Sole Sisters

By Carol Wakefield

Catt Russell, an ordinary suburban soccer mom with unordinary, uncontrollable and unreliable psychic powers, comes into possession of a pair of boots under suspicious circumstances, and finds herself caught up in the world of industrial espionage and international intrigue. As the bodies pile up, Catt realizes they have one thing in common – They all look like her!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Wakefield
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310417412

Carol Wakefield

As far as biographies go, I am probably like you, the reader - a suburban housewife, who loves a good read to pass some spare time. If you want to know my whole story, go to www.carolwakefield.com but the short version is I live a pretty ordinary life in Richmond Hill, Ontario, with my husband and son and a whole lot of cats and I love to write about adventures that I hope I never experience for real (except for the fact that I really wish I could do the things Catt does).

Book preview

Chapter One

As a general rule, I’m not a huge fan of super malls. So, when Jilly insisted on coming here, on opening day no less, I may have seemed a bit negative.

No, I had told her firmly, then reconsidered. No, no and no! Thank you. Not for me. Not in a million years. On opening day? Never! Are you crazy?

She is. And so apparently am I.

Come on! Jilly had said, appealing to my more adventuresome nature. It’ll be fun!

My more adventuresome nature seemed to have gone AWOL, but that didn’t faze Jilly. She has no time for negativity. And even less for listening to instincts.

Jilly is my best friend in the world, my best friend since we met in grade school. Mad about horses, she commandeered us less popular kids at recess and made us all gallop around the schoolyard, whinnying and neighing and pawing the ground like wild mustangs. Is it any wonder we were the less popular kids? But to Jilly this was fun.

Jilly lives for fun. I like fun too. It’s just that our definitions of the term vary. Considerably. This is a good example. But I guess it’s just as much my fault as hers that I find myself here today, in the last place on earth I want to be. So much for listening to my own instincts.

There are people as far as the eye can see. And, believe me, that’s a fair distance. This is one gigantic shopping center. This makes the Stockton View Mall seem like a strip plaza, despite its one hundred and thirty-odd stores and theatre complex. That alone makes me wish I had never agreed to come here. I’m not really big on crowds. Especially crowds that get between me and the exits, provided, of course, that such exits actually exist, present observation to the contrary.

Isn’t this wild? Jilly enthuses.

Wild isn’t quite the term that’s surging through my mind. Panic would be closer to the truth. This particular mall makes agoraphobia seem like less of an affliction and more of a reasonable alternative to shopping in the flesh. I’m beginning to understand the appeal of personal shoppers, and wondering where I can get one at such a late date.

And then I remember my own particular quest. Boots. Not something a personal shopper is likely to be able to pick out. Not unless he or she is your psychic twin or something. Mind you, stranger things have happened. Especially to me.

It’s not that I have a yen to be the next Imelda Marcos, but a pair of footwear that doesn’t leak would be a welcome change. Oh, and they’d have to be warm, too. I’m also not much of a fan of frostbite, despite the fact that black seems to be in this season. Or is that gangrene? No matter, I’m not exactly a follower of fashion anyhow you slice it. I leave that for Jilly.

Speaking of which, Jilly seems to have disappeared. Or, more to the point, I simply can’t see her due to the crowd. No problem. We have this agreement that if we get separated, we’ll meet up in the food court. And you know what they say about the best laid plans. Whoever came up with that gem must have known us.

So, first of all, I’ve got to find out where the food court is. I step into the nearest shop to peruse the information map I’m clutching in my hand. It’s the size and weight of a small telephone directory, and I’m only at page eight when I give up and shove the thing in my purse. That’s when I see the boots.

If someone told me I, Catt Russell, ordinary suburban soccer mom and occasional inadvertent sleuth, was going to fall in love with a pair of footwear, a pretty basic necessity particularly given the cold and inclement weather we’ve been experiencing lately, I would have laughed. Okay, maybe not laugh, exactly. That might be rude. And my Gramps did not raise me to be rude. But love? That’s kind of a stretch, especially for me. I’m a practical kind of person. Serviceability above style. A slave to sensible footwear.

So I never could have expected the purely visceral pleasure I feel when I see these boots. It’s like an ice cream shiver without the headache. Like a jolt of absolute delirium.

These boots are obviously handmade, soft, supple, swanky -- all those ‘S’ words that add up to mean $$$. I check out the price tag and gulp. Then I check out the boots again, running my hand along the sleek leather. I was thinking more along the line of Uggs, mainly because that’s what my credit card balance tells me I can afford. But I’ve got to admit, these boots are amazing. Ah, what does my credit card know?

