Shoe Done It (26 page)

“Who me?” I said. Maybe he’d mistaken me for someone else in the dark.

“Yes, you, Rita Jewel. You’re responsible for MarySue’s death.”

“I wasn’t even there that night. I was in the hospital.”

“I don’t care if you were in the morgue. You are an enabler. You knew MarySue had a compulsive shopping addiction.”

“No, no, I didn’t,” I protested. I wondered if Dolce knew.

“And you did nothing. Worse than nothing. You encouraged her to buy more stuff. Her closet was overflowing. Her credit card was maxed out until I cut it in half. I signed her up for a twelve-step program, but she wouldn’t go. She went shopping instead. Mumbled something about ‘retail therapy.’ ”

“I swear I didn’t know,” I said, backing up until I hit the wall.

“You went to Miami to buy those shoes for her, don’t deny it.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“You didn’t think. All you cared about was your commission on a pair of shoes. You might not have put the poison in the champagne, but you are responsible for my wife’s death just the same. You brought the shoes for her, and someone wanted the shoes so bad he killed her to get them.”

By then I was shaking, my arms were covered with goose bumps. I didn’t know what to say except something like
How do you know it was a he
? I was more convinced than ever that Jim had killed MarySue himself and he was looking for someone to take the blame. It wasn’t going to be me. I took a deep breath.

“Jim,” I said as calmly as I could, “I’m sorry for your loss. You’re obviously on step one in the seven stages of grief. It’s stressful and exhausting, but it’s natural. Everyone has to go through it. You aren’t alone and you’re not yourself.”

“How do you know I’m not myself?” he demanded.

“I, uh, I just know. I know you have to work through it. There’s no skipping over even one step. Believe me, I had no idea MarySue had a shopping problem. I mean, our store is full of shoppers who buy clothes and accessories day after day. MarySue wasn’t any different than they are.”

“She was sick,” he shouted. “She needed help. Don’t you see the difference?”

I shook my head and backed slowly down the hall away from Jim the way you’re supposed to when faced with a grizzly bear. I was afraid he’d have another heart attack. This time it wouldn’t be a warning, it would be for real and I’d be to blame. I thought he’d follow me, but he didn’t.

When Jack saw me reappear in the bar a few minutes later, he raised his eyebrows. He pointed to a small table, and I went there, sat down and put my head in my hands. My legs were shaking, and the room was spinning around. When I heard someone approach, I looked up thinking it had to be Jack and I could tell him what had happened. I knew I was in danger of repeating myself, but I was more sure than ever Jim had killed his wife. Seven stages of grief? That surely didn’t apply to the murderer, did it? I’d made that up. I’d just been trying to humor Jim, playing along with him, because if he knew that I’d discovered the truth, he’d kill me too.

But it wasn’t Jack who joined me at the table. It was Patti, MarySue’s sister-in-law. “I heard Jim yelling at you,” she said, putting her multiringed hand over mine. “He’s not supposed to get upset.”

“I don’t know what I said to upset him,” I said.

“It’s not your fault, it’s mine,” she said.

I frowned. “What is?”

“It’s my fault MarySue saw the picture of the shoes in
Vogue
. I showed them to her, then she had to have them for the Benefit. One way or another.” She shook her head slowly. “I should have known Jim would be livid. She was compulsive that way. It drove him crazy.”

“I can imagine,” I muttered. It made him so crazy he killed his wife. I wondered how sorry Patti was that her sister-in-law was out of her life. She didn’t mention her husband, MarySue’s brother. I hadn’t seen him today. Was he grieving at all, or not so much? “The silver shoes were in
Vogue
magazine?” I asked to be sure I heard right. If they were in
Vogue
, why hadn’t I seen them? Because Peter lifted Dolce’s copy from her office while I was on the phone. The next time I saw him, I was going to ask for it back.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Patti asked.

“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what was sad. MarySue’s murder? The shoes stolen? MarySue’s shopping addiction?

“I mean that anyone would buy a pair of shoes right out of
Slumdog Millionaire
,” Patti said. “But that’s what happened. If you believe the story in
Vogue
. You and I know where those shoes came from.”

