Shoe Done It

by Grace Carroll

  I signaled to Dolce, and she came to my table with another drink in her hand. “This one’s an appletini, so it’s really good for you. You know what they say about an apple a day,” she said just before draining her glass. “Are you ready to go?”

  I nodded. “I had no idea these affairs were so stressful. There’s just one thing. Could we stop by the cemetery on our way home?”

  Dolce gave me a funny look. Then she shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I just want to see where she’s buried.” I didn’t dare tell Dolce what I feared because it was so irrational. The rational part of me knew that MarySue could not have been bitten by a vampire that night at the Benefit because there was no such thing as a vampire. But the irrational part also knew enough about vampire legends to know that if vampires existed and even if they’d buried MarySue facedown, she’d find a way to get out of her grave. Not that I wanted to see her or that she’d want to see me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I saw her. Probably run the other way.

  On our way out of the tavern, we had to stop and speak to some of our customers, so it was a good thing we’d put in an appearance for the sake of Dolce’s business. When we finally got to the parking lot, I offered to drive since I’d had less to drink than Dolce. I just got in to the driver’s seat when Jack came walking across the parking lot toward our car.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asked when I rolled down my window.

  “I don’t do well at social functions,” I confessed.

  “You seemed disturbed. What happened?” he asked.

  “Just the usual. Nothing new. Jim Jensen accused me of killing his wife. That’s all. What about you? Did you learn anything?”

  “Maybe. So you’re off?”

  Dolce leaned over toward the window. “We’re going to the cemetery.”

  I nudged her. If she hadn’t had three drinks, she wouldn’t have blabbed.

  “Really,” he said, giving me a curious look. “So you don’t do well at social functions, but you do better at cemeteries. I have to say I’m surprised.”

  “Just to pay our respects without a big crowd around,” I explained. He didn’t look convinced. I wanted to see the spot where MarySue was buried. That’s all.

  “So did you get a chance to talk to Peter?” I asked.

  “The shoe guy? Yes. He’s an odd one. He seemed nervous.”

  “That’s the effect you have on people. Or didn’t you tell him you were a cop?”

  “I told him. He told me MarySue was a good customer with superior taste.”

  “I think the word he was looking for was ‘expensive’ taste. I wonder if Jim knows how good a customer she was of Peter’s. If he does, he should be threatening Peter and not me. What did I do besides pick up the shoes in Miami?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He just stood there looking thoughtful, then he said good-bye and we drove off.

  The cemetery was deserted. I was having second thoughts before I even got to the gate and asked the guard where MarySue was buried. Dolce obviously thought I was insane to come here when it was so depressing. But to her credit she didn’t say a word. Maybe the effect of the final appletini. She just thanked me for driving, leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes.

  I parked and left Dolce in the car. I just wanted to look at her grave. I wanted to know if she was wearing the silver shoes. But I would never know that.

  The sod was still fresh on her grave, the stone was polished and engraved with her name and the dates of her birth and death. I stood there alone for a long moment staring at the ground. Nothing moved. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, MarySue,” I said quietly. “I never should have gone to your house that night. Thank you for taking me to the hospital if that was you. I appreciate it. If you hadn’t . . . On the other hand, you’re the one who shoved me off the ladder. But let’s let bygones be bygones. I just wish I knew who killed you. But I’ll find out, I promise I will.”

  I sighed and went back to the car feeling more than a little foolish for talking to a dead person. How ridiculous was that?

  Fifteen

  The next day Dolce was, not surprisingly, hungover and down in the dumps, and I was more determined than ever to solve this mystery before Jack did. I didn’t know why. He was the cop, I was the sales assistant and fashion consultant. But I was sick and tired of being accused of killing MarySue, and the only way to stop it was to find the real killer myself. I borrowed Dolce’s car to go to every bookstore in town on my lunch hour. I was looking for the recent issue of Vogue, but they were sold out. “It’s not unusual,” one clerk told me. “We don’t order that many and it’s the giant fall issue, ‘biggest in twenty years,’” she said. Even though my lunch hour was over and I still hadn’t eaten anything, I went to the main library.

