Shoe Done It am-1

by Grace Carroll

  I looked around. No car in the driveway. But I did see the gardeners’ truck down the street. Had they brought me to the hospital? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. All I wanted to do was thank them and fill in a blank in my memory bank. They wouldn’t be offended if I approached them, would they? I had to try.

  I was walking down the street toward the house with the truck in the driveway when my cell phone rang. It was Jonathan.

  “Rita, I just talked to the Admissions Department. The man on duty that night remembered you.”

  “Really? And did he remember who brought me in?”

  “He said she didn’t leave a name.”

  “She? It was definitely a she?”

  “He said she was wearing a black dress.”

  “And shoes? What kind of shoes?” I held my breath.

  “Silver shoes. He said he’d never seen silver shoes before so they stuck in his mind. When he asked for your name or her name, she left. He remembered that because it was so unusual. He called after her, but she was gone.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  “Does that help?” he asked.

  “Yes. I mean, I think so. It had to be MarySue, the woman who was murdered that night. The one who was brought into the hospital later, after I got there. So she was there twice that night. Once alive, the other time dead. Thanks, Jonathan.”

  “You’re welcome. Gotta run now. They’re paging me.”

  I put my phone into my Michael Kors zip-top designer satchel and kept walking past the truck, past the mansions with the city’s most hoity-toity addresses. I was so caught up with the idea that the same person who’d tried to kill me had turned around and taken me to the hospital that I scarcely noticed the stately Victorians with elaborate wooden gables and towers and the house that looked like a French Baroque chateau. I was walking past some of the most elaborate symbols of the city’s colorful past and all I could think of was how glad I was to be alive. I didn’t even care if I never lived in a mansion built by a tycoon with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I was alive. The only way I could think of to thank my rescuer, MarySue Jensen, was to find her killer. I owed it to her. I glanced back for a last look at her house before I turned the corner.

  “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I’ll avenge your death. I’ll catch your killer. It’s the least I can do for you.”

  I glanced at the garden truck to see a man who was lifting a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer stop and stare at me. Hadn’t he ever heard anyone talking to herself before?

  Twelve

  When I got home, I called Jack Wall and told him about the fashion show. “I suggest you come by,” I said. “Besides all the possible suspects under one roof, there’s a chance the silver shoes will be there too.”

  “The stolen silver shoes?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but there’s a good chance. I’m not saying the wearer is the murderer or even a thief, but—”

  “Never mind speculating or accusing anyone,” he said. “That’s my job.”

  “I thought you’d be glad I alerted you,” I said stiffly. “And I was wondering if you had identified the fingerprints on the shoe box you found in my garbage can,” I said.

  “So far they don’t match any known criminal in our system.”

  Exasperated, I said, “Of course they don’t. They belong to any one of a short list of people who wanted those shoes. Society women who are not in your database because they haven’t committed any previous crimes. Not until now. Which I will be happy to provide you with.”

  “The list or the shoes?”

  “I don’t have the shoes,” I said through clenched teeth. Sometimes I wondered why I went out of my way to help the police.

  “Do you admit you want the shoes?” he said. “Would you turn them down if they appeared in a box in your garbage can?”

  “Yes, I would. I am not the silver-shoe type. But I repeat: they did not appear in my garbage. That was the box, but not the shoes.”

  “Who is?”

  “Who is what?” I asked.

  “The silver-shoe type.”

  “I’ll make the list for you,” I said. That was the kind of job I loved. Matching customers with the right styles. That’s what I was good at. Dolce thought so anyway.

  “You do that,” he said.

