Shoe Done It (15 page)

“Her social life is none of my business,” I said stiffly.

“Uh huh.”

I didn’t like his tone.

“Why do you think she was there?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” he asked. “You didn’t know she was there, did you? I believe you assured me she doesn’t do benefits. Yet here we have evidence she made an exception to her rule. Can you tell me why?”

“No,” I snapped. What could I say? I couldn’t believe she was there. Why would Dolce have gone to the Benefit without telling me? If she was there, why hadn’t the detective found out sooner from another guest? And of course the big question, why had she gone? She always said by the time she’d dressed everyone else she had barely enough energy to climb the stairs to her apartment and crash. Not to mention the fact that the tickets were prohibitively expensive. I’d seen her the night of the Benefit before I left for the Jensen house. She looked exhausted. The only reason I could think of for her to leave the house was to retrieve the shoes.

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s someone who looks like her,” I suggested hopefully.

“I think it is her. I think your employer attended this function for the sole reason of stealing back the shoes.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing,” I insisted. I was so wrought up by this accusation I felt my face mask crack. Now I’d have to start my facial all over again when the detective left. “Since MarySue hadn’t paid for them in full, technically they still belonged to Dolce. So if that is Dolce, either she was just an innocent last-minute guest of one of our customers, or she’d gone there to get the shoes back. Either way, what she did was no crime.” Surely I didn’t have to tell an officer what was a crime and what wasn’t.

“Murder is a crime,” he said sternly.

“Dolce is not a murderer,” I said firmly.

“You’ll be glad to know she says the same about you.”

“You asked her if I’d killed MarySue?” I felt a chill go up my spine. I was incredulous that I was still a suspect. After all we’d been through, the detective and I.

“You were at the Jensen house. You wanted the shoes. It’s not rocket science to assume that the shoes and the murder are connected.”

“But I told you I was unconscious. You can ask my doctor.”

“We have.”

“What? You’ve questioned Dr. Rhodes?” Oh, fine, now he’d think he had a date with a homicidal maniac. My face was feeling hot. I began to worry. How much longer was this going on?

“He was extremely cooperative. He verified your story at least between certain hours.”

“Then I’m no longer a suspect?”

“I would describe you as a person of interest.”

“Which is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“I’m here to encourage you to be more forthcoming. If you have information, I expect you to come forward with it.”

“I do. I did. I told you about Jim Jensen threatening me, didn’t I?”

“Have you seen him lately?” he asked.

“Not since the funeral. Have you?”

“Yes, I have. He’s cooperating with our investigation, and he’s recuperating at home. Still planning to have his big celebration for his wife.”

“Really? I don’t suppose I’m invited,” I said. Invited or not, I was determined to go. How else could I continue to investigate this murder? I needed to see who else showed up, what they said, how they looked, how they acted and of course, what they wore. I couldn’t tell Jack that. He thought I was a self-centered female who spent Sunday afternoons wearing a mud mask. But I would show him.

“Knowing you, I’m assuming you’ll go anyway,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want him to tell me not to. I was afraid that Jim would try to keep the time and date a secret, at least from me. But I was sure Dolce and I would find out and yes, we’d be there. She was just as determined as I was to get to the bottom of this crime. We needed to clear our names and the only way to do that was to catch the real killer. I’d bet anything, even my Manolo black alligator boots he or she would be there at the so-called celebration.

“Are you sure you haven’t spoken to him since your encounter at your store?” Jack asked.

“Of course I’m sure. What did you think? That I’d harass him at his own home?” The look on Wall’s face told me that’s exactly what he thought. He thought I had no sympathy for Jim Jensen and he was partly right. “Meetings with Jim Jensen are hard to forget. Just ask his wife. No, you can’t do that, can you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, indicating the interview was over, at least I hoped so. My face felt like it was covered with cement. He thanked me for my time. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday. When you are obviously in the midst of some sort of process.”

“It’s a facial mask,” I explained tightly, even though I didn’t owe him an explanation.

“I have a theory about people who wear masks,” he said. “They usually have something to hide.”

Despite my sore ankle, I stood and faced him. “I have a theory about people who work on Sundays. They should get a life.”

