Murder After a Fashion

by Grace Carroll

  “That’s okay. I just wondered.”

  “I do remember that he wasn’t badly hurt, if that helps. He said it was an accident. It was, wasn’t it?”

  I felt foolish. But foolish was better than scared. Now that I was with Jonathan, I didn’t feel so scared anymore. He was so big, so smart and so reassuring. Unless someone like the maid or one of the Van Sloats reported the knife they’d hidden in the pantry missing. That’s what would send those shivers up my spine. I wanted to leave, but Jonathan insisted I meet his colleagues, since I was a previous visitor to the ER. I followed him to his group, my drink back in my hand, my purse over my shoulder.

  I searched the faces of his colleagues and was glad to see the snippy nurses and the admissions clerk who didn’t like me weren’t there. After Jonathan introduced me around, one of his friends said, “You’re the one who makes house calls. Jonathan told us how you brought him some terrible green stuff to eat.”

  “I do my best,” I said modestly. “He got better, didn’t he?”

  They laughed. I stayed awhile longer, feeling warm and accepted even though I wasn’t part of their group. I wasn’t even in the medical field. When I said I had to leave, Jonathan looked disappointed, but he walked me out to the bus stop.

  “It was good to see you,” he said. “I’d take you home, but I feel obligated to stay awhile longer.” From the way he said it, I could tell he wasn’t just being polite. He seemed to mean it. He wasn’t one to hide his feelings. I knew that when he was sick, he didn’t even try to act well. I liked that about him. With Jonathan, what you saw was what you got. If he had problems, he kept them to himself, which I appreciated. He promised to call me and waited with me until my bus came, then he headed back to the bar.

  The next day I dressed in one of my favorite outfits—it was completely local, organic, green, artisanal and ethically produced. A pair of organic cotton pants in celery green topped by a bamboo sweater in black. On my feet I wore a pair of vegan sandals made of faux leather. Not that I’m a vegan. Far from it. I just felt like going eco-organic today. Did it have something to do with my trip to the zoo and my new-found respect for the animal kingdom? Maybe.

  I got to work early so I would have time to tell Dolce what I’d done. I couldn’t continue to keep it all to myself. Who better to tell than my boss, my substitute mom and big sister all rolled into one. I started with the trip to the zoo, the run-in with Diana and dinner with Nick. I continued by telling her how I’d gone to the Van Sloats’ house and stolen the knife.

  She sat behind her desk in her small office staring at me with her mouth hanging open. Clearly she wasn’t ready for this massive confession, and I hadn’t even told her that I’d applied for another part-time job yet.

  “You don’t suspect Diana would ever do anything wrong, do you?” she asked. “Maybe the reason she seemed upset at the zoo was because of something that happened there.”

  “But why would she ignore me?” I said. “Like she didn’t know me or want to know me. What had I done to upset her? I couldn’t help feeling it had something to do with our guru.”

  “Which one?” Dolce asked.

  “Either Armando or Guido or both. I don’t know,” I confessed.

  “Maybe I was wrong when I suggested socializing with our customers,” Dolce said, her forehead creased in a frown.

  “You mean I shouldn’t have taken that class at her house?” I said. “None of this would have happened if I’d just stayed home or…” I sighed loudly. “I’ve learned my lesson,” I said. “No more meddling or socializing. But first I have to do everything I can to find out who killed Guido. I owe it to him. I have the feeling it has something to do with Diana. I have to go back to her house and try again. Either talk to her or her husband.” Talking to her husband would be a challenge. I would definitely try to go when he wasn’t home.

  “Please, Rita,” Dolce said. “Don’t do that. You just said no more meddling. I don’t want you to get involved. The police don’t want you to either. Why do you want to? Why do you have to?”

  “Because I’m to blame. Don’t you see? I was the last person to see Guido alive except for his killer. At least it seems that way. I could have prevented his murder.”

