I was confused and worried about Dolce. Usually crisp and focused, she sounded scattered. I wondered if she should have gone to the emergency room to be checked out. Of course I was dying to know who she was talking about. And why the hush-hush about the shoes? One thing was for sure. Dolce, the consummate coolheaded businesswoman, was not her usual self. She needed her assistant, and I admit I liked to be needed. Who didn’t? I’d go in at seven thirty, deliver the shoes, and finally find out who’d ordered them and why it was a secret. My own problem of whether or not to call the buff Romanian was too trivial to think about.
I looked at my “California the Beautiful” calendar on the wall. I had no problem with a crowded fall schedule. I didn’t have tickets to the opera, the symphony or the charity affairs. But I loved finding just the right dress and shoes for someone who did have a full calendar. Not just the dress and shoes, but the right bag and jewelry to go with it. I’d always loved it. As a child I used to dress my dolls, then accessorize them. When they were completely decked out in shoes, hats, necklaces and stockings and dresses, I’d drag them around to the neighbors to see and be seen.
Now I got paid to dress socialites. And I was able to purchase whatever I just had to have with a hefty discount. It was the best job ever. The only downside was I never met any men at work. Or anywhere. The only man in my kung fu class was the teacher, Yen Poo Wing, who was always yelling at me to kick harder, jump higher and turn more gracefully. The only eligible man I’d met in months was Nick the gymnast. At least I assumed he was eligible.
Despite the strong Cuban coffee, I fell asleep on the couch, warm and secure in the knowledge I hadn’t broken any of Aunt Grace’s rules and wasn’t going to. When I woke up the next morning, I went to my closet to find just the right outfit. It was Saturday and I knew the shop would be packed with last-minute shoppers with big plans for Saturday night—the Benefit, the parties, whatever. I decided to wear a knit dress from the Marc Jacobs spring collection. It was no longer spring, but hopefully no one would notice. Dolce had special ordered the dress for a customer who then decided not to buy it.
When it arrived, the woman shuddered. “I had no idea the colors would be so bright. I’m getting a headache just looking at them.”
Dolce never broke a sweat or lost her cool. All she did was turn around and insist I try on the blue vertical striped skirt with attached checkered blouse. The red blazer thrown casually over my shoulders completed the ensemble. “I know it’s bright, but you’ve got the shoulders to pull it off,” Dolce said, patting me on the back. When she said that, I wondered if maybe it was too bright and called attention to my shoulders that were admittedly a tad broad. “It’s yours,” she said. “Pay me when you can.” That’s the kind of warmhearted, generous woman my boss was. How could I refuse her anything she asked?
Today was the perfect day to wear the outfit with my new push-up bra and some hip-hugger panties. I buckled a wide belt around my waist, snapped on a vintage Bakelite bracelet, slipped into a pair of metallic ballet flats and called a cab.
“Lady, you got an hour wait at least,” the dispatcher said. “Busy day today.”
Dolce badly needed me to come early, so I took the bus. Some day I’d save enough for the Chevy Corvette I’d always coveted, but fortunately San Francisco was basically a small, pedestrian-friendly city and the bus took me almost to my door. One thing was for sure: I was the only person on the Nineteen Polk who was wearing Marc Jacobs and carrying a pair of handmade silver shoes in a shopping bag.
More than a few heads turned as I lurched down the aisle toward an empty seat by the window. Admiring glances I was sure. I was feeling good until I sat down, opened the Chronicle’s fashion section and read that “Muted colors are fall’s key look.” I frowned, then folded the newspaper and stuffed it under the seat. No one could say I was muted today. Far from it. Ah well. It wasn’t fall yet, not officially. But if I were in Florida now, I’d fit in perfectly. No muted colors in South Beach.
