Shoe Done It (10 page)

“What I’d like to do,” he said, “is concentrate on those who were at the Benefit who had a motive to either steal the shoes or kill MarySue or both.”

I agreed to concentrate, but I was getting tired of playing this game of who killed MarySue. It could have been Jim, it could have been Patti, her sister-in-law, or . . . “It could have been just about anybody but me, of course. MarySue wasn’t a lovable person,” I said. “I don’t even know how she died, how she was murdered, I mean.”

“Her champagne was drugged,” he said.

“Maybe it was an accident,” I suggested. “Maybe the perpetrator, if that’s what you call them, only meant to drug her but gave her an overdose. Would the charge still be murder?”

“Interesting thought—we’ll let the jury decide that,” he said.

I decided to stop making suggestions. The thought of a jury deliberating the case gave me the chills. What if the defendant on the stand was someone I knew? One of our customers? Someone I liked? If it was, I knew what she ought to wear. Something subdued, a suit that didn’t cry out money. Nothing too fashionable. Something from last year’s collection in a neutral color. Jewelry? Maybe a plain gold band on her finger. No diamonds. Unless it was just a pair of diamond studs in her ears. Hair? A tight chignon and no makeup unless it was just a light dusting of a pale powder.

Jack passed on the dessert and I did too, a little reluctantly, but he ordered café mochas, my favorite after-lunch drink, for both of us. I breathed a sigh of pure pleasure. If this guy weren’t a cop, he’d be the perfect date. He anticipated my every wish, and he kept up a lively conversation. Too bad it was about murder, but then I was getting used to thinking, talking and speculating about MarySue’s murder wherever I went.

The lunch was winding down, I hadn’t given away any secrets that I knew about, and in a few minutes we’d be drinking espresso coffee laced with chocolate syrup, steamed milk and whipped cream. But when I glanced up, I was shocked to see Patti French at a table across the room.

“Oh my God,” I said under my breath. “It’s Patti, MarySue’s sister-in-law. Having lunch with some man. I don’t think that’s her husband, although . . .” I knew I’d vowed to stop speculating, but I couldn’t help it. “What if she’s having an affair? What if MarySue threatened to tell her brother about it, and Patti killed her and dumped her shoes in the duck pond? Or what if she’s having an affair with Jim, and they killed MarySue so they could be together? She sees me. She’s getting up and coming over here. Do you know her? Who shall I say you are?”

“I haven’t met her yet. But I think it would be helpful if I did. Introduce me as Jack Wall.”

“Good to see you, Patti,” I said when she stopped at our table. My gaze rapidly took in her Louis Vuitton blazer over a silk halter wrap dress, both of which were top-of-the-line and I knew had come from Dolce’s.

“Rita, what are you doing here?” she asked, plainly surprised to see me out of the shop with what appeared to be a date. “I heard you hurt your ankle.”

“That’s right, but I’m feeling better. Patti, this is Jack Wall. Jack, Patti French.”

Patti positively beamed at Jack. Sooner or later she was going to find out he was not my date. He was the detective on the MarySue case, and then what would she say? “Rita, you should have told me”? But how could I? And why should I? If she had something to hide, it was time to bring it out into the open.

We exchanged a few more remarks before she said it was good to see me.

Then I said, “Love your shoes,” and she blushed. Why? Because they cost an arm and a leg? Because she didn’t get them at Dolce’s? Then she said, “Good-bye,” and turned and headed for the door before I could ask where she got them. I watched her go, my eyes fastened on her feet as she walked away in her silver Jimmy Choo sandals and a pair of striped stockings I’d never seen before. Silver shoes seemed to be the hot item this season. But then Patti and MarySue had always been rivals. Anything one had, the other had to outdo her. Was that what this was about?

Jack Wall was studying me over his coffee with narrowed eyes. “Well?” he said. “You’ve made quite a case against Ms. French.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I was just speculating. I could be wrong,” I said. “I probably am. I just got carried away for a moment. Patti buys a lot from Dolce, like the whole outfit she was wearing just now, but not the shoes. I don’t get it. We could have ordered them for her. Where did she get them?”

“Aren’t there any other high-end shoe stores in town?”

