I was relieved when he finally hung up. I hoped he was right about solving it. It couldn’t happen too soon to suit me. As for my not wanting to see Jim Jensen, I didn’t, but that wouldn’t stop me from attending this “close friends and family” party. I owed it to myself, to MarySue, to Dolce and to my adopted city to find out who murdered MarySue and took her silver shoes.
Ten
I bought two lattes and went back to work. It was a slow day, which was bad news for business and bad news for keeping one’s mind off of murder. I couldn’t stop thinking of that photo Jack had showed me. It couldn’t have been Dolce. In the first place, why wouldn’t she have told me she was there? “Because,” said a little voice in my ear, “she didn’t want anyone to know. If you don’t know, you can’t tell the police.” But if she was really there, then other people saw her. Why not ask them? I almost called Jack Wall back to tell him my suggestion. Second, why would she go to the Benefit at all? The answer to that one was obvious. To retrieve the shoes. Still, I couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it.
I rearranged the jewelry and hung a Swarovski crystal necklace on a mannequin with a black rolled-neck cashmere sweater—the combination looked stunning. Even though the big social weekend was over, I pressed a few gowns and rehung them on a rack. I chatted with customers and actually sold a scarf and a pair of gold hoop earrings. I wished I’d called the restaurant myself for a list of the reservations, but I knew Jack wouldn’t want me to interfere.
I was almost glad to see Peter Butinski come in. That’s how bored I was. He had brought in more shoes. But he didn’t return the magazine he’d lifted from Dolce’s desk.
“Have I got something for you,” he said to me. “Five fall shoes no girl can live without.” He sat himself down in one of Dolce’s padded chairs as if he belonged there. “That means you, Ms. Jewel.”
“Not for me, Peter, but I want to see what you’ve got.” When had I not been interested in the latest fashion footwear?
He opened the boxes. He was right: a girl could do worse than stocking up with his five selections—a kick-ass pair of boots in gray suede, a wooden wedge heel that could go anywhere from dusk to dawn, an updated clog, an open-back mule to wear now or later with tights, and a pump that looked totally classic but, he explained, was actually waterproof.
“You may not know this,” Peter said, “but the latest thing for fall is wearing a pair of chic socks with your strappy heels.”
“Socks, with strappy heels?” I was trying to visualize the combination.
He nodded and reached into his canvas bag. “Like these Falke over-the-knee socks in soft cotton. What do you think?”
I ran my fingers over the ribbed socks. They were incredibly soft and would look good with shorts and a pair of espadrilles.
“Fifty-five percent cotton, twenty-five percent virgin wool.”
“I love them,” I confessed, “but . . .” I was losing sight of my goal here, distracted as usual by something I just had to have. I forced myself to focus on the problem at hand. I looked at the shoes he’d set on the table.
There was just one thing missing.
“No silver stilettos, Peter?”
I expected him to tell me he could get them if I wanted them. I didn’t expect him to turn deathly pale, almost the color of gray suede.
“Wh . . . what do you mean?” he asked.
“I just wondered if you had anything like a pair of handmade silver heels,” I said as innocently as I could. “Not that I have any place to wear them like a society benefit or anything, but you never know. Always best to be prepared for any occasion, right?”
He hesitated for a moment, looking at me as if he thought I might know something I shouldn’t. Then he recovered his poise. “I have ways of special ordering any shoe you want, my dear.” Maybe he thought I might actually buy something from him. “Just let me know ahead of time. Now where’s Dolce?”
“In her office.”
“I’ll leave the shoes then and the socks. I expect they’ll fly off the shelf. Especially if you promote them. I’ll make it worth your while.” He looked at my feet. “What’s your size?”
“Eight and a half,” I said. I wondered what he had in mind. A discount on his shoes?
After he left, I went over our conversation in my mind. He knew something about MarySue’s silver shoes, I could swear he did. But what?
The rest of the day dragged by. I didn’t hear from Dr. Jonathan, Nick or the detective. I couldn’t think of how to bring up the subject of the benefit with Dolce without sounding like I was accusing her of something. So I didn’t. If Jack Wall thought it was her, let him do it. I just hoped he wouldn’t. Dolce didn’t need that kind of harassment.