Just before eight I arrived at the Victorian mansion that Dolce’s great-aunt had left her over a year ago. My boss had done a fabulous job converting it into Dolce’s Boutique. I let myself in with my own key. The twelve-foot-tall entry hall with the original crown molding was lined with racks of filmy scarves and clunky costume jewelry. The real stuff was locked up in a glass case in the great room. That was the room with the marble fireplace and a curved bay window where the morning sun streamed in on the racks of gorgeous dresses. The kind of dresses suitable for evenings at the theatre, the symphony and coming-out parties in Pacific Heights.
Dolce must be in her office, the converted closet under the grand staircase that led to her charming quarters on the second floor.
“I love living above the store,” Dolce always said. “How else could I live in an 1800s house in a happening neighborhood?” She never got a break, but maybe she didn’t want one. She was totally dedicated to fashion and her customers.
I was about to knock on the closet-turned-office door when I heard voices. Dolce was not alone. I dropped my hand and stood shamelessly listening.
“I can’t let you have the shoes before you pay for them, MarySue. What if something happened to them? A spill, a crack?” Dolce asked in a firm voice.
I was so shocked, I almost dropped my bag. First, I couldn’t believe a Dolce customer wouldn’t have paid in full for the shoes. And second, that the customer was MarySue Jensen, who was originally a Garibaldi, an old San Francisco family.
“Dolce, I’ve got to have the shoes. I’ve scrimped. I’ve saved. I’ve sweated for those shoes. I gave you a sizable deposit.” MarySue sounded desperate.
“But MarySue . . .”
“I’m the cochair. I can’t go without my shoes, can I? You know I can’t. My dress is nothing without the shoes. You know it’s true. When I saw the picture of them in Vogue, it was love at first sight. I had to have them. My picture will be in the paper tomorrow. And you’ll be mentioned. Don’t forget that.”
“Publicity is nice, but money makes the world turn,” Dolce said.
I nodded. I’d heard my boss say that before.
“We had a deal,” Dolce continued. “You told me you’d have the rest of the money by today, so I ordered the shoes for you. You give me the money, I give you the shoes. Rita is on her way as we speak with the shoes in hand. You know I can sell those shoes ten times over, but I’m giving you first crack at them. But I have to have the money you owe me today. No checks. Cash or credit card.”
I gripped the handle of the shopping bag tightly. I pictured MarySue, a tall, statuesque blond who was one of Dolce’s best customers, facing off with my boss. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
“I can’t,” MarySue said. “Not today. Things happen, Dolce, can’t you understand? I thought I’d have the rest of the money today, but . . .” Her voice broke and there was a long silence. I wondered if MarySue was crying. I imagined her tears running down her face, smearing her mascara and leaving a streaky trail on her perfect skin.
“I’ll hold them for you until six o’clock tonight,” Dolce said. “I’ll stay open late if that helps. As soon as you get the money, they’re yours.”
“You don’t understand. I have to be there at six thirty with my shoes on. I’m the cochair. I can’t appear in anything else. I have to have those shoes now.” MarySue’s voice rose.
“MarySue, stop, you’re hurting me,” Dolce said loudly. “Let go.”
I froze. I leaned against the door wondering if I should burst in or call 911.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m not myself, Dolce. I’ve got a lot on my mind. If Jim finds out how much they cost, he’ll kill me.”
“There’s no way he’ll find out. My lips are sealed. Everything that goes on at Dolce’s stays here. You know that. I took over the shop because this place is a safe haven just like it was for my great-aunt. I want my customers to feel the same.”
“I know. They do. I love coming here. Everyone does. The atmosphere
. Everything. I’ll have the rest of the money next week, I swear I will. I just wish you’d trust me.”
“Of course I trust you, but I’m running a business, MarySue. I want you to have the shoes, but I have expenses. The property taxes alone are out of sight.”
“Your taxes are not my problem, Dolce.”
“The shoes are your problem, MarySue.”
I heard the sound of a chair being scraped across the refinished hardwood floor, then a loud thump like something or someone had fallen on the floor. I pressed my ear against the door. All I heard was the whir of a ceiling fan. I reached for the antique doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn.
From inside I heard a cry. “Help!”
Two
I reached for my cell phone, but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t even dial 911. Face it, I was no good in a crisis.