  “How?” she said, looking perplexed and worried at the same time. “I know how determined you are, and I admire your tenacity, but I can’t stand by and let you risk your life. Yes,” she said, seeing I was about to protest, “this is serious business. There’s a murderer out there, and if he thinks you’re on to him—”

  “Or her,” I said. “It could be a woman, couldn’t it?”

  “You don’t mean Diana, do you?” Dolce asked.

  “Or his ex-wife or another woman in his class. Or his girlfriend, whoever she is. Don’t you see, I have an obligation to do whatever I can to find out who killed Guido.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t see. I mean, I see where you’re coming from, but I don’t see that it’s your responsibility to find the killer. The police are on this case, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. I didn’t want to say what I thought of their efforts. Jack was a smart cop. He was good at his job. But he didn’t want to find the murderer as much as I did. No one did. Not Guido’s friends or relatives. It was up to me.

  “If you insist on this, Rita, and I can’t discourage you, then let me help you.”

  “It could be dangerous work,” I said.

  “What do you mean? Do you have a plan?” she asked, tapping her fingers nervously on her desk. I realized she’d made the offer of help impulsively, and I had to let her off the hook.

  “I don’t really need any help,” I said. “It’s better if I do this by myself.”

  Dolce bit her lip. “No,” she said, “I can’t let you. Whatever you do, I want to be part of it.”

  “It could involve breaking the law,” I said, knowing I would have to go back to the Van Sloat house sooner or later.

  “Then we’ll go to prison together. Maybe we can share a cell or volunteer together in the cafeteria.” Dolce almost looked eager to embark on this illegal venture. Maybe sometimes owning an upscale boutique wasn’t exciting enough. Or maybe she didn’t want to be left out. Or she hoped to save me from blundering into danger. Whatever her reason, I reached across the desk and shook her hand. I may have had a tear in my eye when I said, “Thank you.”

  I spent some time in Dolce’s office that morning torn between feeling grateful she hadn’t told me I was crazy and worrying that I was certifiably crazy and had some kind of sick lust for excitement that made me look for murder and mystery under every stone. Or was I just bored with my job again and desperately looking for something to do, such as sneaking around in other people’s houses.

  I looked up the docent schedule of the zoo online, and then I called the zoo to see when the next primate tour was. They told me to check the schedule online, which I’d already done. My plan was not to take Diana’s primate tour, though I assumed it was fascinating. Instead, I planned to tour her house by myself when I knew Diana wasn’t home while Dolce stood out front as a lookout. I’d enter from the kitchen, where I hoped the door was still unlocked. And then what? How would I get into the locked study?

  I went online again and searched on “lock picking.” I studied the site “Lock Picking for Idiots” for about an hour. Dolce came in a few times to see if I was okay. I said I was and asked her if she needed help out there. She shook her head, but she seemed worried. Maybe I shouldn’t have included her in this scheme. What was wrong with me? Once I knew how to pick basic locks, I’d be good to go.

  I finally took the lock-picking test and I passed! All I needed now was a few simple tools. I went out and waited on a few customers, helping them find transitional clothing for fall, but my mind wasn’t on the job. I finally told Dolce I had to go to the hardware store for an Allen wrench and a screwdriver.

  The other items I’d need, like paper clips, a straight pin and a safety pin, we already had
on hand. When I came back, I practiced on Dolce’s office door. I’d lock it and then pick the lock. It was harder than it looked on the web site. Much harder.

  After a juicy hamburger with pesto sauce and grated cheese, onions and tomatoes at the local take-out place down the street, I stayed late in the office trying to pick the lock on any and every door in the house while Dolce retreated to her apartment. How could I be having such a hard time when I’d passed the written test so easily?

  Before I left at ten o’clock, I had successfully picked one lock once and only once. My head was throbbing, and my fingers were cold and numb. I asked myself if it was worth all this trouble. I couldn’t answer. Dolce came downstairs in her tailored robe and insisted I take a cab home.

