Dolce drove up Van Ness to the breathtaking Pacific Heights neighborhood where gazillion-dollar mansions, painted Victorians and faux chateaux like Diana’s lined the wide streets. On Jackson Street, Dolce miraculously found a parking space. It was a gorgeous warm fall day, which would have reminded us of summer anywhere else. But June and July summer days in the city are likely to be foggy. On our way to the first house on the tour, we stopped to admire views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and the sparkling blue waters of the Bay.
“The neighborhood was first developed in the 1870s,” Dolce read from the brochure. “With small Victorian homes. But after the earthquake in 1906, they were replaced with larger, more substantial houses.”
“You mean mansions,” I said, gazing at the houses on both sides of the street.
“There are a few Victorians left,” she said, pointing to a tall pale green three-story house with a steep roof and lots of gingerbread detail. “But the rest are Edwardian, Mission Revival and Chateau.”
“Wait until you see Diana’s house,” I said. “I believe they call it Grand Tudor Revival. It’s not as old as the Italianate Victorians or the ordinary Victorians or the Queen Anne’s, but it’s…well, you’ll see.”
“Here’s the description of their house,” Dolce said, consulting her brochure. “‘Built on four levels. Vast formal grounds. A sense of privacy.’ Is that what you liked about it?”
“I liked everything,” I told her. Everything except for Weldon, her husband. “But I really didn’t see much except for the kitchen and her craft room, which are both wonderful. Even a person like you who doesn’t do crafts would appreciate what she’s done to the house.”
But first we visited an enormous mansion up the street from Diana’s, built in 1910 but recently remodeled by some famous architect. We joined some other women who were well-dressed, though we’d never seen them at Dolce’s. I couldn’t help staring at their outfits trying to decide who the designers were while Dolce’s eyes were on the details of the living room, like the molding around the French doors, the gigantic fireplace, which was blazing even today, and the floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows. We checked out the morning room across from the formal dining room.
“I don’t know what I’ve done without a morning room all these years,” Dolce said with a twinkle in her eye. We faced the fact that some people lived lives beyond the dreams of ordinary folks. Of course we knew that, but today we had a glimpse into the lives of the really, really rich. I appreciated Dolce’s world view. Though she dealt with the super rich every day, she appreciated her good fortune in owning a house where she worked and lived under the same roof, and never seemed to envy the women who had enough money to afford fancy cars, multiple houses, and the expensive clothes they bought from her. I hoped someday to be more like her, because sometimes, like today, a wave of jealousy crept up and threatened to undermine my equilibrium.
We walked all the way up to the fourth floor of house number one where we stepped out onto the sun-drenched terrace facing west. I gasped at the view, at least one hundred and eighty degrees. The green trees of the Presidio, the historic military base; the bridges; the Bay were all laid out before us. Dolce saw someone she knew, so she went to speak to the woman while I braced my arms against the railing and stared out across the water to the Marin Headlands.
“Nice view.” A familiar lightly accented voice interrupted my dreams of living like this. I whirled around. I should have known I’d run into someone I knew, but Meera? On a house and garden tour?
“I’m surprised to see you here,” I said.
“I always attend historical tours,” she said. “To see what they’ve done to the old houses in the name of modern comfort.” She wrinkled her nose to show her disapproval. I assumed that meant she thought everything should be left as it was one hundred years ago to match the clothes she wore.
“Your dress is authentic, I suppose,” I said, taking in the long dark brown satin gown, the bustle and her leather lace-up shoes. “And it suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “If I may quote Thomas Carlyle, who was an acquaintance of mine some time ago, ‘The first purpose of clothes was not warmth or decency but ornament. Warmth was found in the leaves of the tree or in the grotto, but for decoration, one must have clothes.’” She paused and looked over my outfit, which she didn’t seem too excited about, but then, it was hard to read Meera. “Don’t you agree?” she asked.
