Died with a Bow (27 page)

“Of course we have.” I reached for the first black dress on the rack. It was a spandex and rayon wrap dress with a cutaway collar creating a flattering V-neckline.

“Rita, you’re a genius,” Sarah said when she came out of the dressing room. I had to agree. By chance I’d found the perfect dress for her. Elegant, sophisticated and understated. It said “I know who I am, I know what to wear and I know I look terrific.”

“Honestly, Dolce, should give you a raise,” she said. “Here it is almost six o’clock and you’re helping me when you should be going home or on a date yourself, right?”

I nodded, took her credit card and, while she was changing back into her street clothes, rang up the sale and wrapped her new dress in a garment bag.

When she came out of the dressing room, she was sneezing. “What’s that scent you’re wearing?” she asked me.

“I’m not,” I said. “Why?”

“Because I’m allergic to perfume. Can’t wear anything and can’t be around anyone who does. And someone’s been wearing a light floral scent. Bluebells, raspberries, ozone, melon and apples, if I’m not mistaken. Who was just here before me?”

“Uh, well, I’m not sure who it was,” I said. “I mean there were so many customers today.”

“Well, I’m off. If you’re ready to go, I’ll give you a ride home.”

I nodded and grabbed my purse, but before I walked out I closed my eyes and concentrated. A blend of bluebells, raspberries, ozone, melon and apples, she’d said. Yes, now I could smell it. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Because I was overwhelmed with other sensations, like fear. Which proved that my visitor was a woman for sure. That and the
high heels I’d heard when she left. On the other hand, maybe that was a ploy to confuse me. As for the perfume, so many fragrances these days were unisex.

“I’m just going to close up,” I said. Safety in numbers, I told myself. At least I hoped it was still true. If not…we were both doomed.

We walked out together, me still in my four-in-one outfit—currently in baggy pants and long-sleeved tunic mode—and Sarah in designer jeans with her dress under her arm. I was terrified of every shadow, ever word that echoed from the bar across the street. I was extremely grateful for the ride home. Not that I didn’t deserve it after what I’d done for her. I did.

Once at home with the doors locked and bolted, I removed my outfit and left it on the bedroom floor. My enthusiasm for convertible knitwear had dampened considerably. I filled my claw-foot tub with hot water and lavender and acai berry Dead Sea salt to soothe my body and my nerves.

I lay in the water up to my chin unable to stop thinking about my close call with the murderous stranger. Only it wasn’t a stranger. She knew me. She had killed Vienna, or was I just being overly dramatic because of the similarity in method? Had the woman (assuming it was a woman) known I was alone? Thinking of someone watching the shop sent a chill up my spine. Had she known I was caught in a four-in-one outfit and was temporarily disabled and couldn’t see who she was? Whatever she knew, she’d been frightened off by the arrival of Sarah.

All the way home in Sarah’s car I kept looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was following us. Who was the mystery man or woman? Did the person know where I lived?
What should I do next? Who should I tell, Dolce or Jack or no one. Was I exaggerating the threat or was it real? Whatever I’d told the intruder, I was not giving up. I might be scared, but I was more determined than ever.

I decided not to tell Dolce. What could she do about it? Maybe Jack was right. I brought these things upon myself by my actions. Telling Dolce would just cause her to worry more when she was still getting over her shock of Vienna’s murder. She had given me the tickets to the Boat Show on Sunday and told me she was instigating the new store hours. From now on the shop would be closed on Mondays. I had a long two days off to fill up. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

On Sunday about noon I arrived at Fort Mason on San Francisco Bay wearing deliciously soft jeans and Steven Joss boots that could be worn with jeans, as I was doing, or with a motorcycle jacket for a biker look or even with a little black dress. That’s how versatile they were and worth every penny they’d cost me. I paired them with a Cacharel oversize printed shirt and a solid-colored jacket, and I carried a vibrant purple handbag. Before I left, I tossed a colorful scarf around my neck. I almost didn’t wear the scarf because it reminded me of my near escape earlier in the week. As if I needed reminding. It was hard to keep the episode to myself, but how else was I going to get over my fear of being alone and equally strong fear of the four-in-one shape-shifter?