We do? Yes, I knew they came from a small exclusive shop in Miami. What did that have to do with a movie about a TV quiz show in India where a kid from the slums wins a million dollars?

“The question is, where did they go?” I asked. “Were they stolen or . . . She didn’t . . . she wasn’t buried in them, was she?”

Patti’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I never thought of that. All that money buried in the ground. I’ve been assuming that Jim returned the shoes after she died, because he needed the money. He was furious with her for buying them. But he’s been so worked up over it there’s no telling what he might have done with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d thrown them in the Bay.”

“He didn’t return them to Dolce’s,” I said. I didn’t mention the fact that MarySue hadn’t paid in full for the shoes. I knew it was wrong to speak ill of the dead. For all I knew, Patti had taken the shoes herself and was putting up a good front of innocence. Did she kill her sister-in-law or was it Jim? I stared at her, wondering if she could possibly have done it. I just couldn’t picture it. Although she had a motive and the opportunity. I shifted my gaze to the crowd at the bar. A minute ago I was sure it was Jim who’d killed MarySue, now I was wavering. I had a feeling that the murderer was here today, but where? And who?

“Let me know if you hear anything,” Patti said, standing up. I had to admit she looked great if a tad inappropriate in her little black cocktail dress and huge black hat. Dressed as she was, she could have been on her way to tea at the Ritz-Carlton. Her long legs were covered with leather boots with zippers and buckles, what else? And she hadn’t spared the jewelry.

I agreed, but I wondered what she meant by “if you hear anything.”

I signaled to Dolce, and she came to my table with another drink in her hand. “This one’s an appletini, so it’s really good for you. You know what they say about an apple a day,” she said just before draining her glass. “Are you ready to go?”

I nodded. “I had no idea these affairs were so stressful. There’s just one thing. Could we stop by the cemetery on our way home?”

Dolce gave me a funny look. Then she shrugged. “Sure.”

“I just want to see where she’s buried.” I didn’t dare tell Dolce what I feared because it was so irrational. The rational part of me knew that MarySue could not have been bitten by a vampire that night at the Benefit because there was no such thing as a vampire. But the irrational part also knew enough about vampire legends to know that if vampires existed and even if they’d buried MarySue facedown, she’d find a way to get out of her grave. Not that I wanted to see her or that she’d want to see me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I saw her. Probably run the other way.

On our way out of the tavern, we had to stop and speak to some of our customers, so it was a good thing we’d put in an appearance for the sake of Dolce’s business. When we finally got to the parking lot, I offered to drive since I’d had less to drink than Dolce. I just got in to the driver’s seat when Jack came walking across the parking lot toward our car.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked when I rolled down my window.

“I don’t do well at social functions,” I confessed.

“You seemed disturbed. What happened?” he asked.

“Just the usual. Nothing new. Jim Jensen accused me of killing his wife. That’s all. What about you? Did you learn anything?”

“Maybe. So you’re off?”

Dolce leaned over toward the window. “We’re going to the cemetery.”

I nudged her. If she hadn’t had three drinks, she wouldn’t have blabbed.

“Really,” he said, giving me a curious look. “So you don’t do well at social functions, but you do better at cemeteries. I have to say I’m surprised.”

“Just to pay our respects without a big crowd around,” I explained. He didn’t look convinced. I wanted to see the spot where MarySue was buried. That’s all.

“So did you get a chance to talk to Peter?” I asked.

“The shoe guy? Yes. He’s an odd one. He seemed nervous.”

“That’s the effect you have on people. Or didn’t you tell him you were a cop?”

“I told him. He told me MarySue was a good customer with superior taste.”

“I think the word he was looking for was ‘expensive’ taste. I wonder if Jim knows how good a customer she was of Peter’s. If he does, he should be threatening Peter and not me. What did I do besides pick up the shoes in Miami?”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stood there looking thoughtful, then he said good-bye and we drove off.

The cemetery was deserted. I was having second thoughts before I even got to the gate and asked the guard where MarySue was buried. Dolce obviously thought I was insane to come here when it was so depressing. But to her credit she didn’t say a word. Maybe the effect of the final appletini. She just thanked me for driving, leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes.