  When I got home, I checked my answering machine. There was a message from Jack.

  “You’ll be happy to know we have arrested the murderer of your cooking teacher, so you can stop your relentless pursuit of justice. Okay, Rita? Did you get the message? Stop, cease and desist.”

  What? How could he leave a message like that? Who had he arrested? I pressed redial and got Jack on the line.

  “Congratulations,” I said brightly. “I knew you could do it.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I wanted to tell you before you read it in the papers tomorrow, since you’ve been involved, shall we say, in a major way.”

  I knew what he meant by “major.” He meant “inappropriate.”

  “Well, who did it?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Rita. Not until the report is public.”

  “Then why did you call me?”

  He sighed loudly. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I do want to know. I want to know who did it. I know, you can’t tell me. How about I mention a name and you say no unless you say nothing, then I’ll know.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  I knew he’d say that, so I just started naming names.

  “Guido’s ex-wife.” I paused.

  He said, “No.”

  “Guido’s best friend—”

  He said, “No!”

  “Guido’s girlfriend.”

  He said, “Rita!”

  “His brother or his cousin who we saw at the restaurant the night I caught on fire.”

  “No. You can stop now.”

  I said, “I only want to help you.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “All right,” I said. “I won’t. I can hardly wait until the report is public. Congratulations on cracking the case. That’s what you policemen say, isn’t it?”

  “No, we don’t,” he said.

  When he hung up, I was sure he didn’t have the right person. But I thought I did. At least I’d narrowed it down to two people. If only I was a better lock picker, I could get the murder weapon and have it tested.

  The next day I wore a vintage seventies’ long animal-print skirt in honor of my zoo friends and a white Anthropologie peasant blouse with a pair of Kork-Ease leather sandals. I tucked my hair up under a big hat that shaded my face. I wanted to look like I belonged in Pacific Heights so if all else failed no one would remember me as the woman who broke into the Van Sloat house. And if the maid saw me she wouldn’t recognize me. But I couldn’t stand to look like a Pacific Heights wannabe copycat. No matter how much I needed to be in disguise.

  I told Dolce as casually as I could that Jack had arrested the wrong person. I wanted her to know we needed to move fast. If she was still in. I didn’t want to push her, but I really wanted some company in this effort. I assured her she’d be in no danger and wouldn’t be breaking any laws by standing outside the house while I “entered.”

  “I’m with you, Rita,” she said. Though she didn’t look happy about it or convinced it would work. The only other choice was that I’d have to do it myself, and she wouldn’t hear of that. So at noon we put up a “Closed for Lunch” sign on the door and I took my extra large Gucci leather tote and filled it with my tools. I would have liked to have practiced with the tools again, but I had to find the real killer before it was too late.

  First I checked with the zoo, and a nice woman told me that Mrs. Van Sloat was scheduled to take tours of the big cats today from ten o’clock until one and would I like to reserve a space. I thanked her and said I’d come next week. Then I called Diana’s house and no one answered. I could only hope and suppose that Mr. Van Sloat wasn’t there. Dolce said she’d drive in case we needed a quick getaway. I didn’t know what to think about her talking like a criminal, but since I was actually going to break in to someone’s house, which was a criminal act, it was probably appropriate. Still, I didn’t want to think about it. I kept seeing the look on Jack’s disapproving face when he hauled me in for breaking and entering.

  I was grateful to Dolce that I didn’t have to stand on the corner waiting for the bus while my nerves went into overdrive, or worry about being let off by a taxi driver who might later testify in court that he’d dropped me off in front of the house that was broken into. I was fighting off waves of fear and terror at getting caught taking an antique gun from the Van Sloat house or even worse, being caught without the gun by that maid who would recognize me and might call the police this time.

  As she drove, Dolce ate an apricot cardamom donut from Dynamo Donuts because she always ate when she was nervous, but my stomach was twisted in knots and I had to refuse the chocolate rose geranium hazelnut pastry she’d brought for me.