Finally I heard MarySue’s voice on the other side of the door.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. Give me the shoes and I’ll forget we had this conversation.”
I heaved a sigh of relief.
“No,” Dolce said. She sounded tired.
“Yes,” MarySue shouted. “I’ll have the money for you on Monday.”
“Now,” Dolce said.
The door jerked open and MarySue stormed out. I jumped out of the way, fearing another collision. MarySue stopped and stared at me, her steely blue eyes riveted on mine. I swallowed hard over a lump in my throat. Her gaze swerved to the bag with the logo of the atelier in bold letters. Her eyes lit up as she realized what was in the bag. She grabbed it out of my hand. Then she brushed past me as if I were no more than a shadow and ran for the door like a filly out of the gate. Her heels clicked on the polished floorboards.
I ran after her, but with her long legs she was too fast. The front door slammed in my face. The sound bounced off the walls. I yanked at the doorknob and stood on the steps swiveling my head to the right and then the left. Frantic, I ran down the stairs. But there was no MarySue in sight. Nowhere. Not on the street, not in a car. She was gone and the shoes gone with her.
I trudged back up the steps, feeling hollow and desperate. I blinked back tears of frustration. Dolce stood in the hallway looking as stunned as if MarySue had hit her over the head with an antique andiron. Her face was as white as her cruise-wear collection. This on top of her accident last night.
“Don’t tell me the shoes were in that bag,” she said.
I nodded. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I broke down and sobbed. I couldn’t stop myself. I’d failed. “She’s gone. I lost her.” How could I have survived a collision at the airport only to lose the damn shoes right here in the shop?
Dolce shook her head. “She won’t get away with this. If I have to hunt her down.”
“No, I will.” I took a tissue from my pocket and blew my nose. “It’s my fault.”
Dolce’s eyes narrowed. “I should have gotten the full amount instead of a down payment. I’m ruined,” she said quietly.
Ruined? Was she being overdramatic? “They’re worth a lot, aren’t they?” I asked. Of course they were worth a lot. Why else would Dolce say she was ruined?
“Shoe-making is more than a craft, it’s an art. Take those shoes you picked up. They’re stilettos, but they’re like walking on a cloud; they cradle your feet and yet they’re the height of fashion, the ultimate luxury.”
“No wonder she—”
“She wanted them so badly that she stole them? Yes, no wonder,” Dolce said bitterly. “I’m just glad I got some of the money up front.” My boss looked like she’d aged ten years since I left two days ago. Her forehead was etched with deep lines, her shoulders sagged.
“This is my fault,” I said. “I let her take the bag out of my hand. I should have brought them in a plain grocery bag. Or come in later. Or earlier. I’ll get them back for you,” I promised. “Or the rest of the money.”
“How?”
“I . . . I’ll go to her house. I’ll demand she return them.” The more I thought about it the more I knew I had no choice. MarySue couldn’t grab those shoes and get away with it. She didn’t know who she’d just ripped off. It was me, Rita Jewel, she’d ripped off: a tough chick and protector of the working girl. “I’ll reason with her,” I assured Dolce. “I can’t believe she’d keep them if she knew we were going to call the authorities. We are, aren’t we? Think of the scene. The patrol car arrives at her house. Her neighbors come out to gawk, and she’s cuffed and hauled away in broad daylight. She misses the Benefit altogether. Everyone in town knows what happened. She’ll beg us not to tell anyone. And we won’t if she gives back the shoes. Because if she doesn’t, then we have no choice. We’ll call the cops. You said it yourself, she stole them. This is theft, pure and simple.” I might not have convinced Dolce, but I’d talked myself into it.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Where does she live?”
“No.” Dolce grabbed my arm. She squeezed it so hard I gasped. “I need you here. Today of all days. Besides, there are other ways. There are professionals who do this kind of work. Repossession agents.”
She turned and walked toward her office. I followed her, intent on carrying out my plan. But she stopped me with a hand gesture that meant “stay where you are.” “Open the front door. We have a big day ahead of us. I need you to wait on customers. Act like nothing has happened. You can do that, can’t you?”
