Shoe Done It am-1

by Grace Carroll

“I have a theory about people who wear masks,” he said. “They usually have something to hide.”

  Despite my sore ankle, I stood and faced him. “I have a theory about people who work on Sundays. They should get a life.”

  A slight smile crossed his lips. Then he let himself out. After I watched his car disappear down the street, I breathed a sigh of relief. I rushed to the bathroom and peeled the old mask off using a stiff brush and started my facial all over again, taking care not to mess my hair. Gel cleanser, scrub, the whole bit until I’d washed away acres of dry skin and wrinkles. But I couldn’t wash away the picture of Dolce with MarySue at the Benefit.

  Dr. Rhodes, I mean Jonathan, came to pick me up at seven in a black Porsche 911 Carrera. “You look much better,” he said after he’d taken in my filmy skirt, my classic blazer and my clear, well-hydrated skin and the tendrils framing my face. So it was all worth it. Just for that comment—You look much better. “How’s the ankle?”

  I lifted my skirt to give him a good view of my foot, and he bent down, tapped my anklebone and smiled his approval. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing flat shoes. Some women are slaves to fashion when your health is what it’s all about.”

  I smiled in total agreement, though I saw that Jonathan was dressed in an outfit that could easily have appeared in one of Dolce’s magazines, with Jonathan himself as the model. Instead of the white lab coat he was forced to wear on the job, he’d gone completely in the other direction with a black slim-cut shirt and a green and black striped tie. His narrow pants were also black, as were his loafers. On anyone else it might have been too much, but with his tanned skin and his surfer-dude sun-bleached hair, it was stunning. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolce every detail. I held my breath expecting him to ask why a detective had asked him about me. But he didn’t. Maybe being in the ER, he was accustomed to the police coming by to ask about his patients, soliciting his opinion on cause and time of death or injury and what weapon was used.

  “Great place you’ve got here,” he said, looking out my back windows at the view of the Bay. “I’m trying to decide where to locate. Telegraph Hill, the Marina, Pacific Heights, or something out at the beach where I can catch a wave on my days off. Right now I’m bunking with a buddy from med school in a flat near the ballpark. In fact, I almost caught a foul ball from our roof yesterday. Do you like baseball?”

  Baseball? He wanted to discuss baseball instead of my criminal activities? That was fine with me. So I said yes. I didn’t want to come across as being negative. For all I knew, he had season tickets to the San Francisco Giants and might be looking for someone to fill the seat next to him. Even though baseball was not part of my heritage, I was always open to new experiences. And tasty new food choices. I’d read in the newspaper the ballpark now offered Caribbean cha-cha bowls and tropical drinks as well as crab cocktails and grilled crab sandwiches. All that along with the traditional popcorn and hot dogs. I was willing to sit through a lot of baseball if it meant sitting next to Jonathan fortified with a cha-cha bowl or two. My mouth watered. I’d been so busy I hadn’t eaten lunch and now I was weak with hunger. All the better to appreciate some French food.

  “We didn’t have a baseball team back in Columbus.” At least I hoped we didn’t or I’d look like an idiot.

  “What about the Columbus Clippers?” he asked.

  “The Clippers,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What a season they’ve had, right?” I figured whether it was a good season or a bad one, it had to have been one or the other.

  “Sometimes minor league ball can be just as exciting as the big show,” he said.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said as we walked out of the house. How did a doctor have time to surf, follow baseball and shop for the latest in men’s fashions? I had to remember to read the sports section of the newspaper before my next date with Jonathan if there was one. With Nick I didn’t have to bother. His sport was gymnastics and I wasn’t expected to know anything about it. As for Detective Wall, all he wanted me to talk about was murder. No sports, just homicide.

  I commented on Jonathan’s car, and he said he’d always wanted a Carrera. “The Turbo is a little wider and a little lower, but I went with the nine-eleven.”

