Died with a Bow (12 page)

“You think so?” Dolce asked. “Then I’ll do it. It will be my tribute to her.”

I so admired Dolce for her taste in clothes. At her age, not many women would take the chances she did. I only hoped I’d be on the cutting edge like she was when I was fifty-something.

“Do we need jewelry?” I asked, sitting on a leather footstool. I was exhausted. First dressing all those women and now us. I wanted to go home and watch something
mindless on TV. Tomorrow was going to be one big day. It was my chance to look over Vienna’s friends and family and figure out who killed her, all the while looking stylish and bereft.

“I’ll just wear my diamond stud earrings,” Dolce said. I could see she was tired too. The day had taken its toll on both of us. “But you go ahead and wear something sensational.”

“I’ll wear something with a long chain and a tassel or a pendant on the end, since that’s what’s in right now,” I said. I didn’t mention Vienna’s beautiful tourmaline necklace. Why bring up a painful subject? It was gone. I’d like to know what had happened to it, and I wasn’t the only one. I was sorry I’d ever mentioned the necklace to Jack. But he would have found out anyway. Maybe he was just waiting for me to say something first so he could pounce on me, which he did. I would love to be one up on Jack Wall, but it hardly ever happened.

I changed back into my clothes and left my outfit for tomorrow hanging in the dressing room. I said good night to Dolce and headed for home. From my seat on the bus I realized we were passing not far from my new favorite pizza place where the so-called vampire Meera worked. My mouth watered remembering how good the last one was, and I jumped up and got off at the next stop. What point was there going home hungry? I wouldn’t be able to think or to sleep on an empty stomach, and I needed to be sharp and get my rest before tomorrow. I renewed my vow to get my new apartment into shape as well as to find a cooking school so I wouldn’t have to eat out so often. But not now. Not when I was a suspect in a murder case. I had my work cut out for me.

I thought Azerbyjohnnie’s would be the quintessential neighborhood hangout. But it was more upscale than I’d imagined. Before I went in, I read the menu in the window. Not only did they have some unusual designer pizzas from their wood-fired pizza oven, but they also offered hand-rolled pasta and house-cured meats. Then why did they hire an alleged vampire to man the phones and the reception desk? Even as a temp filling in for her friend, Meera seemed an unlikely fit for this kind of upscale ambience.

Maybe Meera gave it a touch of class or just a touch of weirdness, dressed as she was in her usual Victorian garb. In her long black dress with the round waistline, she actually looked a little like Queen Victoria, only not quite as stout as the dowager queen. Meera had a regal air about her, maybe because she thought of herself as an ageless vampire. Who was I to say she wasn’t? Not to her face anyway. I’d
read enough vampire books, even studied Romanian in college, and I knew better than to even hint that I had any doubts about her claims. The thing I wondered was, what did Victorian style or vampires or Romania have to do with Italian food? To her credit, Meera seemed right at home at the front desk of this Italian restaurant, and she seemed glad to see me but not surprised.

“I knew you’d come by,” she said, tapping her forehead as if that’s where she got her ability to know what the future brought. “How was the pizza I sent you?”

“Excellent,” I said.

“Today you are here in person,” she said. “Sit down and I will bring you the house special.”

“No carp,” I said firmly.

“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “But you look like you need a glass of Grasa de Cotnari.”

“I thought you’d have Italian wines here.”

“We do, but this is my recommendation. When in Romania…”

I didn’t say, “But we’re not in Romania. We’re in San Francisco at an Italian restaurant.” I knew better than to argue with Meera.

Since it was early, there were plenty of free tables in the long narrow room with windows along one side. The few customers already there were dressed in business casual as if, like me, they were on their way home from work and didn’t want to face an empty fridge.

Meera refused to let me see the menu, saying she knew what I would like. Maybe she was right. Aside from her carp recommendation, everything she suggested was delicious, starting with a shaved asparagus and arugula salad with a pancetta-caper vinaigrette, followed by an outstanding
puttanesca pizza with Castelvetrano olive wedges. It was smudged with black from the gas-fired oven, crisp and tender at the same time.

“I love it,” I told Meera when she came to my table to check on me.

She smiled knowingly and refilled my wineglass. I hated to think about how much this was going to cost me, but feeling so relaxed and mellow was worth the price after the day I’d had.

She slid into the booth opposite me. She glanced over her shoulder and said in a low voice, “I hear there was another murder. Someone in your shop.”

“That’s right,” I said. Though there hadn’t been a reporter on the premises that I knew about, it was impossible to deny it had happened. I wondered how she’d found out.

“I would be glad to help out in any way I can,” she said eagerly, resting her elbows on the table. I recalled that she thought her special vampire powers gave her insight that mere mortals lacked. For her, death wasn’t a problem, but she still appeared to love hearing about crimes, especially murder.

“I’m not the one to ask,” I said firmly. That’s all I needed was a vampire making inquiries on my behalf. Already some people thought I was a nutcase, too involved in the murder for my own good. Along with those who thought I was responsible for the murder.

“I will telephone to the police,” she said. “I remember the last time we were dealing with the very dashing and handsome Detective Wall. He reminds me of someone I once knew.”

When Meera talked about people she once knew, she sometimes mentioned figures out of the past, and I do mean
the past, like the past century. It made one wonder if she really was a vampire—or maybe just a student of history.