“Definitely, since I’m in the clothing business,” I told her. “So you knew this Carlyle?” I probably shouldn’t have asked because she was bound to bring up the past, and with Meera, the past was definitely the long-ago past and went on and on. Sure enough, she had to tell me about it.
“Yes, I knew him. He was one of a group of my friends in Scotland.”
“I didn’t know you’d been to Scotland.”
“There is much you don’t know about me,” she reminded me. Meera loved being mysterious, which was why I didn’t buy her vampire story; it was all part of her act.
“I didn’t stay long,” she said, “much too cold up there. I like California better. I think if Carlyle could have come, he wouldn’t have suffered so much from his ailments and wouldn’t have been so cranky.”
“I suppose you knew the people who used to live here too,” I said, meaning the house.
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I thought I might get some familiar vibrations from the walls, but I felt nothing. So I would have to say I’ve never been here before. But I am looking forward to visiting the other houses. Perhaps they will have some stories to tell.”
I hoped that Meera hadn’t heard about the incident at Diana’s house. In any case, she bustled off a few minutes later, much to my relief.
I watched her flounce away, and then I went to look for Dolce.
“Who was that strange woman in the Victorian dress?” Dolce asked. “Is she one of the docents in her period costume?”
“No docent. No costume. That was my friend Meera. You remember her.”
“The one who thinks she’s a vampire,” Dolce said, rolling her eyes.
The less said about Meera, the better. Dolce and I took the winding staircase down to the first floor, stopping to look into the bedrooms, the study, the library and the large projection room along the way. We walked out through the salon past a small group of women. We knew them all and stopped to say hello before we continued down the street to the house that belonged to the Van Sloats. I was curious to see how the kitchen looked in the light of day after all the blood had been cleaned up. Had there really been an incident? Or was it just a rumor? After the confirmation story from Jonathan, how could I doubt it?
I wanted to see the rest of the house today, and of course, so did Dolce. I took her around the back to see the sparkling turquoise pool and the gardens, and she was just as impressed as Patti, Maxine and I had been. In fact, Patti was there at the pool house with some friends who were also house-tour hostess volunteers. Dolce went to the bar they’d set up to get us some drinks from a punch bowl. I hoped the punch contained some alcohol, because I always needed a drink after a tête-à-tête with Meera. That was the effect she had on me. Patti left her friends and came up to speak to me at the edge of the pool.
“Rita,” she said, “did you hear about Armando?”
“No, I mean, I don’t think so.” I had a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Why, what happened?”
“There was an accident,” she said. “And a dispute. Someone got hurt.”
I felt the color drain from my face. I didn’t want to hear about this. Not again. I wanted to pretend nothing happened.
“Who was it—Diana?”
I thought I knew who’d gotten hurt, but I had to be sure. Why would Armando and Diana get into a dispute? I mean, she was crazy about him. Couldn’t say enough good things about him. She’d acted as his assistant for our entire lesson. I couldn’t see her starting a knife fight. The very idea was ridiculous. In fact, I starte
d to smile nervously.
“Not Diana,” she said.
My smile faded. “Then who?”
“Who do you think?” she asked.
I was drawing a blank. No time to think or answer her, because the patio was filling up with people we knew from the shop I had to say hello to. We all oohed and ahhed about the house even though we hadn’t seen much yet. Still, just the patio with the pool and the gardens and the view were enough to impress even the most jaded socialite. And I was neither jaded nor a socialite.
“I want to show you the kitchen and the craft room,” I said to Dolce, who’d handed me a glass of punch. I was trying to forget what Patti had said and even more, what she hadn’t said. “It’s where we had our class.” Before I had even a sip of the punch, a waiter came out with a tray of champagne. “Compliments of the host and hostess,” he said.
“How nice,” Dolce murmured. We set our glasses on a table and took the champagne instead. “Have you met her husband?” she asked me.
