During the first act, which was definitely still a work in progress, I shifted restlessly in my seat. I looked around for Marsha in the front row, but I never saw her. Finally Dolce and I slipped away at the break. We’d made an appearance and that’s what counted. I only hoped our customers noted that we supported the arts. I could still follow up on Marsha. All I had to do was make another hair appointment. She was expensive, and this time I’d have to pay for it myself, but if I could crack this mystery, it would be worth it.
Dolce drove me home, and I wrapped myself in a plush microfiber robe with matching slippers and sat alone in my living room with my foot up trying to put this shoe story together. If MarySue wore the shoes to the Benefit and turned up dead without shoes, how would Marsha have gotten them? Surely she wasn’t even at the Benefit. If Dolce was at the Benefit as the photos suggested, she might have taken the shoes, which really belonged to her anyway. But why didn’t she tell me? Because she killed MarySue?
If Jim Jensen killed his wife, then he possibly still had the shoes. Jim was holed up in his house while his heart healed. Which gave him a good excuse for hiding out. He was also angry, which may have brought about his heart attack if it wasn’t caused by the arrival of the shaman. Then there was Patti French, who was also annoyed with her sister-in-law and had reasons to want to get rid of her. Did she? I kicked myself, only mentally of course, for not pursuing Marsha tonight. Why hadn’t I just asked her, “Was that you in the bathroom wearing the silver shoes? And if so, what did you do with them?”
Saturday was a busy day at the shop, with lots of customers shopping for something to wear that night. What about me? Should I wear a costume as Nick had suggested others did on the vampire tour? Maybe just a black velvet dress, a cape and black boots. All of which I had in my closet. The important thing was the makeup. I’d powder my face white and wear lots of eye shadow.
Nick called me in the afternoon to make sure I was up to walking the streets of San Francisco. I assured him my ankle was feeling normal. He said he too would be wearing a black cape and he’d pick me up at seven thirty.
We parked in a lot on top of Nob Hill and joined his aunt and the group on the corner of Taylor and California Streets across the street from Grace Cathedral, the historic towering gothic church perched atop the hill.
Nick’s aunt, Meera, said she was delighted to meet me after she’d heard so much about me. She spoke with a definite all-European accent, which could have been real . . . or not. She wore a flowing black dress and carried a battery-operated candelabra and led Nick, me and about ten others on a brisk walking tour of Nob Hill where the gold rush barons like Leland Stanford, James Flood and Mark Hopkins built their mansions in the nineteenth century.
“I’ve been here since 1857,” Meera told us.
What? I was sure Nick said she was one hundred twenty-seven. But maybe even vampires lie about their age. Or maybe math was not her strong suit. I looked around the group, assembled in a circle in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, built on the site of the railroad magnate’s mansion which was completed in 1878 after his death, but destroyed in the fire which followed the ’06 earthquake. There I saw definite signs of amusement and even some plain disbelief on a few faces. Meera must get disbelievers on her tours all the time. She must be used to them. She certainly didn’t look the least bit chagrined. In fact, she looked just about as charged up as the batteries on her candelabra.
Before anyone could question our tour leader, Meera continued. “I became a vampire in Romania, my home country and home to others more famous than myself—Vlad the Impaler and Count Dracula. The count was jealous of my power, and he’s responsible for my becoming a vampress and for banishing me around the world to California. Of course, I was unwilling to go so far from home and family, but it turned out to be a good move for me. I arrived by ship in San Francisco, but at the time the action was all in the goldfields, so it was overland for me to the mother lode country. Long story short, since the late nineties—that’s the 1890s—I’ve lived under and on the streets of this great city. Until recently, when I moved to the suburbs. Of all the neighborhoods, Nob Hill, one of the original seven hills, is my favorite. When I retire, I intend to move back here.” She waved her arm toward the houses nestled between high-rises. “It has the best views and the biggest mansions. I’ve seen a lot of history made here. Felt the aught-six earthquake. Escaped the fire. Saved a few lives. And met a lot of interesting people.”
“But Count Dracula, he’s not real is he? Isn’t he just a character in a book?” a woman asked.
Meera shot her a stern look. “Romanians have many legends and stories, most based on true persons and facts. We have many counts, princes and kings. Only a Romanian knows for sure who is for real and who is not. It is not for me to spread rumors if I want to return to my country.”
The questioner still looked dubious. I thought I’d better keep my mouth shut even if I had a few questions. That is if I wanted to stay on our guide’s good side, not to mention the fact that I was the guest of her and her nephew.
“How does it feel to be so old?” someone asked. “Let’s see, you must be . . .”
“One hundred twenty-seven,” Meera said automatically as if she didn’t realize she had her dates off. “I feel fine. Never better. My job allows me to talk about myself and my country and the history of this city every Friday and Saturday night. I know, some of you think vampires don’t exist.” Here she gave a pointed look toward the woman who’d had the audacity to question her. “They’re only imaginary, mythical or literary, you may say. But here I am. A member of the undead, alive and in person.”
