Surveying the crowd I couldn’t help thinking that the murderer was here. Isn’t it true that most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, someone she knew very well? Of course, it could have been a random act of greed. Some stranger coveted her silver shoes and saw an opportunity to poison MarySue and seize them. But I didn’t buy that theory. I’d bet my new black shearling ankle boots the killer was here in this room. I wasn’t frightened. Who would kill again at his last victim’s funeral? It just wasn’t done. Not even in the movies or on HBO. I was just on edge, with a heightened sense of awareness of everyone and everything around me.
Every remark spoken by one of the mourners seemed amplified. No matter how banal or insensitive.
I heard someone say, “It was a blessing.” As if MarySue had been suffering some fatal disease. Maybe she was because I overheard someone else say, “At least she’s no longer suffering.” People were going up to Jim and saying things like, “You should stay busy to take your mind off your loss,” and “God never gives anyone more than he can handle.” I moved away but not before I heard someone tell Jim, “I know just how you feel.”
How did he feel? Angry? Yes. Relieved? Maybe. Nervous? Yes. Guilty? That depended on what he did besides yell at MarySue for her overspending.
I noticed Detective Wall was standing at the back of the room. I imagined he knew that axiom about killers finding their victims on familiar ground. How many husbands have murdered their unfaithful or nagging wives? How many children have murdered their critical, overbearing parents? Doesn’t everyone know the story of Lizzie Borden who “gave her mother forty whacks and when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one”?
I once read that killers often take a trophy from their victim. Like a pair of shoes. Which illustrates their need for self-magnification. I wanted to share these nuggets of insight with my favorite detective, but he’d warned me off, so I kept my distance. His loss. He’d have to find the murderer on his own.
I’d expected him to be wearing dark glasses to hide behind, but then he would have stood out and not in a good way. Instead he was wearing a conservative Calvin Klein single-breasted dark suit with plain-front trousers. With it a blue shirt with French cuffs and a striped old-school tie. He didn’t look like a cop. Not today. Not ever really. He looked like he could be anybody, an old friend of Jim, or a cousin of MarySue. Anybody but the cop who was looking for MarySue’s killer. I watched him watch everyone else. Trying to see who he was looking at.
Finally he looked straight at me. I took that as a sign not that I was a suspect, but that it was okay to go up and speak to him.
“I hope I’m not blowing your cover by speaking to you,” I said, glancing around to be sure no one was near enough to hear me.
“You’re actually giving me cover.” He gave me a headto-heels look, and I was glad I’d worn a black dress by a British designer with long sleeves and a jewel neckline. Just to be clear, it was the black dress that had the long sleeves and jewel neckline, not the British designer. It was flattering and still didn’t shout “Look at me!” when the attention should rightfully be on the deceased. If I were somewhere besides a funeral and had two good ankles, I would have worn a pair of chunky heels and a leather jacket with it. Jack’s gaze finally landed on my Paul Mayer black-lace ballet flats.
“Nice shoes,” he said. Trust Jack to appreciate fine quality and styling.
“I can’t wear anything with heels yet because of my accident. Thanks for noticing.”
“I notice everything. It’s my job.”
“Then you already noticed the place is full of suspects. That’s why you’re here.”
He didn’t say anything. That was how I knew I was right. When I wasn’t, he let me know. When the music started, it was a sign for everyone to take a seat. I went to the back row and looked around to see whether someone was actually playing the Chopin Piano Sonata or it was a recording. Jack came and sat next to me. I didn’t see a piano, and I didn’t see Dolce. Maybe she was sitting up in front with her friend.
Following the Chopin was the funeral march theme from Beethoven’s Third Symphony. I must have looked surprised because Jack turned and whispered in my ear, “What’s wrong? MarySue didn’t like Beethoven?”
I shrugged. How would I know? But ask me about her taste in shoes and I could write a book. “What would you choose?” I asked under my breath.
“Some Dixieland jazz would be nice. And a parade through the streets.”
