Shoe Done It (19 page)

She said she loved the dress I showed her and asked what kind of a discount we would give her if she bought it. I told her to ask Dolce. I knew how hard it was to be poor in the midst of wealth, but somehow Claire had found a way to dress like a millionaire on a teacher’s salary. On a whim I asked, “Were you at the Benefit, Claire? What did you wear?”

“I was there, and I wore a blue silk and jersey dress Dolce sold me last year. Long sleeved. Maybe you remember it? Timeless, she told me at the time. Of course, I would have loved something new, but you know how it is . . .” She shrugged. Yes, I knew how it was.

“Anyway it was a fabulous happening event,” Claire said. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. The clothes, the shoes, the gardens. It was the last time I saw MarySue,” she said, blinking rapidly as if she was going to cry. Had they been friends?

“How did she seem?” I asked, zipping her dress for her.

“Just the same. Full of life.” Claire shook her head. “I wish I’d known she was going to die. I would have said something to her.”

“Like what?” I asked. I really wondered.

“Well, I would have told her how much I admired her style. I was always envious of her. A big house, a successful husband and all the clothes and shoes she ever wanted.”

I wondered how many other women envied MarySue with no idea she was in financial trouble.

“Who else but MarySue had the confidence to wear a plain black dress with silver shoes? I don’t know how much they cost. Probably a fortune. You know what they say, if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford them. Anyway she looked great. If you have to die, you should look your best, don’t you think?”

“I do,” I said thinking of her funeral. “Definitely. I suppose she was there with Jim?”

“I guess so. I know he was there. Everyone was there, even Dolce.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Dolce? Are you sure?” So she was there. How many people had seen her? And how many people had she seen?

“Oh, yes it was her. But I only saw her for a minute. She was going toward the garden. I was surprised, you know?”

“You mean because she hardly ever goes to these things,” I said.

She nodded and went to look around the shop for another fashion show outfit.

Now I was really worried. First the newspaper photo and now Claire, who would have no reason to lie about seeing Dolce. What about Claire? Did she covet those silver shoes enough to kill MarySue to get them? She loved clothes, and she didn’t have the kind of money the other customers had.

By the end of the day we had ten customer-models lined up, each with two complete outfits to wear on our faux runway in our shop. Not every model would buy a complete outfit, not everyone would buy anything they wore, but it was worth a try, I told Dolce before she closed up that evening. And even if we didn’t sell to our models, we had the audience watching, admiring, clapping and hopefully buying. Each of our models would invite all their friends and relatives.

We were hanging up the outfits with the matching names taped to the dresses, pants and tops when Marsha came in.

“I got your message,” she said. “I hope I’m not too late. I’d love to be in your fashion show.”

“Great,” I said. Dolce told her to take her time and choose a couple of ensembles for the show. When she picked a pair of sleek black pants and a striped shirt to go with them, Dolce took one look and found her a pair of black spikeheeled sandals that looked stunning with her outfit.

“You’re short so you can wear these heels,” Dolce said. To add to the look, I gave her a pair of dark sunglasses and some silver jewelry.

“I love it,” Dolce told her. “No one else has the look you do.”

I agreed. With her pale blond hair and deliberate dark roots and dark nail polish, Marsha would stand out. It didn’t hurt that she was so short; in fact, she’d stand out because she was different.

For her next outfit we had her try on a short black skirt and a white silk tailored blouse with a suit jacket over it. The whole thing was so tailored yet so sexy with Marsha’s bare legs Dolce and I just stood there looking at her.

“You don’t think it’s too . . .” Marsha said, giving herself a critical look in the full-length mirror.

“It’s perfect,” I said.

“Terrific,” Dolce added. “Wait, I’ve got some black leather clogs.”

“Or I could wear a pair of silver sandals my brother made for me.”

Dolce and I exchanged a knowing look.

“Why not?” Dolce said.

“That sounds good,” I said trying not to jump up and down with excitement. Since it was her idea I didn’t even have to suggest it. But why would she want to wear them unless they were just copies and not the real thing? Were we barking up the wrong tree?

