Murder After a Fashion

by Grace Carroll

  “Was it good?” I asked.

  “Terrible. Nurses can be a real pain,” he said. “When you’re sick.”

  I agreed. When I was in the hospital with my concussion, I’d met two of them. Two too many.

  “I hope you’ll be well enough to come to my next dinner party,” I said.

  “Why wait?” he said. “As soon as I’m well, we’ll hit the Indian Grill in the Mission. Ever been there?”

  No, I hadn’t been there, but I would love to go. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Then let’s go. How about tomorrow? I have the day off.”

  “But I thought you were sick,” I said.

  “I’ll be better by then, and I need a change of scene,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.

  So I told him I was free without looking at my calendar. This was a date too good to pass up. Interesting food and an even more interesting man to eat it with. I loved going out for lunch or dinner or any time at all. I knew I should work on my hostess skills to boost my confidence, and I would as soon as this murder business was over.

  “See you then. I’ve missed you, Rita.”

  I smiled into the phone. It sounded like Jonathan’s sickness had affected his feelings for me in a good way. Then he had to hang up because someone was at the door. Another nurse on the prowl, I thought. They were a determined bunch, and no wonder. Jonathan was a man worth pursuing, especially when he wasn’t sick and crabby. He sounded much better, and I was encouraged that he wanted to get out and take me with him.

  When Jonathan came to pick me up at noon, he was wearing casual slim Ludlow suit pants in fine-stripe cotton with a crisply tailored cotton shirt. He took a good look at me and told me I looked terrific. I returned the compliment. He’d bounced back from his illness with determination, and although a little pale, he was still a head turner.

  We drove to a garage on Seventeenth Street to park his vintage Maserati, and took advantage of the good weather to stroll around the colorful Mission district, admiring the small shops and restaurants. We passed several burrito joints that smelled so good I could hardly resist stopping for one.

  “Next time we’ll come for Mexican food,” Jonathan promised.

  It was good to know he was already planning on another date. Because what they say about these burritos is true. They’re huge and everyone loves them. Basically they are tortillas stuffed with meat, cheese, rice, beans and everything else you can imagine. Knowing we were heading toward a gourmet Indian lunch, I used my willpower to hold off. When we finally arrived, I thought the restaurant looked like a large, imposing box from the outside. Once inside I realized it was gorgeous, though a bit dark.

  From the first look at the menu, and the attentive waiter and the soft music, I knew I was in the right place. All that and Jonathan too, with his sun-bleached hair, his vibrant good looks, his quick thinking and his natural charm. I thought I must be in heaven.

  The food was heavenly too. We started with assorted tandoori appetizers like chicken tikka and samosas pakora, then moved on to the curries and basmati rice. For dessert we had mango lassi, a refreshing drink.

  After lunch we continued our walk around the neighborhood. Jonathan wanted me to see the old Mission church, so we stopped at the small adobe building that dated from 1791, and observed it from the outside while he described its history.

  “You know these twenty-one missions are located up and down the coast of California at approximately one day’s horseback ride from each other. They were not just churches but communities with sheep and cows and other livestock. Ranching and farming were done all along a beautiful clear creek. And there was always a hospitable place to stop and rest for the travelers.”

  I gave Jonathan a surprised look. How strange it was to have a guy who spent many hours taking care of sick people explain California history to me, who had lived here longer than he had. He was so proud of his role as tour guide, his once pale face positively glowed in the afternoon sunlight. What a contrast between now and just a few days ago. Of course, no one could blame an invalid for being out of sorts. Did nothing get him down except being sick?

  “But what about the natives?” I asked. “I heard the Spanish settlers used them as slaves and treated them badly. If they tried to run away, they were beaten and imprisoned and often worked to death.”

  Jonathan frowned. Maybe he didn’t like that part of the American frontier fairy tale. None of us did.