“Yes, we met him the night of the class. He’s a venture capitalist, and he seemed very busy but also very involved with Diana’s life at the same time.”
“Sounds like the ideal husband. Good-looking too?”
“Not exactly. Oh, there he is now.” Weldon Van Sloat was strolling across the patio greeting the voyeurs and neighbors like the lord of the manor he was. I was glad Dolce got a glimpse of him so she could make up her own mind. Was he good-looking enough to be married to Diana, who was not only lovely but smart too? Was he a doting husband or an over-the-top controller?
I said hello to him, but he didn’t give me a second glance. Probably didn’t remember me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was a nobody. I had no capital to invest in any ventures, and he probably knew that by looking at me.
We went inside then and straight to the kitchen. Dolce loved it, as I knew she would. She admired all the period touches as well as the updates, like the Sub-Zero double-doored stainless refrigerator, while I looked for signs of anything out of the ordinary, like bloodstains. But everything was perfect. Not a smudge on the marble counters or the tiles on the floor. Not that I expected there to be.
A woman in a white apron came in, said hello and transferred a baking sheet of canapés onto a decorative wooden tray. Then she took our empty champagne glasses, whisked them away and offered us crisp crackers covered with blue cheese, pecans and a half of a grape. It was a delicious combination.
“Did Mrs. Van Sloat make these?” I asked the woman. I could just imagine Diana knocking herself out preparing for today’s open house. What I really wanted to ask was, where is Mrs. Van Sloat?
“No, they’re all from Kate’s Catering on Fillmore,” she said. Then she went out to the living room before I could question her further. I couldn’t help wondering why Diana wasn’t here. She loved her kitchen, and she loved playing the hostess. Maybe she was in the craft room or one of the many other gorgeous rooms I hadn’t seen yet, showing off her house and giving information about its history.
Dolce was equally impressed when I took her to the craft room with its bins of supplies and the spacious counters and work surfaces.
“What luxury to have so much space for your hobbies,” Dolce remarked, and I agreed. She didn’t ask what I’d made there, and I modestly didn’t say anything.
Dolce and I proceeded to take the elevator up to the third floor. No stairs for us. The elevator was vintage and tiny, room for two, with glass walls and a small velvet bench. I loved the idea of it, but even with the glass walls I felt claustrophobic and was glad to get out. I mean, what if it stalled between floors? But it didn’t.
We’d only just exited the elevator and taken one step toward a wood-paneled room with a pool table in the center when I saw Detective Wall standing by the window talking to a tall woman in a chic maxi dress by Marc Jacobs and very high-heeled sandals in the color I call cinder.
Dolce recognized her immediately, or at least she recognized the dress.
“That’s the Italian woman from the funeral.”
“Guido’s ex-wife?” I asked. “Who bought some clothes from you? I thought she’d gone back to Italy.” Yet there she was at the Van Sloat open house with San Francisco’s best detective. What was that all about? Was she still in town because Jack had ordered her not to leave? Was she staying in town until the murder was solved? Was she a suspect? If I thought I had a chance of getting the answers to these questions, I knew better. Jack would never tell me anything. So I was on my own. If I wanted to know anything, I’d have to do the footwork myself. So I left Dolce admiring some museum-quality landscapes hanging on the wall and walked up to the two of them. They stopped talking immediately, and neither looked pleased to see me. In fact, she actually glared at me. Not that I let that discourage me. Not even when Jack looked at me like I was on the Most Wanted List. But not his list. Someone else’s.
I still didn’t take these slights personally. It just proved there was something going on. Either Jack was hitting on her or she was hitting on him or they were talking about Guido, her ex-husband. Did Jack think she had something to do with his murder?
“Hello,” I said brightly. “What a surprise to see you,” I added, to Guido’s ex-wife. “I thought you’d be on your way back to Italy.”
“I was going to leave,” she said, “but your town is so charming, I could not bear to go so soon.”