  She parked about a half block from the historic house where the Van Sloats lived. While Dolce stayed in the car, I walked casually up to the front door and rang the bell. No one answered. Not Diana or Weldon or that maid. I breathed a sigh of relief. I phoned Dolce and muttered, “No one at home.”

  Then I went around the back of the house to the kitchen entrance where I’d stealthily unlatched the door. But would it still be unlatched? My palm was so sweaty it stuck to the doorknob. I turned it a few times and it opened. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was almost giddy with relief. As if that solved all my problems. Probably not, but I was on a high and didn’t want to think about what would happen next. Maybe all housebreakers think that way.

  The plan was that after I let Dolce know I was inside, she’d stroll down the street keeping an eye on the house with her phone in her pocket in case she had to call me or I had to call her. But she wouldn’t linger for fear a neighbor would call the police and report a suspicious character casing the place.

  Inside the kitchen there was total silence except for the very quiet whirring of some major appliance, maybe the refrigerator. I tiptoed across the floor, scarcely daring to breathe. In a few seconds I’d left the kitchen and walked through the dining room with the long dark walnut table permanently set for twelve, a huge bouquet of fresh flowers in the center. Did they ever entertain twelve guests? I didn’t get the feeling that Weldon would be a gracious host, but what did I know? Just because he didn’t welcome me to his house didn’t mean he didn’t invite his own friends or business associates. He had to be proud of Diana’s culinary efforts.

  I warned myself to concentrate and not analyze the Van Sloats’ social situation. I was there for only one purpose, as my heavy handbag reminded me. It gave me a bit of confidence having the tools, though I was hoping against hope that the door to that study would be unlocked. But two lucky breaks in one day? Was it possible? I dared not count on it. I figured time was on my side. I could fiddle around with my tools until I got the door unlocked. Then I’d go in and take the gun from the case, using a handkerchief in my pocket so as not to disturb the fingerprints that would lead to the arrest of…Who? Weldon, of course. But why? The usual. Jealousy, of course.

  I figured it was Diana who’d stayed after class that night of Guido’s murder. Not to have an affair with Guido, but just to get some clarification on a recipe or something. She wouldn’t have had an affair with the chef. But Weldon, being the jealous ty
pe, had found her there after class, flew into a jealous rage and shot Guido with his pistol. I had no proof yet, but today I was going to get it.

  All I needed was the pistol with its missing bullet. I’d present it to Jack. He’d have it tested. He’d find the fingerprints and arrest Weldon and give me a citizen’s award. The one I’d never gotten before but so richly deserved.

  From the living room I walked quickly and quietly up the stairs to the second floor, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure the neighbors could hear it.

  The door to that study wasn’t even locked. I almost laughed with relief. I didn’t need my tools or my newfound ability to pick locks. I walked in and there it was, the gun in the glass case. I opened the door to the case, pulled out my handkerchief and removed the gun from its oak display stand. My hands were shaking, but I wrapped the gun in a clean towel I’d brought and placed it into my bag.

  I felt like patting myself on the back or at least jumping for joy, but I would restrain myself until I was out of the house. I closed the door to the study behind me, and then I heard the footsteps downstairs. I stopped and backed down the hall toward the tiny elevator. If it was the maid again, I’d think up something, anything. What was she going to do if she didn’t believe me? I was a friend of Diana’s. She wouldn’t call the cops on a family friend, would she?

  The footsteps got louder. The elevator door was open. I stepped in. The footsteps got louder. Someone was coming up the stairs. It was Weldon wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase under his arm. I gasped, leaned back and accidentally pressed against the control panel, which closed the door of the ancient elevator with a loud clank.

  He stopped and looked around. I sucked in a breath and tried to make myself invisible, hard to do in a glassed-in elevator. Then he stopped on the stairs and stared at me. I leaned back as if I could hide. I couldn’t. His face turned red, then almost purple. He pointed a finger at me and shouted, “Stop!”