Died With a Bow

by Grace Carroll

  “Your doctor? No kidding. Doesn’t matter. I got carried away. I can’t go. My boyfriend would kill me.”

  “Geoffrey?” I said.

  She laughed. Her perfect white teeth gleamed in the softly lit ladies’ lounge. “Yeah, yeah, Geoffrey.” She reached into her hot pink satin clutch and pulled out her winning bid. “Here, you take it.”

  I stood there openmouthed while she pressed the ticket in my hand. Then she smiled briefly, said, “Have fun,” and walked out.

  “Wait,” I said, “I can’t take this.” But she was gone.

  I put the ticket down and splashed cold water on my face. Did Vienna just give me her winning bid for a date with my doctor? Because her boyfriend would “kill” her if she went? Or had those two glasses of champagne I’d drunk during dinner affected my brain? I picked up the ticket and stood there staring at it, feeling numb all over. I should have left, but who knew there was someone in the other stall who’d heard the whole bizarre exchange? The door opened and out walked Frances Martin, a customer I knew from the store.

  “Was that Vienna Fairchild just now?” she said, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  I nodded.

  Frances looked at the ticket I held in my hand and said, “I can’t believe she gave you her date. Didn’t she just spend thousands on it?”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was lucky to manage a smile, as if I couldn’t believe it either, then I walked out. And almost bumped into Dolce. I wondered if she’d seen Vienna or just missed her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, putting her hand on my arm. I didn’t know how I looked, probably dazed and disoriented.

  “Fine, but I think I’ll head out. It was a wonderful evening,” I lied. “I had a fabulous time. Thank you so much for inviting me.” I wanted to say something about the pilot, but I didn’t want to jinx it, so I said nothing except, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  She nodded and before I could escape out the front door of the hotel, she said, “I meant to ask you. What did you think of Vienna’s dress?”

  I hesitated. Had Dolce seen Vienna when she exited the ladies’ room or not? I almost mentioned the necklace but decided to pretend I hadn’t had that close-up exchange with Vienna just now.

  “Sensational. Where did she get it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I could tell Dolce was hurt she hadn’t worn something from the boutique, but I pretended I wasn’t aware of the slight.

  “Who was the man she bid on?” Dolce asked.

  What could I say? “He’s my doctor and she just handed over her date to me”? Or, “He’s the man who asked me to bid on him but I didn’t, and anyway she just gave me her ticket”? Or, “Isn’t it nice she has enough money to contribute to the cause?” Instead, I just shrugged, gave her a hug and walked out into the cool night air where I caught a taxi.

  When I got home, I carefully hung my dress on the flexible hanger it came on. Dolce had ordered the hangers in assorted colors because you could bend them up to hold strappy dresses in place or bend them down for sweaters or knits so they’d hold their shape and you didn’t end up with bulging shoulders. They were strong but flexible, which reminded me of Nick Petrescu, the only man I knew who hadn’t been at the auction tonight. He was probably at home eating ciorba de burta with the tinkling-laugh woman. He didn’t need me. Nobody needed me. It sounded pathetic, but it was true. Dolce used to need me, then Vienna showed up, and now my boss had a potential former-pilot boyfriend. I couldn’t be happier for her.

  It was time for me to face the future. A future on my own. From now on I would devote myself to self-improvement. Instead of depending on men to take me places and supply me with food and entertainment, I would become self-sufficient. I didn’t need a date to have cultural, body-building or gourmet experiences. I would volunteer to usher at the opera and save hundreds on expensive tickets. Not that I’d ever bought an expensive ticket to the opera, but now I’d go for free. I’d meet a different crowd. I wouldn’t limit myself to self-centered women.

  I’d meet new people. Those who were not only fashionable but into culture and well-heeled as well. Then I’d step up my exercise program. I’d move beyond workouts at the pool, perhaps graduate to doing an open-water swim across the Bay to Alcatraz. Besides the cooking classes I was going to take, I’d watch cooking shows on the Food Network for inspiration.

