lit candles, their incense mingling pleasantly with the acrid odor of the snuffed match. Illuminated by candlelight, she stood in the bedroom archway and faced the door. She was ready. And waiting. Waiting for what?

A knock sounded.

Too startled to react, she could only stare. Who could be at her door at such an hour? Hands clenched, she called, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.” A masculine voice, that of a stranger.

Me who? His answer told her no more than she had known before. Who could it be?

Eyes never leaving the door, Denise pressed her spine against the archway. Come in, she said, but only in her mind. Welcoming a stranger... what was she thinking? Come in, she repeated silently.

The door swung open as if there had been no locks. A man stepped inside. The door closed behind him and Denise saw that the locks and chain were as they had been before. She wanted to scream but had no voice. The man was handsome: black-haired, black-eyed, suave in his dark suit, and impeccably groomed.

He was perfection, right down to his black-stockinged feet.

Denise felt a wild urge to turn and snatch the shoes from under her bed. Separate them. Fling them wide. She imagined one of them sailing through her window, the glass shattering, the noise like a gunshot in a cathedral.

“I’m here,” he said softly and moved close.

She looked deeply into his eyes and saw herself. Her head whirled. Was she smiling? She must be, for her face in the captured reflection wore a smile. A breathless calm settled around her.

He drew her into his arms. “You’ll never be alone again,” he said.

She closed her eyes and blindly lifted her face to his.

Paul was angry and didn’t call Denise for over a week. When he finally tried to phone her she didn’t answer, so he let another few days slide by before going to the apartment. After using his keys and finding the chain fastened, he became alarmed and broke his way in. She was dead in her bed, sprawled among tangled sheets.

The autopsy determined that she had expired in a state of extreme dehydration, having consumed neither food nor water for a prolonged period. On her back were awkwardly placed scratches. Although there was no evidence that the wounds were self-inflicted, it seemed the only logical explanation. Her death was ruled the result of natural causes.

Everything in the apartment was exactly as Paul remembered except that under the bed were two shoes he had never seen before. One was a man’s black dress shoe, handmade and bearing a strange insignia. The other shoe was also for a man, rundown at the heel and brown.

There was no one except Paul to claim Denise’s possessions. After he sold what he could, he put the remainder, including the mismatched shoes — neither was his size, so even if he found their mates, they would have been of no use to him — out for the trash. It rained that evening. Shortly past midnight, a young woman named Lauren trudged by. She was crying. Her husband had recently left her and she was coming home from an evening in a bar in which she had futilely sought someone, anyone, to assuage her loneliness.

The glare of a mercury-vapor streetlamp illuminated a filled trash can. The unusual luster of a man’s black shoe lying on top of the debris caught Lauren’s eye. Feeling unexplainably uneasy, she searched the shadows that lay beyond the light before drawing close to the can. The shoe was oddly untouched by the rain. Lauren shivered in the chilly air. She told herself she should move on, but instead, she picked up the shoe. Its mate lay under it. Holding them both, she laughed aloud, although she wasn’t quite sure why. There was something warm and comforting in the way the shoes looked, the way they felt in her hands.

Impulsively, she clutched them to her breast and started off down the street, her formerly lagging steps now quick, almost eager. What in the world would she do with a pair of men’s black dress shoes? She didn’t know. But when she got home, she felt certain that something would come to her.