I smiled at the image in my mind. Detective Jack Wall’s coffin being carried through the streets of his beat by his parolees, with gangsters, pimps and drug addicts standing on the curb cheering or weeping as he passed by.
“ ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ . . . ‘Didn’t He Ramble’ . . . ‘Down By the Riverside’ . . . You mean like those?”
He nodded. The recorded music continued. Mourners continued to file in.
“What about you?” Jack asked.
“I’ve always liked Barber’s Adagio for Strings,” I said, my eyes following the women who walked past in their little black dresses and the men in their dark suits. It was too bad someone didn’t show some imagination. I didn’t, but I didn’t want to stand out. MarySue sure wanted to stand out. Had she had a premonition of her upcoming demise and ordered a jacket for this very occasion? Not likely.
“I think for me I’d choose something more upbeat,” I said.
“What, like a barbershop quartet singing ‘My Wild Irish Rose’?” he asked.
I pictured straw hats and bow ties, and I knew that wasn’t really me. “I’m not Irish. So no quartet. I don’t know. I just don’t want my funeral to be a downer.”
“Since you’re planning ahead, you probably know what you’d wear,” he said.
“To my funeral? Hmmm. Not really. I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Neither did MarySue,” he said soberly.
I nodded. She sure didn’t. “Well, I might want to wear something different. Black is so obvious. What if I wore something sparkly, just to give everyone a lift? Put a smile on their faces? I’d want them to say, ‘Isn’t that just like Rita to wear sequins to her own funeral?’ I’d want some festive earrings and a bracelet too. I’m actually more worried about drawing a crowd. I’m not MarySue. I’m new in town. What if no one comes?”
A woman sitting in front of us turned around to stare at the latecomers straggling in. “I know one thing,” I said softly. “You won’t have to worry about attendance at your funeral. Cops always make a big deal when one of their own dies. Or is that only in the line of duty?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t know.
“For a cop like you there will be a motorcycle parade, bagpipes playing taps, the whole thing,” I said. “You don’t get a choice.”
“Maybe I’ll die in my sleep, and I can skip the parade of escorts and the flyby,” he said. “But I do want the jazz music.”
“Live band?”
“Yeah, definitely. Saint Gabriel’s Celestial Brass Band if they’re not busy.” He paused and squinted. “Who’s the guy in the black sneakers and silk T-shirt?”
I didn’t even need to look. “Peter Butinski.”
“Why is he leaning over the coffin? Looks like he’s crying.”
“He’s our shoe supplier.”
“I’d like to have a talk with him.”
“He’ll freak out.”
“I’m used to that.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s part of your job.”
“You know too much about me,” he said wryly.
“One thing I know for sure. The guy is guilty of stealing our Vogue magazine and I want it back.”
Finally the music stopped. A man in a nondenominational clerical collar stood and welcomed us. He gave a brief history of MarySue’s life, her family, her background and her accomplishments, like being president of her neighborhood garden club. How fitting that she was killed in a park, I thought. Or was “ironic” the word I w
as looking for?
Next Jim stood and read a poem called “Life is Not a Destination, It’s a Stopping Place on the Way to Heaven.” I wasn’t sure if he’d written it himself, but I hoped the sentiment was comforting to him and everyone else who missed MarySue. When he finished, he looked straight at me as if to dare me to accost him or deny that MarySue was in heaven. I didn’t. I hoped I’d never see him again after today. Why should I? Unless he came by to pay for MarySue’s shoes.
The next speaker said she was MarySue’s sister, and she did bear a resemblance to our former customer. Being around the same size as her sister, maybe she’d inherit MarySue’s wardrobe. I hoped all those expensive clothes would get some use. Although I would have liked to see the homeless shelter get a donation of designer wear. Her sister read a poem called “Play Jolly Music at My Funeral.” The poet wanted Dixieland music played—songs by Scott Joplin and Fats Waller.
