Ramirez darted a glance at Wall, who shook his head, and she bit her lip. Probably furious and frustrated she couldn’t nail me. Did she really think that after I stole MarySue’s shoes and killed her, or killed her and then stole her shoes, that I would then check into the hospital with a concussion and a sprained ankle, return home and toss the shoe box in my garbage can? It boggled the mind.
“Of course, if you’d care to look in my closet for the silver shoes before you leave . . .” I cocked my head in the direction of my bedroom, knowing she’d decline.
Again she looked at her partner, who again shook his head. It was too bad in a way because I would have liked to show off my shoe collection. I had no silver shoes, but I was proud of my taste in footwear, ranging from sporty two-tone brogues to a pair of brand-new leather t-straps and everything in between. It seemed to me that choosing the right footwear was almost the most important decision a girl could make. Did Ramirez want to see my shoe collection just out of curiosity or did she think she’d find the silver shoes in my closet, arrest me and get a promotion? I’d like to see her face when she came up empty.
“No?” I said when she didn’t respond to my offer. “I can only assume that the shoes are back in their box safe and sound.”
If looks could kill I would have been dead meat. We all remained where we were, frozen in place for thirty seconds at least. The delivery van was looking for a parking spot. Detective Ramirez was staring at me with the unopened box in her hands, Detective Wall was standing in the middle of my living room looking like he wanted to be somewhere else, and I was still sitting on the couch, leaning back, my head cushioned on a pillow.
Finally Jack Wall took the shoe box from his assistant detective and opened it. It was empty. Just as we thought.
“Believe me,” I said to Wall, “I have as much reason to find the shoes as you do. Maybe more so. My boss Dolce entrusted them to me. MarySue snatched them out of my hands without paying for them so she could wear them to the Benefit and now they’re gone. As soon as I recover”—I glanced at my swollen, bandaged ankle—“and I will recover, God willing, then I will recover the shoes. If I don’t, my job, my boss, our shop . . . we’re all in trouble.”
“We appreciate your help,” Jack Wall said and maybe he meant it. I hoped so. “But recovering stolen property is the job of the police. When amateurs attempt to circumvent the appropriate procedures, accidents can and will happen.” That’s when he looked pointedly at my ankle. Did he know? And if so, how? “If it wouldn’t upset you too much, we would like to hear how the shoe box got into your garbage can,” he continued.
“You’d like to hear? I’d like to hear too,” I said. “But if I were in law enforcement instead of a simple salesgirl, I’d say that whoever did steal the shoes put it there to frame me for the theft and maybe even the murder. Which is crazy because I was in the hospital when the crimes were committed.”
There, I’d given them the motive for the placement of the shoe box, and I’d included my alibi so they could narrow their search and quit wasting their time and mine. But not a word of thanks did I get. What I got instead was a scolding for trying to recover the shoes on my own. The odd couple didn’t even seem slightly grateful. I mean, what more did they want? It was so obvious what had happened. All they had to do was dust the box for fingerprints and presto—they’d have the answers they were looking for. Did I dare suggest it? No, I didn’t. Let them fumble their way to solving this crime.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I said with a glance out the window. “I do hope you’ll keep in touch, but it’s time for my medicine.” And my dinner. Or was it lunch? My inner clock was seriously screwed up. I looked anxiously at my watch as if I might lapse into a coma without my medication. Not to mention the harassment I was getting from these two. That was enough to set me back days in my recovery program.
Before they left, Detective Wall handed me his card. “If you have any more information for me, give me a call. Anytime. When you’re better, of course, and thinking more clearly. That’s my cell phone number on the back. We’re anxious to get this high-profile society-type story solved and off of the front page and let the community know about the good works we’re doing.”
With the delivery man coming up the walk, my stomach rumbled, and I wanted them to leave in the worst way, but I couldn’t resist seeing if he could back up his claim, by asking, “Which good works are those?”
“The Wilderness Program for City Kids, the Celebrity Tennis Tournament Fund-Raiser, Saint Anthony’s Dining Room . . .”
