“Do you need a ride to work?” he asked.
“That would help,” I said frostily. Was I guilty of withholding evidence by not telling him what Meera had said? Maybe he thought he could bribe me to tell him something incriminating if he offered transportation. Not me. He called someone on the phone, then he told me Officer O’Doul would meet me in front of the station in an official car.
It was the least he could do, I thought, after all I’d done for him. But I had no intention of calling him with additional helpful hints about this case. I’d done enough. When I’d helped him out the last time, what had it gotten me? Just a few warnings, no medals, no rewards, no key to the city.
Dolce was waiting for me at the door of the boutique. She stepped outside when she saw the cop car let me off, and she looked around before she spoke. “How did it go?” she said softly so the customers inside wouldn’t hear her.
I shrugged.
“He doesn’t think you killed the chef, does he?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Who knows what Jack thinks. He holds his cards close to his vest, although he wasn’t wearing a vest today. I just wish he’d solve the case soon so I can forget all about the chef and his murder.”
Dolce took me by the arm and we went inside, straight to her office. We got a few curious looks from our usual customers, but apparently Dolce hadn’t heard enough from me. Not yet.
“Sit down,” she said, closing the office door. “Tell me everything. What he said. What you said.”
“I said I didn’t do it. Who knows if he believes me. He knows I was there at the school last night.”
“He wouldn’t call you down to the station unless he suspected you, would he? But why? Why would you kill a chef?”
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t kill anyone, especially not a chef.”
I was so tired of questions without answers, I was relieved when someone knocked on the office door.
“Dolce, are you there? I have a question. Is it true when the days get short the hems get long?”
Dolce gave me a look and went to the door. Life goes on. No matter who gets shot at a cooking school, women still need clothes. I needed clothes for a funeral. Guido’s funeral. Why did I want to go to the funeral? No, I didn’t really know the man, but I’d been to funerals before and as depressing as they are, I’d always learned something important. Was it too much to hope for that Guido’s interment would be just as enlightening? Like, for example, the murderer just might be there and give himself away. Not to everyone, of course, but a sensitive person like myself might have an “aha” moment. Fortunately I’d have no trouble finding something appropriate and chic to wear. Those were words we lived by at Dolce’s.
The story of Guido’s murder was in the newspaper.
Hopefully lots of people would attend Guido’s funeral, either rivals to celebrate his demise or admirers to mourn him. I prided myself on being a student of character, so I was looking forward to meeting Guido’s friends and relatives, hoping to find who would stand to gain by his death. Of course, if they all flew in from Italy the day of the funeral, I’d have to cross them off the list and then where would I be? I’d be back to being suspect number one.
Since his death was public knowledge, I could no longer pretend I didn’t know anything about it. I could still pretend I had nothing to do with it. But that wasn’t pretending. I’d had nothing to do with it. Nothing. No matter if the police didn’t believe me.
I tried to act normal by waiting on some of our regular customers, like Patti French, whose sister-in-law MarySue had been murdered last year. I showed her a classic crisp white shirt by Theory, a wide snakeskin belt by Lauren and a flirtatious above-the-knee fringed leather skirt by Ralph Lauren. She told me she’d heard hems were going down, but I assured her with her legs she needed to show them off.
She knew she looked terrific in the outfit and told me I was a genius. The kind of words I needed to hear after what I’d been through. After I rang up her purchases for a tidy sum, I went to the office and tried to call Meera again. I got her number from the restaurant and called her cell phone. Yes, even faux vampires have cell phones these days. I didn’t expect her to answer, so when she did, I was struck almost speechless.
“Meera, where were you last night?” I blurted. “I called in a pizza order, but you weren’t there.”
“I took the night off. I was tired. When you’re my age, you will see what I mean. Oh, to be one hundred again. I am working three jobs, you know. I deserve a night off. Why, did you get the wrong pizza?”
By “my age” she meant close to two hundred years old. Yes, I imagine at that age I might be tired too.
“No, no, it was delicious,” I assured her. “Have you heard the news about Guido, the chef?”
“Yes, and I’m not surprised. The man was asking for it.”
“Asking to be shot? You mean because he stole your recipes?”
“Not just mine. Not at all. I could give you a list.”
“You might have to. The police are investigating his murder. I had to appear at the police station this morning.”
“You? Why?”
“Because I went to see him after I left you last night.”
“Was he alive?” she asked.
Why did everyone ask me that? “Yes,” I said, irritated by the question. “But not for long.”
“Then you didn’t kill him.”
“Of course I didn’t. I liked him. I thought he was a great cook and a fine teacher.”
“Hmmpf,” she snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Did you kill him?” I asked. A crazy question, I knew. But Meera was a crazy lady. She was just crazy enough to do it and then confess because she was proud of it. And she didn’t fear death because as a vampire she would live forever. So she claimed.
He won’t be around much longer, I can tell you that, she’d said about the chef. How did she know unless she was in on his murder? Maybe she didn’t do it herself. Maybe she had someone else do it. I had the feeling she knew more than she was letting on.
“I don’t mind that he’s dead,” she said. “You know why, but I didn’t kill him. I haven’t seen him for years, and I had no wish to see him again. But I am going to his funeral.”
