“Yeah, of course. We went to San Francisco Prep together. When she came back to town, she looked me up.”
“You came to pick her up from the store, didn’t you, in your…Lotus?”
He shook his head. “Do I look like a drive a Lotus?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick ambling toward us across the grass. He would be so confused, and I didn’t want to go into the whole long story. Not now. Not ever really.
I didn’t answer his question about his looking like he drove a Lotus. I wasn’t very knowledgeable about cars. I decided to cut to the chase.
“If you didn’t kill Vienna, who did?” I asked breathlessly as Nick drew closer.
“Hah. That’s what everyone wants to know. Could be any number of people. Sure it wasn’t you?” he asked.
I shook my head vehemently.
“She wasn’t exactly the most popular girl at our school. For one thing, she cheated on tests and she cheated on her boyfriends, but somehow she never got caught. There were people out to get her. To pay her back.”
This was news to me. Would it be news to Jack? “So did you tell this to the police?” I asked.
Before he answered, Nick joined us. “Hello,” Nick said with a curious glance at the newcomer.
“Nick, this is Emery, a friend of a friend. Just stopped by to say hello.”
Nick, who was instilled with the Romanian spirit of hospitality and generosity, shook his hand and refilled Emery’s cup.
“So, uh, would you be willing to share your information with others?” I asked, meaning the police.
“No way,” he said. “That would be inconvenient. No names. I’ve got to live in this town. If someone I know did anything wrong and he knows I ratted him out, I could be next. So don’t go telling them I know anything.”
Was he kidding? Was he really afraid he’d be killed like Vienna was? On a sunny day having a picnic and drinking Romanian wine, it didn’t seem possible.
He glanced at Nick. “Who’s he?”
“Sorry, I should have introduced you. Meet Nick Petrescu. He’s a Romanian gymnast. He speaks very good English.”
“Okay,” Emery said with a brief nod to Nick as he nimbly got to his feet. He turned to me. “You got my message, I got yours. This is it.”
“Wait,” I said. “Give me your number. In case I need to talk to you.”
As I reached in my bag for a pen, he called out some numbers, which I quickly jotted down on a scrap of paper Nick handed me. The more I saw Nick, the better I liked him. He didn’t accuse me of anything. Didn’t ask me to do anything. He provided me with food, and he even treated this guy politely, a guy whom he didn’t even know.
When Nick brought out a thermos of hot coffee and a bag of cornulete, crisp Romanian cookies rolled in cinnamon and sugar, I was so content I’d almost forgotten my worries. As long as no one else came riding by on a bicycle to tell me he did not kill Vienna, I would call it a perfect day.
Maybe it was because I so badly needed a break from work and from everyone who was connected to the shop. Or maybe it was just because Nick was a kind and caring friend. Here he was suffering from a torn tendon and yet he’d been able to put together this wonderful lunch and had even suggested this historic spot, though he was far from being a native. It made me want to visit Romania with someone like him for a guide.
I wondered what my detective friend would think if I told him I was leaving for Romania. Would he put out a warrant for my arrest? Put me under shop or house arrest? Take my passport, which I didn’t have, to prevent me from leaving the country? Since I didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket to Bucharest, I decided to hold off and just pretend I was there. Sitting on the grass gazing at the Corinthian columns of the Palace mirrored in the lagoon, it was almost like being in Europe, I thought, though I wasn’t sure, since I’d never been there. Why else would Nick have chosen this spot for our picnic? Surely because he felt at home here. I was feeling so much at home myself I hated to get on the bus and go back to work. I finished my coffee, looked at my watch and told Nick I had to leave.
“Thank you so much for the picnic lunch. It was delicious. Now it’s my turn to invite you.”
He smiled widely. Probably thinking: It’s about time Rita repaid me for all I’ve done for her. And me with my torn tendon.