  He was spared from answering my question when my phone rang. I fished it from my bag and when I saw it was Dolce, I walked to a nearby bench and sat down.

  “Rita,” Dolce whispered breathlessly, “you’ll never believe who just came to the shop.”

  “Dolce, I can hardly hear you.” Why was she whispering? And why had anyone come to the shop on Sunday?

  “That’s because I’m in my office and she’s in the shop.”

  “She, who? Why did you let them in when you’re closed?”

  “That woman from the funeral, the chef’s ex-wife. I couldn’t say no. She came all the way from Italy.”

  “You mean Gianna? How strange.”

  “It’s all right. She’s buying up a storm. She says everything is less expensive than in Europe. Still, as you know, our clothes are not cheap. She said she is going to inherit some money soon, so she wants to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate? She’s celebrating someone’s death, and I think we know who. But why would Guido leave her any money if they were divorced?”

  “Do you want me to ask her?” Dolce said. Because she was whispering, I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

  “Sure, go ahead,” I said. What did we have to lose? “Should I come there? Do you need any help?”

  “No, I just wanted you to know. I hope you’re having a nice time.”

  “Very nice. Jonathan and I are walking around the Mission after a delicious lunch. Let me know what happens.”

  When I hung up, I noticed that Jonathan had disappeared and there was a bride and groom standing on the steps of the basilica, which, unlike the old mission next door, was a combination of Moorish, Corinthian and Mission styles. The couple was surrounded by what appeared to be their wedding guests. The men were in dark suits and ties and the women all in dresses and hats. I tried to identify the dress designers while a photographer snapped pictures of the bridal party. Several shots with their parents, many others with the attendants and small flower girls. I had a twinge of envy as the groom put his arm around the bride and kissed her. They looked so happy. I wondered if that would ever be me standing at the door of the church after my wedding, kissing my groom. And if so, who would the groom be? One of the three men in my life or someone I hadn’t met yet? If I didn’t learn to cook soon, why would anyone marry me? That’s the question my aunt Alyce would ask.

  When I stopped feeling sorry for myself and my single status, I noticed Jonathan was standing off to the side, staring intently at the young couple with a smile on his face. No reason to assume he was regretting his single state. Though for some single people, there was nothing like a wedding to make them feel alone in the world.

  I walked over to him. “Anyone you know?” I asked. Maybe that’s why he was so interested.

  “One of my patients. I’m glad she recovered enough to get married.”

  “Let’s go inside the church and look around. I think it’s just a museum now.”

  Next we wandered into the oldest building in San Francisco. After giving a small donation to the building’s restoration fund, we read about the place from a brochure as we walked around.

  “The rough-hewn redwood timbers are lashed together with rawhide,” I said, “It’s the only intact chapel left of the twenty-one churches built under the direction of Father Junípero Serra.” I didn’t mention how many slaves lost their lives during this era and how Father Serra was blamed for the way they were treated. Everyone knew that.

  “It’s a miracle the mission survived the 1906 earthquake,” I said. “It says the g
round settled but the building stayed standing.”

  “Like me,” Jonathan said. “I was so sick, I thought I’d never get well, but here I am still standing. I can’t say it wasn’t good for me, because I finally know what my patients are going through. Thanks to you for coming by to cheer me up.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I said. “You’re a survivor just like the mission. Shall we go?” I said.

  He nodded, and we went back outside the thick adobe building into the sunshine. Enough of dwelling on the past.

  “What about some coffee and a donut?” I suggested. “I heard there’s a fabulous donut shop somewhere around here.”

  Jonathan agreed, so we asked someone and were directed to the place I’d heard about and was dying to try.

  We sat at a sidewalk table outside the small donut shop, ordered coffee, then poured over the menu trying to decide what kind of donuts to order. Chocolate saffron? Apricot cardamom?

