“I shouldn’t have said anything. I was just speculating. I could be wrong,” I said. “I probably am. I just got carried away for a moment. Patti buys a lot from Dolce, like the whole outfit she was wearing just now, but not the shoes. I don’t get it. We could have ordered them for her. Where did she get them?”
“Aren’t there any other high-end shoe stores in town?”
“Of course, but none are as good as Dolce’s. Take the infamous missing silver stilettos for example. Who else would send their assistant to Florida to pick them up for a customer but Dolce? And that’s exactly what she did. You don’t get service like that at Macy’s.”
“I’m not talking about a department store,” Jack said. “I’m talking about other boutiques.”
“Like Janice Powers’s Glass Slipper?” Her shop was only a few blocks away from Dolce’s, but it didn’t have the same cache. “I suppose . . . But why go there when you’ve got Dolce?” That’s what I had to find out. If I had to hobble over there to see what Janice had that Dolce didn’t. I owed it to my boss.
A few minutes later we finished our coffee, my new friend Jack paid the bill with his credit card, and we went out to his car. He thanked me for my time, and I thanked him for the lunch. Did he get what he wanted? Did he learn anything he didn’t know before? Did he take my harangue about Patti seriously? He didn’t say. As for me I got a delicious lunch and a look at Patti’s shoes. What now? I couldn’t go back to Dolce’s right away so I asked Jack to let me off at Janice’s shoe shop.
“How will you get back?” he asked with a glance at my foot.
“I have my crutches,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to walk. In fact, my doctor wants me to get some exercise.” I wasn’t sure my doctor wanted me to hobble two blocks on my crutches, but I’d do anything to get a look at the shoes at the Glass Slipper. Dolce couldn’t go there, that would be awkward, but Janice didn’t know me, so I could stop by for a look at her inventory without setting off any alarm bells. If Dolce’s customers were shoe shopping elsewhere, I had to find out why.
I didn’t even have to go inside the store to see several Dolce regulars sitting in large comfy chairs sipping coffee and trying on shoes. In fact, I definitely did not want to go in and have them see me. Instead, I did a quick survey of the shoes in the window, then I headed back to Dolce’s, keeping in mind the instructions that came with my crutches.
“Head held high,” I told myself. “Shoulders back. Stomach and buttocks in.” As I walked ever so slowly to the shop, I muttered, “Left crutch, right foot. Right crutch, left foot. Repeat.” By the time I got up the steps at Dolce’s, about half a lifetime later, my whole body was screaming in pain. I could barely manage a feeble smile for the few customers in the great room as I stumbled into Dolce’s office and fell into her swivel chair.
I took a pain pill and laid my head on Dolce’s desk and fell asleep. I dreamed that Patti French told me to butt out of the investigation of MarySue’s death. When I refused, she threw a glass of champagne in my face. I woke up with a start completely confused. I had no idea what time it was or where I was until Dolce slowly opened the door and looked in on me with an anxious expression.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I must have fallen asleep.” I shook my head to erase the vision of Patti’s angry face. Then I raised my head and looked at my stainless steel wide-band watch. “I can’t believe it’s five o’clock. What happened?”
“You fell asleep. I disconnected the phone. I was sick of hearing it ring anyway.”
“Thanks,” I said. Where else would your boss turn off the phone in the middle of a busy afternoon so it wouldn’t wake you up? I was so lucky to work here. It was more than a job. It was a way of life. It was a glimpse into a world I didn’t really belong in. A world where a woman could be murdered for a pair of shoes she hadn’t even paid for.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a package wrapped in brown paper.
“Your Romanian friend brought it for you. It’s called zama, a native soup made of green beans, which is supposed to make you feel better. He said not to disturb you. How was your lunch?”
