“Of course not,” Jack Wall assured me. “No one thinks that anymore. Except Jim Jensen.”
“But why? What possible motive would I have? I barely knew her. Sure, I wanted her to pay Dolce for the shoes, but her being dead wasn’t going to help matters. Another thing which I didn’t have a chance to tell Jim Jensen is that I wasn’t even there that night. Whoever killed her was at the Benefit. Do you have a guest list?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “It will take time, but we are questioning all the guests.”
“Good,” I said. “Although that’s a lot of work and a waste of time if it was Jim all along. Any word on MarySue’s life insurance as to who’s the beneficiary?”
“As a matter of fact, we do have some information on that. Jim Jensen is the beneficiary. Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he cautioned. “Most married couples work it that way.”
“But still, isn’t that a good motive?” I asked eagerly. I’d love to see Jim behind bars and this whole mess put behind us.
“It could be,” he said.
“How much will he get?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”
“Enough to hold onto his house, I assume.”
“You are free to assume what you like, Rita,” he said. At least he called me Rita as if we were friends. “Now tell me, do you still feel threatened? Do you want me to send over some police protection?”
I pictured a cop sitting in his marked car in front of my house, scaring all the neighbors.
“No, I’m okay.” I hoped to get a little respect for bravery anyway. But who knew? Jack Wall was the type to keep his thoughts to himself.
“Next time Jim pays you a visit like that, give me a call right away. Or if you see anything suspicious. In the meantime, I have some pictures of Benefit guests you might know. I’d like your help in identifying them. I’ll give you a call sometime this week.”
I said good-bye and picked up my vampire book to soothe myself before turning out the light. The Gothic setting, the suspicious actions of the female vampire and her almost lifelike qualities were gripping but not soothing. I tossed and turned thinking about Detective Jack Wall. Then I got up and looked out my bedroom window. There on the street below a police car made its way slowly down the block, pausing in front of my house before it drove on. A patrol car sent to watch me? Or just a cop making his rounds? The whole neighborhood was eerily quiet. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt empty inside even after a big bowl of zama. I needed something to calm my nerves and my stomach. Something all-American and non-Romanian. Unfortunately I’m not much of a cook. But fortunately for me my next-door neighbor Mrs. Heldmyer had given me a jar of her homemade pickles and I knew I had a loaf of whole-grain bread in the freezer and a wedge of Vermont white sharp cheddar cheese I’d picked up at Whole Foods. I wrapped up in a fleece robe, went to the kitchen and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles in my countertop toaster oven. The combination of salty, sour pickles with the rich cheese and crisply toasted bread was delicious. Warm inside and out, I went back to bed and finally fell asleep.
The next few days were comparatively calm at the shop. When I told Dolce about Jim Jensen threatening me, she was horrified. She said we should hire a security guard, but I decided if Jim didn’t kill MarySue, then he was so overcome with grief that he was acting out his depression by lashing out at me and probably felt remorseful by now. I’d already told Detective Wall what I thought of Jim and his rage. And Ramirez was apparently on his case. Although I had a feeling she would prefer to implicate me and wouldn’t mind all that much if Jim attacked me either verbally or physically. I knew I wasn’t being fair. After all, Jim had just lost his wife and wasn’t himself. Anger is surely one of the seven stages of grief. I wasn’t sure what he was like before the murder, but I wasn’t all that fond of him now.
On Wednesday, I had my follow-up medical appointment. The good news was that it seemed neither Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou were on duty at the hospital that day. They must still be working nights. Even better news was that Verity, the nurse practitioner who saw me, said my ankle was healing beautifully.
“Can I wear high heels by Sunday?” I asked, thinking of my date with Dr. Jonathan.
She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Not even three inch?”
“Why? Big date?” she asked with a smile.
I nodded. But refrained from mentioning with whom.
“Not a good idea. Your ankle is still weak. I’d hate to see you take a tumble. Stick to flats. What about a simple Kenneth Cole in cracked leather?”