  A couple at the next table were drooling over maple-glazed bacon apple. Bacon, in a donut? Really? My eyes popped open as I listened to them rave about it. Jonathan looked more like his old self sitting out here in the sun with the prospect of a donut in sight. We ordered a half dozen different kinds. After all, we didn’t have to eat them here on the spot. We could take some home.

  When we got our order in a cardboard box, I took a tiny, tentative bite of chocolate rosemary almond and shock waves went through me. I was in heaven. Paradise.

  Jonathan smiled indulgently. I knew there must be some doctors who would look askance at the eating of donuts, but not this doctor. I sighed happily, and he tried the apricot cardamom. He said it was great and ate another. “It’s good to feel hungry again,” he said. “And who was that you were speaking to on the phone?” he asked. “You looked disturbed.”

  “You mean back there at the church? Dolce called to tell me she had a surprise customer today.”

  “Isn’t the shop closed?” Jonathan asked.

  “That’s right,” I said. “The customer is a woman I met at the funeral of my cooking teacher, and she acts as if she has a sense of entitlement about her. That doors should open, money should come and people should cater to her. She just marched up to Dolce’s and knocked on the door. It happened that Dolce was there, so she let her in. Not that she minded. Dolce is always willing to make a sale.”

  “That’s what makes our country great, the entrepreneurs like Dolce, and you too.”

  “Of course, I want to sell clothes and accessories any day of the week,” I said. “But even shop owners need a day off to refresh the merchandise and themselves.”

  “You look very refreshed,” he said with the sexy smile I was glad to see had returned. I wanted to believe he was himself again after what he’d been through.

  All in all it was a good day. Jonathan and I continued our tour of the Mission district by buying a map of the murals painted on the walls of various buildings. We strolled and looked and read about them. Some were cartoonlike pictures that looked like they’d been drawn by children; others treated serious subjects, like people who’d died of AIDs. Another honored the artist Diego Rivera and his wife, the painter Frida Kahlo.

  Finally I couldn’t look at another painting or drink any more coffee or even eat another delicious donut, so Jonathan drove me home. He said he wanted to look in on a few of his patients this evening. He insisted I take the leftover donuts with me, and I didn’t resist. He looked more and more like his old healthy self, and I hoped that our tour of the district along with my company were part of the reason.

  When I got home, I went out on my deck to catch the last rays of the sun and to gaze at the view of the Bay at dusk. I bundled up in a warm Ralph Lauren Blue Label cashmere shawl cardigan. I often have a hard time finding a good sweater. Either they’re super stylish but don’t keep you warm, or they’re dumpy and easy to snuggle up in. Hard to know which is best. This cardigan was perfect I thought as I called Detective Wall. After all, didn’t he tell me to keep in touch? Or was that wishful thinking?

  When he answered on the second ring, I was glad I didn’t have to leave a message. He might not have returned my call unless I exaggerated my news.

  “Don’t you ever take a day off?” I asked.

  “Not when there’s a high-profile murder on the books.”

  “So the Guido case comes under the heading of high profile, or are you working on another murder?”

  “Just this. Have you got something for me?” He sounded impatient, so I organized my thoughts so as not to ramble and lose his attention.

  “I might. I heard from Dolce that Gianna was in the shop today.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Yes, Sunday,” I said impatiently. “The important thing is that she said she was going to inherit some money. What do you make of that?”

  “I have no time for Q and A, Rita. Just give me the facts.”

  Honestly sometimes I wonder if Detective Wall appreciates me.

  “I did. Gianna is Guido’s ex-wife, as you know. Now we know she had a motive for killing him. His money.”

  “Is this news?”

  “If you’ll give me a chance…”

  “Sorry, I have an Italian relative of Guido’s here who is waiting to see me. He says he knows who did it.”

  “I guess you can’t tell me who it is. His cousin? His brother?”

