Shoe Done It (21 page)

“He’ll be here, won’t he?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “You know Harrington.”

I wondered if I did know Harrington. I knew he’d do anything for his sister. But would he steal for her? Kill for her? Whatever he did, I was sure she didn’t know about it. How could she if she’d brought the shoes to wear tonight.

When I came out of her office, Dolce gasped in surprise at my straight, flattened hair. Everyone said it matched my funky outfit perfectly. Marsha did some of the others as well and by seven o’clock, all of us—Patti, Claire, Patricia, Dolce, two other customers, Lisa and Allison, and I—were ready to go.

Dolce greeted everyone at the front door. The rest of us were in the accessory alcove peeking around the corner. I was afraid enough people wouldn’t come, but the place filled up. I saw Peter Butinksi looking ridiculous as usual in his plastic shoes and his thinning hair dyed a startling shade of brown. I saw Patti’s husband and Harrington, and at least twenty or thirty others, men and women alike. I had a warm feeling of satisfaction all over about my idea of the fashion show. It was working. It was really working. Now if only some of these voyeurs would turn into buyers.

Dolce gave a great talk about transitioning your summer wardrobe into fall. She suggested scarves and held up a few from a local designer. She wrapped a lightweight cashmere scarf with ruffled edges around her neck and knotted it over one shoulder. “Why not try a scarf like this over a tank top with a pair of designer denims?” she asked.

I could see women nodding their agreement.

“This time of year can be tricky,” she explained. “It’s fall but it feels like summer. Some days are warm, but the September fashion magazines”—she held up a recent
Vogue
—“tell us it’s fall. It’s no wonder we’re all in a kind of clothing confusion.”

There was a smattering of light laughter. Dolce was a natural at this. If anyone could encourage loads of sales, it was Dolce.

“The best way to transition from one season to the next is with accessories,” she said. “Fortunately our shop has everything you need, and if we don’t, we can get it for you. If there’s one thought I want you to take away with you today, it’s scarves and pashminas. Wear them outdoors and indoors. Over tanks and tees and a light jacket for cooler days. And now what you’ve been waiting for, our fall collection worn by our very own models.”

Dolce perched on a stool at the side of our makeshift stage and narrated like a pro. She introduced us and told what we were wearing. When it was my turn, I strutted the way I’d seen the real models do. I was glad I was wearing my high-tops even though my ankle felt almost normal. The shoes gave me confidence I wouldn’t trip or fall. Until I saw Detective Wall. Then I stumbled but caught myself before I fell. I don’t know why I was so surprised. I’d told him to come tonight. In the excitement of being a model, I’d forgotten about him.

He was standing at the back of the room in a shawlcollared Henley and straight-fit cords. No uniform for him, of course. He could have been anybody. Somebody’s brother, boyfriend or husband. But he wasn’t. He was looking right at me with narrowed eyes as if I was under suspicion. And just as I was about to make my turn the way Dolce told me, head held high and hips swiveling, the front door opened and Jim Jensen walked in, looking fit and completely healthy. Several people turned to see who it was, but most of the others didn’t even notice he was wearing a pair of J. Crew classic-fit wool pants and suede Macalister shoes. He looked normal tonight, his cheeks a ruddy color and no scowl on his face. Was he finished healing? Had he been given an okay from his doctor to resume activities? Or had he dragged himself out of bed to confront me once again? Or was he finished blaming me for his wife’s death?

I looked at Dolce, she looked at me. She must have been surprised to see him, but she never lost her poise. Did she know he was coming? I didn’t think so.

I went back to the accessory room to change into my V-neck dress with booties.

“Isn’t this fun?” Patti said to me as she zipped the skirt she was wearing. “MarySue would have loved it if she’d lived. She always wanted to be a model. She blamed Jim for standing in her way. He said there was only room for one professional in their family.”

“I’m glad he was able to come tonight,” I said. “After what he’s been through.” I wondered if Jim felt threatened by MarySue even though she wasn’t a model and she didn’t have a job as far as I knew.

“I knew he’d want to be here, so I told him he had to get an okay from his doctor first. I’d left a message for him about the show. I thought it would do him good to get out for a change and not stay home taking his medicine and doing his exercises. He’s had too much time to think. It was getting him down.”

