Shoe Done It (3 page)

“Publicity is nice, but money makes the world turn,” Dolce said.

I nodded. I’d heard my boss say that before.

“We had a deal,” Dolce continued. “You told me you’d have the rest of the money by today, so I ordered the shoes for you. You give me the money, I give you the shoes. Rita is on her way as we speak with the shoes in hand. You know I can sell those shoes ten times over, but I’m giving you first crack at them. But I have to have the money you owe me today. No checks. Cash or credit card.”

I gripped the handle of the shopping bag tightly. I pictured MarySue, a tall, statuesque blond who was one of Dolce’s best customers, facing off with my boss. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

“I can’t,” MarySue said. “Not today. Things happen, Dolce, can’t you understand? I thought I’d have the rest of the money today, but . . .” Her voice broke and there was a long silence. I wondered if MarySue was crying. I imagined her tears running down her face, smearing her mascara and leaving a streaky trail on her perfect skin.

“I’ll hold them for you until six o’clock tonight,” Dolce said. “I’ll stay open late if that helps. As soon as you get the money, they’re yours.”

“You don’t understand. I have to be there at six thirty with my shoes on. I’m the cochair. I can’t appear in anything else. I
have
to have those shoes now.” MarySue’s voice rose.

“MarySue, stop, you’re hurting me,” Dolce said loudly. “Let go.”

I froze. I leaned against the door wondering if I should burst in or call 911.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m not myself, Dolce. I’ve got a lot on my mind. If Jim finds out how much they cost, he’ll kill me.”

“There’s no way he’ll find out. My lips are sealed. Everything that goes on at Dolce’s stays here. You know that. I took over the shop because this place is a safe haven just like it was for my great-aunt. I want my customers to feel the same.”

“I know. They do. I love coming here. Everyone does. The atmosphere. Everything. I’ll have the rest of the money next week, I swear I will. I just wish you’d trust me.”

“Of course I trust you, but I’m running a business, MarySue. I want you to have the shoes, but I have expenses. The property taxes alone are out of sight.”

“Your taxes are not my problem, Dolce.”

“The shoes are your problem, MarySue.”

I heard the sound of a chair being scraped across the refinished hardwood floor, then a loud thump like something or someone had fallen on the floor. I pressed my ear against the door. All I heard was the whir of a ceiling fan. I reached for the antique doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn.

From inside I heard a cry. “Help!”

Two

I reached for my cell phone, but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t even dial 911. Face it, I was no good in a crisis.

Finally I heard MarySue’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it. Give me the shoes and I’ll forget we had this conversation.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.

“No,” Dolce said. She sounded tired.

“Yes,” MarySue shouted. “I’ll have the money for you on Monday.”

“Now,” Dolce said.

The door jerked open and MarySue stormed out. I jumped out of the way, fearing another collision. MarySue stopped and stared at me, her steely blue eyes riveted on mine. I swallowed hard over a lump in my throat. Her gaze swerved to the bag with the logo of the atelier in bold letters. Her eyes lit up as she realized what was in the bag. She grabbed it out of my hand. Then she brushed past me as if I were no more than a shadow and ran for the door like a filly out of the gate. Her heels clicked on the polished floorboards.

I ran after her, but with her long legs she was too fast. The front door slammed in my face. The sound bounced off the walls. I yanked at the doorknob and stood on the steps swiveling my head to the right and then the left. Frantic, I ran down the stairs. But there was no MarySue in sight. Nowhere. Not on the street, not in a car. She was gone and the shoes gone with her.

I trudged back up the steps, feeling hollow and desperate. I blinked back tears of frustration. Dolce stood in the hallway looking as stunned as if MarySue had hit her over the head with an antique andiron. Her face was as white as her cruise-wear collection. This on top of her accident last night.

“Don’t tell me the shoes were in that bag,” she said.

I nodded. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I broke down and sobbed. I couldn’t stop myself. I’d failed. “She’s gone. I lost her.” How could I have survived a collision at the airport only to lose the damn shoes right here in the shop?

Dolce shook her head. “She won’t get away with this. If I have to hunt her down.”

“No, I will.” I took a tissue from my pocket and blew my nose. “It’s my fault.”

Dolce’s eyes narrowed. “I should have gotten the full amount instead of a down payment. I’m ruined,” she said quietly.