A slight smile crossed his lips. Then he let himself out. After I watched his car disappear down the street, I breathed a sigh of relief. I rushed to the bathroom and peeled the old mask off using a stiff brush and started my facial all over again, taking care not to mess my hair. Gel cleanser, scrub, the whole bit until I’d washed away acres of dry skin and wrinkles. But I couldn’t wash away the picture of Dolce with MarySue at the Benefit.

Dr. Rhodes, I mean Jonathan, came to pick me up at seven in a black Porsche 911 Carrera. “You look much better,” he said after he’d taken in my filmy skirt, my classic blazer and my clear, well-hydrated skin and the tendrils framing my face. So it was all worth it. Just for that comment—
You look much better
. “How’s the ankle?”

I lifted my skirt to give him a good view of my foot, and he bent down, tapped my anklebone and smiled his approval. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing flat shoes. Some women are slaves to fashion when your health is what it’s all about.”

I smiled in total agreement, though I saw that Jonathan was dressed in an outfit that could easily have appeared in one of Dolce’s magazines, with Jonathan himself as the model. Instead of the white lab coat he was forced to wear on the job, he’d gone completely in the other direction with a black slim-cut shirt and a green and black striped tie. His narrow pants were also black, as were his loafers. On anyone else it might have been too much, but with his tanned skin and his surfer-dude sun-bleached hair, it was stunning. I couldn’t wait to tell Dolce every detail. I held my breath expecting him to ask why a detective had asked him about me. But he didn’t. Maybe being in the ER, he was accustomed to the police coming by to ask about his patients, soliciting his opinion on cause and time of death or injury and what weapon was used.

“Great place you’ve got here,” he said, looking out my back windows at the view of the Bay. “I’m trying to decide where to locate. Telegraph Hill, the Marina, Pacific Heights, or something out at the beach where I can catch a wave on my days off. Right now I’m bunking with a buddy from med school in a flat near the ballpark. In fact, I almost caught a foul ball from our roof yesterday. Do you like baseball?”

Baseball? He wanted to discuss baseball instead of my criminal activities? That was fine with me. So I said yes. I didn’t want to come across as being negative. For all I knew, he had season tickets to the San Francisco Giants and might be looking for someone to fill the seat next to him. Even though baseball was not part of my heritage, I was always open to new experiences. And tasty new food choices. I’d read in the newspaper the ballpark now offered Caribbean cha-cha bowls and tropical drinks as well as crab cocktails and grilled crab sandwiches. All that along with the traditional popcorn and hot dogs. I was willing to sit through a lot of baseball if it meant sitting next to Jonathan fortified with a cha-cha bowl or two. My mouth watered. I’d been so busy I hadn’t eaten lunch and now I was weak with hunger. All the better to appreciate some French food.

“We didn’t have a baseball team back in Columbus.” At least I hoped we didn’t or I’d look like an idiot.

“What about the Columbus Clippers?” he asked.

“The Clippers,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What a season they’ve had, right?” I figured whether it was a good season or a bad one, it had to have been one or the other.

“Sometimes minor league ball can be just as exciting as the big show,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said as we walked out of the house. How did a doctor have time to surf, follow baseball and shop for the latest in men’s fashions? I had to remember to read the sports section of the newspaper before my next date with Jonathan if there was one. With Nick I didn’t have to bother. His sport was gymnastics and I wasn’t expected to know anything about it. As for Detective Wall, all he wanted me to talk about was murder. No sports, just homicide.

I commented on Jonathan’s car, and he said he’d always wanted a Carrera. “The Turbo is a little wider and a little lower, but I went with the nine-eleven.”

“Good choice,” I murmured as the engine purred. Another good choice was Café Henri. I’d looked it up and read a review that said it was “an unpretentious neighborhood meeting place.” What it didn’t say was how terribly charming and French the restaurant was with its cozy banquettes for seating inside and its outdoor heated patio.

On a blackboard the specials were listed along with the standard onion soup gratinée, coq au vin in red wine sauce, croque monsieur and salade niçoise. A small sign advertised the Daniel Ortega Trio.

I wondered if Jonathan would take it upon himself to order for me as had Detective Wall. Was this the San Francisco way? Was I supposed to take the initiative and tell my date what I wanted? Or wait to be asked? Or just let them order for both of us?

