Shoe Done It am-1

by Grace Carroll

  I opened the gate and walked up a winding path between the furry green foliage and vivid red flowers of the California fuchsia on the right and blue-flowering Ceanothus maritimus on the left. Obviously someone here cared enough about the environment to stick to native plants. Then I saw it. A small discreet “For Sale” sign at the front entrance. I stopped dead in my tracks. How long had that been there? Was there any connection between the shoe theft and the selling their McMansion?

  I rang the bell and knocked on the door so hard I bruised my knuckles. Nothing. I pressed a button next to an intercom.

  “Yes?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Rita Jewel here to see MarySue Jensen.”

  “Who?”

  “Rita from Dolce’s Boutique. It’s about the shoes.” No sense in pussyfooting around. Come out with it. Give her a chance to hand over the shoes before she was in real trouble.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Jensen isn’t here.”

  I rocked back on my heels. I could have sworn that voice sounded like MarySue herself.

  “Could you tell her she’s in serious legal trouble if she doesn’t return the shoes to me right now? Otherwise I’ll be forced to call the police.”

  The answer was a firm click. She’d hung up on me. So, it was her. She was in there. I went back down the path and looked up and down the street. A few houses away there was a van in the driveway with “Smythe’s Landscape Service—Water-wise Garden Gems” painted on the side. I looked around, not a landscape artist to be seen on the street. Probably all busy pruning or planting Garden Gems or whatever out of sight. I looked back at the Jensen house. On the third floor I saw the outline of a figure. Someone was looking out. Was it MarySue or maybe an accomplice? It was getting late. If she was in there, she’d have to leave soon for the Benefit. Should I wait for her to come out and tackle her and take her shoes? Or would she run me down first in her Mercedes on her way out? I contemplated hiding in the backseat of her car and surprising her when she got in, but when I tried the door to the three-car garage, it was locked.

  I went back to the front door and pushed the intercom again.

  “Yes?”

  “Smythe’s Landscape Service and Garden Gems here to do the yard maintenance,” I chirped.

  “Go to hell. Back where you came from, toady sycophant.”

  I didn’t even blanch. That was MarySue all right. I smiled with satisfaction despite the insult. I’d rather be a sycophant than a shoe thief. Now I knew two things. She hadn’t left yet. And she had the shoes.

  I walked around the side of the house, pushed open a gate and found myself in the middle of a Japanese garden. A waterfall cascaded over a rocky precipice and into a small pond filled with colorful koi. A small wooden bridge arched over a stream lined with rocks. If this was his work, I must remember to hire Smythe when I made my first million. Then I saw it. A tall ladder propped against a sick old oak tree. The oak trees of California were under attack from sudden oak death. I knew the symptoms—yellowish brown leaves, stains and lichens on the bark. They were all there. This tree would have to come down. Maybe that’s the reason the ladder and the chain saw were resting against the tree trunk.

  My heart was racing. I knew I didn’t have much time. I knew if I didn’t get those shoes back before the benefit, MarySue would return them tomorrow damaged or stained and she’d never pay Dolce the money she owed her. Or she’d sell her house and leave town with the shoes on her feet. Dolce would face financial ruin, I’d be out of work and . . . I . . . I didn’t know what I’d do.

  Right now I had to do what I could to stop MarySue. I dragged the ladder from the tree to the back of the house. I climbed up a few steps and paused, my fingers gripping the steel rungs. I half expected someone to pull it out from under me. Maybe Smythe, maybe Jim Jensen, MarySue’s husband. Maybe MarySue herself. But nothing happened except the ladder wobbled. I leaned into the house and grabbed a handful of the ivy that covered the wall. I took a deep breath and climbed higher. My fingers were so stiff I could barely hold on to the rungs of the ladder.

  I was opposite a window level with the second floor. Afraid of heights, I didn’t dare look down or I’d get dizzy and fall. Where was MarySue? Where were her shoes? No, not her shoes, she hadn’t paid for them.