Ruined? Was she being overdramatic? “They’re worth a lot, aren’t they?” I asked. Of course they were worth a lot. Why else would Dolce say she was ruined?

“Shoe-making is more than a craft, it’s an art. Take those shoes you picked up. They’re stilettos, but they’re like walking on a cloud; they cradle your feet and yet they’re the height of fashion, the ultimate luxury.”

“No wonder she—”

“She wanted them so badly that she stole them? Yes, no wonder,” Dolce said bitterly. “I’m just glad I got some of the money up front.” My boss looked like she’d aged ten years since I left two days ago. Her forehead was etched with deep lines, her shoulders sagged.

“This is my fault,” I said. “I let her take the bag out of my hand. I should have brought them in a plain grocery bag. Or come in later. Or earlier. I’ll get them back for you,” I promised. “Or the rest of the money.”

“How?”

“I . . . I’ll go to her house. I’ll demand she return them.” The more I thought about it the more I knew I had no choice. MarySue couldn’t grab those shoes and get away with it. She didn’t know who she’d just ripped off. It was me, Rita Jewel, she’d ripped off: a tough chick and protector of the working girl. “I’ll reason with her,” I assured Dolce. “I can’t believe she’d keep them if she knew we were going to call the authorities. We are, aren’t we? Think of the scene. The patrol car arrives at her house. Her neighbors come out to gawk, and she’s cuffed and hauled away in broad daylight. She misses the Benefit altogether. Everyone in town knows what happened. She’ll beg us not to tell anyone. And we won’t if she gives back the shoes. Because if she doesn’t, then we have no choice. We’ll call the cops. You said it yourself, she stole them. This is theft, pure and simple.” I might not have convinced Dolce, but I’d talked myself into it.

“I’m on my way,” I said. “Where does she live?”

“No.” Dolce grabbed my arm. She squeezed it so hard I gasped. “I need you here. Today of all days. Besides, there are other ways. There are professionals who do this kind of work. Repossession agents.”

She turned and walked toward her office. I followed her, intent on carrying out my plan. But she stopped me with a hand gesture that meant “stay where you are.” “Open the front door. We have a big day ahead of us. I need you to wait on customers. Act like nothing has happened. You can do that, can’t you?”

I nodded. Dolce went into her office, and I stood there wavering between obeying my boss and charging after the shoe thief. I wanted to go after MarySue more than anything. I wanted to wrest those shoes from her multiringed fingers and hold onto them until she coughed up the money. And I would just as soon as I could. Professional repo agents or not. They couldn’t possibly want to recapture the shoes as much as I did.

Standing in her office doorway, Dolce looked at me as if seeing me for the first time since I arrived. She tilted her head to one side. “You look fabulous. I knew that outfit would work for you, the crazy patterns and the wild colors. They’re so you.”

I didn’t feel wild or crazy in the least. I felt stupid and naïve for letting MarySue snatch the shoes. One good thing, my boss had at least partly recovered her poise.

“Take care of things, will you?” Dolce asked me while rubbing her arm. Was that a black-and-blue spot she had courtesy of MarySue? “And not a word about the shoes. I have a call to make.” Without waiting for an answer, Dolce closed the door to her office.

I was flattered Dolce trusted me with her best customers. If it weren’t for the shoes, she’d be out there full steam ahead. With all the events and parties coming up, sales were sure to be brisk today. Maybe brisk enough to make up for the shoes. Dolce was the world’s greatest saleswoman.

Patti French, MarySue’s cochair for the Garden Benefit, was the first customer in the store. She was waiting on the porch when I opened the door. If MarySue planned to wear those silver, one-of-a-kind shoes tonight, what would Patti, her blond, whippet-thin sister-in-law wear to outdo her? Maybe that’s why she was here, looking for a last-minute purchase so she could match her sister-in-law in money and taste.

“Hi, Rita,” Patti said with a glance at my colorful ensemble. “Great outfit. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Big day, right?”

“Right.” She smiled and craned her swanlike neck. “Is Dolce here?”

“She’s tied up right now. What can I do for you? We just got some new tights in. They’re the latest celebrity trend, which you’ve probably already seen in
Star
or
OK!
”

“I don’t think I have,” she confessed.

“You’ll love the sun-kissed, polished effect you get with them. Let me show you a pair in tan.”