“When is that?” I asked. When I wanted to ask, why is that? Why go to his funeral if you didn’t like him and you didn’t kill him?
“I heard from a friend it’s Thursday, at the All Saints Funeral Home in Colma. The place will be full of chefs, and I know they all feel the way I do. There will be plenty of dry eyes in the house, you can count on it.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, “but if his students are there, it will be a different story. We all admired him. I would never have given that dinner party I invited you to if I hadn’t had a cooking lesson from Guido to give me confidence. I know how you feel about him, but as a teacher he was excellent. Knowledgeable but modest, helpful and kind, which is rare for someone as well-known as he was and just what you look for in an instructor.” I hoped she got the message I was sending. If she didn’t shape up to be helpful and kind, knowledgeable and modest, she’d never succeed as a chef.
I didn’t tell her how different Guido had seemed last night, preoccupied and nervous and definitely not charming. He wanted to get rid of me, that was for sure. But why? If I knew that, I’d have a handle on who did it.
I paused, wondering if what I’d said had caused Meera to do a little soul-searching. What kind of a teacher would she be? She might be talented, but she had the chef’s typical ego. It remained to be seen if it would get in her way. Would she throw tantrums, dress down the incompetent students and hurl insults? I wouldn’t be there to find out.
“After the funeral, there will be a lunch at the Tante Whatever-Her-Name-Is Cooking School,” she told me.
“How do you know all this?” I asked. I was a little jealous that she who bad-mouthed Guido and probably many other professional chefs knew more about his funeral than
I did.
“Word goes around,” she said with a casual air.
My hope was I could find the murderer there at the funeral. I also hoped that Jack would not only absolve me of the crime, but that he would also never know how Meera felt about the chef. Though by now she was probably on his list. In any case, I loved a good funeral, full of drama and tension and usually followed by a buffet to feed the mourners. The last one I went to for our assistant clerk Vienna was followed by a spectacular spread at a gorgeous home. And the murderer was definitely there among the guests. If only I’d figured it out sooner, I could have avoided getting dunked in the cold waters of the Bay. This time I’d pay more attention. Not only was this event a chance for me and for the police to discover the perpetrator, it was also going to be beyond gastronomically satisfying. I was looking forward to it.
Before I went back to the showroom, I changed out of my suit into a sketch print dress from Robert Rodriguez in a leafy green that said spring. I knew it was fall, but spring is my favorite season. I wore a Lauren Jeans denim jacket with it for warmth and to de-fuss the dress and dial down the summer factor of the print. Then I added a tomboy touch with a pair of Puma sneakers. I could have worn a pair of the colorful new Gommino loafers with the rubber pebbles on the bottom, but Dolce had just gotten an order of the athletic shoes in and I wanted to try them out. Both Dolce and I agree that a good way to sell clothes is to wear them and show the customers how they look. So I try to wear boutique clothes as often as possible.
It was a little tricky being between seasons like that. Dressing for the in-between season required imagination and variety, combining unusual elements in a new way. That’s what the customers expected me to do. I couldn’t let them down.
Was it only yesterday I was in the dumps, finding my job to be superficial and tedious? Dolce was right: a new murder and some new clothes had done wonders for me. It had given me a challenge and new energy, both at work and elsewhere, like at the police station.
Back out with the customers, I immediately got a lot of attention for the shoes and the dress. Dolce noticed and gave me a thumbs-up for my original pairing of items. When I stopped by the accessories counter and slipped on a pendant necklace, I was ready for prime time.
“Sneakers with a dress?” Margot Black stopped trying on straw hats and stared at me.
“Loafers work too,” I said, pointing to a pair of the new Gomminos. “These are the ones you see on every celebrity’s feet these days. They’re handmade by Italian craftsmen. The pebbles keep the leather from wearing out. Want to give them a try?”
Before she had a chance to say no, I’d grabbed an Alexander Wang print dress from a hanger and sent her into the dressing room. I fetched a pair of the loafers in purple and handed them to her to try on. By this time I had a small audience of Margot’s friends and other customers waiting for her to emerge.
She was tall and slim with gorgeous voluminous long hair, and everyone agreed she looked fabulous. They even clapped. I beamed and took at least some of the credit for her appearance. Inspired, I handed her a set of seven Ross-Simons silver bracelets, which set off the whole outfit. I realized I needed more jewelry myself, though I couldn’t afford a set like this.
“But where will I wear it?” she asked, gazing at herself in the full-length mirror from loafers to her tousled hair.
Everyone chimed in.
“To lunch.”
“To tea.”
“To meetings.”
“To the zoo. The movies. The museum.”
All this attention was more than she could take. She returned to the dressing room and changed back into the short skirt and leggings she’d come in with.
I didn’t push or hustle. That was not the Dolce way. We suggested, we hinted, we demonstrated, we modeled, but we never insisted. I’d be surprised if Margot didn’t buy the whole outfit.
I moved on to showing someone else some long skirts and dresses. I loved a certain long, silk crepe Lanvin dress worn with some Cynthia criss-cross platform sandals. “On cool days a long skirt can be layered under tunics or short jackets or chunky cardigans. A dress is almost easier to wear,” I said. “You don’t have to come up with something to wear with it unless you want to. You’ve got it all.”