“Wonderful. We went to a great restaurant at Pier 39. Great food and a beautiful view.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Dolce said, leaning against her office door. “Last week you were complaining that you never met any men. That you had nothing to do on Saturday nights but watch old vampire movies by yourself. Then I sent you to Florida. You met this Romanian on the plane who has now cooked up some soup for you. When you got back, MarySue stole a pair of shoes from us. You were injured trying to retrieve them. You mysteriously ended up at the hospital where you met a doctor. MarySue was murdered. You met a detective. And now all three men are feeding you either their grandmother’s zama or lunch overlooking the Bay or dinner at a posh bistro. Have I missed anything?”
I shook my head. It did sound pretty impressive and in some ways improbable. “I know it sounds like I’m some kind of socialite myself, but I’m not. I’m the new girl in town, that’s all. You’re right, something happened. MarySue got killed and I got popular. Why? I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that for now I’m having a great time and I owe it all to you, Dolce. If you hadn’t sent me to pick up the shoes . . .”
“You don’t owe me, you owe MarySue,” Dolce said. “Don’t forget she’s the one who started this whole thing. Those were her shoes. That was her house. There’s her husband and her sister-in-law. Everything goes back to MarySue. She’s not here anymore, so you have to enjoy life while you can, because no one knows how long it lasts. You deserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you killed MarySue. Who else has benefited as much as you?”
“Good question,” I said, leaning one arm on the desk and cupping my chin in my palm so I wouldn’t end up facedown on the desk again. “If we knew the answer to who wanted MarySue dead, we could probably solve this murder without the help of the detective, his assistant or anybody. Who do you think did it?” I asked her.
“I’m not saying I know who did it, but isn’t it obvious that Jim was not happy with her? Or Patti?” Dolce said.
I nodded. “I do have some bad news for you.”
Dolce pulled up a folding chair and sat down, the better to receive bad news. There wasn’t a sound from the showrooms. I assumed she’d closed up. She looked tired and so subdued, I hated to tell her what I’d seen at Janice Powers’s shop.
“I stopped at the Glass Slipper on my way back from lunch.”
“But that’s two blocks from here. No wonder you had to take a nap.”
“I was a wreck,” I said. “My ankle was killing me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“You should never have come to work today.”
“But if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have had lunch at Pier 39 with the detective. I wouldn’t have seen Patti French at lunch.”
Dolce leaned forward. “How did she look?”
“She was wearing the wraparound dress and the blazer you sold her. A dynamite outfit.”
Dolce nodded and smiled proudly. I wished she’d seen her too. Those are the moments we live for. “But here’s the weird thing. She was wearing a pair of silver Jimmy Choo sandals with striped hose.”
Dolce frowned. “I didn’t sell her those.”
“I know. Which is why I stopped at the Glass Slipper, and guess what I saw?”
“The shoes?”
I shook my head. “No. I saw several of your best customers.”
“But . . . but why?” Dolce looked like she was going to cry. Her voice quavered and her eyes watered. I should never have told her, but she’s usually so strong, so tough. I realized I’d gone too far.
“I don’t know,” I said. “The world has gone crazy. Why buy your clothes here and your shoes somewhere else when we’ve got the best selection of designer footwear anywhere. And if we don’t have it, you know where to get it.”
Dolce stood up,
but she didn’t look too steady on her feet.
“Of course it may be because word is out that one of your best customers was murdered and none of the Glass Slipper customers were. As soon as the case is solved, they’ll all be back,” I assured her with more assurance than I actually felt.
She didn’t look assured. “I can’t think about this now,” she said. “I’ve had enough for one day. And you’ve got to go home and get some rest. But first check your messages. Your kung fu instructor called about your class. He wants to move you to a lower level on Thursday nights. I told him you had an accident and were on crutches.”
“Thanks,” I said. On the plus side, falling off a ladder was one way of getting out of class for at least a week. I used Dolce’s pewter letter opener to open the sealed note from Nick that came with the soup. After I scanned it, I said, “Nick, the guy with the zama wants me to take his gymnastics class.”
“But will it teach you to defend yourself like kung fu does? I’m worried, Rita. There’s a murderer out there. First MarySue, who knows who’s next?”