“I am thinking that the detective might have some Romanian blood in him. He has a certain look,” she said.

He did have a certain look. I wasn’t sure it was because of Romanian blood in his veins. It was more of a tough-cop, smart-cop look.

“Do you have his phone number?” I asked.

Meera reached into the bodice of her dress, pulled out his card and waved it at me. I should have known she’d be prepared and that she’d remember Jack. Who could forget him? I could just hear her telling him that I’d recommended she contact him to help him solve his crimes. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but at least he’d be civil, thank her for the offer and then tell her he had everything under control. But did he? Maybe he could use some help from someone who supposedly had powers outside the norm. Or maybe he’d tell me once again to stay out of his business. I was getting used to it.

“I have a way of communicating with the dead,” Meera said. “That might be useful.”

I knew she’d get around to reminding me sooner or later. “You mean you would ask Vienna who killed her?” That would sure save a lot of time and effort. If you believed Meera was really what she said she was, which I didn’t, and neither would Jack.

“Nothing so direct,” she said. “But I have ways of finding out.”

What could I say? Go for it? She’d go for it no matter what I said, even if I told her not to. So I ate the last bite of pizza, drained my wineglass and settled the check, left a tip and said good bye. But before I left I asked her to give me
a call if she had any word from “beyond.” I could use all the help I could get unraveling this mystery. Even if it came from a delusional Romanian’s contacts with the other world.

She said she would as if it were the kind of request she got every day. I was just glad she hadn’t asked about the funeral. Meera was unstoppable about funerals. She loved the idea of the corpse turning into a vampire like herself. When I turned around for a last look at the restaurant, she was standing at the window, her face pressed against the glass, looking at me. For some reason the woman was making me nervous. Which I didn’t need in my already unsettled condition. It wasn’t her fault. It was just that I’d recently come face-to-face with Vienna’s lifeless body and I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Around noon the next day Dolce and I closed the shop and got ready for the funeral. We debated whether to eat lunch first. I said I was sure there’d be a big spread at Vienna’s mother’s house after the funeral. After all, they were rich and could afford it. Besides, given what Athena had said, I was sure Noreen Fortner was eager to show how much she cared for Vienna by outdoing Vienna’s father.

Dolce drove us to Colma in her latest rental car, a Hummer. After she was in an accident some months ago, she’d continued to rent one car after another. It gave her a chance to try out cars she’d never considered before.

She said the Hummer was the only thing left in the lot she hadn’t driven except for some models she didn’t want to be seen in. “It’s not the H-1,” she explained as we pulled out of her garage. “The H-2 is its little brother, but it still has
the distinctive military style. They’re extremely capable even when taken off-road. Even with me at the wheel.”

“Dolce,” I said, “you’re not going off-roading, are you?”

“No, no,” she said, then she admitted she’d been influenced by the car-rental man. “He told me it has a lot of muscle under the hood.”

“I’m sure we’ll be very safe also,” I said, thinking of the vehicle’s famed crashworthiness. At least until we got to the funeral home. Then all bets were off.

Cypress Ridge was one of many funeral homes located in the city of Colma, which boasts that it’s home to around a thousand residents and over a million souls. It wasn’t always that way. But in the 1920s the city of San Francisco ran out of room and sent thousands of the dearly departed to Colma to be reburied.

Once inside the Colma city limits, we saw several bumper stickers that proudly pronounced, “It’s good to be alive in Colma.”

“It’s not a depressing city in spite of all the cemeteries,” I said.

“No,” Dolce said. “In fact, you could call the cemeteries in Colma a good place to study local history. Former mayor George Moscone is buried here.”

“He’s the one who was shot by a disgruntled San Francisco supervisor in the seventies,” I murmured. Every year in November the city pauses to remember the mayor and Supervisor Harvey Milk, both of whom were murdered at City Hall.

“And Wyatt Earp is here too, buried together with his wife, Josephine. His original three-hundred-pound tombstone was stolen so many times they finally replaced it with a more modest slab of black granite. If we have time, we
can take a look at it. I read that his funeral was attended by some of the Western movie heroes like Tom Mix. But his wife was so distraught she didn’t go to the funeral. I don’t think any of Vienna’s family members will miss her funeral.”

I slanted a glance in Dolce’s direction, sorry to see tears well up in her eyes. I thought it would be good for her to talk about the past, but maybe not. I wondered how hard it was going to be for her to see Vienna’s body lying in a casket.

I was glad Dolce was distracted enough to tell me stories of the famous people buried in Colma, but it was clear she couldn’t forget why we were here. I was determined to try to keep her spirits up one way or another.

We drove into the cemetery, passing elaborate tombs and mausoleums. “Do you think the Fairchilds will build something like that for Vienna?” I asked.

“It seems like something out of the Victorian era,” Dolce said. “Those were the days when you showed your love for the departed by building a huge monument to their memory. I don’t think that’s done so much anymore. But who am I to say what the Fairchilds will do?”

I agreed. I pictured a huge statue of Vienna sculpted in marble. She’d be wearing one of her crazier outfits. It would be different. It would be appropriate. But would it be possible for the two families to ever agree on how to honor her? I was anxious to see how the families would pull off this funeral. How would her father hold up when his favorite daughter was lying cold and dead in her coffin? Would her mother and father come together today for once? Or would her violent death just deepen the gulf between them?