“I’m going to have a dinner party,” I said. “Uh, next Sunday night.” Thinking fast, I knew I was busy Saturday night, but I planned to have all day Sunday to prepare the salad and the fish in the bag. “I hope you can come. I’ve taken a cooking class, and I want to show off what I’ve learned.”
“How nice that will be,” he exclaimed. “You are living in the same place?”
Nick had visited me when I hurt my ankle and even then he’d supplied food for me.
“Same address, but I’ve moved upstairs to a smaller apartment.” It was so much smaller I was wondering how to fit everyone in because I intended to invite everyone I owed. Never mind. I’d worry about that later.
Nick walked me to the bus stop. He was limping, but he assured me he’d improved a lot since his accident on the high bar.
“I hope you had a friend or someone to help you out besides your aunt Meera.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I wondered if he was going to mention the Romanian woman I’d overheard speaking to him while I was standing outside his apartment.
“Yes, other people have been kind to take care of me,” he said at last. But no names were mentioned. It was none of my business really.
I thanked him again and waved good-bye from the bus stop.
While on the bus I called Jonathan and left a message inviting him to my dinner. I’d be seeing him on Saturday night, but I wanted to give him enough notice so he could find a substitute if he was on the ER schedule for Sunday.
Eleven
When I got back to Dolce’s, I hurried inside, worried I’d taken advantage of my boss’s good nature by dragging out this lunch date. The place was crowded with customers, which made me feel guilty I hadn’t been here to help. Dolce looked overwhelmed as she handed a slip dress to a slim twenty-something I’d never seen before and a preppy shirt to someone else at the same time.
I immediately went into my sales mode, helping our customers two and three at a time, finding pieces to mix and match. A silk shirt here, some funky shoes there, a girly skirt and a tuxedo jacket to pull it all together.
I felt like I had a new lease on life. So that’s all I’d needed—a break from the everyday stress of being a murder suspect. I’d even forgotten about Emery, glad he hadn’t ruined my picnic with Nick. How tactful of Nick not to ask me any questions about him, like who he was or what he was talking about.
Smiling at the thought, I finished helping Sharon, one of our good customers, find the right leather handbag to go with her new off-white pants outfit. When she gasped at the prices, I reminded her, “A leather bag is an investment that you will keep forever.” But I did give her a choice between one in faux leather and a real leather satchel. Naturally she chose the satchel.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young woman come in the front door, the same woman I’d seen at the funeral home wearing sparkly bracelets that had belonged to Vienna.
“Can I help you?” I said, rushing to the foyer where she stood looking a little lost.
“I’m Danielle, Vienna’s roommate,” she said.
What was she doing here? She couldn’t be shopping, could she, because she sure didn’t fit in with the typical Dolce clientele: rich, married women who wore real jewelry and belonged to the social set. Even in the designer clothes she wore, which I recognized as Vienna’s. Did Dolce know who she was? I hoped she wouldn’t come in and make a scene. I remembered she had a temper.
“I’m here to pick up Vienna’s stuff,” she said.
“What stuff?” I asked.
“You know. Whatever she left here.”
“Did her parents send you?”
“
Nobody sent me. Look,” she said, fixing me with a steely stare, “Vienna skipped out without paying the rent. She owes me.”
“I hardly think being murdered qualifies as skipping out,” I said tersely.
“How do you know she was murdered?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips. “What, was there a bullet hole in her head? Maybe she had a heart attack.”
A heart attack? I only wished it was that simple. I shuddered at the thought of the image I’d seen that morning. Just days ago. No wonder I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Seeing Vienna’s prostrate form on the floor with those marks around her neck had been bad enough; now I was being asked to verify her murder, by her rude roommate no less? It was more than I could take. Why had I even bothered to talk to this woman?
“I’m only going by what the police told me,” I said stiffly. “I’m sure they’d be glad to explain it to you. Let me give you the card from the detective on the case. You can call him.”
“Detective Wall?” she said. “I already saw him. And I told him what I thought.”