I couldn’t believe my boss thought I was in danger. What did I have that someone would kill for? Of course I had a great shoe collection and a closet full of designer clothes, but nothing like any of our customers. I was happy with my wardrobe, but my clothes and shoes were last year’s models or returns or on sale.
“Dolce, we don’t even know if MarySue was killed for her shoes. I know she wasn’t wearing them when they found her body, but they may still be in the park. She may have been killed for an entirely different reason. A personal reason like envy or revenge, jealousy, lust, fear, insanity or . . .”
“Rita, calm down,” Dolce said, raising her hand. “Finding MarySue’s killer is not our job. At the moment I’m more worried about my car. I’m supposed to stop at the repair shop to see if by some miracle they’ve been able to fix it. I’m afraid they just want to sell me a new car, which I can’t afford.” She looked at her watch, then she slung her Prada brown leather satchel over her shoulder and asked if I’d be all right if she took off.
“Go ahead,” I said, sorry I’d gone off on a tangent like that. “I’ll call a cab and lock up.”
After Dolce left, I waited for at least a half hour for the cab while keeping my foot up on the desk as prescribed. Finally, I heard a knock on the big front door. I was just gathering my paraphernalia together when the knocking got louder and a man shouted, “Dolce, are you there? Let me in.”
Even though it was probably just a last-minute customer, I was a little nervous. Dolce’s words, “There’s a murderer out there. Who knows who’s next?” rang in my ears. And even though I’d been taking martial arts for the past three months, I was hardly in shape to defend myself from a determined killer.
But just in case, I slipped Dolce’s letter opener into my pocket and went with my crutches to open the heavy solidwood front door.
Seven
Jim Jensen stood on the threshold looking like he was out for blood. I knew it was him from the photo in the newspaper of him in his airline pilot uniform. His eyes were bloodshot and blazing, and his short-cropped hair was standing on end. His face was flushed, and it flashed on me instantly that he must be his wife’s killer. He looked like a killer. Who else wanted the spendthrift MarySue out of his life more than he did? Had he been hiding outside until Dolce left, knowing I was alone inside? Was he waiting his chance to kill me next? Because he thought I was responsible for MarySue’s murder? Or he thought I knew that he was the murderer? I tried to stay calm and focused, but my mind was spinning and my ankle was throbbing.
Subtly, carefully, I reached into my pocket and fingered the letter opener. “He’ll kill me,” MarySue had said. I was not going to let him strike again. Not without a struggle.
“I’m sorry,” I said as calmly as I could while my heart was hammering. “We’re closed for the day.”
“Closed for the day or closed for good?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I laughed nervously. “Of course not,” I said. “Dolce’s is an institution. Part of the fabric of this neighborhood. The women of the city couldn’t get along without us. We’re here to stay.”
“You think so? I don’t think so. I think you’ll be closed for good when I get through with you. You’ll be sued for slander for starters.”
“What?”
“You’re Rita, aren’t you?” Jim demanded.
A dozen different replies went through my mind.
No, I’m the cleaning lady. Or the temp. Or Dolce’s niece.
But he didn’t wait for my answer. “I know who you are.” He pointed his finger at me. “You’re the one who told the cops I killed my wife.”
“No, no, of course not. You couldn’t kill your wife. Why would you?”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to. I was just babbling, hoping to fill some time before I could escape.
He suddenly turned his back on me, barged into the hall and strode into the great room where he paced around a small antique chair that had belonged to Dolce’s grandmother. I thought about making a break for it then and heading right out the front door. He looked dangerous and if he’d already killed MarySue, he wouldn’t think twice about knocking me off too. But what chance would a cripple like me have with a determined murderer in pursuit? Curiosity got the better of me and I followed him. When he plopped into the antique chair, the legs creaked under his weight and I gasped. I thought my legs would collapse along with the chair legs, so I sat on a small tufted bench under the window, trying to catch my breath.