I nodded. Dolce went into her office, and I stood there wavering between obeying my boss and charging after the shoe thief. I wanted to go after MarySue more than anything. I wanted to wrest those shoes from her multiringed fingers and hold onto them until she coughed up the money. And I would just as soon as I could. Professional repo agents or not. They couldn’t possibly want to recapture the shoes as much as I did.
Standing in her office doorway, Dolce looked at me as if seeing me for the first time since I arrived. She tilted her head to one side. “You look fabulous. I knew that outfit would work for you, the crazy patterns and the wild colors. They’re so you.”
I didn’t feel wild or crazy in the least. I felt stupid and naïve for letting MarySue snatch the shoes. One good thing, my boss had at least partly recovered her poise.
“Take care of things, will you?” Dolce asked me while rubbing her arm. Was that a black-and-blue spot she had courtesy of MarySue? “And not a word about the shoes. I have a call to make.” Without waiting for an answer, Dolce closed the door to her office.
I was flattered Dolce trusted me with her best customers. If it weren’t for the shoes, she’d be out there full steam ahead. With all the events and parties coming up, sales were sure to be brisk today. Maybe brisk enough to make up for the shoes. Dolce was the world’s greatest saleswoman.
Patti French, MarySue’s cochair for the Garden Benefit, was the first customer in the store. She was waiting on the porch when I opened the door. If MarySue planned to wear those silver, one-of-a-kind shoes tonight, what would Patti, her blond, whippet-thin sister-in-law wear to outdo her? Maybe that’s why she was here, looking for a last-minute purchase so she could match her sister-in-law in money and taste.
“Hi, Rita,” Patti said with a glance at my colorful ensemble. “Great outfit. How are you?”
“Fine, fine. Big day, right?”
“Right.” She smiled and craned her swanlike neck. “Is Dolce here?”
“She’s tied up right now. What can I do for you? We just got some new tights in. They’re the latest celebrity trend, which you’ve probably already seen in Star or OK!”
“I don’t think I have,” she confessed.
“You’ll love the sun-kissed, polished effect you get with them. Let me show you a pair in tan.”
“Wait, I don’t want to look too polished.” Patti seemed distracted as she glanced around the room, which was now slowly filling up with the usual crowd as well as some faces I hadn’t seen before. In a low voice she said, “I was wondering if MarySue was here. She won’t tell me what she’s we
aring tonight. All I know is that it probably cost a fortune. Her spending is out of control. Jim is furious with her. He cut up her credit cards last week. And if that doesn’t work . . . Where did you say Dolce was?”
“I didn’t. I just said . . . Oh, there she is.”
Dolce seemed to be her old smiling, self-confident self in a new outfit—a pair of black trousers from British designer Maggie Hu, a deep maroon sweater that might be covering her bruises, and ropes of beads.
“Dolce dear,” Patti said, hugging her as if she hadn’t seen her for years, “you look divinely casual and understated as usual. I was just doing some last-minute shopping. I don’t want to show up for the benefit dressed like MarySue, or anyone else for that matter.”
“You won’t,” Dolce assured her smoothly, although just the name MarySue must have sent a tremor through her as it did me. I wanted to ask if the repo people were on their way. Until then I couldn’t relax. “Your sister-in-law’s taste is absolutely light years from yours.”
“Thank you,” Patti said. “But you never know. Except you do know. You know what she’s wearing and I don’t. Just a warning.” Patti paused and looked around to see if there was anyone in hearing distance. “MarySue is, well, let’s just say she needs help to curb her compulsive spending. I just hope no one we know will turn into an enabler and let her charge things she can’t afford.”
My eyes widened. I was flattered to be let in on the gossip, but now I was even more worried about recovering the shoes. To her credit, Dolce looked serene and unperturbed even though Patti had as good as accused her of encouraging MarySue’s shopping addiction.
Shoe Done It Page 2
