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.
I ran a hand through my hair, conscious that she must be horrified to see what shape my hair was in, which was no shape at all.
“What with my injury I haven’t had time to do a thing about my hair,” I said.
She nodded. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her card and gave it to me. “Give me a call,” she said. “I think I can help you.”
No doubt she could, I thought when I saw the name of the salon and the location. But at what cost?
“So tell me, Rita,” Harrington said, “I hear you’ve actually seen the fabulous silver shoes.”
“Well, yes, but only briefly,” I said. What was he getting at?
“What did you think? Worth the money?”
“They were beautiful all right,” I said. But how did I know what they were worth? I didn’t know how much they cost. Did he? I didn’t know where they were now either—did he?
“Are you enjoying the summer off?” I asked him, to change the subject.
“Summer off? Not for me,” he said. “It may look like I’m not working, but I am. Call it a sick day or call it research. I need it. You know I’ve been busy at school all summer, and starting tomorrow I’m in full fall season mode. Besides rehearsals, I’ve got meetings, meetings and more meetings. I tell you it’s all too much. I have two classes of remedial English to teach along with the plays I direct. The worst part is I’m under the thumb of a principal with the most sophomoric taste. We’re doing Bye Bye Birdie this fall and High School Musical in the spring. Can you imagine anything more banal? I make all the costumes, props and you name it.”
I tried to look sympathetic, but my head was starting to ache. I wanted to say, “Then hadn’t you better hustle on back to the scene shop at your high school and get busy cutting and stitching costumes, or pounding nails together for a set?” Instead, I reached into my bag for my pain pills and my bottled water.
Harrington and his sister both watched as if they’d never seen someone popping pills before. Not the ones prescribed by a doctor anyway. I hoped he’d take the hint and take his sister to lunch or at least go look at this season’s costume jewelry in the back room.
“Heard you had an accident. What happened to you?” he asked, his eyes on my bandaged ankle.
“Just a slight sprain.” I held my breath, expecting him to pursue the topic as Detective Wall had done by saying, “I didn’t ask for a diagnosis, I asked what happened,” but he didn’t. “I guess I’d better quit malingering and get up to help Dolce.” I struggled to get out of the chair, and Harrington took my hand and pulled me up. With hands that smooth, how was he going to construct sets and paint scenery?
I murmured something about how good it was to see them both before they wandered over to Dolce’s casual wear collection. Now what would I do? I could hardly stand around with one sprained ankle trying to help customers. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back to work so soon after all. Fortunately Dolce realized how awkward my position was, and she asked me to hang out in her office and answer the phone, which was ringing off the hook today.
“Is it because of MarySue?” I asked after gathering up my stuff and plopping myself into the chair behind her desk.
She said she didn’t know and closed the door behind her. “I wouldn’t mind the extra traffic and calls if they added up to sales, but as you saw out there, everyone just wants to talk about the murder. I’m going back and try to actually sell something. If anyone asks for me, just say I’m with a customer and take a message. Or better yet, try to solve their problem, whatever it is. An order for something special? Take it. Store hours? Tell them. Directions? Give them. What I hate is when they just want to ask about MarySue. If they do, just say she was a valued customer and I’m devastated. So upset I can’t talk about it. But I’m open for business. How does that sound?”
“Makes sense to me,” I assured her. But I hoped no one would ask. What if I said the wrong thing? What if someone really tried to pin me down about my relationship with MarySue, like the detective had? Maybe I could pretend to be the answering service.
“Take a break,” I said to Dolce. “I’m fine in here with my leg up on the desk. Don’t worry about a thing. Go mingle with the customers. I’ll handle all the calls.” I smiled and shooed her out. She closed the door behind her and immediately the phone started ringing.
“Good morning, you’ve reached Dolce’s,” I said.
“Ms. Loren? This is Detective Jack Wall. I have a few questions for you regarding the case of Ms. Jensen. I wonder if this is a convenient time to come by?”
“Ms. Loren is not available to come to the phone or for interviews,” I said, trying to sound like a temp who knew nothing about anything. “She’s extremely busy. Perhaps another day.”
“Is this Ms. Jewel by any chance?” he aske
d in a voice that said he knew damn well it was me and that he found it suspicious and almost criminal that I didn’t tell him up front who I was.
“Yes, it’s me,” I admitted with a sigh.
