“So what did your jewelry class have to do with your shop?” he asked.
“The customers were also the students, that’s it. Diana Van Sloat, whose house this is, is one of our best customers and an avid hobbyist. She invited me to join the class, which was excellent, by the way. I can’t wait to show you the bracelets I made. Now I’ve told you everything I know. Which is more than you’ve done for me.” I should have known by now this relationship of ours was totally one-sided. I talked. He listened.
“I haven’t seen the craft room yet,” he said. “Where, I assume, these lessons take place. Want to show it to me?”
I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the room. If he really suspected something was going on there. He knew about Armando and the accident and where it had taken place, so why hadn’t he headed straight for his target? Waiting for me to show it to him? I didn’t think so.
“So what made you decide to take lessons from an Italian artisan?” Jack asked as we wended our way through the spacious hallway lined with portraits.
“Just my never-ending goal of self-improvement,” I said lightly. “And I thought that one day I might be good enough to actually sell some of my jewelry.”
I paused in front of a portrait on the wall of a man with a dog, and gazed at it. “Looks like Weldon, don’t you think? Must be one of his ancestors. I assume you’ve met him.”
“I’ve met Weldon but not his ancestors,” Jack said. “He was at the door when I came in. Very friendly guy.”
“I assume he didn’t know you were a cop,” I said dryly.
“I’m not wearing a uniform, but if anyone asks—”
“Has anyone asked?” I couldn’t picture one of these well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-connected women or men asking Jack if he was in law enforcement and if so, was this a social call or…
“No, and I’d appreciate your keeping quiet.”
“You want me to lie?” I exclaimed with mock horror.
“Of course not. I just don’t want you to blow my cover if you don’t have to.”
“So you admit you’re here undercover. But why?”
“It’s my day off, and I’m here as an admirer of classic architecture and as a San Francisco history buff. That’s all. No one else has put his or her profession on a name tag, have they? Why should I?” He glanced at my breast as if he was checking. He was checking all right, but not for a name tag.
“Nice necklace,” he said. “Brass tubes. If there’s a plumbing problem, we know who to call.”
I fingered my necklace. I knew it was unusual. I’d seen other people look at it. I assumed they were admiring my taste. Or rather Dolce’s taste, which was impeccable.
“I know you only call me when you need help,” I said.
“And you only call me when you want some inside information.”
“If it’s your day off, why aren’t you out on the Bay in your sailboat?”
“No one to go with me. It gets lonely out there.”
I shook my head. That lonely millionaire act wasn’t going to work on me.
“Maybe you should branch out, meet some new people, and I don’t mean suspects.” I turned and headed for the craft room.
“How would I do that?” he asked a few steps behind me. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he’d be wearing a sardonic smile that went with everything he wore.
“I could introduce you to some nice women who are all right here today,” I offered.
“I saw them. Just assumed they were married.”
“Don’t let that stop you,” I said. “It doesn’t stop them, according to our customers. Not that I ever listen to gossip.”
We were in the hallway when he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is someone you know cheating on her spouse? Like one of those women who hung around Guido after class? I think you know something you’re not telling me.”
“Gossip, that’s all it is. You don’t want me to repeat gossip, do you?”
I flashed on the sight of Guido’s nervous face as he stood at the door the night he was killed. Because he had someone with him? Someone’s wife? Is that why he was so anxious to get rid of me…and of her?
“I don’t know anything,” I said. “Really I don’t.”
“Then why do you have that look on your face?”
“I was thinking, that’s all. Don’t tell me that’s a crime. You know I’m just as anxious as you are to find out who killed the chef. Maybe more anxious, since you didn’t even know him when he was alive. Or did you?”
We walked to the kitchen before he had a chance to answer my question, although Jack would have found a way to avoid it as he always did no matter where we were.
The kitchen was filled with guests admiring the mural on the wall, the new built-in pizza oven and the custom cabinets. Not only was the catering crew there, but a bona fide pizza chef with a tall toque and a huge white apron was tossing a crust in the air and catching it behind his back. When the tossing was done, he put the crust on the counter, then reached into the oven and took out a pizza Magherita with tomatoes and fresh basil. It looked and smelled delicious with its blistered crust. After he cut it into slices and slid them onto small paper plates, I snagged one.
“Delicious,” I murmured.
“As good as Guido’s?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t make pizza in the class I took. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
No way Jack just wondered. There was always a method to his questions. If only I knew what it was.
“Diana has gone all out,” I said. “Last time I looked, there was just a caterer with canapés. Now this.”
“So this is where you had your jewelry class?” he asked.
“No, it was in the craft room. I’ll show you.” We walked past the other visitors to the room where I’d made my bracelets.
I don’t think Jack fully appreciated the room the way a dedicated artisan would have, but he looked into the drawers and studied the floor for some reason that I didn’t quite understand. He asked me where each person had sat during the class, and I told him that Armando had circulated as he helped us.
“Have you seen Diana today?” Jack asked when he’d presumably finished his inspection.
“No, I wonder where she is. She should be here. She loves showing off her house. Who wouldn’t?”
“You really want a house like this?” Jack asked as women came in, ooohed and ahhed, and went out.