How else to protect those I cared about or whose opinion of me I cared about except to keep my mouth closed for now? Hopefully, if I stopped my investigation, the person who’d threatened me would relax, realize they’d brought off the perfect murder and, having gotten rid of the woman
who’d stolen their boyfriend or badmouthed them or cheated on them, wouldn’t try again. I would have to say that I was sufficiently frightened to suspend my efforts and let the police take over. I was sure Jack Wall would be thrilled to hear about my new attitude, but for now I didn’t want to talk about Vienna, her family or her friends, or, most especially, her death.

As for the novel garment, I couldn’t even bring myself to show it to a single customer. When Dolce asked me about it, I said it was okay for certain occasions, for certain customers.

The boat show, held in the huge pavilion, was full of well-dressed yacht people shopping for a three-hundred-eighty-dollar canoe or a multimillion-dollar luxury yacht or something in between. Some of which were docked outside at the pier just waiting to be experienced by eager prospective buyers. Me, I was just trying to get a new slant on life, a life without a murder case to solve.

I’d taken the warning by my mysterious visitor seriously, and I’d returned the yearbooks this week. Jack was right: it was none of my business. He had the resources, the time and the staff. He didn’t need my help. Or want it. And if he never solved this crime, I told myself I didn’t care as long as the killer didn’t strike again.

I walked past motor boats, yachts, sailboats and rowboats. The salesmen were dressed in white or blue, as if they’d just docked. “Care to take a ride on the Bay today?” one guy asked. “I’ve got a catamaran out there with your name on it. Easy to sail and easy on the wallet.”

“Maybe later,” I said. I had to admit it was tempting. The sun was shining, the breeze was cool and the idea of crossing the Bay on a small boat, leaving the land and my troubles
behind, was appealing. But I didn’t know how to sail or steer or anything.

“Never sailed before?” the guy asked. “No problem. Let me show you how.”

I smiled and kept walking. Now the canoe, that was more my speed, but out there on the waves? Maybe not.

“Take it to the Russian River,” the canoe salesman suggested. “Strap it on your car and off you go, only two hours away.”

I didn’t tell him I didn’t have a car and I couldn’t afford a canoe.

“Rita, good to see you. Where’s Dolce?” Patti French greeted me at the concessionaires’ stands, a glass of wine in one hand.

“She had plans for today,” I said.

“I’m glad you could make it. Sit down, I’ll get you a glass of wine. They’re having a demo with that chef Ida who shows you how to cook gourmet food on your yacht.”

“That’s handy,” I murmured, taking a seat at a small table as Patti went to get the wine. She came back with a tray loaded with samples that Ida the Galloping Gourmet had made.

“Saffron seafood soup, chili-lime prawns, scallop linguini,” Patti said, handing me a fork.

“Ida can make all this on board a boat?” I asked. Pretty impressive. I had a hard enough time putting together a small dinner in my apartment. Cooking in a tiny galley aboard a boat rocking from side to side? No way.

“She says she can. When you get your yacht, you can hire her and see if she’s right.”

After trying a prawn and a bite of linguini, I vowed I wouldn’t set sail without Ida.

“Lots of Dolce customers here today,” Patti said, turning her head and waving at someone in the crowd while I dug into the spicy seafood soup. “No big surprise there. If you have a boat of any kind or you hang with the yacht-club crowd, you shop at Dolce’s. By the way, I love your bag,” she said. “Gucci?”

I nodded, not mentioning that it was a knockoff.

“Oh look, there’s Lex and Bobbi. Poor guy. He’ll never get over losing Vienna. Don’t tell me he needs a new yacht. He competed in the San Francisco Yacht Race last spring and almost won. Maybe ‘almost’ wasn’t good enough and he needs a faster model. You know Bobbi, don’t you?”

“Actually I’ve never met her,” I said. “Though we’ve spoken on the phone, and I did see her at the funeral.”

“Who could miss her in that red dress she wore?” Patti said. “I never understood that. You didn’t sell it to her, did you?”

I shook my head.

“She’s headed this way. I’m going to duck out of sight. Sorry, Rita, but you know how it is.”

I wasn’t sure I did know how it was. All I knew was that Bobbi, dressed in white wide-leg pants, a striped T-shirt and a casual denim blazer, was headed toward me. Why me? I hardly knew her. I didn’t know her.