  “Good choice,” I murmured as the engine purred. Another good choice was Café Henri. I’d looked it up and read a review that said it was “an unpretentious neighborhood meeting place.” What it didn’t say was how terribly charming and French the restaurant was with its cozy banquettes for seating inside and its outdoor heated patio.

  On a blackboard the specials were listed along with the standard onion soup gratinée, coq au vin in red wine sauce, croque monsieur and salade niçoise. A small sign advertised the Daniel Ortega Trio.

  I wondered if Jonathan would take it upon himself to order for me as had Detective Wall. Was this the San Francisco way? Was I supposed to take the initiative and tell my date what I wanted? Or wait to be asked? Or just let them order for both of us?

  What happened was our waiter suggested we order a leg of lamb with a robust Cote du Rhone wine. “It’s been cooked for seven hours,” he said. “Tender, succulent and delicious. And it comes with potatoes dauphinoise.”

  I should have eaten something before I came because I was now light-headed with hunger and anticipation. I slipped off my blazer, and when Jonathan asked me how I’d spent the day, I could hardly say I’d given myself two facials and had been interrogated once again by a detective because I was suspected of murder or at least of aiding and abetting a murderer. No matter what I’d done how could it compare with healing the sick and saving lives? I was sure he’d removed an appendix or two, delivered a baby and maybe even more—like admitting a vagrant with the DT’s, discharging a malingerer, anesthetizing a pre-op, stitching up a knife wound . . . all while I was having a mud bath. Instead I said I’d spent some time in my garden hoping it sounded like I was the thoughtful, contemplative type who spends her Sundays in the fresh air gazing out through the trees toward the waters of the Bay and thinking deep thoughts about land preservation, the urban landscape and fighting toxic substances.

  It was almost a relief when Jonathan brought up the subject of MarySue’s demise. Otherwise the murder would have hung over our date like a dark cloud. “I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Jonathan said when the waiter brought our dinner salads. “But the police came to the hospital to ask about you.” He leaned forward in case I wanted to confide in him that I was the high-society murderer. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Some people find homicide exciting and sexy. But that wasn’t why he invited me here, was it?

  “Really?” I said, feigning surprise. “Maybe it’s because that was one of our customers at the boutique where I work who was murdered the same night I was brought in to the hospital.”

  “But what does that have to do with you?” he asked after he speared a stalk of white asparagus with his fork. “It was Saturday night. The place is full of victims. Gunshot wounds, hit-and-run, smoke inhalation from house fires, gang warfare. You name it, we’ve got it. Don’t tell me the cops are blaming you for an unrelated homicide.”

  “Oh, no,” I said lightly as if I wasn’t worried about it. Nothing like being accused of murder to spoil a date with a doctor. “They’re just asking everyone who was on the scene that night if they know anything.”

  “In any case, I assured them whatever it is they’re investigating couldn’t have anything to do with you,” he said. “Although . . .”

  I stiffened. Now what?

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  But I was worried.

  “According to our records, I didn’t see you until four in the morning,” he said.

  “Yes but I arrived at the hospital way before that. At least that’s what the nurse said. She said I had to wait my turn in the hall because my injuries weren’t as serious as some of the others, like the gunshot wounds you mentioned.”

  “Did you notice what time you actually did arriv
e?” he asked. “That would help.”

  “I was unconscious,” I said. “So how could I? There must be a record on my chart.”

  “There should be, but sometimes on a Saturday night things fall through the cracks. Probably just a clerical error,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. What possible reason would you have to kill someone?”

  “Exactly,” I said. I was glad that he knew nothing about the shoes. Even gladder he never asked about my fall from the ladder that had led to my concussion and sprained ankle.

  He gave me a reassuring smile. He had a great smile. Dazzling white teeth offset by a tanned face. The kind of smile that made you warm inside. The kind of smile you couldn’t help returning. I was able to forget MarySue and everyone connected to her demise once the food came. The lamb was every bit as tender and delicious as the waiter had said, and the creamy, cheesy potatoes were a perfect complement to it. The restaurant filled up, but the tables were placed in a way that everyone had a private dining experience. We continued to sip the wine and talk about how much we liked living in the City by the Bay—the cool climate, the stupendous views of the water, the hills and the stimulating people who lived here.

