Died with a Bow (20 page)

“I like your new place,” he said.

“It’s small, but I love the neighborhood,” I said. “My very first dinner party at my new place is tomorrow night. I’m taking Saturday off to get ready. Sorry for such short notice, but I hope you can make it.”

“Of course I can. I’ll trade shifts with someone else if I have to, but I’ll be here. What can I bring?”

“Nothing. I have everything under control.” That was a lie. I had nothing under control, but I had all day tomorrow to do it. Plus I knew what it should look like and taste like, and I knew how to do the chopping. I was so touched he’d make such an effort to show up.

I breathed a sigh of relief. My party was shaping up. Besides Dolce, Nick and Jonathan, maybe Dolce’s new boyfriend would come. It seemed a little lopsided. I had to think of someone else. Tomorrow I’d call around and fill in the guest list. If the weather was nice, we could have drinks on my deck so the guests could appreciate the view of the Bay reflecting the last rays of sun.

Jonathan drove downtown and parked in a garage near the hotel. It was exciting just to be out on the town, walking among the well-dressed and the underdressed and the tourists wandering around Union Square.

“You know why it’s called Union Square, don’t you?” Jonathan asked as we hurried across Powell Street to avoid the cable car that headed up toward Nob Hill. “During the Civil War the supporters of the Union used to gather here to rally round the North.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. How much I appreciated being with someone so knowledgeable and so modest at the same time. “You’re not a native. How do you know so much?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not a native. I love this city, don’t you?” he asked, taking my arm as we entered the hotel.

“Oh, yes,” I said, but I loved it a lot more before I got involved in two separate murders, both because I worked at Dolce’s. I’d started thinking of it as a homicide capital, which wasn’t fair, but there you are.

“You know what people told me before I accepted the job at San Francisco General?” he asked. “That I should bring a tent because I couldn’t afford the exorbitant rent here. And bring a lot of sweaters and jackets because of the fog. And sell my car. Buy a bicycle and a Muni pass.”

I laughed lightly. I was sure glad Jonathan hadn’t sold his Porsche or we’d have had to come here on the bus or his bicycle. Being ecofriendly myself, I didn’t mind using alternative transportation but not in my silver lamé dress.

“There’s so much to see and do here,” he said. “Have you been up the Filbert Steps to Coit Tower, walked across the Golden Gate Bridge or watched the sunset from Ocean Beach?”

“No, I haven’t. But I have been to the Palace of Fine Arts.”

“That’s on my list,” he said. “As soon as I get off this night schedule, I’m definitely going to see it. So you recommend it?”

“Definitely. It reminds me of Italy. Not that I’ve been to Italy, but if I had, it would remind me because of the Roman columns and the views and the swans in the lagoon.”

In the elevator to the twenty-first floor of the hotel, Jonathan asked the question I hoped he never would.

“So who is this woman, Vienna, who bid all that money and then gave the ticket to you?”

The wood-paneled elevator stopped, and we stepped out onto a red carpet. I had a momentary reprieve while I thought of what to say.

“The woman you mention was Vienna Fairchild,” I said. “She died unexpectedly Saturday night.”

As usual Jonathan, being an ER doctor, was not shocked hearing of an untimely death.

“Not at my hospital, I hope,” he said.

“No, it happened at our shop. Or at least I think it did. I’m the one who found her on the floor in her dress with the pink bow.”

“What was the cause of death?” he asked as we stood at the entrance of the nightclub waiting to be seated. “She appeared to be in good shape when she told me she couldn’t use her winning bid.”

“I, uh, don’t really know. You’re right. When she gave me the ticket, she looked fine. The police are investigating her death,” I added reluctantly. I felt Jonathan had the right to know. If he didn’t know already.

“The police? Why is that?”

“They think she was murdered,” I said. I really didn’t want to talk about Vienna, her life or her death, but it seemed she followed me everywhere. First she took my job, then she almost took Jonathan. I guessed I should be grateful that she gave me this evening with him.