  There it was at the far end of the periodical section between the US Weekly and the Western Horse Review. I snatched it up and sat down at a large table where I could spread it out. I flipped the pages madly past articles on “How to Make Menswear Look Chic,” “110 Best Beauty Buys” and “Must-Have Messenger Bags.” I knew I was late. I knew I was leaving Dolce in the lurch with her postparty headache, but I just couldn’t resist perusing the article on the new fall boots. I lusted after a pair of lace-up suede and leather high-tops, and I wondered if Dolce would want to put in an order. But where was the article I was looking for?

  Frustrated, I went back to the table of contents, and there it was on page ninety-one: “Third World Shoe Scam! Don’t Get Taken In!” My heart was pounding, my fingers stuck to the pages. Eighty, eighty-five, ninety . . . ninety-two. What? Where was ninety-one? Gone, that’s where. It had been ripped out. I could see the jagged edges.

  I sat there staring at the place where the article should have been. I was in shock. As close to collapse, coma or even sudden death as I’d ever been.

  I had to have that article. If someone wanted it badly enough to rip it out, it must be important. I went outside and called Dolce. “I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Can you handle everything for another hour?” I hated to impose on her good nature, especially when she wasn’t feeling quite right, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to find that article, even if I had to drive all over California. There must be a copy somewhere.

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s not very busy. In fact, the only person who’s been in is Peter, and he’s not a customer.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to speak to you, but I told him you were out looking for a magazine.”

  “What? Oh, I wish you hadn’t.”

  “Why? He wants to help you. He asked me which one you wanted because he keeps all his old copies.”

  I sucked in a short breath. I didn’t want anyone to know I was looking for this article. Peter Butinksi was probably a harmless bore, but who knew how many people he’d be talking to during his travels from boutique to boutique.

  I got back into Dolce’s car and headed across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin County. Whoever had bought up all the magazines in the city and tore out the article in the library probably hadn’t gotten to Marin yet, or had they?

  I stepped on the gas, and instead of admiring one of the world’s most beautiful bridges or the sparkling blue waters of the Bay or the view of the skyscrapers on the city’s skyline in my rearview mirror, I stared straight ahead, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw hurt. I was determined not to return until I had that magazine in my hands.

  The first town I came to I turned off and hit the chain bookstore in the large shopping center. I smiled at the security guard at the entrance, glad to see the books and magazines were well protected. You wouldn’t get away with ripping out a page here or walking out with a magazine you didn’t pay for.

  There they were, racks of magazines. And there in the last rack was the very issue I was looking for. On the cover was a famous movie star wearing a leopard print bustier. I reached for the magazine. I had it in my grasp when someone grabbed
it and pulled it out of my hand. I yanked it back. Then I looked up and almost lost my grip. It was Peter Butinski in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, ill-fitting pants and leather sandals. I was dying to tell Dolce.

  “Peter,” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing you are,” he said. “Buying a magazine.”

  “This one’s mine,” I said and used both hands to hang on to the magazine. My magazine.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, ripping it out of my hands with a forceful jerk.

  That made me so angry I felt a surge of superhuman strength. “Give it back,” I shouted.

  “What’s going on here?” someone said. I turned and saw the clerk standing at the edge of the rack, his mouth open in astonishment as if he’d never seen two customers fight over a magazine before.

  “He’s got my magazine,” I said, and I lunged for it. I got hold of it by the corner, but Peter pulled so hard I heard a ripping sound as the magazine tore apart. I stumbled backward into another rack of magazines and landed on my butt.

  “Security,” the clerk shouted, obviously worried about the crazies in the store.

  Peter was not waiting for any security guard to escort him out. Not without the magazine—or half the magazine. He bolted for the back door of the store, and I just sat there on the floor surrounded by magazines. I was panting and holding my half of the Vogue tightly in my hand. But was page nine-one in my hand or in Peter’s? And would I be arrested for dismembering a magazine? Not if I paid for it, which I planned to do. But first things first.