  Sometimes I thought he was only humoring me. That he didn’t really find my information very helpful. I considered telling him about MarySue and the hospital, but I didn’t like being humored. Besides, what would he do if he knew how I got to the hospital? I’d done everything I could to help the police except bring the murderer into the station with a full confession. And where did it get me? Nowhere. It got me only lectures on how not to help the police do their job even though they weren’t doing a very good job of it. That was it. If Jack Wall didn’t find out anything at our fashion show, I would have to avenge the murder on my own as I’d promised MarySue or her ghost. I couldn’t wash my hands of this murder even if I wanted to. I was stuck. I just hoped I found the killer before he struck again. I also hoped he or she wouldn’t strike at me. If I kept my detective work under the radar I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

  The upcoming fashion show kept Dolce and me busy all week. The so-called models were all agog. They tried on their clothes, and they tried on each others’ clothes. They practiced walking and turning and smiling or alternately looking snobby. They went on crash diets to look even thinner than they were.

  On Friday morning, I suggested to Dolce that she make an introduction for the show and talk a little about “How to Transition Your Summer Wardrobe into Fall.”

  “What a good idea,” she said. “So timely.”

  “And such a good way to encourage more sales after the show.”

  She patted me on the back. “Which we could really use,” she said. I didn’t like the way the worry lines were carved in her forehead. Ever since the MarySue incident, business had fallen off. To cheer her up, I told her she looked like a walking advertisement for the shop in sequined pants and a navy satin vintage Victorian-era top.

  As for me, I’d decided to start out funky with a pair of high-top multicolored sneakers and an Italian cotton voile print dress by the Italian designer Marni. It was from her fall collection, and I’d admired it since Dolce got it in earlier.

  “I love the dress on you. I know you’ve already got your two outfits, but those sneakers have so much attitude,” Dolce said. “You have to wear them. They say ‘girls just wanna have fun,’ don’t you think?”

  “Which reminds me,” I said, “is Peter coming tonight?”

  “You know him. Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to pitch his shoes,” Dolce said.

  “He won’t be happy I’m not wearing any of his shoes,” I said.

  “You can always use your ankle as an excuse,” Dolce suggested.

  When all the models arrived around five, we were hungry, so we ordered takeout and sat around the great room in our street clothes munching on food delivered from Dolce’s favorite Chicago-style eatery down the street. I was sure no real models would ever indulge in hot dogs and Polish sausage sandwiches on poppy-seed buns loaded with peppers, tomatoes, pickle relish, onions and dill pickle spears. They’d probably have a bottle of water and a cracker and call it dinner, but then, we weren’t professionals.

  Every one of us chowed down as if we hadn’t eaten all week—which some of us hadn’t—though the aftereffect was that we all had to spray our mouths with an advanced formula breath freshener in Dolce’s powder room.

  The last one to arrive just as we were getting dressed was Marsha. She said she’d had some last-minute clients. By that time we had all the chairs set up and were just putting on our makeup. Marsha very kindly offered to do comb-outs for anyone who wanted one.

  “I’ll sign up,” I said. “I know what a genius you are.”

  “Tousled beach waves are really gone,” she explained with a critical look at my hair as she heated her flat iron in Dolce’s o
ffice. “It’s fine to embrace your natural waves for summer, but not now that it’s fall. Straight hair is in, the silkier and shinier the better.”

  My hair wasn’t nearly as silky or shiny as she would have liked, but what could I do? At least she didn’t suggest a retro beehive. Instead, she told me to increase my intake of Vitamin E. “You should eat more brown rice, nuts and wheat germ, which will help get your hair healthy.”

  I was glad she hadn’t witnessed the Polish sausage sandwich I’d just eaten. I vowed that tomorrow I’d go on a Vitamin E diet. I bent over so she could iron my hair on a towel on Dolce’s desk. I couldn’t help notice she’d brought a cloth bag with her shoes in it. I could hardly restrain myself I wanted to look at them so badly.

  “So those are the shoes your brother made?” I asked as she smoothed my hair with practiced fingers.

  “Right. You won’t believe how fabulous they are.”

  I wouldn’t believe he’d made them either, and neither would the police, I thought.

  “He’ll be here, won’t he?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “You know Harrington.”

  I wondered if I did know Harrington. I knew he’d do anything for his sister. But would he steal for her? Kill for her? Whatever he did, I was sure she didn’t know about it. How could she if she’d brought the shoes to wear tonight.