  A moment later I had the answer to my questions. MarySue came to the window. Her eyes bulged when she saw me looking in at her. She was wearing a simple but costly black beaded sweater dress by Chloé. She was right. She needed those silver shoes to set it off. But from that angle I couldn’t tell if she was wearing them now or not. I almost felt for her. The fashionista in me almost wanted her to have them. I almost felt like climbing down the ladder and going home. No one would blame me. No one would know I’d failed except MarySue, and she’d be glad I had. But I didn’t. I rapped on the window. “Give me the shoes,” I shouted.

  She shook her head. Then she opened the window. Her cool blue eyes darted from my face to my shoulders to my white knuckles. She put both hands on my shoulders and pushed. The ladder tilted backward. I reached out to grab something, anything. Preferably MarySue. The ladder swayed forward then backward again. I swayed with it. I screamed as I felt myself falling, falling backward into the branches of the dead oak tree. Then everything went black.

  “Dr. Foster. Calling Dr. Foster. Report to the ER. Marjorie Lambert, fourth-floor Obstetrics stat. Dr. Kramer, you have a call on line three.”

  The voices were so loud they penetrated my poor brain. Where in the hell was I, and how did I get there? I opened my eyes, but the lights were so bright I quickly closed them. All I knew was I was flat on my back in a hallway and people were rushing past me shouting out instructions. Suddenly I was moving too. Someone was pushing me down the hall.

  “How are we feeling?” the woman asked.

  “Terrible,” I mumbled. “My head hurts. Who are you? Where am I? Where are we going?”

  “I’m Winnie Bijou, LVN. We’re at San Francisco General Hospital. You might have a slight concussion and trauma to an extremity, but we’ve been busy with other more serious stuff. Don’t worry, you’re next. Lucky you, you get to see Dr. Rhodes. Trust me, it’s worth the wait.” Winnie Bijou giggled.

  Worth the wait? How long had I been waiting? So I had a concussion? The last thing I remembered was falling off a ladder into a tree. But where and why I had no idea. Why would I climb up a ladder when I was scared to death of heights?

  “Nurse Bijou,” I said with a shiver of apprehension. “Do I have amnesia?”

  “Possible,” she said as we turned the corner and headed down another hall. “Doesn’t say anything about it on your chart. Says you were brought in wearing ballet flats by someone who didn’t leave a name. Remember who that was?”

  “Not really, no. I mean I don’t know who it could have been because . . .” I drifted off, not able to think clearly.

  “Here we are.” She went around the gurney and pushed open the door to a small examining room. I saw she was someone about my age in a crisp white uniform—admirable, I thought, for someone working the ER on a long, injury-filled Saturday night.

  Once in the small room, Nurse Bijou propped up my head on a pillow. She asked me for some personal information for my chart, then she wrapped a cuff around my arm, gave a cursory glance at my Bakelite bracelet and stuck a thermometer in my mouth. There was a knock on the door and another nurse whose badge said “Opal Chasseure RN” came in.

  “Dr. Rhodes is on his way,” she said. “He works the ER, but he’s a specialist in sports injuries.”

  “This isn’t a sports injury,” I said when Nurse Bijou had removed the thermometer from my mouth and the cuff from my arm. “I mean, I don’t think it is because I don’t do sports, except for kung fu.” Maybe my memory was coming back to me by inches. They say your long-term memory returns first. Maybe that’s all I’d ever get back.

  “We’ll let Dr. Rhodes decide what it is or it isn’t,” Nurse Chasseure said briskly. “Nurse Bijou,
I have everything covered here.”

  By her tone I gathered she meant, “Butt out.”

  Nurse Bijou got the message and when the door opened to admit Dr. Jonathan Rhodes, she scurried out. That left the three of us, one tall, strapping, sun-bleached blond-haired god of a doctor, one starchy nurse and me, half out of my mind but still able to appreciate a gorgeous man. My head floated somewhere above me and I closed my eyes. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air. Maybe I’d gotten too big a whiff. Or maybe this was all a dream. If it wasn’t, I was hoping I was wearing my new lingerie just in case Dr. Rhodes had me strip down for a full-body scan. It had been so long since I’d gotten dressed, I couldn’t remember. After my accident, I was lucky to remember my name. It turned out all the doctor cared about was my ankle.

  “How did this happen?” Dr. Rhodes said. His deep voice cut through the fog of my brain. He put his hand on my forehead. I opened my eyes and then it all came back to me in a blinding flash. MarySue, the shoes and the ladder. The shoes. Where were they?