“Of course, but none are as good as Dolce’s. Take the infamous missing silver stilettos for example. Who else would send their assistant to Florida to pick them up for a customer but Dolce? And that’s exactly what she did. You don’t get service like that at Macy’s.”

“I’m not talking about a department store,” Jack said. “I’m talking about other boutiques.”

“Like Janice Powers’s Glass Slipper?” Her shop was only a few blocks away from Dolce’s, but it didn’t have the same cache. “I suppose . . . But why go there when you’ve got Dolce?” That’s what I had to find out. If I had to hobble over there to see what Janice had that Dolce didn’t. I owed it to my boss.

A few minutes later we finished our coffee, my new friend Jack paid the bill with his credit card, and we went out to his car. He thanked me for my time, and I thanked him for the lunch. Did he get what he wanted? Did he learn anything he didn’t know before? Did he take my harangue about Patti seriously? He didn’t say. As for me I got a delicious lunch and a look at Patti’s shoes. What now? I couldn’t go back to Dolce’s right away so I asked Jack to let me off at Janice’s shoe shop.

“How will you get back?” he asked with a glance at my foot.

“I have my crutches,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to walk. In fact, my doctor wants me to get some exercise.” I wasn’t sure my doctor wanted me to hobble two blocks on my crutches, but I’d do anything to get a look at the shoes at the Glass Slipper. Dolce couldn’t go there, that would be awkward, but Janice didn’t know me, so I could stop by for a look at her inventory without setting off any alarm bells. If Dolce’s customers were shoe shopping elsewhere, I had to find out why.

I didn’t even have to go inside the store to see several Dolce regulars sitting in large comfy chairs sipping coffee and trying on shoes. In fact, I definitely did not want to go in and have them see me. Instead, I did a quick survey of the shoes in the window, then I headed back to Dolce’s, keeping in mind the instructions that came with my crutches.

“Head held high,” I told myself. “Shoulders back. Stomach and buttocks in.” As I walked ever so slowly to the shop, I muttered, “Left crutch, right foot. Right crutch, left foot. Repeat.” By the time I got up the steps at Dolce’s, about half a lifetime later, my whole body was screaming in pain. I could barely manage a feeble smile for the few customers in the great room as I stumbled into Dolce’s office and fell into her swivel chair.

I took a pain pill and laid my head on Dolce’s desk and fell asleep. I dreamed that Patti French told me to butt out of the investigation of MarySue’s death. When I refused, she threw a glass of champagne in my face. I woke up with a start completely confused. I had no idea what time it was or where I was until Dolce slowly opened the door and looked in on me with an anxious expression.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I must have fallen asleep.” I shook my head to erase the vision of Patti’s angry face. Then I raised my head and looked at my stainless steel wide-band watch. “I can’t believe it’s five o’clock. What happened?”

“You fell asleep. I disconnected the phone. I was sick of hearing it ring anyway.”

“Thanks,” I said. Where else would your boss turn off the phone in the middle of a busy afternoon so it wouldn’t wake you up? I was so lucky to work here. It was more than a job. It was a way of life. It was a glimpse into a world I didn’t really belong in. A world where a woman could be murdered for a pair of shoes she hadn’t even paid for.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a package wrapped in brown paper.

“Your Romanian friend brought it for you. It’s called
zama
, a native soup made of green beans, which is supposed to make you feel better. He said not to disturb you. How was your lunch?”

“Wonderful. We went to a great restaurant at Pier 39. Great food and a beautiful view.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Dolce said, leaning against her office door. “Last week you were complaining that you never met any men. That you had nothing to do on Saturday nights but watch old vampire movies by yourself. Then I sent you to Florida. You met this Romanian on the plane who has now cooked up some soup for you. When you got back, MarySue stole a pair of shoes from us. You were injured trying to retrieve them. You mysteriously ended up at the hospital where you met a doctor. MarySue was murdered. You met a detective. And now all three men are feeding you either their grandmother’s
zama
or lunch overlooking the Bay or dinner at a posh bistro. Have I missed anything?”

I shook my head. It did sound pretty impressive and in some ways improbable. “I know it sounds like I’m some kind of socialite myself, but I’m not. I’m the new girl in town, that’s all. You’re right, something happened. MarySue got killed and I got popular. Why? I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that for now I’m having a great time and I owe it all to you, Dolce. If you hadn’t sent me to pick up the shoes . . .”