“I’d love it, but I’m afraid it’s not going to happen unless I find Mr. Millionaire. Or Billionaire. These days a million isn’t really enough.”
He leaned back against the wall.
“Your place looks fine to me. Why would you want a big house?”
“Just to show off, I guess. To have big dinner parties, professional guest classes, hire a gardener, throw tennis tournaments.”
“Really?”
“No. I don’t think I’m the socialite big-party type. But I would like a butler’s pantry. But then I’d have to get a butler too.”
“Some of my parolees are looking for jobs.”
“As butlers?”
“As anything. No reason not to give them a chance. They’ve paid their debt to society.”
“I like your attitude. How’s your driver working out, speaking of your protégés.”
“He’s outside waiting for me.”
“Solves the parking problem and keeps him off the mean streets,” I noted. “I don’t drive either. But I don’t need a chauffeur. I have Muni to take me wherever I go. Or Dolce. She drove today.”
“So she’s around somewhere talking fashion, as usual. You two hustling customers even on your day off?”
“Of course. That’s our job. Just like looking for murder suspects is yours. We may look like we’re just supporters of good causes and patrons of the arts or whatever, but we’re always checking out what designers people are wearing. How long their skirts are, how high
their heels and how we can help them look better. Nothing wrong with that,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t contradict me. “Admit you’re not here only to look at the hand-painted tile in the bathroom or the antique chandelier over the dining room table. You’re looking for something like evidence or someone who looks suspicious, aren’t you?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Or are you looking at the architecture and getting ideas for home improvement? Though maybe your home doesn’t need any improvement.” I was hoping he’d invite me to see his home and judge for myself. What could Jack’s house look like?
“I don’t think you need any improvement,” he said with a sweeping glance at my necklace, which rested on my sweater just above my breasts. The temperature in the room seemed to rise, and I suddenly felt like I was in the wood-burning pizza oven.
I waved my hand in front of my face in an attempt to cool off. By now I ought to know it’s best not to take anything Jack says personally. So I didn’t.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“Of the house? I like this room, and next, I like the kitchen best. I don’t like the elevator. It freaks me out. I would love an extra room for my hobbies like this,” I said. “In the space I have I can barely turn around.” I didn’t have to tell him; he’d seen my kitchen and my bedroom. “I haven’t had another dinner since that night you were there, and most times I don’t even cook for myself. If I’m hungry, I hit the carryout button on my phone or that Vietnamese restaurant in your old neighborhood.”
“If you’re hungry,” he said, stifling a smile.
“Okay, so I ate a piece of pizza. I didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings. And it was delicious. Now I know what I want, a pizza oven. Then I could stop ordering out.
“Although sometimes cooking can be intimidating. Guido was a fabulous cook. So good I was afraid to try to make anything Italian, even pasta with tomato sauce.”
“What about Armando?”
“What about him? He’s not a cook.” There’s always a reason why Jack asks these questions. And it’s never a simple one. I’m always afraid to answer for fear he’ll suspect me of something.
“Did he intimidate you?” he asked.
“No, not at all. He was supportive and encouraging. Just what you’d want in a teacher.”
“Better than Guido?”
“No, not better. Just different. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. Yes, they both start with raw materials, then make something fabulous out of it. The other night, it was a small setting, only four of us, and more hands-on than at Guido’s cooking class. Why, are you thinking of taking a jewelry-making class? I’ll tell Diana, and I know she’d be glad to invite you. She thinks men aren’t interested in jewelry design except for the professionals like Pavé in the East Bay.”
“I was just curious,” he said.
I didn’t believe that for a minute. Jack was curious, but there was something going on in his clever, devious mind.
“Any chance you’d like to come to my house for dinner sometime?” he asked.
My mouth fell open in surprise. “Did you just ask me to dinner at your house?”
“Yeah. If that works for you.”
“But you just took me to dinner at that whoop-de-doo restaurant.”
“That was business,” he said.
“I see,” I said. Like all our encounters aren’t business. “Will I be the only guest?”
Somehow I knew this invitation was a trick. I was being used as some kind of decoy. I couldn’t believe Jack would invite me to dinner at his house without an underlying purpose that had something to do with his investigation.
“I might invite a few other people.”
“Are any of them murder suspects?”
“Besides you? No.”
“Come on, why would I kill Guido? I adored him.”
“I hear you,” he said.
“But you don’t believe me. I’m surprised you have time to socialize.”
“I don’t. I mean, after the case is closed.”
I knew he’d postpone it. Maybe forever. “You must be working round the clock on the Guido case. Or do you have it solved already?” Of course he knew what I was getting at. I just didn’t want him to think I was in the dark any more than I was.
Instead of commenting or answering my question, he looked at his watch and went into the kitchen. The room was full of guests munching on wood-fired pizza. I took a deep breath. Once again I’d escaped from an encounter with Jack without giving away too much. Or learning much either.
“Where is our hostess?” he asked. “Your friend Diana.”
“I don’t know. I expected her to be here in the kitchen. But it’s a big house. She could be anywhere. The tennis court, the movie theatre, the rooftop terrace…I’d better go find Dolce.”