“Hmmm.” I had to admit it was a fresh idea and not a bad one.
“Metallics are in this fall. When your ankle heals, you can pick up a pair of silver heels that are perfect for a fun night out or even work.”
I felt a shiver go up my spine at the thought of the silver shoes and what they could lead to. I took a deep breath and continued. “The problem is, I don’t have an outfit yet.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, turning from her computer screen where she was updating my file to study my work ensemble—a striped jacket, a spotted skirt and a flowered shirt. I could tell by her expression she was well aware that mixed prints were definitely in and similar-patterned outfits were out.
“Just a dinner date,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t want anyone at the clinic to find out I had a date with Dr. Jonathan. For all I knew, he was dating all the nurses at the hospital at the same time. Although if he was, why not take one of them to the café? “It’s Sunday, so I don’t want to go overboard and be overdressed.”
“If I were you, I’d go with a filmy skirt. I don’t know about you, but I’m so tired of stiff structured dresses.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Filmy it is. What do you think of the long look?”
“I like it, as long as you don’t look like you just stepped out of Little House on the Prairie. You’d have to make it modern with bold jewelry and a narrow shirt or a casual stretchy top.”
“And flats?” I had to be sure she was getting the same picture I was. “Are you sure?”
She stared at me for a long moment, then she nodded. “If it weren’t for your sprain, I’d tell you to wear an ankle-strap sandal with . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a peekaboo toe. That would be stunning. But I’m a nurse, not a fashion consultant,” she said with a rueful smile.
“It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “I am a fashion consultant. I work at a boutique in Hayes Valley.”
“It’s not Dolce’s, is it?”
Surprised, I asked, “Have you been there?”
“They have the most fabulous stuff. But it’s so expensive. You probably get a big discount.”
I nodded. “It’s a great place to work. Usually,” I added, thinking of MarySue stealing the silver shoes and my run-in with her husband.
“I love what you’re wearing right now,” she said. “It’s so out there.”
“Thank you.” How often does a nurse notice what the patient is wearing? I noticed that under her white lab coat Verity was wearing a tunic and a pair of chic black leggings. I wanted to ask where she got them but thought that maybe it wasn’t polite under the circumstances. What I did say was, “I love your braids. They’re so Mary Kate.” It was true. Her blond braids were wound tight at the crown and slightly loose at the side with tendrils to soften the look. “I wish I had long enough hair for braids.”
“They’re not real,” she said. “They’re extensions.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
There was a knock on the door, and someone said her next patient was waiting in the next room.
“Good luck,” she said as she left the room. “Stay off the ankle and I hope you have a great time Sunday.”
I didn’t mention that I couldn’t stay off my ankle if I was going to a funeral that afternoon. Just mentioning a funeral seem
ed like a downer, and I didn’t want to explain how and why and who died.
Dolce and I closed the shop at two and hung a sign in the window, “Closed for the Jensen Funeral.” I didn’t tell Dolce that Jim had warned me not to show up. What was he going to do when he saw me there? Toss me out? Dolce had enough to worry about without thinking about my confrontation with Jim.
She drove us in her rented Mercedes to the funeral parlor in the town of Colma, which advertises itself as the town with “fifteen hundred people above ground and one point million underground.” It is truly the cemetery capital of California, maybe the whole world.
We were nervous about viewing MarySue in her open coffin, not knowing what she’d be wearing. Everyone would assume we’d dressed her, but we hadn’t even been asked for our suggestions. That hurt. We should have been consulted. Under normal circumstances, we would have been. But these circumstances were definitely not normal.
“The coffin is stunning,” Peter Butinski said when we ran into him just inside the viewing area. “It’s a handmade mahogany box with a silk embroidered lining. Nothing but the best for MarySue as usual.”
“I didn’t know you knew her,” Dolce said.
“You didn’t? I know everyone in town and everyone knows me. Everyone who cares about footwear, that is.”