I nudged Jack with my elbow and he nodded. He wasn’t the only one who wanted happy music at his funeral. But did MarySue? I couldn’t believe she really expected to die at such a young age. Was she thirty-five, forty? I didn’t know and no one said.
For some reason the idea of playing happy music at a sad occasion made people tear up. Not me of course, but I could hear women sniffling and men blowing their noses into their monogrammed handkerchiefs. The final speaker was Harlan, MarySue’s brother and Patti’s husband who rambled on about their idyllic childhood in the upscale East Bay town of Piedmont where the siblings spent happy summers taking golf and tennis lessons at their country club. When the cleric or emcee or whoever he was took over the microphone again, I assumed the ceremony was almost over. Well, the ceremony might have been over, but the excitement wasn’t. Just then, the double doors behind us opened and a gust of wind blew through the room. I turned to see who had arrived so late he’d almost missed the funeral. It was a man in a fur hat and an orange robe holding a small brass bell in his hand. A hush fell over the room. Every eye was on the stranger. Some were thinking, isn’t it too early in the season for fur? Others may have been wondering how he was connected to the Jensen family? Someone Jim knew through the airline he worked for? MarySue’s yoga instructor? Jim’s long-lost uncle? An old friend from a Sierra Club trip to the Himalayas the Jensens did years ago?
“Isn’t that a shaman?” I whispered to Jack. I’d seen pictures of one once in a fashion magazine, what else? What was a shaman doing at MarySue’s funeral?
Eight
The shaman—if he was indeed a shaman—rang his bell and began to dance his way to the front of the room. The cleric left his post in a big hurry and sat down to watch, whereas Jim stood up and stared, his mouth hanging open. Clearly this was no old friend or relation. As far as Jim knew, he was an unexpected guest. When the shaman reached the podium, he began to speak in a strange language. The only words we understood were “MarySue” and “death.” So he was in the right place. No use pretending he’d gotten lost on his way to a Tibetan ceremony.
“Was MarySue a believer?” Jack asked me in an undertone.
“Not that I knew of,” I whispered. “Jim doesn’t look too happy about this, does he?”
Jack shook his head. Even from the back row I could see Jim’s face was ashen and sweat was pouring from his forehead. He kept opening his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. The only sound was the ringing of the shaman’s bell.
As we all watched, Jim approached the shaman, reached out to touch him or take the bell, I have no idea. What I do know is that Jim clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor. After that there was pandemonium.
“Call 911,” someone shouted. Others including Jack, raced up to surround Jim.
The funeral director in the black suit told everyone to leave the premises except for the immediate family. There was a rush for the doors, but I found Dolce.
“What happened?” I asked her as we walked slowly to the parking lot.
“My best guess?” she said. “A heart attack.”
“He must have been overcome with grief or guilt or emotion,” I said.
“Who was that strange man in the orange robe?” Dolce asked when we got into her car.
“My best guess? He’s a shaman. A kind of holy man. A healer.”
“What was he doing there? Obviously Jim didn’t invite him.”
“I think he came to escort MarySue to the afterlife,” I said.
“Do you really believe that?” Dolce asked as she started the car and drove toward the exit. Before I could answer, an ambulance raced into the parking lot, sirens screaming. We watched the EMTs jump out and enter the building. Then we left. There was nothing more to be done.
“It’s just possible,” I said, following up on her question.
“I don’t know what to believe,” Dolce said.
“So no post-funeral celebration of MarySue’s life today,” I said as we drove past Portnoy’s Tavern, the place Jim had planned to have the party. “I wonder if Jim will make it.”
Dolce drove slowly down the street. “He looked awful,” she said.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. My mind was spinning. Finally I said, “If the shaman is really a healer, why didn’t he show up a little sooner like last week? If he cared about MarySue enough to come to her funeral and escort her to wherever she’s going, why did he let her die in the Adirondack chair?”
“So if these shaman have certain powers, maybe he’ll at least save Jim’s life,” she said.