I left him in the kitchen. I figured Diana would show up at some point. Had he met her? Did he want me to introduce him as just a friend of mine? And why did he invite me to dinner? He said it wasn’t business, but that couldn’t be true. And who would the other guests be? If this dinner ever took place.
I wandered through the house and walked upstairs to the third floor looking for Dolce, looking for Diana, but finding only our customers admiring the billiard room with its dark wood paneling on the walls.
For some reason, talking to Jack wears me out. Partly because I’m always on my guard, afraid I’ll say something I shouldn’t say. Afraid I’ll implicate someone who’s totally innocent like myself. I talk a lot when he’s around, and I don’t know why that is. Why can’t I just let him do the talking, and answer in monosyllables like “yes” or “no” or “maybe”?
On the second floor I walked by a room that was not open to the public according to the brochure; I assumed it was Weldon’s office. As I passed, a man walked out and I quickly peeked in. It was just what you’d imagine a man’s study to be like. The dark walls, the books, the gun case. What? Did all these rich guys have a gun collection? But maybe I was mistaken, since I’d gotten only a glance inside. The man, dressed in a dark suit, closed the door behind him and shot me a stern look, as if he knew I was a busybody. After he left, I tried the doorknob, but it didn’t turn.
“Hi, Rita.”
I whirled around to see Maxine standing in the hall. “Maxine, good to see you. Isn’t this an amazing house?” Of course, it was quite possible her house was even more amazing. But she agreed.
“Did you see the master bathroom? Was that really a fourteen-carat bidet?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t see it,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like something Diana would put in.” Diana wasn’t the ostentatious type at all. “Probably came with the house.”
“Have you seen her?” Maxine asked. “I wanted to say hello and thank her again for the class.”
“Me too. I hate to leave without see her,” I said. “I thought for sure she’d be out greeting everyone.” I wanted so badly to ask if Maxine knew anything more about Armando’s so-called accident, but there are times when even I know to keep my mouth shut.
“Have you had a chance to make any jewelry at home?” she asked.
Now was the perfect time to say “No, but did you hear Armando cut himself after we left?” But I didn’t. I just said I didn’t have enough confidence to try them by myself. “I need more lessons,” I said. “I hope there will be some.”
“So do I,” she said. Then she hesitated as if she was going to say something else. I waited, hoping she’d open up the subject we were both avoiding, but she didn’t. Instead, she went to see the solarium and I went to find Dolce. She was standing in the high-ceilinged, arched entryway. She said she was ready to visit the other houses on the tour, and so was I, though I hated to leave without finding out what really happened the night of our jewelry class.
I had hoped Diana would take this occasion to tell Jack and me what we wanted to know. How the accident had happened, and when our next class was going to be. But that was wishful thinking. I didn’t even catch a g
limpse of our hostess and that was too bad. Even a little strange. Where was she? Dolce and I followed a small group who were headed down the street to the next house, just as we were.
The next house was smaller and more livable, with a small craft room and an herb garden. I could almost imagine living in it the way I couldn’t imagine living in Diana’s. I wondered what the other visitors thought. That it wasn’t upscale enough to be on the tour? That they wanted their money back? As we toured the second floor of the house, which included a children’s playroom and a sunny office, I overheard a woman say this house didn’t belong on the tour because it just wasn’t posh enough.
Just what I thought might happen. I hated to hear snobby remarks like that. This house might not be posh, but it had a certain charm that was lacking in such houses as Diana’s. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Diana’s house, especially her kitchen, but this place said “Welcome, come in and don’t worry about spilling anything or leaving footprints on the carpet.” Which reminded me of the blood on the floor. I hadn’t seen any. Of course I hadn’t. I hadn’t seen any blood, and I hadn’t seen Diana. Where was she?
When we went downstairs, I noticed the kitchen didn’t have a pizza oven or acres of granite counters. It didn’t have Diana’s lofty taste stamped on it either, but was that such a bad thing? Shouldn’t a house reflect its owners’ taste and income? Mine did. It was small and compact, and the kitchen looked unused, which it was. Whereas the closet and my bedroom were overflowing with racks and boxes of clothes and shoes, not to mention my jewelry collection, including my new bracelet, which I was currently storing in my refrigerator. Plenty of room there, since I had no groceries on hand or any leftovers at present.
I didn’t know the owners of this house. I wanted to peek into their closets when we were upstairs, but even I didn’t have the nerve to do that. The woman of the house, whose name was Sheila Hill, wasn’t our customer, but she should have been, I thought when I met her on the brick patio where she was talking to a group of visitors like us.
Not that Sheila’s clothes looked shabby. Her long skirt and cable-knit sweater and sturdy shoes just looked like something she might have made herself or ordered from the Lands’ End catalog. Good-quality materials but not exactly cutting-edge style. I had to admit it wasn’t easy being a fashion guru. I spent a lot of my work time and my free time studying the fashion magazines and the women who came into the shop and who I knew wore the latest thing whether they were shopping in a boutique or volunteering, like Diana, as a docent at the zoo or the museums. This woman just needed a Dolce boost. Really, didn’t everyone? She said hello and added that she admired my pants.
Murder After a Fashion Page 17