“So is she wearing anything on her feet?” I asked.
Peter shook his head. “Not that I know of. I would hope I would know if she was. After all. You two will notice her outfit.” He covered his mouth as if to hide a smile or a sneer. “I’m anxious to hear what you think of it.”
“Who dressed her?” Dolce asked. “It wasn’t us.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Who do you think did?”
“Was it Patti?” I guessed. “Or Jim?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s too late now.”
“Too late for what?” I asked Dolce in a sotto voce as we approached the coffin.
“Too late to change her clothes, I guess.”
I couldn’t remember ever seeing a dead person before, so I didn’t know what to expect. What Dolce and I both expected was that she’d be wearing something from the shop. Or at least something suitable for a woman who cared deeply about fashion. Unless Jim was so angry with us and with his wife that he’d deliberately chosen something else.
Whoever picked out her outfit did so to shock us—and not just us. Dolce and I stood staring at the pin-striped suede and denim jacket she was wearing. Something you might wear to hang out with your BFF on Friday night, barhopping in the Mission. But not to your funeral. Since we could see only the top half of her body, we had no way of knowing what else she was wearing. Hopefully a pair of slouchy trousers with a low waistline, which would either offset the jacket or make a strong statement like “I’m dead and I’ll wear whatever I want.”
“Is it Tory Burch?” I muttered to Dolce.
“Or Agatha?” she asked.
I was just as eager as Dolce to identify the designer of her jacket. I stifled a desire to try to find the label under her collar. I have to say I was more than a little surprised to see something like this obviously one-of-a-kind item, but not disappointed. It was a bold choice, not what I would have chosen, but it wasn’t my funeral. I could only hope it was what MarySue would have appreciated. After all, it was her last chance to make a splash. To show everyone she was a fashion original. To start a buzz before she was laid to rest.
On the whole she looked good. Her face was skillfully made up. Not overdone, just the right amount of foundation and blush. She was wearing a matte red lipstick, and her brows were artfully defined. Whoever was responsible should be congratulated. Her hair was swept into a soft, feminine updo, which had been gently and stylishly disheveled by someone’s skillful fingers. Marsha’s?
An ordinary person might have worn something in allseason wool jersey to her own funeral seeing as it was a transitional time between summer and fall. But MarySue had never been ordinary as much as Patti or Jim wanted her to be.
“Where did she get that jacket?” I whispered to Dolce.
“No idea,” she muttered. “Why didn’t she wear the Juicy Couture cashmere top she liked so much?” I could tell Dolce was upset that MarySue wasn’t wearing one of the many outfits she’d bought at our boutique. Any of which would have been more appropriate than this jacket. “Or her black Alexander McQueen cape? Now that would have stood out from all the other bodies. It would have said, ‘I’m not afraid to be myself. I can make a statement.’”
“Dead or alive,” I murmured. “I was hoping to see her in something understated. Or what about the black Versace gown she bought for the Spring Gala?”
Dolce shook her head. “Not really funereal, Rita, but it would have been better than what she’s wearing. Anything would. I just don’t get it,” she said sadly.
“It’s because she didn’t get to choose her clothes,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I just wondered who did. “I heard the Jackson family all wore Versace to Michael’s funeral. Too bad the Jensens didn’t coordinate their clothes that way. In honor of MarySue who would certainly have appreciated it.” I surveyed the room. Jim Jensen was surrounded by friends. He looked properly serious. What did he think of the denim jacket? Was he the one who chose it as a rebuke to his wife for overspending on her wardrobe? I wouldn’t put it past him. I only hoped he wouldn’t explode with anger when he saw me. I planned to sit in the back row where I wouldn’t be noticeable. “Maybe it was Patti,” I suggested. Knowing that the two weren’t close, I would suspect Patti of choosing something totally off the wall for her sister-in-law.
“Which reminds me, what happens to all MarySue’s clothes?” I asked as we moved away from the open coffin toward the far wall.