The more I thought about it the more I was intrigued by the thought of MarySue returning as a vampire and going to dinner at Café Henri the same night I did. If only I was a true believer. If only I knew what perfume she wore. No, that was ridiculous. The woman whose shoes I’d seen at the restaurant was a living, breathing person, and I wanted to know who she was.
That night I couldn’t face going straight home alone. I realized I was getting hooked on fun and excitement, if you can call looking for a murderer fun and exciting. With my ankle feeling almost normal, I decided to sign up for one of Nick’s classes instead of resuming kung fu. It would give me something to do at night besides vegging out in front of my TV, and I didn’t mind the fact that it would bring me into close attention with Nick.
At five o’clock I left Dolce’s and took a bus to the Ocean View Gymnastics School on Vista Avenue. I wasn’t sure if Nick would be there. If he was, I’d observe his class and see if he really was a good teacher. If he wasn’t, I’d just sign up for one of his classes and take a chance. I didn’t think he’d mind if I just dropped in. Hadn’t he invited me to do just that? My action didn’t count as chasing men, did it? If only Aunt Grace were around, I’d check with her to be sure.
Before I committed to anything, though, I’d take a look around the gym to see if there were students swinging from trapezes or gyrating to rock music or jumping on trampolines. If there were, I’d slip out unnoticed and find another activity for my empty evenings.
As it turned out, Nick was there, wearing shorts and a “Romania the Land of Choice” T-shirt. He was just about to teach a tumbling class for children when he saw me at the front desk. “Rita, I am very glad to meet you again,” Nick said. “You came to join the class, yes?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I joined one with adults?” I asked with a glance at the group of children waiting for him on the gym floor. I’d stand out like a sore thumb, being larger and less able to perform than everyone else.
“As you like, yes, if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
“I’m afraid it would make me feel uncomfortable when I saw how well the children did and I didn’t.”
“Ah, yes, I understand. A beginning class is best for you, which meets on Wednesdays. How is that for you?”
“That would be fine. Is it okay if I watch this class this evening?” I asked, thinking I’d see what his technique was and if he was patient with the slow learners. I didn’t need anyone else in my life criticizing me for making the wrong moves.
“Of course. Many parents will watch also. And afterward we can have a coffee between classes.”
I told him it sounded good, then I took a seat on the risers with a good view of the class. The other adults there must be the parents he’d mentioned. While he had the kids doing warm-up exercises, I overheard them talking.
“Isn’t he the best? Sasha just loves this class,” one woman said to another.
“His accent is to die for, and those biceps. You can tell he’s in good shape.”
“Definitely eye candy,” another mother said, her gaze focused on the gym instructor on the floor.
They were right. Nick was even better looking in shorts and a T-shirt than in his trench coat on the night I’d met him at the airport. And you couldn’t say tha
t about everyone. Most people got worse looking the more clothes they removed. Which was why I was in the clothes and accessory business. I made women look better.
“I don’t know any other Romanians,” the first woman said. “Maybe they’re all as hot as Nick Petrescu. My au pair has a major crush on him. He asked her out to some Romanian festival, and she’s over the moon, completely gaga.”
What? My Nick was going out with someone else? I told myself he had the right to date anyone and everyone he wanted to. As long as he didn’t take her on the vampire tour too. After all, he was only one of the three men in my life. He was new in town and needed new friends just the way I did.
By the end of the class I hadn’t made up my mind about taking a class, but I was glad I’d come. When Nick joined me, he had showered and changed into street clothes and still looked very attractive in a European way. He was totally different from the other two men in my life. One was a doctor who had the money to wine and dine me, one was more concerned that I was an accomplice in a murder, and then there was Nick, who just wanted me to meet his relatives and feed me.
Over coffee in the adjacent snack bar, Nick told me how glad he was I’d decided to take gymnastics. I was reluctant to make a commitment, so I said I’d have to check my schedule first before I signed up.
He asked if I was still interested in the vampire tour. “Don’t worry,” he said, “they do not go underground or to any stops that are seriously dangerous or frightening.”
