“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 fantastic 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.
I was shaking, and I was sure the other models were too, but we couldn’t let Dolce down. I had to make three appearances in three complete outfits. But not Marsha. She had disappeared. Was she thinking that she couldn’t outdo her first entrance? Jack was gone too. Had he taken her away to be questioned? And what about her brother?
I glanced at Dolce. She shrugged. I wanted to go back to her office where I suspected some kind of scene was playing out between Jack, Marsha and Harrington. But we all stuck to our parts in the charade. We owed it to Dolce and the other guests.
After the show was over, the audience clapped enthusiastically. Then we models changed into our street clothes, which, by the way, were not too shabby, and served wine and tiny little cheese puffs from the caterer down the street. Of course the guests must have been curious. Surely they didn’t all swallow Dolce’s story that the scene was a setup. But no one said anything.
I caught Dolce coming out of her office with a glass of wine in her hand.
“They’re gone,” she muttered.
“But where?” I asked with a glance over my shoulder to be sure we were alone. There were only a few people left in the great room. Everyone else had had a drink, a bite to eat and left. My fellow models had gone home with their families.
“How should I know?” Dolce said.
“What about the shoes?” I asked.
“That’s what I’m talking about. The shoes. The shoes are gone. So is Jim. Along with Marsha, her brother and the police.”
“You don’t think Detective Wall arrested any of them, do you?” I asked.
“You tell me,” she said. “Were they the same shoes?”
“I . . . I can’t be sure.”
“But you saw them. You picked them up in Florida. You brought them here. You saw MarySue before she went to the Benefit. They must have looked different from the copies. They had to look one-of-a-kind expensive.” Dolce was staring at me, her face inches from mine.
“But you were at the Benefit. You saw the shoes too,” I said. “Didn’t you?”
She avoided my gaze. She looked at my necklace and studied the collar of my dress. Wasn’t that a dead giveaway of someone lying? Now I was getting worried. My beloved boss was acting so strange I wondered if I really knew her at all.
“I think I told you I never saw MarySue, by the time I got to the Benefit, it was late and she wasn’t anywhere to be found. I blame myself. If I’d gone earlier, if I’d found her first, taken the shoes back, she might still be alive.”
“You mean by the time you arrived she was already . . .”
“Dead? I don’t know. I have no idea what time she was murdered and I don’t want to know. I keep imagining her in the Adirondack chair with her legs stretched out, barefoot.”
“So you’ve never . . .” I said.
“Never saw the shoes. No. Never saw her. I only know about where she was found from listening to the news. I never saw the so-called copies of the shoes either. All I’ve seen is the picture of them in the magazine. You, Rita, you’re the only one who’s been involved in both pairs of shoes—the real ones and the copies. So which was Marsha wearing tonight?” She grasped my wrist and held me tight. So tight I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic. She was desperate for answers. I was just desperate. After a whole evening of being charming, Dolce was finally cracking. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lower lip trembling, her grip tightened. My fingers were numb.
“I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I could. “This is the second time I’ve seen Marsha in those shoes. The first time I was sure those were the ones. But now . . .” I shook my head and jerked my arm away from Dolce. I was a fashionista. I studied clothes, jewelry, shoes and accessories for fun and for my livelihood. I was proud of my knowledge of the latest trends. But when it counted, when someone’s life was at stake, it seemed I couldn’t tell the difference between fake shoes and real ones. My self-confidence was crumbling. I had to get out of there and put some space between me and my boss and those damn shoes.
“What’s wrong, Rita?” Dolce said, picking up on my fastfading composure. “Is it your ankle?”
“It does feel a little weak,” I said, rubbing my anklebone. Not to mention my wrist. “I’d better go home and ice it. It was a wonderful show. The interruption just made it more exciting. I venture to say everyone who was here tonight will be talking about it for some time to come.”
“Talk is cheap, Rita. Let’s hope they do more than talk.” She took a deep breath and made a visible effort to bring herself under control. When she finally spok
e her voice shook only slightly. “You know,” she said, “that’s what I love about you. You always put a positive spin on everything.”