“You’re Rita,” she said, setting her wineglass on my table. “I’m Bobbi.”

“How are you?” I asked politely.

“Still looking for that moto jacket,” she said.

“I could order one for you and if it doesn’t work out, no problem,” I said. “Size ten?”

She nodded. “Why not? I deserve it after what I’ve been through.”

I knew I should ask what she’d been through, but I really didn’t want to hear about it. Was she referring to Vienna’s death?

“My husband is having trouble coping with, you know…”

I said I did know.

“I thought I’d buy him something here to take his mind off of…”

“I thought he had a boat,” I said.

“He does, but it’s not a family craft, if you know what I mean. It’s for racing and that’s all. I was thinking of something we could both enjoy. Just because I don’t like racing doesn’t mean I don’t like boats. I grew up on boats. My family belonged to the yacht club. That’s where I met Lex. Right after his divorce. He was a wreck. I cheered him up.”

“What about a catamaran?” I asked. Wasn’t that what one of those salesmen was trying to get me to take a ride in?

“Too slow,” she said. “Even for me. Do you have a minute? I’d like your opinion on a little motorboat.”

That’s what I did for a living: give my opinion on what was suitable for a customer. I thought maybe that was how Bobbi saw the purchase of a boat, something she’d look good in.

She glanced around. “I don’t want Lex to see me going out on a boat. This has to be a surprise.”

“Going out?” I said.

“Otherwise how do you know if it’s what you want? Don’t be afraid, I know my way around boats, at least small ones.”

I followed her out of the building to the pier, where it was obvious she was expected. I wasn’t sure why I went with her except it was a beautiful day and what else did I come to a boat show for if not to have a boat experience? I couldn’t
hide in my apartment just because some crazy had threatened me. I had to get back to the old Rita, the one who took chances. Who took cooking lessons, and who was the star student in her water safety class.

“Can you swim?” Bobbi asked me suddenly.

“Yes, can you?”

I didn’t hear her answer because the salesman was telling us that a small powerboat was just what we wanted. For the whole family to enjoy. “Water skiing, fishing, trolling.” I heard the words “fiberglass hull” and “three-year warranty.”

The salesman wanted to take us out, but Bobbi told him she had to get the feel of the motor, the waves, the current.

“I know what I’m talking about,” she told the salesman. “I’ve had boats before. But don’t tell my husband I’m going out on the water in this boat. It’s a surprise for his birthday.”

The salesman pressed his lips together and took a vow of silence. But he still didn’t want us to go out by ourselves.

“If anything happens, it’s my fault,” Bobbi said. “I’ll sign a waiver if it makes you feel any better.”

He said it would and went to get the waiver. But Bobbi didn’t want to wait. She looked at her Cartier watch with the wide band. “I don’t want him to come looking for me,” she said. I assumed she meant Lex. “Get in. We’re going for the ride of our lives.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. I stepped in the boat and sat at the far end. She grabbed the rope, untied it from the post and jumped aboard. I had to say she moved well and had me convinced she knew what she was doing. She even patiently explained the function of the drive lever, which included the clutch that engages the propeller, the throttle that controls the speed, and the reverse gear.

“Fascinating,” I said politely.

We’d gone about one hundred yards out into the Bay when I saw the salesman standing on the pier waving frantically to us. Bobbi waved back and laughed. The boat hit the waves head-on and bounced over them, sending salt-water spray all over me.

“Shouldn’t we be wearing life jackets?” I shouted over the noise of the engine.

“I think they’re under the seats,” she said. “We’ll get them out when we get to the island.”

I didn’t know which island she meant, Alcatraz or Angel Island or Treasure Island. She looked ecstatic; her face lit up as she sent us at top speed out into the Bay, leaving behind other pleasure boats. Her hair was streaming out behind her, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the throttle. Her eyes were huge, a big smile on her face.

“Having fun?” she shouted.

I nodded, although the wind was coming up and I felt a chill, especially since my shirt was wet. “Maybe we should head back,” I suggested.

She laughed so hard I thought she was going to fall over. “We just left,” she yelled. Then she stood and the boat swerved.

“Bobbi,” I shouted, “what are you doing?”

“I’m giving you what you wanted. An exciting ride.”

“It’s a little too exciting,” I said, inching my way toward her.