I’ve just got to have these boots! My mind knows this absolutely. It’s my pocketbook that needs convincing.

But old practical me is still waging war with new spendthrift me. A losing battle. Even I know that. Still, it could be a major shock to its system.

So I do the only logical thing I can, given the circumstances. I hide the boots behind some boxes of extra stock, where no one will think to look for them. This should buy me time to mull things over, have some lunch, wait for Jilly and, most important of all, ask Jilly’s opinion.

This, of course, is merely a formality, since Jilly has no perception of frugality. And that’s what I’m counting on.

This is why I find myself at the newsstand. Why I will ultimately, and in the not too distant future, find myself in the middle of intrigue, trouble and yes, let’s face it, murder. Some people would consider this simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know differently. This is just life’s way of slapping me in the face and waking me up. Not to mention plunking me smack dab in the middle of another disaster. Another bizarre mystery. My raison d’être.

That’s what I get for being greedy. The epicentre of avarice leads to the epicentre of trouble. My middle name. Or my calling in life, depending upon how you view it.

Me? I just call it normal.

Of course, I know none of these things as I innocently peruse the magazines and contemplate where the best place to meet Jilly will be. It should be somewhere on the periphery of the burgeoning throng, not just so that I’ll be easy to find, but also so that I don’t have an attack of claustrophobia. Maybe I should purchase a helium balloon and attach it to my arm the way some people do in parking lots in order to locate their cars. But then I see that someone has already thought of this idea. Several children are shepherded past, each with a brightly colored balloon floating above their heads, tethered to ribbons tied around their wrists. On each balloon are the words: Welcome to Adventure Mountain!

Adventure Mountain? What on earth could that be? And then I recall Jilly mentioning something about a theme park situated in the middle of the mall. It had seemed like a silly idea to me at the time, and frankly, no less stupid now. This is definitely a place I have absolutely no intention of going near.

If only I’d known.

Chapter Two

"There you are!" I hear a voice from behind me, so close that it makes me jump. I’ve been peering so intently into the crowd in an attempt to locate the woman with the green eyes, that for a moment, I wonder if she’s somehow managed to circle around behind me without my seeing her. Now she’s back and wants revenge. Not to mention her boots. So, of course I jump.

Are you going to pay for those? the woman behind the counter asks me curtly. I jump again, backwards this time. Pay for what? The boots? Then I realise that I’m still holding both the Redbook and the People magazines in one hand. I also realise that this woman must have seen that little encounter with the other woman. Helen’s friend and boot thief. And then I remember that’s not exactly true. I’m the boot thief. And, as the woman behind the counter is more than likely thinking, I’ve almost become a magazine thief as well.

Yes, of course, I say in a strangled, flustered voice, scrabbling frantically through my purse and handing over a handful of money. She counts it sceptically, her look suggesting that it just might be counterfeit, given the situation and my inappropriate behavior. "What was that all about?" Jilly wants to know, pulling me from the store before they can sic the slavering hounds on me, or whatever mall policy is for shoplifting. Or for almost shoplifting. Egads, what might it be for common theft? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Well, not recently, that is. And twice in the last five minutes. That’s got to be some kind of record. One that I’m hoping never makes it into the Guinness World Book.

So, Jilly says, choosing to ignore, at least temporarily, my chagrined expression, mainly since she’s just noticed the large bag in my hands and she’s dying to know what I’ve got in there. The rest of it she’ll get into later, what ya got?

Uh, nothing, I try, attempting to disguise the bag with its contraband contents, even as I gather up my waning dignity and make a break for it down the mall.

Jilly, however, is not easily dissuaded. Right, she says, grabbing the bag and inspecting it.

Wow! she says, obviously impressed. Whether that’s because of the boots or the price tag is hard to assess. That’s some serious shopping.

Can we just get out of here? I say as I snatch the bag back. The rope handles burn in my hand. Due to guilt, not friction. Ignoring this and Jilly, not an easy thing under the best of circumstances, I soldier on, hoping to hightail it to freedom. Or at least the parking lot.

I’m hoping she’ll get the message and follow me but, before I can get another word out, we’re sucked into the swirling vortex of super hyper shoppers, borne on a swell of frenzy deeper into the mall. I feel like I’m trying to swim in a rip tide. It occurs to me that maybe this is my punishment for pinching someone else’s purchase, and if it is, I have only myself to blame. Right now, getting out doesn’t seem to be an option. So much for freedom. I’m hoping I look good in stripes, because orange is definitely not my color. I’m more of a winter person.