She didn’t say, “Even murder,” but that’s what she was thinking. As for the detective, what was he thinking, I wondered as I rode home in the cab Dolce called for me. In the past she’d always paid the driver before I left, but not tonight. Tonight I had to pay myself. Was she really hurting for money? Or just hurting? I’d never seen her lose her cool like that.
I also wondered if it was possible Dolce had seen MarySue without her shoes. If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it to me before? Was I really the only one in the world who’d seen both pairs of shoes? If so, it was too bad I couldn’t tell the difference between them. Was that a testimony to the skill of Harrington Harris?
When I got home, I put in a call to Detective Wall. How could I not? I had to know what happened. Didn’t I deserve to know what had happened? After all I’d been through. Of course he didn’t answer, so I left a message asking for a follow-up. I hoped he wouldn’t give me the official line about how this was none of my business.
He didn’t call me back that night, and I had to go to work the next day. After the fashion show, it seemed the energy had been sucked out of the shop. The customers who’d been there last night were nowhere to be seen. I didn’t blame them. If I hadn’t had to work, I’d be home too, sipping lemonade on my patio and watching the sailboats bobbing in the Bay. And getting lost in a vampire novel, which was my favorite way of forgetting my troubles, which were minor compared to being bitten by a vampire and turning into one. Although Nick’s aunt seemed to do all right posing as a vampire. She had a good job and seemed to lead an interesting life.
By the end of the day I’d refreshed all the outfits we’d worn in the fashion show the night before and hung them back on hangers. I didn’t notice any uptick in sales thanks to the fashion show; in fact, there was a decided slump, but you never know what the future might bring. I still hadn’t heard from Jack Wall, and Dolce hadn’t heard from Harrington or Patricia even though she’d tried repeatedly to call them. We speculated that they were both locked up or they were out on bail or it was a big mistake and Jack Wall apologized profusely and gave them complimentary tickets to the Policeman’s Ball.
“Any plans for tonight?” Dolce asked me as I got ready to leave at five. Since there was no one in the shop but us, I knew she wouldn’t ask me to stay late, and I didn’t see how I could face another minute pretending all was well.
“No, actually not. I have a date to go to Alcatraz tomorrow with Dr. Jonathan. But tonight it’s just me and some reruns of The Young Doctors I TiVo-ed.”
She nodded as if she felt terrible that someone my age would have to spend Saturday night watching a dated Australian soap opera where the sexy doctors flirt and cure patients at the same time. Maybe she thought I hoped it would give me an insight into the life of sexy Dr. Jonathan Rhodes.
As for Dolce, she’d acted more or less normal today, but I was sure she was just as tired as she looked. “What about you?” I asked.
“I’m going to do a little bookkeeping in my office. I’ve had to let our accountant go. No reason I can’t handle it myself. It’s not like we’re taking in thousands every day.”
I frowned. “Business is down, isn’t it?” I asked.
She nodded sadly. “Don’t worry about it,” she told me. “We’ll pull out of it. On second thought, I might just go to bed and not get up until Monday. I’ll have the Sunday papers delivered along with Chinese food from the Grand Palace.”
“Good for you,” I said. “You deserve to be pampered after what you’ve been through.”
“What we’ve all been through,” she said with a weak smile. “I wish I’d never seen those silver shoes.”
Puzzled, I said, “But you didn’t.”
“I mean I wish I’d never heard of them. Never ordered them, never sent you to pick them up.”
“If I hadn’t, MarySue would be alive today,” I mused.
“Are you sure she isn’t?” Dolce said, her gaze somewhere far away. “There are times when I feel her presence, hear her voice saying, ‘I have to have those shoes.’ ”
As for me, I could almost hear Dolce’s voice saying she’d get the shoes back . . . “If I have to hunt her down.” Is that what she did? Is that why she went to the Benefit?
“Get some rest,” I told her, and then I hurried down the front steps without a backward glance. I had planned on going straight home to rest and recuperate, but an evening at home suddenly seemed dull and boring.
I walked down the street. The bars were filling up with people my age. The restaurants had lines waiting outside. I could stop in for a drink or dinner. But the usual activities of swinging singles, like flirting and hooking up, didn’t hold much attraction. Then I remembered Detective Wall said he served dinner to the homeless at Saint Anthony’s Dining Room on Saturday nights.
