Her Feet Were Killing Her

Roxy pushed the heavy wood and glass door closed with her foot and grabbed a handful of mail from her box. She started up the stairs to the landing and released an almost silent groan when the door of her landlady's apartment opened.

"Hello, Mrs. Larkin. How are you this evening?" She had nothing against Mrs. Larkin, but as she walked home from the subway, she realized her new shoes hurt like hell. All she wanted to do was go upstairs, take them off, and relax.

"I'm fine Ms. Franks. Do you have a minute to stop by and visit?"
Roxy already felt a touch of guilt. She had put off visiting the elderly woman for the entire two months since moving into the second floor flat. Previously, when she ran into her in the hall, she excused herself by blaming the pressures of learning her new job, but she owed her, big time. The woman had bumped another applicant to rent her the space-an incredibly affordable apartment in Lincoln Park. Though new to Chicago, Roxy heard about the upscale neighborhood before she arrived. She never expected to live there. "Okay, just for a minute though, Mrs. Larkin, I really need to take these shoes off, my feet are killing me."

Mrs. Larkin ushered her into her home and to a chair. "Let me pour you a small glass of wine, Ms. Franks. That'll help settle you, and you can take your shoes off here if you'd like." She half filled two glasses on the table in front of her and gave one to Roxy. "Here you are, dear. How was your day?"

The wine, along with a growing awareness of her surroundings, convinced Roxy that she had journeyed back in time. Her grandparents decorated their house in the same style. Dark, heavy pieces of wood furniture filled the room, and a variety of silver picture frames and small figurines dotted their surfaces. Lace doilies covered the arms of the chairs and couch, and supported lamps and vases throughout. It was as dark and depressing as her grandparents’ house had been.
If there were a television in the apartment, it had to be in another room, because there was none that she could see. Roxy did notice a very old radio in one corner, and something else unusual, right in front of her. "What are these?" She pointed at an item on the coffee table. "They look like old fashioned nylons."

"They are. They're silk stockings. My husband, James, bought me five pair after he came back from the war. We married in 1945, but he died in 1947 and since I don't go out often, they've lasted a long time. This is the last pair though, and there'll be no more to come. Maybe when they're gone, my memory of James will be gone, too." Mrs. Larkin rubbed the fabric between her fingers and smiled. "Go ahead and feel them."

Roxy took a sip of wine and set the glass on the table. "Oh, these are wonderful, quite a bit nicer than these panty hose I'm wearing." She smiled at the small white haired woman who delighted in showing off her stockings.

"Yes, it's a shame they don't make them anymore, at least not that I know of. How's your wine, dear?"

She had forgotten the wine and retrieved it as she spoke. "I think it might have been just what I needed. I'm starting to relax. You haven’t had any of yours."

"Oh, I’ve had a couple sips, you just can’t tell. I’ll be nursing it all evening."

Roxy nodded and returned to her study of the knickknack-filled room, until she spotted something that seemed completely out of place. "Do you lift weights, Mrs. Larkin?" She pointed the glass toward a small barbell and hand weights.

"Oh, no, those were my husband's. I just haven't gotten around to putting them in the trash."

"How did your husband die, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I don't mind, but it's not a very pretty story. A woman moved into the building a few months after we bought it. She called herself Stacey, I believe. They found her strangled and my husband lying next to her with a bullet in his head. The police said he killed her and then shot himself. It was his gun but I never believed that for a moment. She was a tall redhead who looked a lot like you in fact. If the police were right, the only thing I can imagine is that she enticed him with her charms. She was a beautiful woman. Once James was able to break free from her spell he may have been overwhelmed with guilt and anger, and thought that the best solution."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Larkin. It must have been awful for you. Why did you keep the building and continue to live here? I don't know if I could have done that."

The old woman shrugged and looked at the weights. "I wanted to keep an eye on James, I suppose."

Roxy thought that sounded a tad creepy, and realized at the same time that she felt strange. "I think I better go up to my apartment, I'm a little lightheaded."

"All right, Ms. Franks. I'm delighted you had a chance to stop by, and I'm sure your dizziness will go away soon."

As she climbed the flight of stairs to her apartment, Roxy leaned on the wall for support. When she unlocked the door and went inside, her shoes and the mail slipped from her fingers and she fell on the couch. "What the hell is wrong with me, I had less than a half a glass of wine and I feel drunk."

With the little energy she had left, Roxy looked up to see the door open, but she could not make herself move. Her vision seemed to blur and she thought she was imagining things when she saw someone standing in front of her with a silk stocking. Her body wouldn't move and all she could do was stare with her eyes wide as the silky stocking wrapped around her neck and tightened.

"Maybe this time you'll leave us alone for good, Stacey."

*

"What do you think, Sarge?"

Sergeant Borelli looked around the apartment and shook her head. "I read over the old files. This is the fifth redhead strangled with a silk stocking in this building in the last sixty years, and the first one was supposed to have been killed by Mr. Larkin, who killed himself. These aren't coincidences and I don't believe in ghosts. If Mrs. Larkin had not had airtight alibis for the other murders, she’d be our best suspect. What did she say?"

"She didn’t have an alibi this time. She just said that she hadn't seen Ms. Franks for a few days. The last time she did see her, she said her feet were killing her so she couldn't stop in for a visit. Larkin's the only person who's been in the building the entire sixty years, but she's eighty-seven years old and a little thing. How could she strangle someone as young and healthy as Ms. Franks?"

"You're right, I doubt that she could."