My mental meanderings get a sudden smack of reality when it becomes clear that there is no escape from this swarm of humanity either. We’re being swept along like those innocent tourists, looking for a bus back to their hotel, who are inadvertently caught up in the running of the bulls at Pamplona. Glancing about, I think we might have fared better with the bulls.

Jilly appears to be of a similar mindset. This is a good thing, because she generally derives way more pleasure out of unexpected happenings than I do. Mainly, I suppose, since many of those things are not exactly news to me.

You see, I’m a bit prescient. I sometimes have an inkling that something is about to happen, even before it does. It’s not an exact science, since it happened as a result of an accidental bonking at my son’s soccer game last summer. That released a whole lot of really odd abilities, as I’ve come to think of them. And, to be perfectly honest, they’re a bit wonky at times, so I never know what to expect. Or when to expect it.

I also, on occasion, can read minds, and I can tell you that what’s going through Jilly’s mind right now is not fit to repeat in polite company. And definitely not in this crowd, all politeness aside.

I’m tempted to remind her about her ‘fun’ statement, and decide not to. Jilly doesn’t do sarcasm well at the best of times, and I know enough not to push it. Sooner or later the dust will settle. Besides which, we’re having enough problems just keeping up with the flow.

Now, just above the babble of voices surrounding us, I hear another noise. It sounds like a convention of ice cream trucks, each of which are spewing out loud and discordant music. Sort of like a calliope on crack.

And then we round the corner. And stop. En masse.

The sight that greets us is not only awesome, it’s also a little terrifying. If the sound isn’t enough, the visual alone will take your breath away. Getting it back might be a real problem. Right now, I bet there’s a lot of hyperventilating going on around us. Which is good. I don’t like to be the only one making a fool out of myself in public. Especially given my recent behavior.

But one thing’s clear. I’m not alone. We’re all just staring at this thing with our mouths open. It’s a good thing there’s no flies here or we’d all be adding a whole lot of unwanted fibre to our diets. I snap mine shut just in case.

Stretching up to the far distant skylight is the most magnificent structure I’ve ever seen. Not to mention bizarre. A small train, large enough to carry up to a dozen people, runs through tunnels that appear to shoot through the inside, and also along its curved sides, delivering its occupants to one plateau or another before trundling off to pick up or disgorge them at other plateaus. Each plateau has a different ride, a merry-go-round here, a miniature Ferris wheel there, and even a fair sized water ride that tumbles down the center of the mountain, culminating in a pool of water designed to resemble a hidden grotto in some remote jungle terrain.

This is obviously Adventure Mountain.

And judging from the line-up that trails around the base of the area, lots of people are pretty keen to check it out. I glance at Jilly, hoping to heck she’s not one of them, because there’s no way I’m up for that. Not today, at any rate. I’ve done enough strange and different things for one day. There are limits.

That’s when I notice that Jilly isn’t revelling in the grandeur of Adventure Mountain. This should have been my first tip off that today was not going to end on a high note. The second should have been that there is a clot of people over to one side of the grotto, huddling around something they are looking at on the ground.

Jilly is already starting to move in that direction, unfortunately dragging me along with her. Now, here’s the thing about Jilly. She may be her own person, but she’s never averse to sharing, even if you don’t particularly want to share. That’s just the kind of friend she is. Generous to a fault.

Judging from the stricken looks on the faces of the other people, as we approach, I’m thinking that maybe this is something we don’t necessarily want or need to share. No thank you, I feel like saying, I think it’s time to go home. If only.

But the expression on Jilly’s face tells me that she is absolutely hooked. This is grand adventure time, and Jilly’s not one to pass up a chance to check something out, especially if it looks interesting and we don’t have to pay for it, and that’s not just because we’re thrifty.

So, okay, if it comes to that, I guess I’m not either. We’re kind of two peas in a pod. Snoopy and Snoopier. We just can’t help ourselves. This has caused some minor mishaps in the past, but what else could go wrong today?

I’ve got to stop asking myself that question. I never like the answer.

As we get nearer, the crowd parts. It’s kind of biblical, like Moses and the Red Sea with a backdrop of really horrendous theme music. And that’s where the similarity ends.

Lying in a crumpled pile on the terrazzo floor, surrounded by a gadzillion fun seekers and bargain shoppers, is the body of a woman. Despite the fact that she is face-down, missing out on all the activity around her, now and forever, I know that she has springy brown hair and green eyes. And that I will never get a chance to apologize and return her boots.