  “No, I can’t. Now, you were saying…”

  “That his ex-wife said she’d only arrived in time for the funeral, but it seems that she was here before he died and I just wondered—”

  “You wondered if she’d killed him? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “She had a motive,” I insisted. “They weren’t getting along, and today she went to Dolce’s and bought the store out. She said something about inheriting some money. Am I making myself clear?” How many times did I have to say it?

  There was no point pussy-footing around the basic questions. When you wanted to find out something from Jack, you had to ask point-blank.

  “You may have something, and I appreciate your call. Now I really have to go.”

  I bit my lip in frustration. You may have something. That’s all he could say? I was sure I had something, and if he wasn’t going to follow up, I would. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew I would try. I knew I should hang up then and give up, but that’s not my style. He thanked me politely and hung up.

  I won’t say I was discouraged by that conversation; I will say that after I hung up, I decided to focus on improving myself instead of helping the police. Sometimes I’m just too unselfish for my own good. So the next day I did something for myself and only my own self-esteem. I decided to attend the jewelry camp that was scheduled to be held at Diana’s spacious house in Pacific Heights. Even if I didn’t learn how to make unusual artsy bracelets for myself, I would have a better appreciation for those who did make jewelry, which we then sold at Dolce’s. It seemed to be a win-win situation for me. I might learn a craft, and even if not, I might further my sales career by understanding what goes into designing original pieces and impress our customers with what I knew. If nothing else, I’d get a chance to see how the rich live and spend their leisure time.

  I arrived at Diana’s house on Wednesday evening at five. Dressed for a hands-on project under my black stretch-cotton Theory jacket, which was a pitch-perfect choice for casual layering, I was wearing a Parker minidress with bat-wing sleeves and a wide boatneck. I’d paired it with charcoal leggings and pair of Prada woven platform oxfords. They were expensive but so comfortable they were worth every penny I’d paid for them.

  I’d had to leave work a little early, but Dolce was fine with that. She thought my learning to make bangles and beads would help me sell jewelry, and besides, it’s always good to get to know our customers better socially. Especially Diana, who was customer numero uno.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Diana lived in a mansion on one of the city’s poshest streets in Pacific Heights. After a
ll, she spent freely at Dolce’s, and I thought I’d heard her husband was a venture capitalist. But I was surprised when Patti French joined me to gape wide-eyed at the four-storied house behind the brick walk and the acres of flowered gardens that surrounded the mansion. Like she didn’t have one just as large and just as gorgeous as this? Tonight she was dressed appropriately for a jewelry design workshop in a belted Donna Morgan shirtdress and a pair of yellow leather Miu Miu peep-toe platform heels.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” I said, not wishing to seem overly blown away by all the opulence.

  “‘Nice’ isn’t the word,” Patti said as a breeze tossed her carefully streaked well-coiffed hair. “This house is a Grand Tudor Revival from 1922. I know because it was on the house tour last year before the Van Sloats bought it.”

  “Mr. Van Sloat must be doing well,” I said, hoping she’d elaborate.

  “I guess he is. I only met him once. He’s older than Diana, and he seems to adore her. Hanging on her every word. Okay, I’m jealous. My husband takes me for granted,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe you’ll get to meet Weldon, although he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hangs out in the craft room handing out advice or compliments.”

  “If I was rich,” I said, “I don’t know if I’d bother with making my own jewelry when there are so many talented designers around. I think I’d just find one and tell her to accessorize me.”

  “Oh, come now, Rita,” Patti said with a smile. “You know you want to be able to say, ‘You like it? I made it myself!’”

  “That would be satisfying,” I admitted. “Anyway, Diana seems motivated, and I appreciate her inviting me. Heaven knows I’m all thumbs and I could use some one-on-one lessons.”

  Patti said she too was looking forward to the class. “Diana told me she has a surprise for us. A real live well-known jewelry designer will be here to show us how he does it.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. How like Diana to hire the best in the business. If it wasn’t a famous chef, it was a famous artisan. Now I was really nervous. What if I made a mess of it and this designer threw up his arms in disgust?