  Speaking of being inspired, right in front of me every single day was a woman who’d created a life for herself without depending on anyone. Dolce had taken an old Victorian house, remodeled it and turned it into a shop and a home above the shop. She’d turned a lifelong interest in fashion into a full-time job. She was her own boss. She’d never been married, and she didn’t have any regrets that I knew of. She may have had lovers in the past. If so, she never talked about them. She knew everyone in town, and everyone knew her. I’d just found out that the one and only person she was on the outs with had been banished from the store and most probably had regretted it every day, since everyone who was anyone shopped at Dolce’s.

  By going through three boxes of clothes in my bedroom that I hadn’t yet unpacked since moving in, I finally found a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of flannel drawstring pants to wear and made myself a steaming cup of instant Mexican hot chocolate. I’d been given a box of ready-mix with a set of cups as a housewarming gift.

  I promised myself that tomorrow I would definitely unpack and start my new life as an independent woman. I would make my own hot chocolate mix with homemade marshmallows. Sipping a comforting hot beverage at my kitchen counter, I tried to forget the sight of my doctor on the auction block.

  I was just lucky I hadn’t had to confront the woman who’d bid on Jack and hear her go on about how much she’d paid for a date with a hot cop. If I ever saw him again, I would definitely tweak him about dating a socialite. But I doubted I’d ever see him again unless I ate every meal at the Vietnamese restaurant from now until he realized I was stalking him and he found a new hangout.

  Before I went to bed, I stuck the winning ticket Vienna had given me to the mirror. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be or what it was supposed to be. I didn’t want any men in my life to accuse me of chasing them, so I’d have to ask Vienna if it was really okay for me to use it as it was intended, for a date with Jonathan. If I didn’t, would it be weird? Would the donor wonder what happened? Would Jonathan wonder why his date hadn’t contacted him? Would he be hurt or relieved? And would Jonathan wonder why I hadn’t bid on him as I’d promised?

  Sunday morning I decided to take my dress back to Dolce’s rather than wait until Monday. I didn’t want it hanging in my tiny apartment reminding me of last evening. I wanted to forget the whole scene.

  Dolce hadn’t said the dress was a loaner, but that’s what I assumed. In any case, I had nowhere else to wear it and it was still in mint condition. Dolce would no doubt have it cleaned and sell it as a sample. So I folded it up with tissue paper around it and put it in a box. I dressed in my top-of-the-line jeans from France and layered a belted tunic over a long-sleeved sweater that made me feel warm and chic. Then I slid my feet into a pair of lightweight green Dakota slip-ons.

  I hoped to see Dolce at the shop, since she lived upstairs, and maybe get the skinny on what happened after I left last night. If she wanted to confide in me, I’d be all ears, although our usual roles were reversed: she was the one with the social life, and I was the one who went home early, alone. I hoped the pilot was as good as he looked. She deserved some excitement in her life.

  After I got rid of the dress and, hopefully, connected with her, I’d go to my health club and get a workout with the coach in the pool to prepare for my ocean swim. And then I’d come back and unpack all these cardboard boxes, and with a few odds and ends from Ikea, I’d turn this apartment into a charming small abode that would feel more like a home. I was full of righteous energy. I knew I had to act fast before I sank into a funk and started asking myself, What’s th
e use?

  I got on the bus with my Speedo classic double-cross-back suit tucked into a yellow Stella McCartney swim bag with a waterproof compartment for a cell phone or whatever, and the cardboard suit box containing the dress under my arm. I loved the dress, I really did, but what good did it do me if no one admired me in it except Dolce?

  I stood in front of the old Victorian house Dolce had turned into a boutique and looked up at the top-floor window under the eaves, hoping to catch Dolce’s eye, but I didn’t see anything moving. Was it possible she hadn’t come home last night? Maybe she’d reserved a room at the hotel so she wouldn’t have to come home alone late.

  I walked up the steps, set my bag and my box on the porch and rang the bell even though I had a key of my own. I didn’t want to surprise her or catch her at an awkward moment. Maybe I should have called first. After waiting a few minutes, I finally got my key from the bottom of my big black leather bag. I put the key in the lock and leaned against the door. To my surprise, it swung open before I’d turned the key. I almost fell into the foyer.

  “Dolce?” I called so as not to startle her into calling the security people. “It’s me.”