I could have taken the bus, but when a cab pulled up in front of a popular hangout and some of the beautiful people got out, I got in and gave the name of the famous church in the Tenderloin, one of San Francisco’s worst neighborhoods. I’d avoided the area since I arrived in town thanks to Dolce’s warnings that it was full of drug dealers, addicts, prostitutes and other lowlifes, but it was time to step out of my comfort zone and see how people who didn’t wear Gucci, Pucci or Ralph Lauren lived.
Thirteen
Saint Anthony’s was more than a church. It was a school, a job training center, a nursery, a homeless shelter, a health care facility and a cafeteria. I saw the line for the cafeteria snaking around the block the minute I got out of the cab. I went to a side entrance and told a woman at the door I was there to volunteer.
“Are you with the Sons of Norway Lodge contingent?”
“Are they serving dinner?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look as if to say, “You don’t look the least bit Nordic, and if you didn’t know they were serving dinner, then you probably aren’t with them.”
“I mean I wasn’t sure if it was lunch or dinner. Actually I’m volunteering with the police department.”
She studied a list in her hand.
“Detective Jack Wall,” I said. “He should be here.”
“Is he expecting you?” she asked.
“He always needs help,” I said. That much was true. Whether I could help him or he could help me remained to be seen. “In any case, I’m a whiz at scooping mashed potatoes.” Surely mashed potatoes would be on the menu, wouldn’t they? At least I hoped so.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Pick up your apron in the closet and your hairnet.”
“Got it,” I said and hurried by before she could stop me. By following another woman, I found the closet and an apron and a hairnet. Now all I needed was to find Detective Wall. To say that he was surprised to see me behind the steam table was putting it mildly. Still he was not one to display his emotions, so he just nodded when I squeezed in between him and a large burly fellow whose name tag said “Tim” and who seemed to be in charge of mixed vegetables.
“Are you new?” Tim asked with a friendly smile.
“First time tonight,” I said, tying my apron around my waist. “I hope I won’t spill anything.”
“What are you doing here?” Jack Wall muttered under his breath. “What’s in it for you?”
“Why does anyone volunteer? I came to help out. Is that so hard to believe? That I’d do something useful besides dress rich women. I could ask you the same thing. Is this part of your job?” I took a tray and heaped a pile of potatoes on it. I smiled at the woman across the counter, and she thanked me.
“I like to keep an eye on my parolees,” he said under his breath.
“Point them out. I’ll give them an extra scoop,” I said.
“I thought I told you not to meddle in official business.”
“I’m not. I’m simply . . .”
“You’re not simply anything.”
I bit
my lip. How could I answer that? “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Not now,” he said.
I wanted to show him I was not only patient but also sincere about doing a good job, whether selling women’s clothes and accessories or feeding the hungry, so I paid attention to the potatoes and I even went back to the kitchen to refill the tray when we ran out. Everyone in the kitchen was friendly, and the customers, if you could call them that, were so grateful I considered signing up for a weekly slot. I asked myself if it had anything to do with the proximity of the sexy cop working next to me, but I couldn’t be sure of my motives. Not until this Jensen case was over. Then maybe I’d be able to think clearly and I’d have no reason to see Jack Wall unless one of us wanted to make an effort and admit it had nothing to do with either of our jobs.
“You can’t be surprised I want to talk to you,” I said when there was a brief break in the line of people waiting for food.
“I’m not surprised at anything you do,” he said. “And I can’t promise to tell you anything you want to know.”
“But you don’t even know what I want to know,” I protested.
“I can guess,” he said with a sideways glance in my direction.
“How long is this shift?” I asked the nice man on the other side, who was much more outgoing and friendly both to me and to the eaters.
“Hour and a half,” he said. “First timer?”
I smiled and nodded. “But not the last. It’s a great place, and the food looks good.”
“It is. You see people coming back for seconds.”
“Is that allowed?” I asked.
“It is when I’m serving beef stroganoff,” he said with a smile. “Some of us are going out for burgers afterward. Care to join us?”
I glanced over at Jack, who frowned, and I told Tim I had other plans tonight. At least I hoped I did. If Jack bailed on me, I’d be seriously annoyed. Okay, he didn’t want to tell me anything, but he couldn’t just walk out of my fashion show with three customers and not tell me what happened.
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