What happened was our waiter suggested we order a leg of lamb with a robust Cote du Rhone wine. “It’s been cooked for seven hours,” he said. “Tender, succulent and delicious. And it comes with potatoes dauphinoise.”

I should have eaten something before I came because I was now light-headed with hunger and anticipation. I slipped off my blazer, and when Jonathan asked me how I’d spent the day, I could hardly say I’d given myself two facials and had been interrogated once again by a detective because I was suspected of murder or at least of aiding and abetting a murderer. No matter what I’d done how could it compare with healing the sick and saving lives? I was sure he’d removed an appendix or two, delivered a baby and maybe even more—like admitting a vagrant with the DT’s, discharging a malingerer, anesthetizing a pre-op, stitching up a knife wound . . . all while I was having a mud bath. Instead I said I’d spent some time in my garden hoping it sounded like I was the thoughtful, contemplative type who spends her Sundays in the fresh air gazing out through the trees toward the waters of the Bay and thinking deep thoughts about land preservation, the urban landscape and fighting toxic substances.

It was almost a relief when Jonathan brought up the subject of MarySue’s demise. Otherwise the murder would have hung over our date like a dark cloud. “I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Jonathan said when the waiter brought our dinner salads. “But the police came to the hospital to ask about you.” He leaned forward in case I wanted to confide in him that I was the high-society murderer. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Some people find homicide exciting and sexy. But that wasn’t why he invited me here, was it?

“Really?” I said, feigning surprise. “Maybe it’s because that was one of our customers at the boutique where I work who was murdered the same night I was brought in to the hospital.”

“But what does that have to do with you?” he asked after he speared a stalk of white asparagus with his fork. “It was Saturday night. The place is full of victims. Gunshot wounds, hit-and-run, smoke inhalation from house fires, gang warfare. You name it, we’ve got it. Don’t tell me the cops are blaming you for an unrelated homicide.”

“Oh, no,” I said lightly as if I wasn’t worried about it. Nothing like being accused of murder to spoil a date with a doctor. “They’re just asking everyone who was on the scene that night if they know anything.”

“In any case, I assured them whatever it is they’re investigating couldn’t have anything to do with you,” he said. “Although . . .”

I stiffened. Now what?

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

But I was worried.

“According to our records, I didn’t see you until four in the morning,” he said.

“Yes but I arrived at the hospital way before that. At least that’s what the nurse said. She said I had to wait my turn in the hall because my injuries weren’t as serious as some of the others, like the gunshot wounds you mentioned.”

“Did you notice what time you actually did arrive?” he asked. “That would help.”

“I was unconscious,” I said. “So how could I? There must be a record on my chart.”

“There should be, but sometimes on a Saturday night things fall through the cracks. Probably just a clerical error,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. What possible reason would you have to kill someone?”

“Exactly,” I said. I was glad that he knew nothing about the shoes. Even gladder he never asked about my fall from the ladder that had led to my concussion and sprained ankle.

He gave me a reassuring smile. He had a great smile. Dazzling white teeth offset by a tanned face. The kind of smile that made you warm inside. The kind of smile you couldn’t help returning. I was able to forget MarySue and everyone connected to her demise once the food came. The lamb was every bit as tender and delicious as the waiter had said, and the creamy, cheesy potatoes were a perfect complement to it. The restaurant filled up, but the tables were placed in a way that everyone had a private dining experience. We continued to sip the wine and talk about how much we liked living in the City by the Bay—the cool climate, the stupendous views of the water, the hills and the stimulating people who lived here.

We ordered profiteroles for dessert and coffee. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, which was just as awesome as I’d expected. The Zen atmosphere of calm and quiet, the designer fixtures, the music, the warm towels, it was all there. There were even original French paintings on the wall. I was just about to leave the stall when someone else came in and I glanced over at the feet next to mine. I almost fainted. The woman was wearing the very same silver stilettos I’d last seen the day MarySue ripped them out of my hand. I froze. I told myself I was hallucinating. Or I’d had too much wine. My head was spinning. I tried to speak, but my mouth was too dry. For one crazy moment I thought MarySue had come back to life to haunt me. I bent down for a better look and everything went black for a moment.