“I thought you were laid up for the duration. It’s good to know you’ve recovered enough to go to work. If Ms. Loren isn’t available, I have a few follow-up questions for you if you’re up to it.”
“We’re running a business here,” I said. “Customers might be put off by the presence of the police. It’s bad enough one of our customers is murdered, but to have the police hanging around makes people nervous.”
“Do I make you nervous, Ms. Jewel?” he asked in that deep voice of his that caused my hand to shake.
“I have nothing to be nervous about,” I said. Then why was my throat dry and my voice trembling?
“Then you won’t mind my dropping by.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. All I needed was another interrogation. “As I said, the presence of the police tends to freak out some people.”
“I know what you said,” he said. “I understand that you prefer our interview occur away from your place of work. Since it’s almost lunchtime and we both have to eat, I propose we consider this a business lunch. I will provide the food, you will provide certain information.”
I didn’t know what to say. It sounded vaguely illegal or at least immoral to exchange lunch for ratting on someone, if that’s what he meant. On the other hand, I was so hungry my stomach was growling. It must be the pain pills.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes, you do. I can ask questions at the central police station, your home, or we can eat lunch in some outdoor facility nearby. It’s your choice.”
“Fine,” I said, wishing I knew where he meant. Lafayette Park? Ocean Beach? He said he’d be by at twelve thirty to pick me up.
When Dolce popped into the office to get her appointment book from her desk drawer, she was surprised to hear about my lunch date, as she called it. I didn’t tell her he’d originally asked to speak to her about the murder. I was sure she was still on his to-do list.
“The man is good-looking, no doubt about that. And if he wants to buy you lunch, why not go?”
I was glad to hear she approved. Then she said, “I wonder what he wants in exchange.”
“I thought I’d already told him everything I know,” I said. “Except the part about going to MarySue’s house that night. I suppose I’ll have to come clean about that.”
“Why shouldn’t you? You’re the victim there. Aren’t you?” she asked with a frown.
“That’s right,” I said. It was time to level with Dolce. “MarySue almost killed me when I tried to get the shoes back.”
“What? That’s terrible.”
“But I didn’t kill her,” I insisted. “There I was on the top of a ladder outside her bedroom because she refused to let me in. She’s inside dressed for the Benefit. I yell at her to give me back the shoes. She is not happy to see me. In fact, she opens her window and gives me a shove, right into her dead oak tree. You see, I am not just falling from a tall ladder. That’s bad enough. What’s worse is that she is furious. She reaches out. She pushes me. I fall. The next thing I know, I am waking up in the hospital with a concussion and a sprained ankle.”
“But how did you get there?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. Maybe Detective Wall will enlighten me. I owe someone unless it was MarySue who dropped me off on her way to the park.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Dolce said. “I picture MarySue hoping you wouldn’t wake up until the Benefit was over.”
“Which I didn’t. Which was good because I have an alibi for MarySue’s murder.”
Dolce looked thoughtful. “But I don’t.”
“You don’t have a motive either,” I reminded her. “What good would it do you to kill MarySue? To get the shoes back? Somebody wanted those shoes. But not you. Especially after they’d been worn; we’d never be able to return them.”
I pictured myself flying back to Miami with the shoes, begging the artisans at the atelier to give us back the money in exchange for the slightly worn shoes. Maybe I could clean the dirt off the soles. If it would do any good, I’d volunteer for the job.
Someone knocked on the office door. “Dolce, are you in there? I desperately need your advice on this little Ellen Tracy coat. Is it me or not?”
Dolce patted me on the head and went out to help her customer. How like her to want to comfort me when she was the one who needed reassurance. The rest of the morning flew by. There I was, cozily ensconced in the office with my foot wrapped in ice on the desk, taking calls and feeling useful. Best of all, I was not feeling lonely and unwanted. Everyone who called, no matter what they wanted, asked me how I felt. What I felt was a warm, appreciated glow that counteracted the pain in my ankle and my head.
I was taking a break to take my pill and thumb through the latest Vogue when there was another knock on the office door.
“Are you in there Rita? It’s Peter, and I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Peter Butinski, the shoe supplier? Oh, no. I wasn’t up to being nice to anyone I didn’t like. But what could I say?
Six
“Come in,” I said reluctantly.