He must have noticed that my forehead was furrowed as I tried to picture this suave detective serving the homeless at St. Anthony’s in the crime-ridden Tenderloin district.
“I work the line on Saturday nights,” he said as if he’d read my mind.
Not sure what that meant. Maybe he had no social life. Maybe he was devoted to serving the poor. He just didn’t look the type in that expensive suit. I started to think they’d never leave and it was my fault asking him about his charity work when it was murder we needed to discuss. Not just discuss, but do something about.
They did finally leave. They crossed paths with the delivery man, and Detective Wall noted the van and wrote something on his famous notepad. Then he turned and looked back at my house. As if he might wonder just how sick I was if I could handle a tofu crepe stuffed with bean sprouts.
It turned out I could handle it just fine. After polishing off every single delicious bite, I drifted off again. When I woke up, I read a few chapters from a well-regarded vampire novel (not in the original, but translated from Romanian into English) guaranteed to put me to sleep again. The book probably gives some readers nightmares, but I don’t scare easily. The next thing I knew it was Monday morning, and after I had a cup of coffee and the rest of the chocolate alligator, I called Dolce to report to her about my interview and ask her about hers. And explain why I wasn’t at work today.
Five
“Dolce,” I said.
“Rita,” she said. “What happened? I tried to call you last night and again this morning.”
“Sorry, I turned off my phone.” I stretched my leg out and critically surveyed my ankle. I thought the swelling had gone done a little. “My doctor wants me to rest.”
“You had me worried. I thought they might have arrested you and hauled you off to the new county jail.”
“The one they call the San Francisco Hilton South? No they didn’t, but I’m sure the detective in the long flowered skirt would have liked to.”
“That skirt,” Dolce said with an audible shudder, “was bad enough. Then there was her sweater. Jones New York if I’m not mistaken. Someone should tell her to avoid raglan sleeves or at least wear a scarf tossed over the sweater to broaden her shoulders. I’m telling you, if the fashion police had been on duty that woman would be behind bars.”
“Was it that bad?” I asked. “I didn’t notice.”
“Didn’t notice her sloped shoulders? Rita, you must really be sick. Now don’t even think about coming in today.”
“I have to. I can’t sit here with my foot up another day of watching TV and reading Romanian vampire novels or I’ll go mad, I swear. How was your interview on TV?”
“Fine, in fact we got some free publicity from it. We’ve been mobbed so far today.”
“I wish I’d seen it,” I said.
“I TiVo-ed it so I can play it for you. Of course they tried to get me to say something incriminating, but I think I did pretty well dodging the questions. ‘How well did I know the deceased? What kind of clothes and accessories did she purchase ? Any financial problems? When was the last time I saw her?’ You should have heard me doing a sidestep. How about you? Did you tell the police you went to get the shoes back from MarySue?”
“They didn’t ask. Either they already knew, or they still don’t know or don’t care.”
“What did you think of Detective Wall? Quite a hunk, as you girls would say, or were you too sick to
notice? Can’t complain about his taste in clothes. I hope he didn’t give you a bad time.”
“He asked questions, but I think I convinced him I couldn’t have killed MarySue or stolen her shoes. The bad thing is they found the shoe box in my garbage can.”
“The shoe box?” Dolce said. “The one the silver shoes came in?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “Needless to say I have no idea how it got there except that whoever put it there is someone who wants to frame me.”
“Who would want to frame you? Everyone likes you. Except MarySue of course and she’s dead. Why, everyone’s asking about you. Claire Timkin is here now. On her way to a teachers’ meeting.”
“Don’t tell me she’s actually buying something?”
“No, of course not. How can she even look at our merchandise on her salary? And why waste high fashion on the fourth-graders in her classroom? But she tries to keep up. She does. She comes in and she looks. Then she goes to Macy’s and buys her clothes.” I could just picture Dolce shaking her head at the tragedy of it all. A woman with solid-gold taste forced to shop at a department store. “At least that’s my theory.”