“Does he know you’re wearing Vienna’s clothes?” I asked, deliberately eyeing her coat and shoes.
She flushed. So I was right.
“He didn’t ask me if I was wearing her clothes. What difference does it make if I wear them or some homeless person wears them, which is what her parents would do with them, donate them to a shelter. So if she left anything here, like the above-the-knee suede boots she bought or her designer sunglasses, give them to me. I’ll appreciate them more than anyone else. And like I said, Vienna didn’t pay the rent up front, so she owes me. Either I take her clothes or I get some money.”
“Maybe if you tell her father…” I suggested.
“I thought about it, but I don’t want to bother him right now. Instead, I’ll just take whatever I can get here. So what about your boss? Vienna said she’d given her a bunch of stuff. Where is it?”
Dolce had given Vienna a bunch of stuff? Like what, I wondered. And where was it?
“How should I know?” I asked. “How do you know Vienna anyway? Did you go to San Francisco Prep with her?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t in her crowd. She was a preppie. Always looked like she should be on the cover of a Ralph Lauren magazine. Then she went away to school and she changed her style.” She paused and looked around the store. “Perfect place for her to work, if you can call waiting on rich spoiled women work.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I work at home,” she said.
I hadn’t asked her where she worked, I’d asked her what she did. I tried again. “How convenient,” I said. “What kind of work is it?”
“I’m a writer.”
“I love to read,” I said. “Maybe I’ve read some of your books.” Which wasn’t likely unless she wrote paranormal romances where mortals fall in love with vampires. Because that was my reading material of choice. Nothing too heavy or challenging.
“I don’t write books,” she said. “I write the fortunes for fortune cookies.”
“I always wondered who wrote them. In fact, I got one once I didn’t understand. Maybe you wrote it.” It was so complicated I couldn’t remember it. “Something about not stepping in the same stream twice.”
“That wasn’t mine. Mine are easy to understand. Like, ‘A golden egg of opportunity falls into your lap this month.’”
I just stared at her. What a great job, I thought. How hard could it be to come up with that kind of thing? “I thought you had to be Chinese to write those.”
“Some people are. I’m not. Being a professional writer is a great job. You get to work at home. You can wear a pair of sweats all day. But it doesn’t pay that well. And there’s no job security. One day they say your fortunes aren’t any good anymore. They’re tired or boring or repetitious, or they hire someone who’s cheaper. I have good taste. I love champagne, but I can only afford beer. I admit I was jealous of Vienna’s clothes and her rich parents. What did she do to deserve what she got?”
“You’re not the only one who felt that way,” I said. “Someone else resented her. Someone killed her.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” she said.
I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. It seemed like too many people were eager to declare their innocence. But I knew how she felt. I was one of those people.
“If you wear sweatpants all day, why do you want Vienna’s clothes? They’re on the cutting edge. You can’t even wear them to the Safeway or you’d be stared at.”
“I’ll worry about where to wear them when I get them,” Danielle said in her snippy way. Then she walked past me into the great room. Fortunately both Dolce and her customers were busy looking at some new jewelry we’d recently gotten in. Danielle looked around from the racks of formal dresses to the shelves stacked with scarves.
“No wonder Vienna wanted to work here. All this great stuff. I didn’t think she needed the money because she could just ask Daddy.”
“I thought everyone at Prep was rich,” I said. I could hear the jealousy in Danielle’s voice. However she denied killing her roommate, she would have to admit jealousy was a common motive for murder.
“Most everyone was rich,” she said. “But some of us were on scholarship. Some of us were jocks, some were nerds, some were geeks.”
I noted she didn’t say which group she belonged to. From looking at her, I couldn’t tell. All I knew for sure was that she was trying to get something for nothing.
“Listen,” I said when I saw Dolce giving Danielle a curious look, no doubt wondering who the hell Rita was talking to for so long when she should be helping other customers. “I’ll ask my boss if Vienna left anything behind and I’ll call you.”