  When I came out of her office, Dolce gasped in surprise at my straight, flattened hair. Everyone said it matched my funky outfit perfectly. Marsha did some of the others as well and by seven o’clock, all of us—Patti, Claire, Patricia, Dolce, two other customers, Lisa and Allison, and I—were ready to go.

  Dolce greeted everyone at the front door. The rest of us were in the accessory alcove peeking around the corner. I was afraid enough people wouldn’t come, but the place filled up. I saw Peter Butinksi looking ridiculous as usual in his plastic shoes and his thinning hair dyed a startling shade of brown. I saw Patti’s husband and Harrington, and at least twenty or thirty others, men and women alike. I had a warm feeling of satisfaction all over about my idea of the fashion show. It was working. It was really working. Now if only some of these voyeurs would turn into buyers.

  Dolce gave a great talk about transitioning your summer wardrobe into fall. She suggested scarves and held up a few from a local designer. She wrapped a lightweight cashmere scarf with ruffled edges around her neck and knotted it over one shoulder. “Why not try a scarf like this over a tank top with a pair of designer denims?” she asked.

  I could see women nodding their agreement.

  “This time of year can be tricky,” she explained. “It’s fall but it feels like summer. Some days are warm, but the September fashion magazines”—she held up a recent Vogue—“tell us it’s fall. It’s no wonder we’re all in a kind of clothing confusion.”

  There was a smattering of light laughter. Dolce was a natural at this. If anyone could encourage loads of sales, it was Dolce.

  “The best way to transition from one season to the next is with accessories,” she said. “Fortunately our shop has everything you need, and if we don’t, we can get it for you. If there’s one thought I want you to take away with you today, it’s scarves and pashminas. Wear them outdoors and indoors. Over tanks and tees and a light jacket for cooler days. And now what you’ve been waiting for, our fall collection worn by our very own models.”

  Dolce perched on a stool at the side of our makeshift stage and narrated like a pro. She introduced us and told what we were wearing. When it was my turn, I strutted the way I’d seen the real models do. I was glad I was wearing my high-tops even though my ankle felt almost normal. The shoes gave me confidence I wouldn’t trip or fall. Until I saw Detective Wall. Then I stumbled but caught myself before I fell. I don’t know why I was so surprised. I’d told him to come tonight. In the excitement of being a model, I’d forgotten about him.

  He was standing at the back of the room in a shawlcollared Henley and straight-fit cords. No uniform for him, of course. He could have been anybody. Somebody’s brother, boyfriend or husband. But he wasn’t. He was looking right at me with narrowed eyes as if I was under suspicion. And just as I was about to make my turn the way Dolce told me, head held high and hips swiveling, the front door opened and Jim Jensen walked in, looking fit and completely healthy. Several people turned to see who it was, but most of the others didn’t even notice he was wearing a pair of J. Crew classic-fit wool pants and suede Macalister shoes. He looked normal tonight, his cheeks a ruddy color and no scowl on his face. Was he finished healing? Had he been given an okay from his doctor to resume activities? Or had he dragged himself out of bed to confront me once again? Or was he finished blaming me for his wife’s death?

  I looked at Dolce, she looked at me. She must have been surprised to see him, but she never lost her poise. Did she know he was coming? I didn’t think so.

  I went back to the accessory room to change into my V-neck dress with booties.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Patti said to me as she zipped the skirt she was wearing. “MarySue would have loved it if she’d lived. She always wanted to be a model. She blamed Jim for standing in her way. He said there was only room for one professional in their family.”

  “I’m glad he was able to come tonight,” I said. “After what he’s been through.” I wondered if Jim felt threatened by MarySue even though she wasn’t a model and she didn’t have a job as far as I knew.

  “I knew he’d want to be here, so I told him he had to get an okay from his doctor first. I’d left a message for him about the show. I thought it would do him good to get out for a change and not stay home taking his medicine and doing his exercises. He’s had too much time to think. It was getting him down.”

  “He’s looking good,” I said. “It must not have been a serious heart attack.”