“He’s looking good,” I said. “It must not have been a serious heart attack.”

“I believe it was more of a warning than a real attack,” she said. “So now he’s busy planning MarySue’s memorial celebration. You and Dolce have to come. We’re having the party at Portnoy’s Tavern across from the cemetery. You know the place. It’s been there forever. A real San Francisco icon and one of MarySue’s favorite spots. Death doesn’t have to be horrible, you know. She wouldn’t want us to go on grieving forever.”

Three weeks is hardly forever, I thought. But whatever. I knew death didn’t have to be horrible especially if you didn’t get along with the deceased.

“It will be a chance to remember MarySue’s life,” Patti said. “We’ll serve her favorite drinks, a little food, say nice things about her, play her favorite songs and talk about the good times. Well, I’d better get my shoes on. I’m next.” She peeked around the corner. “Don’t tell me that’s Detective Wall back there? Looking hot as usual. I didn’t know he was into fashion.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” I said. I was sure Detective Wall was here undercover and wanted to remain that way while he observed the guests. I had to agree he was hot looking. Not only that, he had money and good taste in clothes. If only he didn’t have a suspicious nature and an attitude problem.

I took a seat off to the side of our makeshift runway to watch the others model their clothes. I was so anxious about seeing Marsha in those shoes, I gripped the edge of my chair.

When she came out of Dolce’s office, she was wearing a tangerine strapless chiffon gown with an empire shirred bodice I’d never seen before. Where had that come from? Not our shop. I looked over at Dolce, whose eyes were fastened on the dress as if she’d never seen it before. But it was the shoes I couldn’t stop staring at. Oh my God, the shoes. I could have sworn . . . The shoes were the exact copy if not the exact shoes that MarySue had ordered, I’d carried across country and MarySue had worn to the Benefit. Were they the same shoes I’d seen at the restaurant?

Were they or weren’t they? I blinked rapidly and kept my eyes glued to her feet as Marsha walked slowly around the room, a coy smile on her face. Because she knew she looked great? Or because she knew her brother made the shoes, which looked fantastic with the orange dress? Or were those
the
shoes that had cost a fortune? How many people in that room knew the history of the shoes?

I tore my eyes from Marsha and studied the audience’s reaction. Peter Butinksi had leapt out of his chair and was standing, staring at her shoes. Detective Wall held a tiny camera in his hand, no doubt getting evidence, but of what? Dolce’s mouth was hanging wide open. Jim Jensen looked pale. A man in the back row gave an admiring whistle. Her husband? Her boyfriend? Or was it Harrington? Marsha did look sensational, her blond hair, the tangerine dress and the silver shoes. She might not have been the most stylish, in fact her dress was almost bridesmaidy, but she made the rest of us look pale and anemic by comparison.

Marsha had just finished her pivot and was headed back to our makeshift dressing room when Detective Wall walked up and stood in front of the room.

“San Francisco PD,” he said, holding his badge up. “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a pair of shoes I need as stolen evidence in an unsolved murder case.”

The tension in the great room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Some people gasped, others murmured something like, “Oh, no.”

The fashion show stopped dead. Detective Wall followed Marsha, who never broke her stride. What poise, I thought. I wished I could see her face. Would she be resigned? Would she be nervous? Did she know she was wearing stolen shoes?

The next thing I heard was Harrington shouting at Jack Wall. “Just a damn minute,” he yelled as he followed his sister and the detective out of the room. “Those are my shoes. I made those shoes. You can’t take those shoes. They’re hers.”

Thank heavens for Dolce. She calmed the crowd. She explained that this act was all part of the fashion show. That the clothes and the shoes we were wearing were all worthy of being stolen but of course they weren’t. They were all available through Dolce’s exclusive women’s wear. Did anyone believe her? I couldn’t tell. The important thing was they all sat down and acted like they did. And the show went on. Without Jim Jensen. The next time I looked around the room, he was gone. Why? A recurrence of his “warning”? Would he make it home or had he collapsed on the front steps? I looked out the window but he wasn’t there.