“Maybe he will. I would have liked to ask him if he’s the one who saved me when I fell into that oak tree. How else did I survive with just a sprained ankle and a minor concussion?”
Dolce looked at me as if I’d had another concussion because the thought of being rescued by a shaman was as alien to her as it would be to everyone at the funeral. I couldn’t help hoping MarySue would have an escort to somewhere after what she did for me. Yes, she’d shoved me off the ladder, but then she’d taken me to the hospital—otherwise, I might be lying lifeless under her tree still today.
Later that week we heard Jim did indeed have a minor heart attack but he was “resting comfortably” as they say, in the hospital. Patti called Dolce to tell her that the shaman had paid Jim a hospital visit and assured him he’d live to see many more days. The holy man then confided he’d been invited to the funeral by MarySue’s cousin Beth who had spent time at his ashram in Tibet. Patti agreed with Dolce that maybe Jim should have been told about the shaman ahead of time. Patti then assured Dolce the celebration of life at MarySue’s favorite spot was still happening. Just as soon as Jim’s doctors gave him the okay. In fact, the event along with the shaman’s blessing had given Jim something to think about while in his hospital bed as well as an incentive to get well soon.
Around noon on Saturday when the crowd in the boutique had thinned out a little, Dolce suggested we work on a new outfit for me. Our customers often took a shopping break at a café across the street where they could have a house-baked pastry, a lovely sandwich on seven-grain bread or homemade soup, all on the outdoor covered patio. Instead of us taking a lunch break, she and I went through the racks of late arrivals.
“We have to find something for your Sunday night date,” she said.
“I was thinking of a filmy skirt,” I told Dolce. “With a knit top.” I didn’t mention the idea came from my nurse practitioner.
“I like it,” she said. “Relaxed elegance is what we’re after.” I was glad to see her so energetic and enthusiastic. Ever since MarySue’s funeral, she’d not been herself. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of customers and sales or what. She spent more time in her office hunched over her computer, piles of bills on her desk, her brow furrowed. I was afraid to ask how bad the financial situation was.
She went to a rack of skirts and pulled out several for me to try. First was a bright floral print.
“It’s vibrant and eye-catching,” I said, blinking rapidly, “but . . .”
“A little too vibrant,” she sa
id, reading my mind like a true fashion consultant would. “Absolutely right.” She immediately whisked the skirt back on the rack. Next up: a long skirt in creamy cognac. She held it up to my waist and stood staring at it before she snatched it away.
“Too utilitarian,” she decided. I had to agree. Not just because she was my boss, but the skirt just didn’t do anything for me. Finally we settled on a gray silk number with splashes of crimson handkerchief panels. I liked the way it swooshed around my calves. With a tight gray sleeveless sweater for balance against the gauzy skirt, I finally felt good about my selection. So did Dolce. She sat back on the padded bench in the middle of the room and looked me up and down.
“Ah, to be young again,” she said. “I had a skirt like that once. I wore it to a wedding.” She gazed off in the distance lost in her memory. What would I be doing at her age, I wondered. Would I be living alone above a shop somewhere, dressing others for parties and concerts I wasn’t invited to? Would I stay home and worry about my customers not paying their bills? Or would I marry a doctor, a gymnast or a police detective, retire and join the ladies who lunch and shop? I was too goal oriented to while away my days that way. Maybe I could do volunteer work feeding the poor like Detective Wall did. Or maybe I’d have a few children. I’d send them to an alternate school where they’d learn cooperation instead of competition. They’d be artistic and imaginative instead of driven by money and financial success. Since living the good life in San Francisco can be expensive, maybe a jolt of ambition was not altogether a bad thing. I pictured myself dressing the little darlings up and taking them to brunch on Sunday to the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel where they’d behave perfectly and display good manners.
I was still daydreaming when Dolce jerked me back to the present where although I was well dressed, I was still relatively poor and definitely single. She reminded me I was not completely dressed for Sunday. Not yet. “All you need is a tailored blazer and you’re good to go.”
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