If Stilettos Could Speak

By A. S. Kingly

In the small town of Senoia, Georgia—where everything is a skip, hop, or short bus ride away—what could possibly go wrong? Aging Detective Garrett Sandoval stumbles upon strange events that result in a missing person’s case. Details of the crime send him down memory lane, back to a time when his career was just beginning.

Years ago, women went missing in nightclubs. Now, their cases are reopened as a copycat shows up and more women disappear. Witnesses mention flickering lights and a popping sound before women vanish. All they leave behind are fancy high-heeled shoes. The case escalates, however, when the culprit leaves a note that says, “I’m back!” Maybe Sandoval doesn’t deal with a copycat but the original villain.

An unlikely team comes together to solve this mystery, including several detectives, a burlesque dancer, and a writer, all following clues that lead down a dark and twisted path. Sandoval gets closer and closer to his old nemesis, while balancing on the metaphorical point of a stiletto with the past nipping at his heels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532074905

A. S. Kingly

A. S. Kingly’s lifelong dream was to become a writer and share her thrilling works with a curious audience. She now writes not for fame but for the joy of writing. We may be temporary beings, but what we leave behind is forever.

Book preview

If

Stilettos

Could Speak

A. S. Kingly

30016.jpg

IF STILETTOS COULD SPEAK

Copyright © 2019 A. S. Kingly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7491-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7490-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906363

iUniverse rev. date: 05/22/2019

29238.jpg

Center stage—the focal point of the audience. Center stage is power, control of the show—your show. Center stage, in many ways, is like a chameleon. A chameleon changes its color based on its surroundings. Center stage similarly reflects its placeholder’s every move. It is truly a mirror of expression. Center stage is a place of voice in motion. It calls for attention—no, it demands it. Center stage holds infinite stories illuminated by light, waiting for the next to be written in sweat, tears, laughter, exhaustion, and, most of all, release from the heart.

Sherrilyn Kenyon said it best: Lips and tongues lie. But actions never do. No matter what words are spoken, actions betray the truth of everyone’s heart. I find this to be insanely accurate for those holding center stage. There is no hiding while on center stage. Every point of the toe, crack of a smile, and unintentional burst of motion has a meaning behind it. The beauty in being a center stage placeholder is having the freedom to express how you feel. You don’t have to say a fucking word. The audience, if any, can interpret your expression however they think.

How the audience interprets expression is often unimportant unless your center stage takes place in a setting where a script is written for you: Broadway, for example. The rush from the emotional release is everything. That unconstrained feeling, in many ways, is what freedom feels like. Center stage is freedom in its purest form.

Expression without confirmation leaves little room for conviction or judgment from others. Isn’t that freedom? I would like to think so. It is no secret that everyone has their own story. Whoever came up with the phrase walk a mile in my shoes probably never imagined the gravity of that statement. Let’s break it down literally. In general, people have more than one pair of shoes. This is because different occasions and outfits require different footwear. People who are exercising wear tennis shoes. At work, women usually wear shiny flats or a low heel, while men wear dress shoes. Construction workers wear steel-toed boots. Ballerinas wear ballet shoes. While at the beach—well, you get the point.

What if a woman were wearing tall, slender, shiny red stiletto heels? Where would you think she was going or had come from? What would you think she did?

Imagine this woman was unique and very much unaccepted by society. I would like to step into her shoes and see what center stage looks like through her eyes. Let her glamorous ruby pumps guide us down through a world that many will never understand.

29303.png

She looks up, lights beaming toward her from every direction. She stares out into a crowd of eager, yearning eyes. Turning her head, she cues the music. The lights dim slightly. For a moment, she closes her eyes and imagines she is alone in a studio, enjoying moments of peace and clarity. Her mind seems to drift from her body, riding the vibrations of sound waves flowing from large booming speakers through the hardwood floor and back to her body.

At that moment, she experiences a switch. It is as if a different part of her turns on or is unleashed. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. With a promiscuous smile, she brings her hands down from above her head into a dramatic pose, turns, and then struts her way to a pole that pierces center stage. She twirls gracefully around the pole in her skimpy black lace lingerie. Members of her audience pull out various amounts of money based on how they feel about her performance.

Her cherry-colored heels lead her through a miraculously sexy performance that lasts for two songs. Her body moves in a hypnotic motion, and her mind experiences a brief moment of euphoria. She feels freedom—not in a physical sense but in a mental sense. The second the songs ends, and she peers down and instantly knows her performance is a success.

She is released from her trance. As she picks up her earnings, she hears, Let’s give it up for Lady Bella! coming from the DJ’s booth. She blows one short air-kiss to the crowd. They howl like immature frat goons, and she exits the stage.

29305.png

Approaching the white-framed floor-length mirror in her dressing room, Bella admired her athletic figure. Perfect ass, she thought, but bigger boobs wouldn’t hurt. She imagined how much her money would increase if she had a more impressive set of breasts.

Bella fashioned her bleached-blonde hair into a sophisticated bun. Her shift had ended. She turned and shoved her unorganized belongings off her vanity and into her large brown handbag. She draped her gray petticoat over her burlesque attire. In a rush to catch the last bus, she darted out the front door of the run-down strip joint onto the quiet streets of Senoia, Georgia.

The bus stop was about two blocks away, in front of a small coffeehouse Bella frequented. Panting from her fast-paced stride, she boarded the bus. Inside, it smelled of stale food and musk, no doubt from the nonstop boarding of passengers of many sorts on a day-to-day basis.