  “I believe it was more of a warning than a real attack,” she said. “So now he’s busy planning MarySue’s memorial celebration. You and Dolce have to come. We’re having the party at Portnoy’s Tavern across from the cemetery. You know the place. It’s been there forever. A real San Francisco icon and one of MarySue’s favorite spots. Death doesn’t have to be horrible, you know. She wouldn’t want us to go on grieving forever.”

  Three weeks is hardly forever, I thought. But whatever. I knew death didn’t have to be horrible especially if you didn’t get along with the deceased.

  “It will be a chance to remember MarySue’s life,” Patti said. “We’ll serve her favorite drinks, a little food, say nice things about her, play her favorite songs and talk about the good times. Well, I’d better get my shoes on. I’m next.” She peeked around the corner. “Don’t tell me that’s Detective Wall back there? Looking hot as usual. I didn’t know he was into fashion.”

  “Oh, yes, definitely,” I said. I was sure Detective Wall was here undercover and wanted to remain that way while he observed the guests. I had to agree he was hot looking. Not only that, he had money and good taste in clothes. If only he didn’t have a suspicious nature and an attitude problem.

  I took a seat off to the side of our makeshift runway to watch the others model their clothes. I was so anxious about seeing Marsha in those shoes, I gripped the edge of my chair.

  When she came out of Dolce’s office, she was wearing a tangerine strapless chiffon gown with an empire shirred bodice I’d never seen before. Where had that come from? Not our shop. I looked over at Dolce, whose eyes were fastened on the dress as if she’d never seen it before. But it was the shoes I couldn’t stop staring at. Oh my God, the shoes. I could have sworn . . . The shoes were the exact copy if not the exact shoes that MarySue had ordered, I’d carried across country and MarySue had worn to the Benefit. Were they the same shoes I’d seen at the restaurant?

  Were they or weren’t they? I blinked rapidly and kept my eyes glued to her feet as Marsha walked slowly around the room, a coy smile on her face. Because she knew she looked great? Or because she knew her brother made the shoes, which looked f
antastic with the orange dress? Or were those the shoes that had cost a fortune? How many people in that room knew the history of the shoes?

  I tore my eyes from Marsha and studied the audience’s reaction. Peter Butinksi had leapt out of his chair and was standing, staring at her shoes. Detective Wall held a tiny camera in his hand, no doubt getting evidence, but of what? Dolce’s mouth was hanging wide open. Jim Jensen looked pale. A man in the back row gave an admiring whistle. Her husband? Her boyfriend? Or was it Harrington? Marsha did look sensational, her blond hair, the tangerine dress and the silver shoes. She might not have been the most stylish, in fact her dress was almost bridesmaidy, but she made the rest of us look pale and anemic by comparison.

  Marsha had just finished her pivot and was headed back to our makeshift dressing room when Detective Wall walked up and stood in front of the room.

  “San Francisco PD,” he said, holding his badge up. “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a pair of shoes I need as stolen evidence in an unsolved murder case.”

  The tension in the great room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Some people gasped, others murmured something like, “Oh, no.”

  The fashion show stopped dead. Detective Wall followed Marsha, who never broke her stride. What poise, I thought. I wished I could see her face. Would she be resigned? Would she be nervous? Did she know she was wearing stolen shoes?

  The next thing I heard was Harrington shouting at Jack Wall. “Just a damn minute,” he yelled as he followed his sister and the detective out of the room. “Those are my shoes. I made those shoes. You can’t take those shoes. They’re hers.”

  Thank heavens for Dolce. She calmed the crowd. She explained that this act was all part of the fashion show. That the clothes and the shoes we were wearing were all worthy of being stolen but of course they weren’t. They were all available through Dolce’s exclusive women’s wear. Did anyone believe her? I couldn’t tell. The important thing was they all sat down and acted like they did. And the show went on. Without Jim Jensen. The next time I looked around the room, he was gone. Why? A recurrence of his “warning”? Would he make it home or had he collapsed on the front steps? I looked out the window but he wasn’t there.