I hope Helen realises what she has done.

Chapter Three

The ride home is oddly subdued. This strikes me as being only natural, since we’ve just witnessed the death of another human being. Well, maybe not the actual death, but our imaginations have been let loose and have fairly run the gamut from logic to speculation to absurdity and back to logic. No one seems terribly pleased with logic, since the others are all so much more fun, but there you have it. Reality bites.

The cops, when they arrived and questioned those of us who were hanging around in numb stupefaction that anything so tawdry and, well, just plain nasty could happen in such a cool place, were pretty noncommittal, refusing to speculate or indeed even verify anything. Not that they really needed to. It was pretty clear to all of us that the woman was dead. The whos, whats and whys will undoubtedly come later. Or maybe not. Some cases are never solved.

I shiver inwardly just thinking about the whole thing. I mean, who expects to go out shopping and come back dead? Well, you know what I mean. I think of Josh and Jack, and yes, even Gramps, at home waiting for me, wondering what’s kept me so long, and the thought occurs to wonder if there is someone waiting for her, for Helen’s friend, the woman with the springy brown hair and the green eyes. Someone who will get an unwelcome visit from the police. Someone whose entire life will tumble off its orbit.

So-o-o, Jilly draws out the word like an exaggerated sigh, as she signals and switches lanes. What’s this? Jilly signalling before changing lanes? I steal a glance at the speedometer. I don’t believe it. Jilly obeying the speed limit?

Right away, I sit up and take notice. I’ve been so lost in my own thoughts I haven’t taken much time to observe anything around me. Especially Jilly. Or, more to the point, her driving.

As a normal rule, there are no normal rules when it comes to Jilly and driving. Once she’s behind the wheel she becomes a force unto herself, and it’s every man for himself. Up to now, she’s either been extremely fortunate to escape any kind of driving mishap, or she’s got the rest of us so traumatized by her brazen habits that we stay as far away from her as possible whenever we encounter her on the road.

But this, this is different.

Jilly actually seems to be concentrating on what she’s doing. I consider feeling her forehead for fever, but I don’t want to risk alarming her. I’m alarmed enough for the both of us. And that’s saying a lot.

So? I encourage, since she seems to have lost her train of thought. Or at least, lapsed into one. Her thoughts tend to be scattered at the best of times, so corralling them in one place is quite an achievement. It can also be a bit scary. I’ve tried to sneak a peek into them, but my personal mental scanning device seems to be on the fritz. I’m supposing trauma could be the root cause, though it seems to operate on an agenda all its own at the best of times.

Huh? Jilly shoots me a quizzical glance at the same moment that she realizes she’s not going nearly fast enough. She stamps on the gas and the car lurches into zoom mode. My head hits the back of the seat with a soft thunk. Jeepers! Why couldn’t I have left well enough alone?

But it’s too late for that now. Apparently Jilly is back in the saddle again. All I can do is figuratively hold onto my hat and hope for the best. Meanwhile she’s trying to make up for lost time, swerving in and out of traffic without warning and tail-gating other vehicles until they move out of her way. Now I’m the one who’s speechless. What some might consider panache behind the wheel, I consider insanity. Jilly simply views it as her right, and nobody messes with Jilly.

So what did you think? she asks as we cruise dangerously close to the mud flaps of the eighteen wheeler in front of us and then zip out around it with scant inches to spare. She is forced to quickly adjust her speed to avoid cramming into the rear of the vehicle presently occupying that lane, but fortunately for all concerned, that driver instantly intuits that he or she is about to become road pizza, not to mention end up on page one or, worse, six feet under, and lays on a little rubber of their own.

You see? I hear her thinking, some people just need a little encouragement. The good news is that I’ve got my mind reading ability working again. The bad news is that my voice has taken a flyer. Of course, it could be that thing in the pit of my stomach. Too soon to tell, because that part of my anatomy is pleading ignorance also.

I’ve been thinking, she continues without waiting for me to answer. This happens a lot with us, particularly when Jilly’s driving, but she has yet to notice the correlation. Naturally, this can only be because she has better things on her mind to deal with. Such as her next observation, it was murder!

If I could turn my head without fear it might fly off into the night, despite the windows being closed, I might have given her a shocked look. Murder? Who said anything about murder? Well, at least this gets my voice working again.

Murder? I croak. I sound like a frog with a sore throat. Okay, so it’s not perfect. At least it’s a start. Who said anything about murder?