Not dangerous or frightening? Now I was worried it wasn’t going to be authentic. “Of course I’m interested,” I said. “I can’t believe I never heard of it before.”
“Aunt Meera doesn’t advertise so much. She wants only earnest students of history or her friends on her tour. Some do wear costumes, but only to get to the spirit, you understand. What is your liking, Friday or Saturday night? It begins at eight and ends at ten.”
“Saturday would be fine,” I said.
“I will tell my aunt. She is looking forward to your meeting her. I told her of how we met at the airport, of course. And how you dropped your shoes.”
“She knows about the silver shoes?” I asked. By now I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone I knew had either seen the shoes, wanted the shoes, stolen the shoes, sold the shoes or worn the shoes. Maybe she was the one who took them. Maybe she was the one who was wearing them at the restaurant. If it was her, I was impressed at how fast a one-hundred-twenty-seven-year-old could dash through a restaurant.
“She knows about many things,” he said.
“Because of her age,” I said. “Do you know what kind of perfume she wears?”
“No,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“I am sorry to leave like this,” Nick said, looking at his vintage Orex watch, “but I must attend schedule meeting. And after the meeting I have a, how do you say? A previous commitment.”
Hmmm. Maybe the previous commitment was a date with the au pair. “Thanks for letting me observe,” I said. “It was very interesting.”
He stood and walked me to the door. “Until Saturday then. It will be so pleasant for me, and my aunt is the same. After the tour we will taste some Romanian food and drink together.”
I stood at the bus stop feeling glad I’d made the effort to come out here and watch a class. I’d learned I wasn’t the only woman in Nick’s life. Which made me wonder what my competition was in Jack’s life or my doctor’s? So what should I do? Take a class from Nick? Return to kung fu? Do nothing? What I was sure of was that I was looking forward to the vampire tour. Even if I learned nothing about the lost shoes or came any closer to finding out who killed MarySue, I would enjoy hearing more about the history of San Francisco and how vampires had supposedly participated in shaping the city. All that from a self-professed vampire guide who’d been around a long, long time. Maybe not one hundred years, but still quite a while. For once I’d like to go out and have a good time without thinking about MarySue, Jim Jensen, Peter Butinski or Harrington Harris. Nick knew nothing about MarySue Jensen and I was glad. I had hit a dead end trying to find out who’d killed her. I wanted to forget about her, her husband and her probable killer whoever he or she might be.
But I couldn’t forget Harrington. The next day Dolce told me we’d been invited to see the dress rehearsal at the high school of Bye Bye Birdie, Harrington’s play.
“Already? Didn’t school just start this week?” I said.
“I can’t keep track,” Dolce said. “But apparently he’s been rehearsing it all summer. He’s certainly been talking about it all summer. No rest for the wicked, according to him. Even so, it’s bound to be terrible. He said so himself. But he’s invited all our customers. How would it look if we didn’t go?”
“You’re right,” I said. “We’re just one big happy family, aren’t we?”
Dolce gave me an approving smile. I was glad she didn’t think I was being sarcastic.
On Friday night Dolce said she’d take us to the play in her rental Range Rover, which was so unlike her. She explained she had to turn in the Mercedes and take the cheapest car in the lot. Maybe she was afraid I’d bolt if she didn’t make sure I went with her. But first we went across the street from the boutique to the upscale trendy bar, which was filled with Yuppies on a Friday night, what else? Dolce said she couldn’t face an amateur production without a drink first, and Aberration was well-known for the mixologist behind the bar.
His reputation was well-deserved. I ordered a Galapagos made with lemon and lime and even a splash of grapefruit juice, and Dolce ordered a wanderlust, a kind of super martini with organic vodka.
“You should come here more often,” Dolce told me, looking around at the crowd of young professionals. “Good place to meet men.”
I nodded. But what would I do with any more men? “Actually I have another date tomorrow.”
“With the doctor?” she asked.
“With Nick the gymnast. We’re going on a vampire tour of the city. It’s led by his aunt. He says she claims to be a vampire herself.”
“Rita, you don’t believe in vampires, do you?” she asked with a frown.
