The male co-anchor paused and then asked Amy, “The question is, would someone kill for a pair of shoes?”
“Well, Larry, it depends on the shoes. We have a photo of the shoes here, and you be the judge. To the best of our knowledge, these were custom, hand-spun silver stiletto heels.”
Larry gave an appreciative whistle. “Those must be worth a large chunk of change, Amy.”
“Indeed they are. I’ve done a little digging and found they were purchased at Dolce’s, the upscale Hayes Valley boutique owned by Dolce Loren. Ms. Loren is the niece of San Francisco native daughter Lauren Loren. Here they are in an old photo pictured in front of the landmark building before the elder Loren died a year ago. How many women at that Benefit were dressed and accessorized by Dolce, do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Larry confessed.
“Probably half of the guests,” Amy said. “I’m hoping to have an in-depth interview with Dolce Loren on our news program tonight. Stay tuned for more on this disturbing story.”
I turned down the volume when they moved on to another story, and stared at the screen without seeing anything. Homicide? Someone killed MarySue for her shoes? My boss Dolce interviewed on TV? What would she say?
Under the influence of my painkillers I unfortunately dozed off and on all day and missed the news. What had Dolce said? I woke up feeling empty. No wonder, I hadn’t eaten anything for hours, maybe days. I reached for the menu from a Cambodian restaurant in the Mission, knowing they delivered. Everything sounded good, especially my favorite, the tofu crepe stuffed with bean sprouts, ground pork and coconut smothered in a lemon-garlic sauce. Something we never had back in Columbus, I can tell you. The hostess in her charming Cambodian accent assured me it would be delivered within the hour.
I’d just hung up when the phone rang. I looked at the screen. Dolce!
“Rita, where are you?”
“I’m at home. I have a grade-one concussion and a sprained ankle. What’s happening? How was your interview?”
“Fine, fine. Rita, the police are here. They’re asking questions nonstop. It’s been awful. Now they want to know about you.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Is it regarding MarySue?”
“Yes. What were you doing at her house last night?”
“I . . . I went to get the shoes back.” No sense pretending I wasn’t there. Someone picked me up there and brought me to the hospital. But who? How did Dolce know about it?
“I told you not to.”
“I know, but I couldn’t let her get away with them.”
“Did you kill her?”
I gasped. “Of course not. How could you even ask?”
“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s the police. They need to talk to you. They’re on their way to your house.”
“What?” I shrieked. I dropped the phone and staggered to my feet. The police. At my house. On Sunday. Asking questions. What would I say? And more important, what would I wear?
Four
I hopped on one foot to my walk-in closet and flipped past a boxy red military-inspired jacket from Ralph Lauren that would look terrific over a feathered gown if I had one. But hardly appropriate for a police interrogation. I dug out a pair of shiny cocoa-colored leggings that were meant to be tucked into a pair of Gucci over-the-knee fringed boots. Or how about a pair of kitten heels? I shook my head. Not for a housebound invalid with a sprained ankle.
I briefly considered the olive green Theory dress from my latest buying spree, which just happened to occur while I was in my quasimilitary phase. “No, no,” I muttered and tossed it on top of the pile on my bed. Wrong, all wrong. What was I thinking? I was not the military type, no matter what I wore. And olive green would make me look even sicker than I was. On an ordinary day I wanted to be tough and vulnerable at the same time. Today I needed something to make me look pale, casual, and of course, innocent. But stylish too. In an understated way.
Denim? It was casual all right, and never out of style, but the Ralph Lauren jeans and the Gap shirt in my closet conveyed a kind of sloppiness. I tried tucking the shirt into the jeans, but the overall effect was way too preppy. I’d be arrested on the spot by the fashion police or the real ones for looking like I just got off my motorcycle after killing someone for her shoes.