  “I fell off a ladder. It’s my foot. I think I sprained my ankle.”

  Dr. Rhodes carefully removed one metallic ballet flat and wrapped his strong, caring fingers around my ankle. I winced. “Nurse Chasseure, would you get an ACE bandage and wrap the patient’s ankle?”

  Opal left and I was alone with Dr. McDreamy Rhodes.

  “You have a grade-one sprain and a mild concussion,” he said. “I’m prescribing some anti-inflammatory medicine along with cold packs for your ankle. As for your concussion, these things usually go away by themselves. I recommend monitoring and rest at least for a few days.”

  I felt better just hearing his voice and was reassured by his bedside manner. Combined with his looks, this guy was going far. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him rise to be surgeon general or at least get his own reality TV program.

  “So, Ms. Rita Jewel,” he said, looking up from where he was writing on my chart. “Not where you thought you’d end up on a Saturday night.”

  “No,” I said. “I was actually on my way somewhere when I got sidetracked and fell into a dead oak tree. That’s all I remember until I got here.” What I remembered was I was on my way to get the silver shoes back when I ran into trouble. But why bore the doctor with irrelevant details like that? I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. The Benefit was over. MarySue had gotten away with the shoes. I felt weak and helpless. My ankle was throbbing.

  Dr. Rhodes chuckled as if I’d been joking about the oak tree debacle. I smiled weakly. Nurse Chasseure came in with the bandage and silently and sullenly began to wrap my ankle. What was her problem? Didn’t nurses have to take some kind of oath like “Look like you like your job even though you’re stuck treating gunshot wounds on Saturday night instead of clubbing in SoMa.” Apparently a sympathetic demeanor was not a requirement for all nurses these days.

  “I’ll need to see you again in a few days,” Dr. Rhodes told me. He looked down at my chart. “Is this your current phone number and address?”

  I nodded. He wanted to see me again. Of course, his interest in me was purely professional. Still, I felt lucky because he could have passed me off to an assistant.

  “Hold on,” Dr. Rhodes said. “Wait here while I get you a few pain pills and an ice pack to tide you over until the pharmacy opens tomorrow.” He left me, and a minute later Nurse McCranky left too without a word.

  I sat up then and the room spun around. It was a strange feeling. No one knew where I was or what happened to me. Except MarySue. Had she called an ambulance? Was there an ambulance? Had she brought me here in her Mercedes on her way to the Benefit? Or had she left me lying on the ground while she dashed off to the party in her silver shoes hoping I wouldn’t recover. At least not until the party was over. She got her wish. But who brought me then, Smythe’s Landscape Service? If so, I wanted to call and thank them.

  I stared at the wall as I waited for my pain pills. Light-headed and dizzy, I wondered how I’d fit my foot back into my shoes. Any shoes. I shuddered to think of having to wear some kind of ugly orthopedic shoes with support hose. I might have slipped out of consciousness for a moment until I heard the voices in the hall. It was Nurses Bijou and Chasseure.

  “Saturday nights are the pits,” Winnie said. “Last time I’m working this shift. I don’t care if I get time and a half. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “At least you’re not dead dead,” Opal said. “Like that woman they brought in from some big high-society charity thing.”

  I blinked. High-society charity thing? I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but my mouth was so dry no sound came out.

  “Yeah, you catch her dress?” Winnie asked. “Plain black. Looked like a long sweater. If I had that kind of money, I’d wear Marc Bouwer.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Who’s that? Don’t you read Entertainment Weekly? He’s the designer to the stars, that’s all. If I had MarySue Jensen’s money, I’d be wearing . . .” Her voice faded as I grabbed the edge of the pad and slid off the table. Pain shot through my ankle, and my knees buckled. I fell onto a chair and tried to catch my breath.

  “Just thought those society types had better clothes, that’s all,” Nurse Bijou said. “If I was her, I’d wear—”

  “I know, I know, Marc Bouwer, whoever that is.”

  “And my shoes? Guess what I’d wear.”

  “Manolos?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I can tell you Ms. MarySue wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. Not when I saw her. She was covered with a sheet except for her feet. They were bare. No shoes. Nada. Zilch.”

