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

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.