“You sound better, Dolce. How do you feel?”
“Physically I’m fine, but I can’t help think about the shoes . . .” Her voice dropped as I reminded her of the trouble she was in. Both of us actually.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Any word from the repo people?” I asked. “I was hoping they’d found them and somehow later dumped the box in my garbage.”
“No such luck. If only I’d never ordered them, never sent you to get them, . . . Never mind, I’m afraid the shoes are gone for good,” she said sadly.
“Maybe not,” I said, feeling the medicine kick in and elevate my mood as well as relieving my pain. “No one could wear those shoes in this city without being noticed. And once they are noticed, the police will be all over them. I’ve got Detective Wall’s card here with his cell phone number.” I didn’t tell her I wouldn’t mind calling him with some information just to see how he took it. Would he really be grateful enough to change his opinion of me as a dimwit, treat me with respect, maybe even give me a medal or a certificate the police hand out to citizens who help solve crimes? Or would he just dismiss me with a curt thank-you and hang up. I was a little intrigued and very curious about how he planned to solve this murder case. The sooner the better. “Who else was in? Was everyone talking about MarySue?”
“Not everyone, no. Some people avoid the subject like the plague, but it’s on everyone’s minds, that’s for sure. Harrington Harris dropped in and said he’d be back with his sister a little later so she can see our fall collection. He won’t buy anything, of course. Why do I cater to these deadbeats?” She sighed. “Here I am with another penny-pinching schoolteacher taking time off so he can troll the shop for ideas for his drama productions. Says it’s part of his job. Never buys a thing, just steals ideas. Guess I can’t prosecute him for that. But funny thing, he did ask about MarySue’s silver shoes. Probably hoped to get his hands on them.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” I said. “How did he know what she was wearing? Was he at the Benefit?”
“I don’t think so. He said he saw them in a magazine last month and he’s the one who showed the picture to MarySue. Then she got us to order them for her. So in a way he’s responsible for her death, am I right?”
“I suppose . . .” I said. Suddenly it was all too confusing. “Time for my medicine, Dolce. I’ll come in as soon as I can pull myself together.” By that I meant as soon as I found an appropriate outfit to wear.
“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously.
“Absolutely. I’ll come in even if I’m on crutches. I have to get out of the house.”
“If you think you’re up to it. I really need you, so I won’t say no. I wouldn’t mind if sales were up, but it seems like everyone just wants to drop in hoping to hear some gossip. But they’re not buying. They all want to know what she was wearing. Why she was murdered. Who killed her. I wish I’d never ordered those shoes for her. It was my fault. I was too trusting. I’m going crazy.”
I was feeling a little crazy myself, so I hung up, took a pain pill and still hungry, found a fortune cookie in the bottom of the take-out bag I’d thrown away. Cambodians made fortune cookies? Who knew. Anyway, mine said, “You cannot step in the same river twice without getting your feet twice as wet.” I puzzled over this for a few minutes, knowing I’d heard it before. But where? In my dreams or in my college class on pre-Socratic philosophy? Greek thinkers are sometimes hard for me to follow, which is why I took Romanian in college instead of Greek. I put the fortune aside to try again later.
Before I left for the shop, I had to check on MarySue’s house. I started to wonder how much of Saturday night was real and how much was a nightmare. I scrolled through “Houses for Sale” on my BlackBerry and found the Jensen house with the number of the realtor. So it really was for sale. I really did see that sign. I called the real estate office.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the real estate agent on desk duty, “the house is no longer on the market.”
“But I just saw the sign on Saturday.”
“The owner has decided not to sell. Just got a call on that. Circumstances have changed. It happens. Sorry about that. We have some other listings in the Pacific Heights neighborhood I’d be happy to show you. Some with fantastic views, high ceilings, hardwood floors, spas, offices, skylights . . . You name it, we’ve got it.”