The customers were gathered around me listening to me expound in my print dress. How could I not love my job? What’s better than a captive audience of rapt listeners? Nothing. So I continued.
“For evening your hem should hit the floor,” I told them. “But for daytime you want a skirt that brushes the tops of your shoes.” It just so happened we had a whole rack of long dresses for sale and all the bangles to wear with them.
When someone asked what to do about flyaway hemlines, I said, “When you walk down the street and your skirt billows out behind you, it adds a touch of glamour. And who doesn’t want to look glamorous?”
No one said they didn’t want to look glamorous. How could they? All of a sudden everyone was going through the racks looking for long dresses. From the rear of the store Dolce was signaling to me, making the motion of a telephone call.
I went back to see her. “Your doctor is on the phone,” she said. “He couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
I nodded. I usually turn it off at work.
“He said he was worried about you, something about your tongue?” she said, looking concerned but very smart in her vintage wool suit and sling-back heels.
I blushed. Was your doctor supposed to discuss your symptoms with your boss? Of course, Jonathan was not my personal physician. And he’d probably gotten worried when I didn’t answer the phone. As for my tongue, I’d forgotten all about it.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I assured her. Then I hurried to the office and picked up the phone.
“Jonathan?” I said.
“Rita, I just got your message. How are you?”
For a moment I forgot what I’d called him about.
“Better. Much better.”
“Are you sure? You’d better come in for a complete checkup when you get a chance,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to arrive on a stretcher like last time.”
I sighed happily. Finally someone cared about my health and well-being.
“It may be nothing, and I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he said in his reassuring voice. “I’m working tonight, so how about having dinner with me in the hospital cafeteria? I owe you after that dinner you gave at your place. How are your cooking classes going?”
“Oh, that. They’re on hold right now while I look for a new teacher.”
“I thought you liked the one you had. You said he was some dramatic Italian guy.”
“He was, but he isn’t anymore. He was murdered last night.”
“No kidding.” Death didn’t freak out Jonathan. Not in his line of work. He accepted it as part of life. Which is what we all should do.
“This dead chef matter. Nothing to do with you, is it?” he said.
“Well, actually…”
“Rita, don’t get involved if you can help it. You can’t risk another concussion.” He was referring to the time I fell off a ladder. Actually I was pushed by a woman who was later murdered, but that’s another story. “I’ll see you tonight then at six?”
I agreed and went back to the showroom. Dolce was dying to know what Jonathan wanted. I could tell by the way she was looking at me and sending signals by raising her eyebrows.
“Dinner tonight,” I said in an undertone as I passed her in the hall. She beamed at me. Probably imagining a six-course meal at the Blue Fox, when it was just going to be macaroni and cheese with a glass of iced tea in the cafeteria where you could almost imagine the woman behind the counter asking if you wanted fries with your angioplasty. That wasn’t a fair assessment. When you’re in a hospital, you want comfort food. And they delivered it.
Dinner with Jonathan in his white lab coat with his spiky sun-bleached hair, his broad shoulders and
his sea blue eyes was always a treat no matter where it was. Compared to the no-nonsense detective who thought I might be a serial killer, Jonathan was warm and caring with the world’s greatest bedside manner. I was looking forward to seeing him again. I’d tell him I was actually fine. I’d say I knew nothing about Guido’s death. Of course, if he had any opinion about the cause of his death, I’d be all ears.
And then we could talk about Jonathan surfing at Santa Cruz or whether he’d found a new apartment. My aunt Alyce always told me to ask questions of people in general and men in particular to get them to talk about themselves. That’s what she did to land herself several husbands who never stopped talking until they expired or divorced my aunt.
Maybe I’d find out if Jonathan was dating anyone special. If not, I’d invite him to dinner again. That would give me the incentive I needed to learn to make something different. Something wonderful. Something easy. Maybe something Romanian. Just so it wasn’t pigs’ feet in aspic. Or maybe Jonathan would forget I owed him a dinner and he’d ask me out again.
On my way in to the cafeteria I stopped by the Admissions Department to see what I could find out about Guido’s case. I knew it was a long shot. Those admissions clerks are a closemouthed bunch, as I’d learned on another occasion when I needed information. Anticipating their questions this time, I said I was the niece of Guido Torcelli and I wanted to know what time he’d been brought in last night. I assumed an ambulance had brought him.
The woman stared at me for a long moment as if she might remember me from the last time I harassed her with my questions. Then she told me that information was not available.
“Even to family members?” I asked incredulously while I blinked rapidly as if ready to burst into tears.
“That is correct,” she said stiffly. “Unless you have a paper from the coroner giving you permission.”
“I do have one,” I said, “but I left it in the car. I wouldn’t ask, but my mother is broken up over this. She can’t let go. She doesn’t believe he’s dead.” The more I talked the more I threw myself into this fictional family drama. “It would help if she could see his body,” I said. “Otherwise she won’t be able to come to grips with it, you know?”
Murder After a Fashion Page 5