“Of course not,” I said. Why did everyone keep asking me that? Not even Nick believed his aunt was for real. “But I am interested in history. And since I minored in Romanian in college I will be interested to hear what she has to say about Vlad the Impaler who may or may not have been the real Count Dracula.”
When we got to the high school, I think both Dolce and I wished we hadn’t forfeited an evening of ordering drinks and munching barbecued wonton, meatballs or shrimp cocktail at the bar to come see a bunch of high school kids jump around on stage singing and dancing.
Just a glance around the little theatre told us the place was full of the parents of the actors and a smattering of Dolce’s customers Harrington had conned into coming. “What I won’t do for my clients,” Dolce murmured. Even though I didn’t need to remind her that Harrington was hardly a good customer. Harrington met us in the lobby with our tickets. For some reason he was dressed in seventies’ disco style—a bold-patterned polyester shirt that fit tightly across his chest and a pair of wide-leg pants—even though the play was set in the sixties. Close enough, I guessed. He was greeting parents and friends alike as if he were the star of the musical himself. He was the center of attention, gladhanding the adults in the lobby as if he was Stephen Sondheim at the opening of Sweeney Todd.
His sister Marsha came up and studied my hair and my outfit. I wasn’t sure if she appreciated the combination of my print dress and brown lace-up boots, which were a vintage tribute to the character of Elaine on Seinfeld who always showed up in long floral skirts, blazers and granny shoes with socks. Even if no one else realized what my fashion inspiration was on a given day, I was confident enough to wear what I liked. Maybe I’d even be credited with bringing back nineties TV-sitcom style.
“How was your date?” Marsha asked. Not a word about my clothes. I refused to le
t it bother me.
“Wonderful. Thanks to you, I didn’t have to worry about my hair for a minute.”
“Where did you go?”
“We had dinner at a little French place. Great food, and a jazz trio played after dinner.”
“Really? It wasn’t Café Henri, was it?”
I stared at her. “Have you been there?” Had she seen the woman in the silver shoes?
She nodded. “Sunday night. It was my birthday. You should see what my brother gave me before we went to dinner. A pair of shoes to die for. He made them himself, but you’d never know. They look like they came from Italy or someplace. The man is a genius. Well, I’d better go get a seat up front. Harrington wants my take on his costumes. I know they’ll be fabulous, but I’m taking notes for him.” She waved a small notepad and left the lobby while I stood there staring with my mouth open.
Handmade shoes? I wondered. Would those shoes have been a pair of silver stilettos? And if so, did she really believe her brother made them? I knew he was clever, but really. Wasn’t it more likely he stole them from MarySue and gave them to his sister? I should have paid attention to her perfume. I thought if I ever smelled that musky scent again, I’d know it. But now I wasn’t so sure.
I almost followed Marsha into the theatre so I could sit behind her and get a whiff of her scent, if she was even wearing any. And then what? Ask her about the shoes? If she had been wearing the stolen silver stilettos, she’d never admit it. She was convinced her brother had made those shoes himself. Maybe he had. Maybe I was the one who was crazy. By the time I’d made up my mind to confront her, it was too late. As usual. This was the story of my life these days. When would I learn to act fast and decisively? When my ankle healed? Or never?
“Are you okay, Rita?” Dolce asked when she caught up with me. “You look like you’ve had a relapse. Maybe you’re not quite recovered from your accident.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. But sometimes I do get a funny feeling.” Like when I thought about a pair of missing silver shoes. Like when I thought about how they kept slipping away from me. Like when I kept missing opportunities to snatch them back. I rubbed my forehead and wondered how soon we could leave. The music was terrible and the dancing even worse. And don’t get me started about the acting. Dolce suggested we go at intermission. If we could hold out that long. It occurred to me that it was actually convenient to have an injury like mine. I could blame it for just about anything, like inattention or fear of being arrested, fear of customers or their next of kin, fear of getting caught lying or looking guilty or fatigue or saying the wrong thing. I’d already used it as an excuse to avoid difficult questions. Yes, I could take the coward’s way out and hang on to this injury for a while.
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