“Good question. Wouldn’t it be nice if Jim would donate them to a women’s shelter?”
“I would suggest it if Jim didn’t hate me,” I said.
“Dolce,” someone said, “how lovely to see you.”
Dolce turned to greet a woman I didn’t know, and I was left standing by myself. I took the opportunity to admire the banks of flowers which filled one side of the room. Huge bouquets like one with mixed roses and chrysanthemums all in yellow. Another was shaped like a heart made of red tulips. Tulips at this time of year? That must have cost a bundle. In the corner I saw the one Dolce had sent. It was small but lovely, made of peach-colored roses, pink carnations and gerbera daisies. Very simple but beautiful. I went over to smell the roses and read the card which said, “Deepest Sympathy to the Jensen family from Dolce and Rita.” Dolce hadn’t asked me to contribute so I was grateful to her for putting my name on it. The other cards had sentiments like—“MISSING YOU.” “GODSPEED ON YOUR JOURNEY.” “IN LOVING MEMORY.”
Surveying the crowd I couldn’t help thinking that the murderer was here. Isn’t it true that most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, someone she knew very well? Of course, it could have been a random act of greed. Some stranger coveted her silver shoes and saw an opportunity to poison MarySue and seize them. But I didn’t buy that theory. I’d bet my new black shearling ankle boots the killer was here in this room. I wasn’t frightened. Who would kill again at his last victim’s funeral? It just wasn’t done. Not even in the movies or on HBO. I was just on edge, with a heightened sense of awareness of everyone and everything around me.
Every remark spoken by one of the mourners seemed amplified. No matter how banal or insensitive.
I heard someone say, “It was a blessing.” As if MarySue had been suffering some fatal disease. Maybe she was because I overheard someone else say, “At least she’s no longer suffering.” People were going up to Jim and saying things like, “You should stay busy to take your mind off your loss,” and “God never gives anyone more than he can handle.” I moved away but not before I heard someone tell Jim, “I know just how you feel.”
How did he feel? Angry? Yes. Relieved? Maybe. Nervous? Yes. Guilty? That depen
ded on what he did besides yell at MarySue for her overspending.
I noticed Detective Wall was standing at the back of the room. I imagined he knew that axiom about killers finding their victims on familiar ground. How many husbands have murdered their unfaithful or nagging wives? How many children have murdered their critical, overbearing parents? Doesn’t everyone know the story of Lizzie Borden who “gave her mother forty whacks and when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one”?
I once read that killers often take a trophy from their victim. Like a pair of shoes. Which illustrates their need for self-magnification. I wanted to share these nuggets of insight with my favorite detective, but he’d warned me off, so I kept my distance. His loss. He’d have to find the murderer on his own.
I’d expected him to be wearing dark glasses to hide behind, but then he would have stood out and not in a good way. Instead he was wearing a conservative Calvin Klein single-breasted dark suit with plain-front trousers. With it a blue shirt with French cuffs and a striped old-school tie. He didn’t look like a cop. Not today. Not ever really. He looked like he could be anybody, an old friend of Jim, or a cousin of MarySue. Anybody but the cop who was looking for MarySue’s killer. I watched him watch everyone else. Trying to see who he was looking at.
Finally he looked straight at me. I took that as a sign not that I was a suspect, but that it was okay to go up and speak to him.
“I hope I’m not blowing your cover by speaking to you,” I said, glancing around to be sure no one was near enough to hear me.
“You’re actually giving me cover.” He gave me a headto-heels look, and I was glad I’d worn a black dress by a British designer with long sleeves and a jewel neckline. Just to be clear, it was the black dress that had the long sleeves and jewel neckline, not the British designer. It was flattering and still didn’t shout “Look at me!” when the attention should rightfully be on the deceased. If I were somewhere besides a funeral and had two good ankles, I would have worn a pair of chunky heels and a leather jacket with it. Jack’s gaze finally landed on my Paul Mayer black-lace ballet flats.
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