Aha, there it was. Soft pants with a drawstring waist from Rebecca Taylor that I’d picked up at Neiman Marcus in their semiannual sale. Paired with a comfy knit tank, I had the look I wanted. Like I just tumbled out of my sickbed. Too ill to remember what happened the night MarySue was murdered but cooperative and helpful as possible to the authorities. I pulled my hair back in a casually messy updo, scrubbed my face and added a touch of mascara. A pair of cashmere socks completed my ensemble, and exhausted from all the preparation, I sank back onto the couch, waiting. And waiting. Wondering if my food would arrive before the gendarmes. Or simultaneously. Nervously I gnawed on a fingernail. Then I staggered to the freezer and replaced the peas with the regulation cold pack.
Finally two plainclothes detectives arrived at my door. I could see through the window one was young, one was older. One was short and one was tall. One was a woman, the other a man.
They rang the bell and I called “Come in.” I was determined not to move off the couch and to play the invalid role to the hilt.
“Ms. Jewel?” the tall man asked as he came through the door. “I’m Detective Jack Wall, San Francisco PD.” He and his partner Sylvia Ramirez both flashed their IDs. Actually, “plainclothes” was not the right word for what Detective Wall wore. I didn’t have to see the label to know he was sporting a Ralph Lauren two-button, single-breasted suit with a striped shirt and tie that shouted Wilkes Bashford, the guy who’d been dressing San Francisco men practically since the earthquake. How in hell did a public servant afford clothes like that? Looking so gorgeous, was he on his way to somewhere like a wedding or a funeral?
“I’m Rita Jewel,” I said. “Won’t you come in and sit down?” Aunt Grace would have been so proud hearing me in my gracious-hostess mode. “Tea, coffee?”
They both declined my offer of a beverage. No tea- or coffee-drinking allowed on the job, probably. Just as well since I was hardly up to brewing anything for them. Then Detective Ramirez, with her long curly hair and her pear-shaped figure wrapped in a long flowered skirt designed by Isaac Mizrahi for Liz Claiborne, looked around my living room. Her outfit was absolutely wrong for her body shape, which she would know if she ever read a fashion magazine, which she probably didn’t. Such a shame. Now if she’d been in uniform, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Detective Wall explained they were investigating the death of MarySue Jensen. I looked up at him and nodded. As if I sort of knew but didn’t really know much at all.
“You were acquainted with the deceased?” Detective Wall asked as he eased his long frame into the chair opposite the coffee table where I’d propped my foot, making sure my ACE bandage and cold pack were visible. I’m not sure he noticed. Instead, his gaze lingered on my soft, Balmain plain gray tank top I’d picked up on sale last month. I felt a shiver of awareness go up my spine. Was it the presence of the long arm of the law? Or was it the arrival of a bona fide sexy barracuda in my living room? Or was it just my medication that made my heart race?
I’d been in the city for months without meeting one attractive man. In the past two and a half days I’d met a gymnast, a doctor and now a cop. All in my target age bracket and all definitely worthy of a second glance. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course, this cop was made of steel and the gymnast was from another culture and the doctor might be unavailable and laden with med-school debt, but none of them was wearing a ring. It gets to be a habit, looking at ring fingers.
“MarySue—Mrs. Jensen, that is—was a customer at the boutique where I work.” I knew the rules from watching crime shows on TV. When interrogated, don’t ever say any more than you absolutely have to.
“A good customer?” he asked and crossed his legs. I had a glimpse of black
calf Stamford loafers.
“Yes, I mean she came in often and she appreciated fine jewelry and clothes. She had excellent taste. With her height she could wear anything and look great. French Connection bodysuit or a little dress by Missoni. If that’s what you mean,” I said. Now why did I go on and on about MarySue? Unnecessary information.
“What I mean is did she have trouble paying her bills?”
“You’d have to ask my boss Dolce,” I said primly. “I’m just a sales assistant.” I tried to look modest and humble. If that’s possible while wearing new high-waisted underwear.
“Tell us about her shoes,” Detective Wall said.