“Wait, I don’t want to look too polished.” Patti seemed distracted as she glanced around the room, which was now slowly filling up with the usual crowd as well as some faces I hadn’t seen before. In a low voice she said, “I was wondering if MarySue was here. She won’t tell me what she’s wearing tonight. All I know is that it probably cost a fortune. Her spending is out of control. Jim is furious with her. He cut up her credit cards last week. And if that doesn’t work . . . Where did you say Dolce was?”

“I didn’t. I just said . . . Oh, there she is.”

Dolce seemed to be her old smiling, self-confident self in a new outfit—a pair of black trousers from British designer Maggie Hu, a deep maroon sweater that might be covering her bruises, and ropes of beads.

“Dolce dear,” Patti said, hugging her as if she hadn’t seen her for years, “you look divinely casual and understated as usual. I was just doing some last-minute shopping. I don’t want to show up for the benefit dressed like MarySue, or anyone else for that matter.”

“You won’t,” Dolce assured her smoothly, although just the name MarySue must have sent a tremor through her as it did me. I wanted to ask if the repo people were on their way. Until then I couldn’t relax. “Your sister-in-law’s taste is absolutely light years from yours.”

“Thank you,” Patti said. “But you never know. Except you do know. You know what she’s wearing and I don’t. Just a warning.” Patti paused and looked around to see if there was anyone in hearing distance. “MarySue is, well, let’s just say she needs help to curb her compulsive spending. I just hope no one we know will turn into an enabler and let her charge things she can’t afford.”

My eyes widened. I was flattered to be let in on the gossip, but now I was even more worried about recovering the shoes. To her credit, Dolce looked serene and unperturbed even though Patti had as good as accused her of encouraging MarySue’s shopping addiction.

“I don’t expect you to tell me what MarySue’s wearing tonight,” Patti said.

“That’s good, because I can’t. I’m sworn to secrecy,” Dolce said as she pressed her finger against her lips. “She wants to surprise you.”

Patti sighed and Dolce nodded at me. “Would you check on the customers in the great room?” she asked.

“Of course.” I left the room, sorry I couldn’t continue to watch Dolce in action. And wondering what she was going to say that she didn’t want me to hear. She was such a pro. The word on the street was that Dolce Loren could sell water to a drowning man. I wanted to be like that. Dolce was my role model, my idol and my inspiration. I had to get the shoes back or Dolce would be ruined. Plus she’d never trust me again.

Three

The rest of the day we were so busy I didn’t even have time to wonder “how” or “when.” I didn’t even have time for lunch. Several times I stopped in the hallway to ask Dolce, “Any word?” But she just shook her head and hurried away. What did it mean? Had she called the repo people or not? Were they doing their job, or had they even agreed to take the job? At five o’clock Dolce closed the front door and hung the “Closed” sign in the window.

When I tried to ask her what was happening, she told me not to worry about it. “I’ve put the matter in the hands of professionals, Rita,” she said. “If they can’t retrieve them, no one can. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you Monday.”

“But it will be too late,” I protested. “We have to get the shoes back before she wears them to the benefit.” I looked at my watch. We only had an hour.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” she said, brushing her hands together. “Either they get them or they don’t. Frankly, right now I have other things on my mind. Would you mind locking up on your way out?”

Of course I agreed, then I stood watching while she walked slowly up the stairs to her apartment. I couldn’t believe she’d just turn her back on the whole thing. That accident last night must have been more serious than she let on. Maybe it had affected her brain. Or sapped her of her will. I had enough will left for both of us, and some to spare. Maybe it was my expensive colorful outfit that made me feel so confident and determined to get revenge on MarySue. Had I been wearing muted colors, I might have let the repo agents take over. Who knows? Maybe it was just a strong inner resolve I’d just discovered that I had. Whatever it was, I was going to get those shoes if it was the last thing I ever did.

First, I stopped in the office, which Dolce had uncharacteristically left unlocked, and I flipped through her Rolodex to find MarySue’s address in Pacific Heights.

When my cab pulled up to MarySue’s, I saw the house on upper Broadway was an Italian Renaissance hilltop mansion. The views they had of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge must be spectacular. I got out of the cab and stood there on the sidewalk, breathless and awestruck. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Many of Dolce’s clients lived in houses like this, I supposed. But most of them paid their bills on time and didn’t order shoes they couldn’t afford. No time to stand and gawk and envy the rich and overdrawn big spenders who breathed the rarified air around here.