Danielle seemed torn between going or staying. Finally she said she’d call Dolce later. She’d just opened the door when I thought of something. I rushed over and asked quietly, “Did you see the necklace Vienna was wearing the night of the big benefit, the night she was murdered?”
“Was it made of diamonds and a huge pink stone?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Nope,” she said. “Never saw it.” Then she turned and left. I just stood there staring at the door she’d just walked out of. What else could I do, rush out after her and demand an explanation?
“Who was that woman in the trench coat?” Dolce asked me later when she’d closed up.
“Vienna’s roommate, Danielle. Did you recognize the coat?”
Dolce turned pale. “Oh, no, that was Vienna’s coat. What did she want?”
“You won’t believe this, but she wanted any clothes that Vienna left here. I didn’t say anything because I thought you wouldn’t want to deal with her at this point. Especially since she wanted something from you. She thinks she deserves the clothes because Vienna was behind in the rent. In fact, I gather Vienna didn’t pay any rent, so Danielle thinks she’s been stiffed.”
“So she wants a dead girl’s clothes,” Dolce said with a shiver. “Don’t you think that’s kind of macabre?”
I nodded. “I told her I’d ask you, just to get rid of her. I hope none of the customers heard what she was saying. They would have been disgusted with good reason.”
“Vienna did leave some clothes here. She picked out a few outfits, and she was going to collect them later.” Dolce blinked rapidly. I couldn’t stand it if she cried again. I hesitated about continuing the conversation, though I wanted to ask if Vienna had actually paid for the clothes. Or did Dolce give them to her? Or none of the above.
“I was wondering,” I said, propping one hand on the ornate door frame between the showroom and the alcove, “if that’s why Vienna came back here that night. To change clothes. Just to get out of her beautiful dress and into something more comfortable, more casual. Maybe a short flouncy skirt with a wool blend cardigan and a pair of Sorel boots. Knowing Vienna, she might add a sleek beret and a cozy scarf that can feel so good at night in the city. Does that make sense?”
&nbs
p; “But why not go home to change?” Dolce asked. “Where she’d have even more clothes to choose from?”
“Home being her apartment, the one she shared with Danielle? Maybe she didn’t feel at home there, and after speaking with Danielle just now, I can understand why she might not. You knew Vienna better than I did. Any idea how she felt about her roommate or why she came here that night?”
I probably should have asked Dolce sooner, but it was kind of forbidden, the subject of Vienna’s murder. Dolce really cared about Vienna and maybe even felt partly responsible for it, since it happened here.
“All I know is that Vienna and her roommate were not close. I don’t even know if Vienna ever spent any time at that apartment,” Dolce said. “Still, I wouldn’t mind giving her Vienna’s clothes. There’s a leather jacket, so soft and thin it’s almost like a shirt, and a pair of faux suede booties that look Victorian, and a pair of polished knit sweatpants. I certainly don’t want them, and they should be worn by someone. They’re classy and expensive.”
Just like Vienna. Dolce didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what she thought. I wanted to know if Vienna had paid for the clothes, but I didn’t want to seem nosy. After all, that was between Vienna and Dolce. If Dolce wanted to give them away to someone else, paid or unpaid for, she should. I noticed Dolce hadn’t answered my question about why Vienna would have come here after the auction. Was she avoiding my question, or wasn’t it worth answering?
“What about you?” Dolce asked.
“Me, wear Vienna’s clothes?” I asked. “I couldn’t.” Even if she’d never worn them, it was too weird. Besides, we didn’t even remotely have the same taste.
“You’re right. Of course you couldn’t wear her things. You and Vienna were totally different. She had such an out-there fashion sense. Being older, you’re much more conservative.”
I didn’t know if I liked that description. It made me feel old and tired and out of touch. Was it possible I’d slipped into middle age without knowing it? Had it taken the arrival of a fresh new face to point out to everyone that I was a has-been?
Died With a Bow Page 14