“Her shoes?” I repeated, sounding like a parrot.
“The shoes you picked up in Florida that she was wearing the night of her death,” said the short detective in the yellow cardigan that matched the flowers in her skirt.
“But I thought she wasn’t—”
“She wasn’t wearing them when she was found,” the tall, extremely well-dressed cop said. “That’s right. How did you know that?”
I froze. Wasn’t I supposed to know that? “I heard someone say so. A nurse in the hospital who was there when she was brought in. Plus I heard it on the news. Why, is it a secret?”
He ignored my question. Instead the female detective jumped in. “So you yourself just happened to be in the same hospital when Ms. Jensen was brought in?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm, her dark eyes locked on mine.
“It’s a big hospital, San Francisco General. They have an excellent trauma center. That’s why I—”
“That’s why you ended up there the same night as MarySue Jensen. Quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?” Detective Wall asked. His name suited him, I thought, as he zeroed in on me. His face had became a wall keeping out any sign of empathy or emotion. Which made me try even harder to win him over. I focused on stopping my brain from rambling when it should have been focused on telling these guys what they wanted to know without telling them more than they needed to know. But I was having trouble staying on task. “Or was it?”
“Was it?” There I went repeating again. I honestly forgot what the subject was. I was recovering from a concussion, for God’s sake. Didn’t they know that?
“A coincidence,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”
“Can you describe the incident that brought you to the hospital?”
“Concussion and sprained ankle,” I said, wiggling my foot.
“I didn’t ask for the diagnosis, I asked you about the incident,” Detective Wall said coolly.
Okay, I could play it cool too. I’d give him the facts and nothing but the facts. “I fell off a ladder. I blacked out. And I woke up in the hospital.”
“What time was that?” he asked, taking out a small notepad. Didn’t the police have access to laptop computers or the latest iPad? Or did this guy spend all his high-tech allowance on his clothes?
“I don’t know. I mean, I left the hospital in the early morning. But I don’t know what time I arrived at night. Or how I got there. I had a concussion. I was unconscious.” I didn’t want his pity, and I was grateful he hadn’t asked why I was on a ladder or the location of the ladder. Did he know I went to get the shoes back or not? If not, I wasn’t going to tell him. “You can check with the hospital. They will have a record.” Did I have to suggest this to a cop?
That’s when Detective Ramirez excused herself and went outside. I watched her light a cigarette just outside the window and walk around the side of the house. Just a cigarette break or was she up to something like knocking on doors to interview my neighbors, asking things like, “Does Ms. Jewel practice martial arts in the patio behind her house?” “Does she hang out with lowlifes?” “Does she throw loud parties while wearing stolen shoes?” “Would she kill for a pair of Louboutin shoes? Manolo Blahniks? Roger Viviers? Or was I reading too much into her absence? Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette.
Now I was alone with the detective. The room seemed smaller. The atmosphere heavy with unspoken questions. Mine and his. Finally he spoke. “Regarding the shoes Ms. Jensen was wearing. Any idea what happened to them?” he asked. “Do you know anyone who would murder someone to get a pair of shoes?”
“Most women love shoes. I’m no exception,” I confessed. “But murder? I can’t imagine going that far. Although they were silver.”
“Were they worth stealing?” Detective Wall asked.
I shrugged. What was the right answer? I had no idea. “Depends.”
“Worth killing for?”
I blinked. What could I say? I thought I’d already answered that.
“Do you know how much they’re worth?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?” the tall, smooth detective asked.
I wanted to say, “Come on, tell me how much they’re worth. You know. You must know,” but I didn’t. Of course I had an idea. But why should I share it with him?
He turned over a page in his notebook. Perhaps signaling a different topic or at least a new approach since he wasn’t making much progress this way.