“Never mind.” Just got a call? From whom? Jim Jensen? Now that he had the life insurance on his wife to collect he could afford to stay in the house, was that it? It was no secret to Dolce or to me that they were in financial trouble. Enough to cause Jim to cut up MarySue’s credit cards. Was Jim mad enough at his wife for her free-spending habits to kill her, and take her shoes to get a refund or just toss them in the Bay and collect her life insurance? And then take down the “For Sale” sign. It all made a kind of terrible sense. If it was this apparent to me, why didn’t the police follow up on it? I thought about calling Detective Wall to find out if he’d heard about the house, but I didn’t. I had to get to work. I had to see people. I had to get back to the real world . . . or was it?
But first I had to get dressed. It took forever. Partly because of my injuries. Have you ever tried on your new thong while avoiding putting weight on your ankle, the one with the ACE bandage? It wasn’t easy, but even harder was trying to decide what looked right over the new lingerie. I was so tired of looking like an invalid, I wanted a complete change. I had to look professional, but maybe a little more casual than usual.
I peered out the back window at the view of the East Bay to see that the sun was out. Back in my closet I pulled out a pair of gray Kasbah pants made of natural fibers that had a relaxed fit but a sophisticated look at the same time. With the pants I chose a quiche-colored Tencel and cotton ribbed top. No Louboutins today, nothing with a heel at all. I’d be lucky to squeeze my poor feet into anything but an orthopedic boot. But I did. Before I stuffed both feet into retrofitted floral sling-back flats, I rewrapped my ankle, grabbed an oversize granny sweater and my bag and called a cab. No way was I up to fighting the crowd on the bus with my crutches. It took me about ten minutes just to climb the stairs to the front doors of Dolce’s boutique one step at a time. In my commodious tote bag were all my supplies—extra cold packs and ACE bandages and my meds.
As soon as I opened the front door of the boutique, the whole shop full of customers turned to look at me. I must say I made a grand entrance. And even if my ankle was going to take an extra week to recover, it was worth it.
Apparently Dolce had alerted all the regular customers, who couldn’t have been nicer. Before I could say “I’m back,” they’d taken my sweater, my purse and my bag out of my hands and I was eased onto the big overstuffed chair in the great room with an antique mahogany footstool for my bandaged ankle.
“Poor you,” said Claire Timkin, who
was still hanging out wearing an oversize crimson shirt with a pair of skinny boot-cut jeans, the brand that costs at least two hundred dollars. She got those at Macy’s? She’d never get away with jeans in her classroom, but for a teachers’ meeting she’d be fine. Better than fine, the older, stodgy, less-stylish faculty members would either be all green with envy or shake their heads with disapproval. While in between summer and fall, Claire was obviously taking advantage of not having any dress code enforced by her principal. Not today, anyway.
Dolce saw me giving Claire the once-over and sent me a brief wink as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
I looked around the room. After my initial splash, the customers drifted away to look at racks of scarves, stacks of T-shirts and piles of gypsy ruffled skirts. Now that the Benefit was over, it was time for some casual wear.
I was just about to get up from my comfortable chair and try to help Dolce wait on customers, when Harrington Harris came back with his sister as promised. He was dressed just as you’d expect from the extremely dramatic drama teacher with a huge wardrobe of his own. He sported a hopsack blazer, tight jeans and a shirt open a little too far at the neck.
“Back to window shop and steal more ideas,” Dolce whispered to me on her way to look for a medallion necklace in the jewelry department. “Earlier he was wearing a snakeskin vest.” She rolled her eyes. “What next?”
I shook my head in dismay. I asked myself if he only stole ideas, or would he steal a pair of shoes if he had the chance?
“I want you to meet my sister, Marsha,” Harrington said to me. “Marsha loves fashion too. It must be genetic. I’ve told her so much about Dolce’s, I had to bring her by. She’s a hairstylist. Absolutely passionate about hair, am I right?” He fondly ruffled her supershort, silver-blond hair. “She trained with Vidal Sassoon,” he added.
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