Before she left, she gave us a stack of her business cards. “In case anyone wants a special hairstyle for the fashion show,” she said. We promised to hand them out for her. After she left, neither Dolce nor I said anything for several minutes.

Finally, Dolce broke the silence. “You don’t think . . .” she said.

I shook my head. “It couldn’t be them.”

And that’s all we said. But I’m sure both our minds were spinning and wondering. Had her brother really made her a pair of silver shoes? Or . . . We were both exhausted but pleased with our work and determined to put anything negative out of our minds.

“Rita, you should be in the show too,” Dolce said before I left. “You’d make just as good a model as any of the customers.”

“But I don’t have a posse to bring in any sales the way the others do,” I said. Still, I couldn’t deny I longed to strut the faux runway in some dazzling outfit.

“I insist,” Dolce said. “You have a perfect model’s body, tall and just curvy enough to look good in anything you wear.”

I blushed at the compliment. “Well,” I said, “I would love to do it if you’re sure.”

All of a sudden Dolce got her second wind. She’d looked so tired a few minutes ago, I thought she was ready to call it a day. Now she was springing from rack to rack from room to room to find something perfect for me. Maybe it was just a coping mechanism. Or it was just Dolce being Dolce. Give her a challenge, like dressing me, and she was a real fireball. It was a treat to see her in action. Both of us realized how awful it was to imagine Harrington’s sister as a shoe thief or murderess.

Dolce’s actions put me in mind of the day of the Benefit. She had looked totally worn out when I left her to go to the Jensens’ to retrieve the shoes. And yet I had two ways of proving she’d gone to the Benefit. The photos and Claire’s account.

Sooner or later I was going to have to confront her. But how could I when she was being the proverbial fairy godmother, outfitting me as if I were Cinderella.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror studying myself in an Etro patterned V-neck dress. It was a figure-hugging cut in dark gray and beige with a pencil skirt that was so in this fall season. I did a three-sixty turn and gave myself a critical look. Did I really have a model’s body? I wanted to think so, but Dolce was known to always say the right thing to her customers. No matter what you bought or didn’t buy at Dolce’s, you left feeling good about yourself. Unless you were MarySue or Jim Jensen, of course. Their behavior had stretched Dolce’s goodwill to the breaking point.

“It’s noble, dressy and simply chic,” Dolce said with a proud smile. After all, she’d picked the dress way back in spring when she’d ordered her fall merchandise. “I’ve been waiting for the right person to come along for that dress. All you need is a pair of black booties or some peep toes.”

I chose the booties, and Dolce was determined to find me another outfit. “Every one of our models should have two turns on the runway, and that includes you,” she said. “Something different this time, don’t you think?”

What could I say? I went into the tiny dressing room and slipped out of the Etro. When she opened the door, she handed me four pieces in matching burnt orange. There was a sweater, a leather jacket, tight leather pants and leather boots that covered the knees. I have to say, I was dubious. There was a certain equestrienne look to the outfit that wasn’t really me. As if I were ready to compete at the Derby. But as usual Dolce knew best. When I came out, she gasped at the total effect of all that burnt orange.

“Too much?” I asked anxiously.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s rich and warm and sumptuous and so right for fall. Simply gorgeous. No need for jewelry or a scarf,” she added.

I changed back into my work clothes—a pair of white linen pants and a silver diamond-quilted jacket—which I thought were fine that morning but now seemed dull by comparison.

The question of whether Dolce was at the Benefit sat heavily on my mind. I walked to the front door, paused and turned around. I went back to Dolce’s office and knocked on the door.

“Rita, I thought you’d gone,” she said when she opened the door.

I took a deep breath. “Dolce, a funny thing happened today. Claire Timkin said she saw you at the Benefit.” I didn’t mention I’d also seen a photo of her at the Benefit. Why bring in the police if I didn’t have to?

“Really? I didn’t see her.”

“Then you were there.”

“Only briefly. I just had to try to get the shoes back.”

“But you didn’t,” I said, hoping she’d confirm it.

She shook her head. “I was either too late or too early. I made a quick tour around the garden, said hello to a customer or two, but I never saw MarySue. Dead or alive.”