  We ordered profiteroles for dessert and coffee. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, which was just as awesome as I’d expected. The Zen atmosphere of calm and quiet, the designer fixtures, the music, the warm towels, it was all there. There were even original French paintings on the wall. I was just about to leave the stall when someone else came in and I glanced over at the feet next to mine. I almost fainted. The woman was wearing the very same silver stilettos I’d last seen the day MarySue ripped them out of my hand. I froze. I told myself I was hallucinating. Or I’d had too much wine. My head was spinning. I tried to speak, but my mouth was too dry. For one crazy moment I thought MarySue had come back to life to haunt me. I bent down for a better look and everything went black for a moment.

  I was so dizzy I had to sit down again. I knew if I had another concussion I wouldn’t have far to go to find a doctor. Or maybe it was a hangover from my last concussion. Finally I stood and unlocked the door with trembling fingers. The woman in the shoes was standing at the sink.

  I coughed. I choked. I reached out as if to grab her. She breezed out of the bathroom so fast she left a trail of scent in her wake. It was familiar, but I couldn’t decide what it was. There was a hint of musk, vanilla and spice. Was it Chanel?

  I washed my hands and raced out of the bathroom. But she was gone. Almost like the day MarySue rushed out of the shop with the shoes in her hand. Just like then, I’d waited too long once again. I walked slowly away from the restrooms, looking right and left. What I couldn’t do was crawl on the floor to observe everyone’s shoes. It was maddening and frustrating. The shoe thief and presumed murderer was right here in this restaurant. So it was a woman. Unless it was a man who stole the shoes to give to a woman. Could Jim Jensen have given them to his girlfriend? No one had said he had a girlfriend, but maybe Detective Wall should look into it. I circled the restaurant before I went back to our table, but I didn’t see anyone I knew or anyone who looked like they were wearing silver shoes.

  I took several deep breaths before I joined Jonathan at the table. I tried to act like nothing had happened, but Jonathan, being in the medical field, noticed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking at me closely.

  “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. I get that way sometimes ever since my accident. But I’m okay, really.”

  He put the back of his hand against my forehead. He frowned. “You may have a fever. Maybe we should leave.”

  “Oh, no, not now. Not before dessert.” I knew the coffee and the pastry puffs filled with ice cream and smothered with chocolate sauce would help revive me. “Besides, we have to hear your friend play.”

  “If you’re sure you feel up to it.”

  I nodded. What a thoughtful, considerate date he was. Just as thoughtful and considerate as he was at the hospital in his professional capacity. Besides wanting the wonderful evening to go on and on, I thought maybe I’d see the shoes walk by our table. And if I did? I’d pounce on the wearer and phone Detective Wall on the spot. I tried to pay attention to the trio of bass, trumpet and drums who played my favorites like “Two O’Clock Jump” and “Satin Doll,” but all I could think about was the shoes. Fortunately Jonathan didn’t seem to notice my wandering brain. When the trio took a break, he introduced me to Daniel, who, though his mother was South American, spoke English with a charming French accent.

  It was like a dream, my being here with a handsome doctor, chatting with the musician and eating fabulous food. It was so dreamy that I almost forgot about the one negative. There was the possibility of a murderer in our midst. If she had known I was in that bathroom, the woman in the shoes might have killed me to keep me quiet. I shuddered at the thought.

  After the music and an after-dinner drink, Jonathan took me home. He said he’d had a great time. I said I had too.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said when he parked in front of my house. “But not for professional reasons.”