When I found my voice, I said, “Jim, you’re upset. I don’t blame you. MarySue has been gone for only a few days. I don’t know who killed your wife. I certainly did not tell the police you killed your wife. I have no idea who did.” Unless it was you or Patti or some other customer who coveted her shoes.
“Somebody told her it was me,” he said grimly. “If it wasn’t you, who was it? She came to my office and treated me like a common criminal. Do you know why?”
She? He must mean Detective Ramirez.
I shook my head. I was waiting to hear why.
“Insurance.” He spat the word out like he could hardly get it out of his mouth fast enough. “They think I killed MarySue to collect the insurance on her. As if that would make up for my loss.” He ran his hand through his closecropped hair. “MarySue was the love of my life. Sure, we had our differences. Every married couple does. You know what I think? I think you killed her. Don’t look so shocked. And don’t think you’ll get away with it. The police know everything. They know you came to my house that night to get the shoes back. Oh, yeah, she told me about that. She wouldn’t give them to you, so you followed her to the park, didn’t you? You waited your chance and you drugged her. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her. You just wanted to knock her out so you could take her shoes. You didn’t need to take them. I would have paid you for them if you’d asked me. You didn’t need to come after her like she was a common criminal. Now they’re gone and they were all I had to remember her by.” He buried his head in his hands and he started shaking all over. It even sounded like he was sobbing. Was he really upset or faking it for my benefit?
“But she said . . .”
“What?” he said, jumping up from his chair. “What did she say?”
She said you’d kill her. “I . . . I’m not sure,” I stammered. “Something about being afraid of something. I can’t remember.”
“The only thing you need to remember is this: I’ll get even with you, Rita. You can’t pin my wife’s murder on me and get away with it.” He stood up and glared at me. “One more thing. You are not welcome at her funeral.” Then he stomped out of the great room all the way to the front door, which he slammed behind him.
Suddenly the room was so quiet I could hear my heart pounding. What would happen next? Would Detective Ramirez come back to my house and arrest me based on Jim Jensen’s crazy theories? Did Jim kill his wife or not? And
if he didn’t, why had he put the house up for sale and then taken it off the market? Also, if he didn’t kill MarySue, who did?
All I had to remember her by. I grated my back teeth together. What crap. He had a closet full of clothes and shoes to remember MarySue by.
I heard my cab honk and I rushed out of the shop as fast as I could with my crutches and tote bag, locked the door behind me and collapsed in the backseat of the taxi.
As soon as I got home, I changed into a pair of jeans I had ripped and distressed myself with bleach, a piece of chalk and a penknife, and heated the zama for dinner. Fear and anxiety made me extra hungry, so even after that large lunch I was glad to have a ready-made green bean and chicken Romanian stew on hand. When I finished eating, I called Nick to thank him, but the receptionist at the gymnastics school said he was teaching a trampoline class, so I left a message. Then I put in a call to Detective Wall to tell him about Jim Jensen. I didn’t want him to think I was a whiny crybaby afraid of my own shadow, but I did think he should know Jim had threatened me. “I’ll get even with you,” he’d said. And I believed him.
I got the detective’s voice mail, so I left a brief message. I was just getting into bed in my organic knit pajamas that are as soft as an old T-shirt but more stylish, when Jack Wall called me back.
“Ms. Jewel,” he said. “What’s this about Jim Jensen?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I thought you should know. He came to the shop after we’d closed today and said he’d had a visit from the police. He thought I told you he killed his wife. Naturally he was angry. He said he’d get even with me.”
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Detective Ramirez should have warned you he was on the warpath.”
“Maybe she shouldn’t have told him I’d fingered him. Or yes, she should have warned me. I was alone in the shop when he barged in. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe not. All I can say is that I was scared.” I certainly wouldn’t mind if Detective Ramirez got in trouble for sending Jim Jensen on the warpath. At first I was willing to give her the benefit of a doubt, but I didn’t think she deserved it. “Maybe your associate Ramirez wanted to scare me into confessing. Maybe she still thinks I killed MarySue.”
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