I didn’t ask why she hadn’t mentioned this before. She had her reasons, and one of them probably was she didn’t want to be questioned by the police. But now Detective Wall had proof she was there, and he was going to ask her about it. I told myself it was none of my business. I was satisfied with Dolce’s explanation, and I hoped the police would be too.

I said good night and left.

I was too enervated to go home. And there were too many more questions I needed answers to. One was, who put the shoe box in my garbage? Another was, who took me to the hospital that night? MarySue? Jim Jensen? The gardeners? A stranger?

I decided to take the bus to San Francisco General Hospital and ask the after-hours staff in the Admissions Department. The same personnel who’d admitted me that fateful night as well as MarySue. Surely they didn’t just allow anyone to dump a body on the doorstep without getting an ID. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of tracking them down before. Maybe because I had other things on my mind. Like murder. Also, I wasn’t able to do much but keep my foot elevated. Now that I was mobile again, I could tie up some loose ends that were bothering me.

The big old brick hospital was a hotbed of activity, even on a weekday evening. Doctors rushing through the halls clutching patients’ charts. Friends and relatives pacing the floor as they waited for news of their loved ones. Children crying. Ambulance sirens in the distance. I could just imagine what it had been like on the Saturday night I was brought in. I was lucky I’d gotten seen at all, let alone by the amazing Dr. Jonathan Rhodes. I stopped at the information desk hoping I wouldn’t see Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou but hoping I might see Dr. Rhodes. When I got redirected to Admissions, a stiff and formal nurse clad in a stiff and formal white uniform checked her records.

“Here it is, under ‘Involuntary Admissions.’ ”

“That’s right. I was unconscious. What I want to know is who brought me here.”

“I can’t say,” she said glaring at me.

I thought of asking “Can’t or won’t?” but I didn’t. I’m not that kind of person. So I stood there staring at her, waiting to hear something. Anything.

“It says here ‘depressed and suicidal,’ ” she said finally.

“What? Who said that? About me?” I asked incredulously. Surely it wasn’t Dr. Rhodes.

“The party who brought you in said you jumped from a second-floor window. I’m surprised you were treated at all. We don’t take psychiatric patients without a referral.” She picked up a file folder and starting looking through it as if she was done with me. If she thought that she had another think coming.

“I’m not crazy,” I insisted. “And I assure you I didn’t jump. I fell off a ladder. It was an accident.” I leaned forward trying to read from my chart that was on her desk. Without looking up she moved it toward her and away from me and then shot a hostile look at me.

“We can’t be too careful,” she said. “Just the other night one of our nurses was assaulted in the psych ward.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear she was the one assaulted. I was tired of trying to explain I was not mentally ill. “All I want to know is who brought me here so I can thank them. If it weren’t for this good Samaritan I’d still be lying under an oak tree in Pacific Heights.”

The Admissions clerk looked like she wished I was still there.

When I realized she wasn’t going to tell me anything, I asked her where the cafeteria was. She directed me to the stairway down the hall. I wasn’t quite ready to give up yet, but I knew I needed some fortification to keep up my strength. Surely the cafeteria would have the kind of hearty food to keep the night nurses and emergency staff going.

I went through the cafeteria line and chose the personalsize vegetarian pizza—even though I had to wait ten minutes, it was worth it. I ordered a Caesar salad too and watched the man behind the counter toss it with grated Parmesan cheese. Whatever the Admissions Department lacked, the hospital made up for in this cafeteria.

I’d just set my tray on a table in the bustling cafeteria when I saw my doctor across the room. He looked just as gorgeous in his white lab coat and his surfer blond hair as the last time I’d seen him. My heart pounded with excitement. What should I do?

I stifled the urge to shout his name. I didn’t even know if I should wave. What would he think? That I was some kind of stalker who’d come here to spy on him? What would Aunt Grace think if she knew? But I had a good excuse. In fact, I’d hardly thought of the possibility of running into him when I decided to come here this evening. But now that I had, I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by.

I waved discreetly and when he saw me, he smiled broadly and walked toward me. Even if I didn’t get any information from this hospital visit, that smile made it all worthwhile.