  I staggered to my feet and explained as calmly as I could to the security guard that I wanted to buy that magazine and I was sorry I caused a disturbance. I said I’d be glad to pick up all the fallen magazines and of course pay for the one in my hand, which was really only half a magazine. I observed that the other man wanted the magazine too, which must have been obvious. If he hadn’t done anything wrong, then why did he flee? Where had he gone? Actually I didn’t care as long as I had the article I’d come for.

  I couldn’t wait another minute. While standing there, I started flipping through the pages again, this time ignoring all the tempting lists, like “Ten Best Beauty Tips” and “Naughty Sex Questions.” I’d get to them later.

  I was almost up to page ninety-one when the store manager appeared and surveyed the damage. One bookcase on the floor and magazines everywhere. He asked for my name and phone number. I closed the magazine and told him I’d be glad to pay for any damaged magazines, but that it wasn’t my fault. He looked dubious.

  Instead of standing there another minute and subjecting myself to questions and accusations, I decided to leave as quickly and gracefully as I could. It turned out they charged me for the Vogue and that was all. Finally alone in Dolce’s car, I found the page.

  There they were, a large color photograph of the silver shoes, the same silver shoes I’d transported across country. The same silver shoes ripped from my grasp by MarySue Jensen. The same silver shoes MarySue had worn to the Benefit. The same silver shoes that had caused her murder. But who did it? Who killed her? Who stole her shoes?

  I scanned the article under the heading “Third World Shoe Scam!” Then I read the questions: “Are you guilty of causing child labor? Are you wearing shoes made by children who earn pennies a day in poor countries? Do you contribute to a Slumdog Millionaire’s millions by buying shoes like these? Do you care about poor children, or do you care more about high fashion?” They mentioned the price of the shoes and I gasped.

  Oh my God, what was I going to do? When I heard a loud rapping on my window, I looked up to see Peter’s face pressed against the glass. His mouth was open and he was shouting at me. “You think you’re a super salesman. Well, you’re nothing compared to me.”

  I rolled down my window a crack and glared at him.

  “I’m the one who knows how to sell shoes. Who do you think got MarySue to buy the stilettos?”

  “Patti,” I said. “Not you.” I knew he wouldn’t let anyone top him in the sales department.

  “Hah. Did Patti tell you that? She’s nothing compared to me. I was born to sell. I could sell snow to Eskimos. Or stilettos to socialites like MarySue. All it took was one look at the shoes. I showed them to her. I told her to order them.”

  “I thought it was Harrington,” I said.

  “That second-rate drama queen? Maybe he did but I’m the one she turned to for fashion tips. Now give me that magazine.” He knew I had the article he wanted. I pushed the key in the ignition and tore out of that parking lot, leaving him standing there waving his arms in the air. I headed for the bridge hoping he wouldn’t follow me and cause an accident. I was shaking all over. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they were stiff. I might need help removing them so I could get out of the car.

  When I got to Dolce’s, I parked in the no-parking zone in front of the shop because I didn’t have the strength to look for a legal space on a side street. I took the half magazine and ran up the front steps to the shop.

  Dolce was with a customer. I could feel her eyes on me as I rushed past her to her office. In a few minutes she joined me.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Worse than a ghost. I’ve seen Peter Butinski,” I said. “But I’ve got the magazine.” I held it up. She sat down at her desk and squinted. “What magazine?”

  “The magazine with the article about the silver shoes. The one Patti showed MarySue, or Peter or Harrington or maybe all three showed them to her. Which made MarySue fall in love with the shoes,”

  Dolce donned her bifocals and was scanning the page I gave her. “But it says if you buy these shoes you’re contributing to child labor.”

  “I know,” I said. “Maybe MarySue didn’t read that far. Maybe she just saw the picture.”

  “Then what?” Dolce said. “She ordered them from us. I ordered them from the atelier, you picked them up. If that’s how it happened, we’re all guilty.”