“I have a few names here. Customers or others in the fashion business. I’d like to get your impression of them. Don’t think too hard. After all, you’ve just had a concussion.” He looked at me and I didn’t see a shred of compassion in those dark eyes. After all I’d been through. It was as if daring me to contradict him or make an excuse. I didn’t. “Just tell me the first thing that comes into your mind.”
I sat up straight and tried to prepare myself for his little game.
“Dolce Loren.”
“My boss. A wonderful woman. Kind and caring.” I paused. He was sitting there staring at me. “Smart and savvy,” I added.
“Patti French.”
“Patti has a great fashion sense. She loves Tom Ford, Prada, and Louis Vuitton. She’s MarySue’s sister-in-law.” Like he didn’t know that. “I mean she was or she still is now that MarySue is dead. I’m not sure how that works.”
“Jim Jensen.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Did MarySue ever mention him?”
“Not to me.” If Jim finds out how much they cost, he’ll kill me. Isn’t that what MarySue said to Dolce? Did he do it?
“Peter Butinski.”
“Peter is our new shoe supplier.” I felt my mouth twisting and my eyes narrowing despite my effort to stay neutral. The shoe guy was a little too high on himself, in my opinion, but what he had to do with MarySue was beyond me.
“Was he acquainted with Ms. Jensen?”
“I don’t think so, unless she special ordered shoes from him.”
“It sounds like there was a possible connection there. Would you agree they were both interested in shoes?” he asked.
I sighed. “Who isn’t?”
The detective had just flipped another page in his notebook when the front door opened and his cohort burst in looking like she’d just won the lottery. She was wearing rubber gloves that did not match her outfit and holding a shoe box in her hand. My eyes widened. My heart pounded. It was the brown cardboard box the silver stilettos came in. Where in the world did she get it? And were the shoes inside? If so, mystery solved, or at least part of it.
“I found this box in your garbage,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Recognize it?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I possibly could while my mind spun in circles. After all it wasn’t necessarily the shoe box I’d brought on the plane. Though the resemblance was striking. It was brown with an abstract ink drawing and the name of the shop stamped on the top. I squinted and held out my hands to have a closer look. But Detective Ramirez had no intention of letting me put my prints on the box.
“Come now, Ms. Jewel,” she said, holding the box away from me as if she was afraid I would contaminate the evidence. “Tell the truth. Did you or did you not transport this box and the shoes inside it across the country last Friday?”
> “The shoes are inside the box?” I asked eagerly.
“I’m asking the questions,” she said curtly.
I glanced at Detective Wall. Where did he stand in this confrontation between his cohort and myself? He was inscrutable as usual, watching the dialog play out as if the two of us women were actors in some existential drama.
“I transported a shoe box and a pair of shoes across country, that is correct,” I said brusquely. “Whether that is the box or not, I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said weakly, leaning back on the couch, “I’m feeling faint, and since I’m under a doctor’s care who has prescribed rest and ice packs for the next few days, I’ll have to stop now and . . .” I closed my eyes as if it was all too much for me to handle in my current weakened state. When no one said anything, I opened my eyes again. “I’m so sorry. Really. But my memory isn’t very good right now. Not unusual in these cases. I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone our conversation, as interesting as it is.”
Ramirez was not unaware of how sarcastic my comment was. She glared at me. “We are not here to converse with you,” she said. “We are here to investigate a murder.”
“I understand that,” I said, “but your questions are upsetting me. Exactly what my doctor warned me about. No agitation. No commotion, no excitement. Or there may be complications,” I warned. I stared at Detective Ramirez, daring her to continue. After knowing what the risk was. I paused to let the significance of complications sink in.
“I hardly think a few questions . . .” she said, obviously unwilling to give up and go away just because I was suffering the effects of a fall from a two-story building into a tree.
“I would love to answer however many questions you have at some later date when my head clears. Right now I’m at risk for a relapse, and I know you wouldn’t want to be responsible for it.” Besides, I thought I saw the Angkor Wat delivery truck outside and I was eager to get rid of these two.
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