“I didn’t see anything about it in the papers,” he said.

“I didn’t either. Her parents are very big city boosters, so I wonder if they used their influence to keep it quiet. She was lying on the floor of the boutique when I came in last Sunday morning. I called the police, and things haven’t been the same since.”

It was a relief to get it off my chest, to confess that Vienna’s murder had disrupted my life and not feel selfish and self-centered admitting it. Even if I weren’t on the suspect list, there was no getting around it. Her death affected my job, my boss and the atmosphere at my work.

“That must have been a shock.”

“It was. I’m still having nightmares.”

“About finding her body?” he asked.

“About being suspected of killing her,” I admitted.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “It’s obvious you couldn’t kill anyone.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” I said. If only everyone I knew felt that way. “I wish it was that simple. But my fingerprints were all over the place according to the police.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to Jonathan. I could tell him things I hadn’t been able to talk about to anyone. Being a doctor, he’d probably had a class in listening attentively to patients, the better to understand their health problems. Or maybe he was just naturally a good listener.

“That’s awkward for you,” he said sympathetically.

The mâitre d’ motioned us to follow him. We were greeted by a blast of fifties music and a huge bouquet of fresh flowers that almost obscured the rich red velvet upholstery and the chandeliers dripping with crystal. I was immediately transported to another San Francisco than the one I knew.

Jonathan ordered the Starlight’s signature drink, a cinnamon-rimmed brandy concoction called a Cable Car, for each of us from the bar. When they seated us at a linen-covered cocktail table at the window, I took the opportunity to look around, not only at the spectacular view of the city spread out below us but also at the other patrons. At first glance it seemed that we were the youngest people in the place. There were middle-aged men, one in a shirt unbuttoned to show off his gold chains, and women in dresses that made mine look like a high school prom dress, and not in a good way. In general I would rather be underdressed than the opposite.

When the waiter came, we ordered a Green Goddess salad for me and a Caesar salad for Jonathan. After consulting the waiter, we decided to share a plate of petite lamb burgers and a selection of mezes—hummus, pita bread, olives and feta cheese.

“There’s a woman at the next table who keeps looking at you,” Jonathan said.

I turned. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see a Dolce’s customer at this popular nightspot, and there she was: Leigh James and a man that might or might not be her husband. At first, I didn’t recognize Leigh, but I definitely recognized the dress. It was the black Dior couture dress with the sheer sleeves that Vienna had sold her.

I remember overhearing Vienna tell her, “You look absolutely smashing in that dress. It makes you look ten pounds lighter and twenty years younger.”

“Really?” Leigh had said, obviously loving the flattery.

“You know that same diaphanous Dior dress was seen at the Venice Film Festival last year. I can’t remember who wore it, but it’s beautiful and a steal. You can wear it everywhere. A dress like that never goes out of style. You’ll wear it over and over. It’s worth every penny when you think of it that way.”

Well, that was all it took for Vienna to wrap up the sale and the dress. I wondered at the time if Vienna had actually been at the festival or had just seen the dress in a picture from the event. Or maybe neither—maybe she’d made it up? No, that wasn’t possible. Whatever I thought of Vienna, I had no reason to suspect her of lying about the clothes she sold.

I thought at the time that I should learn something from Vienna, like salesmanship, but given her sudden death, I really hadn’t had enough time to learn a thing. And maybe I never would have, given my jealousy of her position in the store. I liked to think I was good at sales, but compared to Vienna? She’d sold more in the short time she was with us than I had in any month I’d worked there. It hurt me to admit it, but I had to, at least to myself.

Leigh waved to us, and a moment later she got up and came to our table. I said hello and introduced her to Jonathan. I didn’t say he was a doctor. He once told me that he’s constantly being asked for advice even from utter strangers when they find out what he does for a living. I didn’t want to hear Leigh ask him what to do about her heart palpitations or bunions, corns or warts. I couldn’t inflict any
additional advice-seeking stranger on him, not on his night off. And I vowed never to ask him anything about my health unless he asked, which he often did.