  I shook my head. How could we be guilty for ordering a pair of shoes? “Talk about guilty. Peter Butinski is more involved than we thought. He even bragged about it to me. Said he’s the one who told MarySue about the shoes, not Patti and not Harrington. This was right after he tried to get the magazine before I did.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told him you were out shopping when he dropped in,” Dolce said. “But I thought he was harmless.”

  “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t,” I said. “So that’s why he was out looking for magazines, hoping to beat me to the punch. I suspect he has destroyed all the other copies in the city just so no one would know where the shoes came from or his name would be mud. No self-respecting socialite would ever buy from him again knowing he was a slumdog shoe seller.”

  “But she didn’t buy them from him, she bought them from me,” Dolce said.

  “According to him, he’s the one who talked her into them. I’m guessing he gets a commission on every pair. No matter who sells them, there’s probably enough profit to go around. If you believe this article.”

  “I feel terrible,” Dolce said. “All those poor children slaving away. What can we do about it besides never order from them again?”

  “Right now I’m going to call Peter and offer him a deal. I won’t tell anyone what he’s done if he’ll give us back the shoes and promise never to exploit the children ever again.”

  “But you don’t know if he has the shoes.”

  “I have to make him think I do know.” I tried to sound like I knew what I was doing, but I only had a vague idea.

  “I don’t like it,” Dolce said, leaning forward across her desk. “He could be dangerous. He might be the one who killed MarySue.”

  “I can’t believe he’s a murderer. Of all people, Peter Butinski?” Then I pictured his face contorted with fury in the parking lot. “But I’ll take precautions. I’ll get Peter to meet me here, then I’ll get Detectiv
e Wall to stand by.”

  “I’ll be here too,” Dolce said. “Hiding in the dressing room.”

  I smiled. Dolce was the perfect boss. I wouldn’t be alone.

  I left a message on Peter’s phone. “Sorry about today,” I said. “I guess we both got carried away. We know you have MarySue’s silver shoes. Dolce and I want them back. We’re prepared to make a deal with you because we’re out a considerable amount of money. Bring the shoes to the shop tonight after five and we will keep this whole affair to ourselves. We don’t care how you got the shoes. We don’t care where you buy your shoes or sell them. After all, you have to make a living too.” I paused. Was I laying it on too thick? Or not thick enough? What motive would he have for handing over the shoes? What if he didn’t have them? I didn’t want to mention murder. I didn’t know what else to say, so I hung up.

  Dolce stared at me as if she was surprised by my courage—or was she surprised I’d changed my story or surprised I expected Peter to appear with the shoes and hand them over?

  “Even if he doesn’t have them, I think he’ll show up just to tell us he doesn’t have them, don’t you?” I asked.

  She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she was convinced. Then I called Jack and left a message. I sure hoped he’d get it and be prepared. For what? To arrest Peter? To protect us from Peter? To stand around and be bored when Peter didn’t show up?

  The hours dragged by. Dolce said we needed to keep up our strength, so she ordered lunch to be delivered from a takeout place around the corner, two Californians—turkey with avocado and jack cheese and two high-energy smoothies. You’d think I would have been too nervous to eat, but tension always makes me extra hungry and I was famished. As soon as the delivery guy arrived, we went to her office and ate our sandwiches and drank our smoothies. I stared at my cell phone wishing I’d hear from my favorite law-and-order man. I thought I could handle Peter by myself, especially with Dolce as backup, but I wanted Jack around just in case.

  I kept an eye on the clock while waiting on customers. Amazing how many women are surprised by the arrival of fall and suddenly have nothing to wear. For a badly needed diversion, I threw myself into making suggestions like “Let’s try mixing your neutrals, camel with gray, brown layered with a black sweater,” and “How about some massive heels with those pants?” Or “Nothing says fall like a chunky sweater.” Thank heavens for those women with expensive taste and lots of money or I wouldn’t have a job and Dolce wouldn’t be able to keep her doors open. Which reminded me that Dolce still looked worried these days even when we weren’t concerned there was a murderer in our midst. If money was a problem, would she ask me to take a salary cut? Work half-time? Close the shop on Mondays?