I couldn’t believe he, someone in the upscale shoe business, would be wearing Crocs on the job. With all the great men’s shoes out there . . . sport or dress, leather or suede, why choose plastic or rubber shoes or whatever they’re made of, they’re just plain ugly. What was wrong with him? Not only was he clueless about his shoe choice, he wore his thinning hair in a comb-over. I forced a smile. After all, this was business and Dolce trusted me to deal with everyone—whether I liked them or not. “Hi, Peter, how are you?”
“Heard you had quite a weekend,” he said, looking at my ankle.
“Oh, that,” I said, wondering what he’d heard exactly. “Just took a tumble. It’s nothing really. What’s new in the shoe biz?”
“Glad you asked,” he said, setting a stack of shoe boxes on Dolce’s desk. “Have I got something for you with your bum foot. Perfect for those days you don’t want to teeter in to work, when you’re wearing an ACE bandage, for example.” He gave a nod at my ankle and whipped off the cover to a shoe box to reveal a pair of sandals.
“Warm weather must-haves,” Peter said.
“Nice,” I said politely. Then I caught a glimpse of the price tag and I gasped.
“Too much? Okay, let’s see what else I have for you.”
I tried to be patient as he flipped open box after box, but I knew I wasn’t going to buy a single shoe, no “caged” booties and no ankle-tie stilettos and definitely no wooden wedge with a Mary Jane strap. Nothing from this guy no matter how much I loved them or how good a deal they were.
“Sorry, Peter, with my bad ankle I can’t wear any of these gorgeous shoes until I recover. Besides, I’m not in the same league with the customers here. I’m a working girl.”
“Got it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m leaving them here with you and Dolce on spec. If you sell them, you get the usual fifteen percent. So get out there and hustle,” he said with a toothy grin. “When you’re up to it, I mean.”
My cell phone rang and I expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He picked up the same magazine I’d been reading and stood there leafing through it while I answered the phone. Even though I shot him a get-lost look, he didn’t seem to notice.
“Ms. Jewel? This is Jonathan Rhodes.”
I spun around in Dolce’s office chair so fast I almost fell on the floor.
“Dr. Rhodes, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. Calling to see how you’re doing. Taking it easy, I hope.”
“Oh, absolutely. Actually I had to come in to work, but I have a desk job for today with my foot elevated and an ice pack on my ankle.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Not too much pain?”
“I’m managing,” I said bravely.
“Good
girl. I’m actually calling on a personal matter.”
A personal matter? My heart pounded and I reached for my water bottle to soothe my dry throat. What did that mean?
“One of my patients plays in a trio at the Café Henri—it’s a little French bistro kind of place.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said. What I’d heard from customers was that it was small, elegant, pricey and a place I could never afford to go to. I gripped my phone tightly, still breathless from the shock of having my Greek god doctor actually call me. I wondered what was coming next. Maybe instructions to change my bandage. No, he said it was personal. Maybe he wanted me to pick out something for his mother’s birthday from our jewelry collection.
“I promised Daniel I’d go hear him play this weekend,” he said. “I wondered if you’d like to go with me Sunday night. If you like jazz and French food, that is.”
“I love jazz and all kinds of food,” I said. “And I’d love to go.” A date. An actual date with an eligible professional man. If I’d had two good ankles, I would have stood up and shouted it to the skies. I wanted to phone Aunt Grace. I had to tell Dolce first.
Dr. Rhodes, Jonathan that is, said he wouldn’t be at the hospital on Wednesday for my follow-up appointment, but he took my address and said he’d pick me up at seven on Sunday.
After I hung up, I sat there staring at the wall in a state of semishock. Unlike my so-called lunch date today where Detective Wall was no doubt going to soften me up then try to find out who killed MarySue, this was a real date. With no hidden agenda as far as I knew. My first date in a whole year. It had nothing to do with shoes, murder or anything. Except for the fact that because of the shoes, I’d gone to MarySue’s that night, then fallen off the ladder, then was taken to the ER. If not for those events, I’d be sitting at home on Sunday night as usual. So though I was sorry MarySue had stolen the shoes, and sorry I had a sprained ankle, and sorry MarySue had been murdered in the park, I was glad I hadn’t broken my neck when I fell off the ladder and even happier that I’d met Dr. Rhodes. What would those two chatty nurses say if they knew?
Shoe Done It Page 6