  “That would be great because I’m really fine,” I assured him. “Completely healed except for a little soreness in my ankle.” I felt fine except for the nagging feeling that I’d let the shoes slip through my fingers once again. How many times could this happen? I’d let MarySue get away with the shoes twice and now this. In every instance, I was younger and faster than my adversary, but not more motivated or I’d have the shoes in my hand by now.

  “I’ll check my schedule and see when my next day off is,” Jonathan said. “There’s so much to see and do in this town. Have you been to Alcatraz?”

  I shook my head. Dolce told me she’d take me to the former prison on the island in the Bay, but so far we hadn’t had a chance to go.

  “I’ll call you,” he said. Then he leaned over, tilted my chin toward him and kissed me on the lips. I felt a shiver of pleasure up and down my spine. It was the perfect ending to a perfect evening. Except for one tiny detail.

  I gave a full account to Dolce the next day except for that one detail. I debated who to tell first about the shoes. The detective or my boss. I hated for either one of them to know I’d failed to get them when I had the chance to grab them. Even worse, I missed a chance to find out who’d killed MarySue. I was sure the missing shoes were tied to her death. Whoever had the shoes had either killed her or knew who did.

  The store was quiet that Monday morning, so I told Dolce I was going across the street to get us each a latte to go and I’d be right back.

  Once outside I called Jack Wall and told him I’d seen the shoes at Café Henri last night.

  “Where are they now?” he asked. He sounded tired. But was he tired of this case or just tired of working too hard?

  “I don’t know. I didn’t act quickly enough. She got away.”

  “Any ideas? Any hunches? Any clue at all as to who it might have been?” he asked.

  “I know who it wasn’t. It wasn’t Dolce. So you can cross her off your list.”

  “How do you know?” he asked. I could tell he didn’t believe me. He thought I’d made up something to divert suspicion from my boss. “Because she wore perfume. Dolce never does. It was heavy, but not too heavy. A combination of musk and some other things. I’ve smelled it before, but I don’t know where. But I’ll know it if I ever smell it again.”

  “Isn’t there some way you can pin it down a little better? This may be an important clue.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m at work now. I can’t just take off and go try on different scents.”

  “Never mind. I’ll call Café Henri and ask for a list of their reservations for last night.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. It was interesting to know what you could find out with the power of the law behind you.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said with a tinge of sarcasm. Detective Wall appeared to have a problem acc
epting praise, at least from me.

  “You won’t see my name on the list or anyone who came with a date unfortunately. But still . . .” I said.

  I thought he might ask who my date was, but instead he said, “How was the food?”

  “Fantastic,” I said. “You should try it.”

  “I will. Once I get this case solved. Until then, it’s deli sandwiches and the occasional business lunch.”

  I assumed he was referring to the lunch he’d taken me to. “I’m trying to help you,” I said. In case he hadn’t noticed.

  “You’ll have to try a little harder. You seem to get that close to the shoes. A little too close.”

  “I know, I know. Then they slip out of my grasp. But I’m getting closer. There’s no way MarySue isn’t really dead, is there? I mean, some people might think she was a vampire.”

  There was a choking sound on his end of the phone connection. “You’re joking, right? You don’t believe in vampires, do you?”

  I was tempted to tell him about the vampire tour of the city, but he’d probably just laugh at me. You can’t minor in Romanian as I did and not have a healthy respect for people who believed in the possible existence of vampires.

  “Of course I don’t believe in vampires,” I assured him. “But many people do, and they’re not all in Romania. What they believe is that you can’t bury a vampire and expect her to stay buried unless you remove her heart. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  But before I hung up, I asked if he knew when the event was going to be, the one Jim was planning for MarySue.

  “Forget it, Rita,” he said. “It’s only for close friends and family.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And after our last meeting, I’d prefer not to see Jim Jensen,” I said. “And if I did, I’d probably run the other way since he’s convinced I’m the one who fingered him. My life would be much easier and safer if you’d catch the murderer.”

  “Your life? Try my life. This is my first high-profile murder case. The chief’s job is on the line. Mine too for that matter. I’m going to solve it.”