I was shaking, and I was sure the other models were too, but we couldn’t let Dolce down. I had to make three appearances in three complete outfits. But not Marsha. She had disappeared. Was she thinking that she couldn’t outdo her first entrance? Jack was gone too. Had he taken her away to be questioned? And what about her brother?

I glanced at Dolce. She shrugged. I wanted to go back to her office where I suspected some kind of scene was playing out between Jack, Marsha and Harrington. But we all stuck to our parts in the charade. We owed it to Dolce and the other guests.

After the show was over, the audience clapped enthusiastically. Then we models changed into our street clothes, which, by the way, were not too shabby, and served wine and tiny little cheese puffs from the caterer down the street. Of course the guests must have been curious. Surely they didn’t all swallow Dolce’s story that the scene was a setup. But no one said anything.

I caught Dolce coming out of her office with a glass of wine in her hand.

“They’re gone,” she muttered.

“But where?” I asked with a glance over my shoulder to be sure we were alone. There were only a few people left in the great room. Everyone else had had a drink, a bite to eat and left. My fellow models had gone home with their families.

“How should I know?” Dolce said.

“What about the shoes?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m talking about. The shoes. The shoes are gone. So is Jim. Along with Marsha, her brother and the police.”

“You don’t think Detective Wall arrested any of them, do you?” I asked.

“You tell me,” she said. “Were they the same shoes?”

“I . . . I can’t be sure.”

“But you saw them. You picked them up in Florida. You brought them here. You saw MarySue before she went to the Benefit. They must have looked different from the copies. They had to look one-of-a-kind expensive.” Dolce was staring at me, her face inches from mine.

“But you were at the Benefit. You saw the shoes too,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

She avoided my gaze. She looked at my necklace and studied the collar of my dress. Wasn’t that a dead giveaway of someone lying? Now I was getting worried. My beloved boss was acting so strange I wondered if I really knew her at all.

“I think I told you I never saw MarySue, by the time I got to the Benefit, it was late and she wasn’t anywhere to be found. I blame myself. If I’d gone earlier, if I’d found her first, taken the shoes back, she might still be alive.”

“You mean by the time you arrived she was already . . .”

“Dead? I don’t know. I have no idea what time she was murdered and I don’t want to know. I keep imagining her in the Adirondack chair with her legs stretched out, barefoot.”

“So you’ve never . . .” I said.

“Never saw the shoes. No. Never saw her. I only know about where she was found from listening to the news. I never saw the so-called copies of the shoes either. All I’ve seen is the picture of them in the magazine. You, Rita, you’re the only one who’s been involved in both pairs of shoes—the real ones and the copies. So which was Marsha wearing tonight?” She grasped my wrist and held me tight. So tight I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic. She was desperate for answers. I was just desperate. After a whole evening of being charming, Dolce was finally cracking. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lower lip trembling, her grip tightened. My fingers were numb.

“I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I could. “This is the second time I’ve seen Marsha in those shoes. The first time I was sure those were the ones. But now . . .” I shook my head and jerked my arm away from Dolce. I was a fashionista. I studied clothes, jewelry, shoes and accessories for fun and for my livelihood. I was proud of my knowledge of the latest trends. But when it counted, when someone’s life was at stake, it seemed I couldn’t tell the difference between fake shoes and real ones. My self-confidence was crumbling. I had to get out of there and put some space between me and my boss and those damn shoes.

“What’s wrong, Rita?” Dolce said, picking up on my fastfading composure. “Is it your ankle?”

“It does feel a little weak,” I said, rubbing my anklebone. Not to mention my wrist. “I’d better go home and ice it. It was a wonderful show. The interruption just made it more exciting. I venture to say everyone who was here tonight will be talking about it for some time to come.”

“Talk is cheap, Rita. Let’s hope they do more than talk.” She took a deep breath and made a visible effort to bring herself under control. When she finally spoke her voice shook only slightly. “You know,” she said, “that’s what I love about you. You always put a positive spin on everything.”

She didn’t say, “Even murder,” but that’s what she was thinking. As for the detective, what was he thinking, I wondered as I rode home in the cab Dolce called for me. In the past she’d always paid the driver before I left, but not tonight. Tonight I had to pay myself. Was she really hurting for money? Or just hurting? I’d never seen her lose her cool like that.