I parked and left Dolce in the car. I just wanted to look at her grave. I wanted to know if she was wearing the silver shoes. But I would never know that.

The sod was still fresh on her grave, the stone was polished and engraved with her name and the dates of her birth and death. I stood there alone for a long moment staring at the ground. Nothing moved. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t.

“I’m sorry, MarySue,” I said quietly. “I never should have gone to your house that night. Thank you for taking me to the hospital if that was you. I appreciate it. If you hadn’t . . . On the other hand, you’re the one who shoved me off the ladder. But let’s let bygones be bygones. I just wish I knew who killed you. But I’ll find out, I promise I will.”

I sighed and went back to the car feeling more than a little foolish for talking to a dead person. How ridiculous was that?

Fifteen

The next day Dolce was, not surprisingly, hungover and down in the dumps, and I was more determined than ever to solve this mystery before Jack did. I didn’t know why. He was the cop, I was the sales assistant and fashion consultant. But I was sick and tired of being accused of killing MarySue, and the only way to stop it was to find the real killer myself. I borrowed Dolce’s car to go to every bookstore in town on my lunch hour. I was looking for the recent issue of
Vogue
, but they were sold out. “It’s not unusual,” one clerk told me. “We don’t order that many and it’s the giant fall issue, ‘biggest in twenty years,’” she said. Even though my lunch hour was over and I still hadn’t eaten anything, I went to the main library.

There it was at the far end of the periodical section between the
US Weekly
and the
Western Horse Review
. I snatched it up and sat down at a large table where I could spread it out. I flipped the pages madly past articles on “How to Make Menswear Look Chic,” “110 Best Beauty Buys” and “Must-Have Messenger Bags.” I knew I was late. I knew I was leaving Dolce in the lurch with her postparty headache, but I just couldn’t resist perusing the article on the new fall boots. I lusted after a pair of lace-up suede and leather high-tops, and I wondered if Dolce would want to put in an order. But where was the article I was looking for?

Frustrated, I went back to the table of contents, and there it was on page ninety-one: “Third World Shoe Scam! Don’t Get Taken In!” My heart was pounding, my fingers stuck to the pages. Eighty, eighty-five, ninety . . . ninety-two. What? Where was ninety-one? Gone, that’s where. It had been ripped out. I could see the jagged edges.

I sat there staring at the place where the article should have been. I was in shock. As close to collapse, coma or even sudden death as I’d ever been.

I had to have that article. If someone wanted it badly enough to rip it out, it must be important. I went outside and called Dolce. “I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Can you handle everything for another hour?” I hated to impose on her good nature, especially when she wasn’t feeling quite right, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to find that article, even if I had to drive all over California. There must be a copy somewhere.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s not very busy. In fact, the only person who’s been in is Peter, and he’s not a customer.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to speak to you, but I told him you were out looking for a magazine.”

“What? Oh, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Why? He wants to help you. He asked me which one you wanted because he keeps all his old copies.”

I sucked in a short breath. I didn’t want anyone to know I was looking for this article. Peter Butinksi was probably a harmless bore, but who knew how many people he’d be talking to during his travels from boutique to boutique.

I got back into Dolce’s car and headed across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin County. Whoever had bought up all the magazines in the city and tore out the article in the library probably hadn’t gotten to Marin yet, or had they?

I stepped on the gas, and instead of admiring one of the world’s most beautiful bridges or the sparkling blue waters of the Bay or the view of the skyscrapers on the city’s skyline in my rearview mirror, I stared straight ahead, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw hurt. I was determined not to return until I had that magazine in my hands.

The first town I came to I turned off and hit the chain bookstore in the large shopping center. I smiled at the security guard at the entrance, glad to see the books and magazines were well protected. You wouldn’t get away with ripping out a page here or walking out with a magazine you didn’t pay for.

There they were, racks of magazines. And there in the last rack was the very issue I was looking for. On the cover was a famous movie star wearing a leopard print bustier. I reached for the magazine. I had it in my grasp when someone grabbed it and pulled it out of my hand. I yanked it back. Then I looked up and almost lost my grip. It was Peter Butinski in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, ill-fitting pants and leather sandals. I was dying to tell Dolce.