“Rita, it’s so good to see you again,” Leigh said to me. I can’t believe Vienna is gone, can you? I keep expecting her to show up in a bright Christian Lacroix dress with some eligible young bachelor to dance the night away. Then I remind myself she’s dead. She was so young, so vibrant, so alive. How could she be dead?” she asked, shaking her head sadly.

What could I say? I just murmured something about how shocking it was and how much I missed her.

“Wasn’t the wake at her mother’s house just beautiful?” she asked. “Dolce did a wonderful job. I was so proud of her. I don’t know how she got up there and spoke the way she did. I was so nervous and overcome with emotion, I couldn’t have said a word if they’d asked me. But I’m wearing this dress tonight in Vienna’s memory,” she said, smoothing the sleeves. “I’ll always think of her when I wear it. That’s why I came over to say hello. I knew you’d appreciate it.”

“The dress looks fabulous on you,” I said. I wondered how often she would wear it. Maybe Dolce’s customers went out on the town every weekend, which was why we sold a fair number of these dresses. I told myself that nobody who’d ever bought anything from Vienna would want to kill her. Instead, they wanted to thank her for making them look better than ever. That was her gift. So who didn’t like her besides half of her high school class, especially the jealous girls? Who didn’t like her besides one of the guys she’d been dating who hadn’t made the cut? I should get a copy of her yearbook and just go through the names. I’d bet anything Jack hadn’t thought of that.

“Isn’t this place just too glamorous?” she asked us. “I love it. Have you seen Harry Denton?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t even know there was a real living, breathing Harry Denton, as in Harry Denton’s Starlight Room. I’d thought he was one of those gone-but-not-forgotten San Fran celebs, like Lillie Hitchcock Coit—the firefighter and eccentric character whose bequest to the city resulted in Coit Tower, which stands atop Telegraph Hill—or Domingo Ghirardelli, who made his signature chocolate at a factory located in what is now called Ghirardelli Square. But Leigh said the owner and host of this famous nightclub was often on the premises himself.

“There he is over there.” Leigh pointed to a jovial bald man with glasses who was greeting customers at the bar. “When you’re in the mood for a nightclub, this is the only place to go. I mean it. Have you seen the powder room? Don’t miss it. It’s right out of the thirties. Just gorgeous.”

When Leigh went back to her table, Jonathan and I got up to dance. Passing other tables, I noticed more than a few older men with much younger women. What was going on here? I was glad that Jonathan still had a full head of hair and a great beach-boy tan, thanks to his graveyard shift at the hospital giving him days free to surf in Santa Cruz. I didn’t think anyone would mistake him for my sugar daddy.

Jonathan was a great dancer; whether the music was forties swing or modern hip-hop and pop, he led and I followed. Was there anything wrong with this guy? I couldn’t think of it.

When we went back to our table, the waiter brought our food and we chowed down, hungry after all that exercise on the dance floor. I ordered a Napa Crush made with white wine, a liqueur and a white peach puree. It was delicious.
Jonathan had a coffee. We danced some more, then a portly older man came up to tell Jonathan how much he appreciated his care when he’d been treated for a heart attack at the hospital a few months ago. They started talking about his current condition and whether it was okay to resume playing tennis. That’s the thing about Jonathan: he is sincerely interested in every one of his patients.

I took the opportunity to pay a visit to the powder room, which was every bit as sensational as Leigh had described. Looking in the mirror, I could almost imagine I was as glamorous as a movie star from the thirties. Then I sat on a red velvet–cushioned love seat, took my cell phone out of my clutch and called Dolce to get Vienna’s father’s phone number while I had a chance. I told Dolce I had a couple of questions to ask him, and she didn’t press me for more information.