She smiled and her sharp pointed teeth gleamed in the light from her candelabra.
“How do you feel about living forever?” someone else asked after Meera’s remarks had settled in.
“It’s great. How can I complain? As long as I have my health, I couldn’t be happier. I get a front-row seat to history happening right before my eyes. I don’t fear death or old age. What can be wrong with that?”
I thought I knew what Jack Wall would say. “Sure, she wears black, looks pale and has her teeth capped, but come on, give me a break. Don’t you get it? She claims to have supernatural powers because she feels powerless. You don’t have to be a psychotherapist to see what’s going on here. She’s a fraud, a phony and she’s psycho.”
I didn’t let his unsaid words stop me from asking Meera a question.
“Do you ever get a chance to meet the recent undead, I mean those who have just crossed over?” I asked. I know it was crazy, but what was the harm in playing along with the woman? What if she knew something? Who was I to turn down any helpful information no matter who it came from? She looked confused. Maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right. Maybe she didn’t know who I meant. Maybe I should have waited until later to ask about a specific person, namely MarySue.
“We meet the new arrivals at orientation. So, yes, there’s a meet-and-greet every few months. Is there someone special . . . ?” she asked eagerly. “Someone rich and famous perhaps?”
“Not really,” I said. MarySue was richer than I was, but not rich enough to buy the kind of shoes she wanted. And famous? I’d have to say she was well-known in certain circles, but not really famous.
“She just died recently, and I have no reason to think she’s a vampire. Except I saw someone wearing her shoes the other night and I thought maybe . . .” I waited hopefully. Not that Meera was really a vampire, but she might know something. It was worth a try.
“Of course you thought she’d returned. Which is quite possible especially if the mourners looked back as they left the grave site. Is that what happened?”
I shrugged. How did I know?
“That way the body could easily find her way back, you see.”
I nodded, thought I really didn’t see.
“But I have to tell you the undead often come back in a different form than when they were alive,” Meera said. “And they usually wouldn’t
be wearing the same shoes.”
I felt foolish for asking. Now everyone would think I was gullible enough to believe.
The next question was from a guy standing on the edge of the crowd. I wasn’t even sure he was with the tour.
“Do you drink blood?” he asked.
“Good question. Most vampires do not actually drink blood,” Meera said patiently. “We enjoy real food, mostly red meat but leafy green vegetables also.”
“Do you only come out at night?” a woman asked.
“Vampires typically have night jobs,” Meera said. “We find it difficult to adjust to daytime schedules. So we work as night watchmen, security guards, nurses, air-traffic controllers or funeral directors. Things like that.”
When she finished the tour of the hotels, the men’s club and a private residence, Meera thanked us for our attention. Then she handed out discount cards for the Transylvania Café to everyone. She told Nick she’d meet us there.
“Are they still open?” I asked Nick as he drove west on California Street.
“Of course. Romanians dine stylishly late. It’s their custom. You will find others from the tour there. The chef is an old friend of Meera’s.”
“By old do you mean more than one hundred twenty-seven?”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe Chef Ramon is as old as my aunt, but I am sometimes wrong about such matters. In any case, the food is authentic and they stay open for those who work late.”
“Like security guards and funeral directors?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The food in the tiny restaurant out in a residential neighborhood called the Sunset was served family style. I didn’t see any of my fellow tourists there, but there were other eaters who looked like they might be Romanian. Of course I was famished by that time, and the sarmalute, cabbage stuffed with rice, meat and herbs, was delicious. There were bowls of pickled vegetables on the table and a carafe of dark red wine. For dessert the chef brought out a cake called cozonoc, that Nick told me was often served at Christmas or Easter.
Meera sat next to Nick and spoke Romanian to him from time to time. Then she leaned over and told me she was so happy to have her favorite nephew here in the United States where there was more opportunity for jobs.
“He’s a very good teacher,” I said. “I observed his class recently.”
“And you yourself will be taking gymnastics, Nick tells me,” she said. “Many women have signed up for classes at the gym since my nephew arrived. He is not only a gifted teacher, but a very attractive man, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yes, I did,” I said politely. “And I’m definitely interested in a class. As soon as my ankle is completely healed and I have a go-ahead from my doctor.” I wanted to have an out in case I decided I wanted to go back to kung fu.
Before we left the restaurant, I asked Meera what was the difference between galumpkis and sarmalute. She sighed, then she thought for a long moment before she said she couldn’t explain it, you had to eat some of both and it was best to be Romanian to understand and she was exhausted from her tour. So I just snapped a picture of her even though she ducked her head and said, “I’m not photogenic. I take terrible pictures.” I thanked Nick for a wonderful evening and I meant it.
Sure enough, later when I’d kicked off my shoes and wiped the white makeup off my face, I checked the playback icon on my Nikon and saw I’d taken some great shots of the park, the hotel and the restaurant, but Nick’s aunt’s image was nowhere to be seen. There was just a blur where she was sitting at the table. I sat at my kitchen table staring off into space. There was no such thing as vampires, but anyone who believed in them would tell me it is impossible to take their pictures and capture them on film. A blur just mean I’d jostled my camera, that’s all.