  No sound. Nothing. Of course, she would be upstairs and not have heard me. Maybe I should just leave the dress and respect her privacy. I gathered up my stuff and took a few steps inside, closing the door behind me. The ridged rubber soles of my slip-ons made no sound as I walked in. That’s when I saw her.

  Vienna. She was lying facedown in the entry to the great room. I knew it was her by the huge pink bow on the back of her dress.

  “Vienna,” I said, stopping abruptly just a few feet away. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

  What a dumb thing to say. If she was okay, why was she lying there like that? She was not okay. I kneeled down next to her and realized she was not breathing. My heart started hammering. She must have fallen and hurt herself. Badly. I put my hands on her bare shoulders and turned her face to one side. She felt cold. There were ugly red marks on her neck. I stood up and screamed. My voice echoed against the walls, but no one came. No one heard me. My eyes filled with tears. I took my phone out of my bag and called 911. I told myself to stay calm. But it was hard when my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. The dispatcher asked me a lot of questions. Like what was the nature of the emergency, my phone number, the address and so on. I finally finished and hung up.

  I looked around. I wished I could do something for Vienna, but I was sure she was dead. And I probably shouldn’t have touched her body at all. I wanted to leave, but the dispatcher had told me not to depart the scene. I wondered where Dolce was. I tried her cell phone, but she didn’t answer.

  So I picked up a bunch of hangers and hung them neatly on the clothes rack, knowing Dolce would want me to. She’d hate to have strangers see the boutique in such a mess. One hanger was twisted so badly I couldn’t straighten it. After I hung my dress up, I finally went outside and sat on the front step, put my head between my knees and started shaking. It seemed like it took forever for someone to come.

  They came in three or four cars, sirens screaming, and parked illegally in the no-parking zone in front of the shop. The men ran up the steps in their uniforms. San Francisco’s finest.

  “You’re Rita Jewel?” the first stocky guy said after taking the steps two at a time.

  I nodded. “I’m the one who called you. She’s in there. Vienna.”

  He said, “Don’t go anywhere,” which wasn’t necessary because when I tried to stand, my legs were trembling so violently I collapsed back down on the steps. I swiveled my body around to watch as they went through the front door and into the foyer. That’s all I could see except for the camera flash going off. If you have to be photographed, it’s good to be wearing a designer dress. I knew Vienna would be glad she was wearing it, especially if her photo appeared in the newspaper, which it probably would. After all, she was a socialite’s daughter and her death was suspicious to say the least.

  I finally got up and walked gingerly into the foyer.

  “Hold it,” a cop whose name tag said “Rowley” announced with his arm stretched out in front of me. “Stand back.”

  I craned my neck to look around him. “How is she?” I asked hopefully. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t dead. She was just unconscious.

  “Dead,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Rita Jewel, I work here.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “No, no, I just came to return a dress, and then I saw Vienna there on the floor, so I called you.” I was breathing hard and hoping he wouldn’t have any more questions. I wanted to get out of there. I turned to go.

  “How’d you get in?” he asked.

  “The door was unlocked, but I have a key. I work here,” I repeated.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “Home.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Rowley said. “Sit down. We’ve got some questions for you. First one, who is the deceased? Can you ID her?”

  “Her name is Vienna Fairchild. She works here too.”

  “Okay. Wait outside.” He shoved one of Dolce’s folding chairs toward me, and I pushed it outside onto the small front porch and sat there, taking big gulps of fresh air. In the background I heard the cop talking to someone on his phone.

  “Says she works here. Who?…Yeah, that’s her. How did you know? Okay. Okay.”

  A few minutes later he came outside. “Don’t go anywhere. The detective on the case wants to talk to you.”

  Uh-oh, by “detective” did he mean Jack? By “talk” did he mean on the phone? Maybe that was a good thing. Jack would say, “Rita is a smart girl. She can help us find out who did this. She’s an amazing detective herself for an amateur. I want to talk to her.” Of course he would say that.

  I looked at the round-faced cop. Now what?

  “Anyone else here?” he asked.