“You don’t owe me, you owe MarySue,” Dolce said. “Don’t forget she’s the one who started this whole thing. Those were her shoes. That was her house. There’s her husband and her sister-in-law. Everything goes back to MarySue. She’s not here anymore, so you have to enjoy life while you can, because no one knows how long it lasts. You deserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you killed MarySue. Who else has benefited as much as you?”

“Good question,” I said, leaning one arm on the desk and cupping my chin in my palm so I wouldn’t end up facedown on the desk again. “If we knew the answer to who wanted MarySue dead, we could probably solve this murder without the help of the detective, his assistant or anybody. Who do you think did it?” I asked her.

“I’m not saying I know who did it, but isn’t it obvious that Jim was not happy with her? Or Patti?” Dolce said.

I nodded. “I do have some bad news for you.”

Dolce pulled up a folding chair and sat down, the better to receive bad news. There wasn’t a sound from the showrooms. I assumed she’d closed up. She looked tired and so subdued, I hated to tell her what I’d seen at Janice Powers’s shop.

“I stopped at the Glass Slipper on my way back from lunch.”

“But that’s two blocks from here. No wonder you had to take a nap.”

“I was a wreck,” I said. “My ankle was killing me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“You should never have come to work today.”

“But if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have had lunch at Pier 39 with the detective. I wouldn’t have seen Patti French at lunch.”

Dolce leaned forward. “How did she look?”

“She was wearing the wraparound dress and the blazer you sold her. A dynamite outfit.”

Dolce nodded and smiled proudly. I wished she’d seen her too. Those are the moments we live for. “But here’s the weird thing. She was wearing a pair of silver Jimmy Choo sandals with striped hose.”

Dolce frowned. “I didn’t sell her those.”

“I know. Which is why I stopped at the Glass Slipper, and guess what I saw?”

“The shoes?”

I shook my head. “No. I saw several of your best customers.”

“But . . . but why?” Dolce looked like she was going to cry. Her voice quavered and her eyes watered. I should never have told her, but she’s usually so strong, so tough. I realized I’d gone too far.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The world has gone crazy. Why buy your clothes here and your shoes somewhere else when we’ve got the best selection of designer footwear anywhere. And if we don’t have it, you know where to get it.”

Dolce stood up, but she didn’t look too steady on her feet.

“Of course it may be because word is out that one of your best customers was murdered and none of the Glass Slipper customers were. As soon as the case is solved, they’ll all be back,” I assured her with more assurance than I actually felt.

She didn’t look assured. “I can’t think about this now,” she said. “I’ve had enough for one day. And you’ve got to go home and get some rest. But first check your messages. Your kung fu instructor called about your class. He wants to move you to a lower level on Thursday nights. I told him you had an accident and were on crutches.”

“Thanks,” I said. On the plus side, falling off a ladder was one way of getting out of class for at least a week. I used Dolce’s pewter letter opener to open the sealed note from Nick that came with the soup. After I scanned it, I said, “Nick, the guy with the
zama
wants me to take his gymnastics class.”

“But will it teach you to defend yourself like kung fu does? I’m worried, Rita. There’s a murderer out there. First MarySue, who knows who’s next?”

I couldn’t believe my boss thought I was in danger. What did I have that someone would kill for? Of course I had a great shoe collection and a closet full of designer clothes, but nothing like any of our customers. I was happy with my wardrobe, but my clothes and shoes were last year’s models or returns or on sale.

“Dolce, we don’t even know if MarySue was killed for her shoes. I know she wasn’t wearing them when they found her body, but they may still be in the park. She may have been killed for an entirely different reason. A personal reason like envy or revenge, jealousy, lust, fear, insanity or . . .”

“Rita, calm down,” Dolce said, raising her hand. “Finding MarySue’s killer is not our job. At the moment I’m more worried about my car. I’m supposed to stop at the repair shop to see if by some miracle they’ve been able to fix it. I’m afraid they just want to sell me a new car, which I can’t afford.” She looked at her watch, then she slung her Prada brown leather satchel over her shoulder and asked if I’d be all right if she took off.