  “How’d she die? You hear?”

  “Maybe she was murdered. There are plenty of people who’d kill for a pair of Manolos.”

  “Would you?”

  “Wouldn’t I!”

  I heard muffled laughter and then nothing. I hobbled to the door and looked out. The hall was empty except for Dr. Rhodes on his way back with my medicine. He gave me more instructions along with the ice pack and the meds and said he had an emergency but he’d see me later that week. “Oh, and Rita . . . stay off of ladders,” he added with a twinkle in his cobalt blue eyes.

  “I will,” I promised. I would have promised him anything at that point.

  I clomped out to the waiting room barefoot on crutches the nurses had left for me, my shoes in a plastic bag, and made an appointment to see Dr. Rhodes in three days at four in the afternoon, which I was already looking forward to. I was intending to call a cab when I saw Nick Petrescu leaning against the counter chatting up the receptionist. What was he doing here?

  “There you are now,” he said. “I am waiting for you.”

  “But . . . it’s still early morning. How did you know I was here?”

  “They called me after finding my card in your possession. Perhaps thinking I am next of kin? How is your feeling?”

  “I’m okay.” I wasn’t okay. I was weak and tired and in pain. I needed one of my pain pills, and I needed to go home. “I just need some rest.”

  “What happened?”

  “I fell off a ladder. It could happen to anyone.”

  He looked confused, as if his English wasn’t quite good enough to figure it out.

  “I will bring my car around to the front of building.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know he had a car, and I didn’t know the emergency people would go through your purse to see if there was a business card with the number of a gymnastics coach they should call. But they’d obviously done just that.

  A half hour later Nick dropped me off at my house. He looked worried when I collapsed on my living room couch and propped my bandaged foot on the coffee table. I told him I was fine and I just needed to lie there for a day or two. It was true. I didn’t want anyone hovering around watching me while I recovered. I knew what I had to do. Take my medicine and follow Dr. Rhodes’s instructions for RICE: R—rest, I—ice, C—compression and E—elevate.

  “I am sorry I have advanced tumb
ling class today or I could cook something for you. Some sarmalute or—”

  “Thanks, Nick, I couldn’t eat a thing right now, but I appreciate it.” All I wanted to do was lie there and watch some mindless program on TV. My brain wasn’t working very well. I guess I was lucky to be alive, all things considered. It seemed MarySue hadn’t been so lucky. Brain or no brain, I had to find out what really happened last night. Was it true MarySue was dead?

  “If you are not better tomorrow, I think you should see a different doctor. I don’t believe this Dr. Rhodes is very good, and he is not a specialist in brain injuries.”

  “My brain is fine,” I insisted. How did he know anything about Dr. Rhodes? Or anything about my brain? Had he met my doctor? Had he overheard some gossip? No way was I going to change doctors. “I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  Nick finally left after promising to come by tomorrow with a bowl of his grandmother’s zama for me. A dish that was guaranteed to cure any and all ills.

  As soon as he left, I hopped on one foot to the kitchen. I put the cold pack they’d given me in the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas to wrap around my ankle until the real thing was ready. I don’t eat frozen peas or any kind of peas. They’d been left there by the previous tenant and I’d forgotten completely about them until now when they sure came in handy. Back on the couch, I slapped the bag of peas on my ankle, propped my foot above my heart, clutched my remote control and watched the local news.

  When the news anchors finished with the weather report, they got to the juicy stuff.

  “Police are calling socialite MarySue Jensen’s death a possible homicide,” said the attractive dark-haired anchorwoman.

  The peas rolled off onto the floor as I swung my legs around, leaned forward and turned up the volume.

  “Here’s what we know, Amy. Well-known society maven MarySue Jensen, wife of California Airlines exec Jim Jensen, was taken to San Francisco General Hospital last night after she hosted the Golden Gate Garden Benefit at the Lakeside Nature Reserve in Golden Gate Park. Her lifeless body was found in an Adirondack chair late last night by park rangers who called the authorities. Her grief-stricken husband Jim Jensen didn’t realize her expensive and one-of-a-kind hand-spun silver shoes were missing until hours later. The case is now being treated as a possible homiciderobbery.”