  “My boss Dolce lives here.” I looked up at the ceiling as if he’d be able to see through it to her apartment upstairs. “She has an office at the back of the shop. But I don’t think she’s there. She might be upstairs where she lives.”

  “I’ll check it out. You come with me. Chief says not to let you out of my sight. You lead the way. Don’t touch anything.”

  “But I already touched…” I’d touched everything—the hanger, Vienna, her clothes. What did he mean by not to let me out of his sight? Why was that? Surely Jack didn’t think…No, he couldn’t. I walked through the shop, eyes straight ahead. I didn’t want to see Vienna’s body again, but I didn’t need to worry, as it was now covered with a sheet. Rowley, the cop, came with me, and when we got to Dolce’s office, I used my key to unlock the door. We went in. Since the whole world seemed to be upside down, I almost expected the place to be trashed. But everything in the office was just as we’d left it on Saturday. I sat down and used her Rolodex to find some numbers for him, like Vienna’s next of kin.

  “I should try calling my boss again,” I said. “She’ll want to know what’s happened.”

  Instead, he took her number and called her. Like me, he got no answer, so he left a message that there’d been an accident in her shop and asked her to contact him as soon as possible. Then he gave his phone number and hung up.

  “You say she lives upstairs?” he asked.

  “Yes, but she’s not there or she would have come down.”

  “Unless she didn’t hear us,” he said.

  “You’d have to be deaf not to hear all this,” I said. Or dead. I started to shake again.

  Both Rowley and I jumped up at the same time. Was he thinking what I was thinking? That my boss had also been murdered? Anxiously I followed the lawman up the stairs to Dolce’s apartment above the shop. Her door was locked, but the cop pulled an enormous key ring from his pocket and after a few tries, he unlocked the door. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until we’d made a tour of Dolce’s place and found no evidence of foul play. In fact, it looked like no one lived there. Tha
t’s how perfect it was, every cushion, every pillow, every towel in place.

  Strangely, in the year I’d worked there, I’d never been upstairs before, so I took it all in and despite my ragged nerves, I couldn’t help admiring her exquisite taste. No surprise there. We walked through the living room with its dramatic deep magenta walls and feminine floral print wing chairs on two sides of a faux fireplace.

  For her bedroom Dolce had chosen a restful pale gray color for the walls—November Skies from Benjamin Moore if I wasn’t mistaken. The bed was West Elm, which I recognized from their catalog, and the ultrasmooth linens that were guaranteed to soften with laundering and use were from Williams-Sonoma Home. I knew because they were just what I’d always wanted. Maybe if I didn’t always blow my salary on clothes, I could upgrade my home furnishings. Back to the bed. It was covered with an Italian wool and cashmere blanket that begged to be touched. If I’d been alone, but I wasn’t. It was clear no one had slept in it last night. That’s what the cop said, and I had to agree.

  “Know where your boss is?” he asked after we’d both peered into Dolce’s walk-in closet where her entire wardrobe was organized by season and color. I don’t know if he was impressed, but I was.

  I tore my gaze from the lavishly patterned window shade in her bedroom and shook my head. “I haven’t seen her since last night. We went to a charity auction thing at the Palace Hotel. I left early.”

  He asked me what time and where I’d gone afterward and how I got home. I didn’t like the way he took notes. Who did he think I was, Vienna’s killer? It was such a ridiculous idea I almost laughed out loud, but I was afraid I’d get hysterical and wouldn’t be able to stop.

  I was relieved when we moved on to the kitchen. Rowley was wearing rubber gloves, and again he cautioned me not to touch anything. As if Dolce and her apartment had anything to do with Vienna. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

  Dolce’s kitchen was the biggest surprise. I’d never heard her mention cooking for herself or for anyone else. She ate out or ordered in as often as I did, and yet she had a gourmet kitchen that had obviously been remodeled, since this house was built before the 1906 earthquake. It was small but ultramodern, with high-gloss off-white cabinets and stainless steel appliances, and just like the rest of the place, it looked untouched by human hands. Had Dolce cleaned up the place for some reason, or was it always like this? I reached up to open a cabinet, curious to see what kind of dinnerware she had, but the policeman reached out and smartly tapped my arm.