Brad, Jilly says. The conviction in her voice leaves absolutely no doubt that she believes what this Brad has told her. His word is gold. Good old Brad.

Who on earth is Brad? And what would he happen to know about whatever went on in that mall, whatever happened to that woman? About whatever caused her to be found dead on the floor. Murder? Why would he, or indeed anyone, jump to that conclusion? And why would Jilly be so inclined to listen to whatever this Brad person said anyway? Which brings us right back around to: who the heck is Brad?

Well, she concedes, "he didn’t actually say murder. But I know he was thinking it."

Huh! Wait a minute! I thought I was the mind reader here. How come I didn’t get this supposed thought flash from ‘Brad’? Oh right, I was having a bit of a problem dealing with the death of someone I had recently mugged. So, yeah, I might have had a little trouble concentrating. But Jilly doesn’t know that part. Yet.

And he wants to see us again, she says hopefully.

I’m about to ask what on earth she’s talking about now, when, suddenly, it hits me. Right! Brad. As in Officer Brad Dixon, a.k.a. the tall hunky cop with the blonde hair, blue eyes and the Owen Wilson grin. Now things are beginning to make sense. Sort of.

This time I do turn my head. Actually it kind of swivels around all by itself without even waiting for a command from my brain. And then my mouth follows suit.

"What? it sputters without thinking, which is pretty much what you can expect if your brain hasn’t caught up to things yet. See us again? When? Why?"

You left out ‘who’ and ‘where’, Jilly smirks, compounding my aggravation by taking her eyes off the road, as she roots around in her purse. The car slides unnervingly close to the next lane, but Jilly’s innate homing device kicks in and she glances up just in time to correct our trajectory. This action also serves to alert everyone else around us that there is a lunatic on the road, and they move as far away from our vehicle as they safely can without going into the ditch themselves.

I’ve got it in here somewhere, she says, one-handedly dumping the contents of her bag onto my lap. Pens and notepads and keys go skittering to the floor. Check my wallet, she instructs.

This, for me, is only a formality since I already know that what she is looking for is in her wallet. I can feel it burning a hole through the leather even as my fingers touch the smooth surface and undo the clasp. His card. And I even know what he has scrawled on the back: Jan. 31st, 11 a.m. All that’s missing is ‘be there, or be square’.

Uh-huh, I admit, hoping this might dissuade her from whatever scenario her devious little brain is cooking up. The last thing I want is to go head to head with this Brad, the cop. Especially not on their turf. I glare at the boot bag with distaste and shove it with my foot as far away from me as I can.

Okay, Jilly says in that don’t mess with me voice she’s used ever since kindergarten. The one where she’ll consider saving your butt as long as you play straight with her. What’s up?

I briefly consider trying to fob her off with some excuse but, judging from the look on her face, even I know this could prove risky if not outright foolish. Jilly has never been one to trifle with. And while she’s behind the wheel it could prove doubly dangerous.

I, uh, I have a confession to make, I begin.

"You mean you did it? Jilly breathes, taking her eyes once again from the road and plastering them all over me. I frantically wave my hands, pointing out the windshield to the fact that the light ahead has turned red, and if she doesn’t stop, pronto, there won’t be much point in stopping at all. Thankfully, she lurches to a halt. Then she turns her glare on me. You killed that woman?"

"No, I protest, I just mugged her!"

If I’d hoped this might exonerate me from any wrongdoing, whether intentional or not, I have obviously chosen the wrong words. I try to explain. "I just took these boots from her. They were my boots! I was going to go back and pay for them. I swear!"

Jilly gives me a hard stare. She’s probably mentally toting up how many years she might get for accessory after the fact and driving the getaway car. Those kinds of things are kind of difficult to explain to the cops, even if you are on a first name basis.

Well, she says after a length, during which the light has changed to green and the vehicles behind us are beginning to honk their horns. Under any other circumstances, this would have been refreshing to be on the other end of the complaints, you’d better start talking.

Chapter Four

I’ve never been a very deceitful person. Duplicity just doesn’t seem to be part of my make-up, despite the wads of tissues I used to jam into my bra in high school to accentuate certain delayed hormone growths. All things may well come to those who wait, as my Gramps used to tell me, but Brent Find-lay, the hottest guy in the tenth grade, wasn’t the type to stand around waiting. And, thus, neither was I. ‘Pride goeth before a fall’ is another of those little gems Gramps used to toss my way, and maybe he had it right after all, since Brent totally failed to notice my new enhancements and, instead, showered his affections on