The way she said it made me think she was lying through her teeth. But why? Because she didn’t want to say she was a suspect in Guido’s murder and was required by the law to stick around? I could understand how that might be embarrassing.
“I love your dress. I hear you went on a shopping spree at our store. I hope you are pleased with your purchases,” I said.
She smiled briefly but didn’t answer. She said she was going to visit the rest of the house. Maybe she was glad to escape the evil eye of Jack Wall, or maybe she was mad at me for interrupting an intimate conversation that had nothing to do with murder. I couldn’t imagine Jack forgetting his job for even a minute, but then I couldn’t imagine him hooking up with a stylish Italian either, but there they’d been together, having an intimate conversation. It could have been an interrogation; I wouldn’t put it past Jack. Or it could have been some romantic small talk, the kind I never had with the detective.
I watched her walk to the door, wondering if I’d ever be able to achieve the effortless European flair she had whether wearing American-designed clothes, like today, or the Italian couture she was used to. She was an even better advertisement for our shop than we were. Too bad she wasn’t wearing a sign around her neck telling everyone where she’d bought that dress.
It occurred to me that Jack, being a very hot, rugged American type, might be looking for a fling with an attractive Italian tourist and looking for a murderer at the same time.
“I’m surprised to see you here too,” I said. Though I wasn’t really. After all we’d been through, I expected him everywhere and anywhere. The surprise was when I didn’t run into him. “Can I assume you’re at work even though it’s Sunday?”
“Assume whatever you want. What about you?”
“This is part of my job. Definitely. We’re schmoozing with our customers, checking out what everyone’s wearing.”
“Even me?” he asked. I thought this was a bit disingenuous. He knew perfectly well he was one of the best-dressed men in town. And in this crowd of mostly women, he easily took the prize.
“Especially you. You put the other men to shame in your two-button wool tweed blazer. No golf or bomber jacket for you.”
He merely shrugged, so I continued.
“You’re not messing around, and you’re not off duty, I assume. I hope you’re enough of a metrosexual to enjoy a good house and garden tour. While you’re still here on business, or are you?” I asked wide-eyed, as if I thought he’d tell me. He said nothing. Of course he wouldn’t talk. I should have known. “You seem to be well acquainted with Guido’s wife already.”
>
“I’m investigating her ex-husband’s murder, so the answer is yes, we have quite a lot to talk about.”
I bet you do, I thought. “I imagine she’s almost as eager as you are to find out who killed her husband. By the way, wouldn’t it be interesting to know if she’s the beneficiary of his property like the school and the chateau?”
Jack gave me a look that said he knew exactly what I was up to and he was having no part of it.
“No idea,” he said. “That’s not my job.”
“Come on. Isn’t it your job to establish a motive?” I asked. “Such as money? And what about this girlfriend he was supposed to have? Have you located her yet?”
I looked at him expectantly, although what were the chances he’d tell me if he had? I just had to show him I had some information up my sleeve, like the girlfriend thing. What I didn’t say was that I’d heard Guido was trying to get rid of her. What if she’d gotten rid of him first.
“I have some leads,” he said.
“Which you got from his ex-wife, I suppose. She’d be the perfect person to talk to about any women in Guido’s life who’d want to kill him. That way she could get back at the girlfriend and solve this crime and absolve herself from any guilt.”
Jack smiled and I wanted to think he was blown away by my astute observations, but the smile could have just meant he considered my opinions to be absurd. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe Guido’s supposed girlfriend was the subject of the conversation I’d interrupted, but maybe it was just an international flirtation between an American cop and an Italian Carla Bruni lookalike.
“Let’s talk about your job and your customers. It seems every woman here is connected to Dolce’s. Coincidence? Or is something going on there I should know about?” he asked.
“This neighborhood, with its views, elite private schools and mansions, is our demographic. Maybe we don’t live here, but our customers do. That’s why we’re here. We support the charities that the house tour benefits.”
Murder After a Fashion Page 16