Eleven
The next week was a downer at Dolce’s. I knew I should ask Dolce if and why she was at the Benefit before Jack Wall zoomed in on her and took her down to the station, wherever that was, for questioning, but I hated to bring up the subject. So I kept putting it off. With the Benefit over and other parties fading from the schedule, there weren’t many customers. Nick didn’t call. Maybe he was disappointed I didn’t sign up for his class. Or maybe he had gotten involved with that au pair or one of his many adult female students. Dr. Jonathan didn’t call. Maybe he was on call or he’d hooked up with an attractive, warm and caring nurse. I didn’t hear from Detective Wall either. Maybe he’d solved the case on his own and didn’t need me anymore. If so, the least he could do was to let me know. But the silence out there was deafening.
On Tuesday I was sick of trying to act busy when I had nothing to do, so I suggested we have a fashion show. Dolce perked up a little, then she frowned. She was worried about the lack of customers and sales, I could tell. “But we can’t afford to hire models. Even if we did, who would come to see the show?”
“Your best customers will be the models. They’ll love it,” I said. “Everyone wants to be a model. And when they wear something for the show, they’ll want to buy it.”
“You think so?” she asked. “You really think so?”
I nodded emphatically. “As for who will come to see the show . . . their friends and their husbands. We’ll serve drinks and finger food. We’ll clear out the great room and set up folding chairs. The women can dress in the alcove. I’ll make up a sign-up sheet.”
Dolce seemed happy to have me organize the event, and I was glad to have something to do. We picked a date, five o’clock on Friday night. I went into her office, flipped through her file and started calling the customers. By the next day the place was full of wannabe models trying on clothes for the fashion show. Dolce told me I was a genius.
“Let’s see how much they actually buy,” I said in an undertone, “before we go out and celebrate.”
When Patti French came out of one of the dressing rooms wearing a silk trench coat, a canvas jacket and silk pants all in the same shade, she asked me what I thought.
“Gorgeous,” I said. “The best way to mix and match neutrals is to combine different fabrics and textures.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, running her hand over the smooth silk of her rolled-up pants.
“With your height you could have been a model,” I said. It was true. She had the slim figure and the cheekbones to pull it off. “And your hair looks fabulous.”
She ran her hand over her sixties beehive. “You like it? Harrington’s sister did it for me. She assured me I wouldn’t look too retro.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “It’s more textured than earlier versions. Very much in the now.”
“My hair is so fine she had to use a ton of a thickening hairspray,” Patti said.
“Whatever works,” I said. “Marsha really knows what she’s doing. I wonder if she’d like to model. She’s short, but that’s okay. She has great taste.” Maybe I could get her to wear the shoes her brother made for her. I’d love to get a closer look at them without her suspecting that I suspected her or her brother of anything. When I got back to the office, I called and left a message telling her to come by the shop if she was interested in being in our show.
Claire Timkin, the schoolteacher, was thrilled to be a model. She said she’d invite all the moms of her current students now that school had started. I said the more the merrier even though I wasn’t sure those women were our target audience, but maybe they had more money than Claire. I suggested she model some designer denim, but she wanted a fresh, feminine look.
“Prints are fun,” I said, pulling a Missoni dress off a hook for her to try. “I’ll find you some jewelry to complement the look.” I brought her some bangles for her upper arms, which were nicely toned thanks to the hours she spent doing bicep curls or maybe just lifting books off the shelves.
She said she loved the dress I showed her and asked what kind of a discount we would give her if she bought it. I told her to ask Dolce. I knew how hard it was to be poor in the midst of wealth, but someh
ow Claire had found a way to dress like a millionaire on a teacher’s salary. On a whim I asked, “Were you at the Benefit, Claire? What did you wear?”
“I was there, and I wore a blue silk and jersey dress Dolce sold me last year. Long sleeved. Maybe you remember it? Timeless, she told me at the time. Of course, I would have loved something new, but you know how it is . . .” She shrugged. Yes, I knew how it was.
“Anyway it was a fabulous happening event,” Claire said. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. The clothes, the shoes, the gardens. It was the last time I saw MarySue,” she said, blinking rapidly as if she was going to cry. Had they been friends?
“How did she seem?” I asked, zipping her dress for her.
“Just the same. Full of life.” Claire shook her head. “I wish I’d known she was going to die. I would have said something to her.”
“Like what?” I asked. I really wondered.
“Well, I would have told her how much I admired her style. I was always envious of her. A big house, a successful husband and all the clothes and shoes she ever wanted.”
I wondered how many other women envied MarySue with no idea she was in financial trouble.
“Who else but MarySue had the confidence to wear a plain black dress with silver shoes? I don’t know how much they cost. Probably a fortune. You know what they say, if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford them. Anyway she looked great. If you have to die, you should look your best, don’t you think?”
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