Leaning back in a hard purple seat, she looked up at one of the small screens that often displayed advertisements. A famous author, Eliza Ritfield, was being broadcast, sharing her new book Points with No Words. Bella watched in admiration. She knew what life was like in the spotlight, but she craved a different kind of spotlight. She wanted to be admired by many types of people, adults and children, not by the bottom-feeders of Senoia.

Deep in her mind, she flashed back to the very first time she had set foot on a nightclub stage. Knees shaking, she had stood at center stage. Wearing short black heels and tan spandex, she had waited for the music to start, a true image of innocence.

Her mind jumped forward to the man who would change her life forever. As she remembered receiving his soft kiss on her hand, she felt the bus stop and reemerged to reality.

Bella took up her bag and walked to the front of the bus. Stay safe, said the middle-aged, dark-haired driver, who took a moment to clean his glasses before continuing to operate the bus.

Will do, Bella responded with a plain half smile and hopped off. The air was a bit colder now. She held her coat tightly to keep the breeze from flowing through it and approached her brown apartment door. The apartment sat at the end of a narrow walkway. Filled with paranoia, she rushed to get her key in the door. Upon entry, she took a deep breath and said, I’m home.

There was no answer. Bella locked the door and took a good look around to be certain no one else was there. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment equipped with a bathroom and a small kitchen. There was hardly any furniture. In the living room stood one floor lamp and a love seat. The lack of television in her living area didn’t bother Bella. When she wasn’t gracing the stage with her presence, she often slept or worked on one of her many projects. There didn’t seem to be much time for anything else.

Her bedroom, however, did have a TV. It was mainly used for entertainment by her boyfriend, Rolland. His constant gaming made Bella feel more like a babysitter than a partner. Her bedroom also held a small two-sided dresser and a queen-size bed.

Her apartment wasn’t much, but she had everything she needed to survive. Bella was all right with the simplicity of her surroundings, but she was not content. She wanted more.

She was sure Rolland was out. Knowing this, she relaxed on the couch and counted her earnings, which she stuffed into her bag. It was beneficial to do this when her boyfriend was gone so she could put money aside. She hoped to save up enough to escape her current situation. She knew that one day her center stage experience would be made up of a different view, in front of a different audience, conveying another side and purpose for her existence. The small light that still burned inside of her kept her going.

Her total earnings for the night were $400. Many might have thought this was plenty, but the lifestyle of a stripper came with complications. She took $100 and put it in a secret compartment she had made in the seam of her bag. The rest she would use for Rolland’s immature antics and for bills as they came up.

Sitting back, Bella daydreamed of what it would be like to be a writer. She always appreciated a good story. When she was just a girl, she had written short stories for her and her friend’s amusement. I wonder what Eliza Ritfield’s life is like, she thought.

Bella turned and removed her journal from under the back cushion of the couch. In the middle of the journal, she kept her identification card. The name Lillianna Michelle Winters was written on it, next to an angelic figure that Bella used to know.

Bella knew she could never go back to who she had been before her chaotic spiral in what she now realized was the wrong direction. She also knew that it was going to take a lot of work to change the course of her life. Turning over a page, she began to write.

29308.png

An uproar of applause echoed throughout the broadcast studio. A woman with shoulder-length sandy hair, fair skin, flat lips, and narrow blue eyes sat firmly on a tan sofa. She held her book out to the crowd while showing off her radiant smile and waving proudly. A lady seated across from her was reapplying bright-red lipstick. I’ll be in the back reviewing the tape. You are welcome to come along. I know you’re just itching to see how you did, the lady said, smacking her lips and putting her compact mirror back into her small handbag. The petite, frail-figured woman stood, adjusted her silky white blouse, and strutted off to review her day’s work.

Ms. Ritfield, we are shutting down now, said a voice from behind the clutter of recording equipment.

Eliza stood up and took one last look around. This had been her very first television interview. She had been writing for years but unfortunately had had no real success until now. As the lights turned off one by one, she took in that grand center stage feeling. She recalled how her heart had pounded seconds before Tiffany Ryan, the interviewer, introduced her to the studio audience and the worldwide viewers. Eliza still clutched the small white handkerchief she had kept with her during the interview to soothe her sweaty palms and twitchy nerves.

Finally, the city-lights backdrop shut down, and Eliza’s center stage was filled with darkness. With a deep inhale, she walked to the back of the recording studio to join Tiffany for a review of the interview. Maybe I can get a copy, she said to herself.

As she entered the room, she was embraced with clapping and smiles of satisfaction. Wonderful job, Ms. Ritfield, said a slim man with jet-black hair slicked back. He was dressed in one of the fanciest black suits Eliza had ever seen. His eyes were shielded by thin, box-framed black sunglasses. He happily shook her hand. Eliza assumed he was a director, or maybe a producer, so she went along with it.

Thank you, sir, she replied with excitement.

He turned sharply and pointed to a young man, probably a first-time worker, carrying a box of tapes, and ordered him to get her a copy of the interview tape. Clearly, whoever he was, he was the boss. Figured you’d want a copy of your first interview, he commented. Oh, and don’t worry; your agent will be thrilled. He turned and went his own way.

Thanks again! shouted Eliza.

She waited patiently outside the guest dressing room for her tape, tapping her white heels against the tile floor: tap … tap … tap. She glanced along the