The Scarlet Stiletto



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This story is now published as part of the anthology ‘Loyal and True’.

For a bloke, he was pretty good when it came to shoes and this was definitely a Stiletto.

And it was red.

Well, not exactly, it was more a scarlet red, if you need to be precise.

He often wondered why females wore these things.

What if you needed to ‘leg it’? You’d have no chance. Maybe women didn’t need to ‘leg it’ as often as blokes.

Women certainly looked good in high heels; as long as they were standing still that is.

As soon as they started to move around you got the feeling that you should be strategically placing gym mats so that they had something to fall on.

The thing about scarlet stilettos is they usually hunt in pairs, and this one was solo.

It still looked elegant, if a little lonely just lying there.

Now, if the stiletto had been in the city it might not have looked out-of-place, especially on a Sunday morning.

All sorts of things happen on a Saturday night that might separate a person from one of her shoes but this particular shoe was forlornly reposing on a section of grass, under a small tree, on a suburban side street.

Admittedly, it was the kind of street that someone might come back to after a good night out on the town,  stumbling out of a shiny yellow taxi in the wee small hours, misjudging the gutter —- and said shoe could easily come adrift.

There were several possibilities for the presence of this pretty scarlet shoe.

It certainly wasn’t there yesterday when he ran down this street.

Running early in the morning had become a habit.

A necessary habit.

It was the only way to make his mind behave, and even then it often refused to cooperate.

He liked this part of the run.

It was a quiet, leafy street, full of neat little houses built-in the 1930s.

The homeowners probably appreciated the calm peaceful nature of their neighbourhood and they would have paid a premium to live here.

Which was a shame because that peace was about to be disturbed, and property values were about to plummet.

The pretty red stiletto was still attached to what probably used to be a very pretty woman.

The matching shoe was nowhere to be seen.

Why is it that early morning runners and people walking dogs are always the ones who find dead bodies?

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