Shoe Done It (20 page)

“Rita,” he said, putting his tray down on my table. “What are you doing here? Not another fall from a ladder, I hope.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Let me see your ankle.” He bent down, I stretched my leg out and he eyeballed my ankle. “Looks good. I’m glad to see you’re wearing sensible shoes. Two-tone brogues. Italian, aren’t they?”

“Testoni,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows to indicate his appreciation for my good taste. I was glad to find someone who noticed. Not that I wore them just to get attention. They were not only super stylish, they even felt comfy.

“I came to see if I could find out who brought me to the hospital that Saturday night. Since I was unconscious when I arrived, I don’t know how I got here. I owe someone a huge thank-you.”

He sat down, and I saw he had a huge plate of beef stew with mashed potatoes and a large helping of mixed vegetables. Being an ER doctor must require a lot of fuel to get through the night. He glanced at my pizza, and I offered him a piece. He took me up on it and then asked, “Any luck in finding the mysterious stranger?”

I shook my head. “The Admissions lady insisted I was a psychiatric patient and said she couldn’t give out any information on who’d brought me in.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jonathan said in between bites of my pizza. “There’s nothing wrong with your mind. Her bark is worse than her bite. But the rules are there to protect the innocent. It’s called the Good Samaritan Law. There’s no requirement that someone who steps in to help in an emergency situation give his or her name. That way people are more likely to volunteer their help if they know they can’t be accused of malpractice or interference. I’m sorry about that.”

“It was worth a try,” I said while I ate my salad. “But I understand completely.”

“I wish I could stay and talk,” he said. “But I’m on duty in fifteen minutes. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you stopped by.”

I wanted to protest that I hadn’t stopped by to see him, but he already knew that.

“I was going to call you,” he said. “I have Sunday off again. I know I sound like a tourist, but I want to go to Alcatraz. Are you available Sunday afternoon if I can get tickets?”

“I’m dying to see the prison,” I said. “I hear the tours are fascinating. And the boat trip to the island would be fun.” I pictured us out on the deck watching the sea life, the waves, the sun, and enjoying the breeze off the ocean. I’d wear layers of fall clothes like a silky top, a cashmere sweater and my new super-skinny jeans advertised for the discriminating but not fussy modern woman. If that wasn’t me, what was?

By wearing layers, I could be comfortable on the boat and peel them off once I got to the island. Jonathan would no doubt be wearing designer jeans, Top-Siders for the boat deck with a sweater tied around his shoulders. He looked good in whatever he wore, so no problem there.

“It’s a date then,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at two, and we’ll get a bite to eat after the tour somewhere on the Bay. How does that sound?”

I told him it sounded just fine. I couldn’t believe how my “California the Beautiful” calendar would be filled up. The fashion show on Friday and now this.

“See you Sunday,” he said. After he’d finished off my pizza and his beef stew, he left for work.

I felt upbeat when I left the hospital. I’d eaten my salad and half a pizza and snagged a date with the best-looking doctor at San Francisco General and maybe the whole state of California. I had come to a dead end on the trail of the person who’d dropped me off, but I wasn’t ready to quit. I couldn’t help thinking that whoever brought me to this hospital was connected to the Jensen house or neighborhood. So I hopped on a bus and went up to Pacific Heights. I wished I’d bought a Fast Pass. It would have saved me a lot of money on bus rides, but who knew I’d be dashing around the city this way. I shouldn’t complain. It was cheaper than taking a cab or having a car. And I was just happy to have my ankle functional again.

When I got off the bus, I had to walk a few blocks to the Jensen house. I remembered that Detective Wall had told me Jim was recuperating at home, which encouraged me to walk right up through his well-landscaped front yard and ring the bell. I felt a chill go up my spine remembering the last time I was here, when MarySue tried to kill me or at least slow me down. I desperately wanted to go to that memorial party for MarySue, so if Jim came to the door I’d apologize for any slight I’d given. I’d tell him I never meant to imply he was guilty. I’d say I hoped there were no hard feelings.

If Jim answered the door, I’d say, “Hi, I’m Rita from the boutique,” as if I had nothing to hide. No reason not to drop by. “Hope you’re feeling better,” I’d add. I just didn’t want to hear him accuse me of murdering his wife again.

The longer I stood there, the more chickenhearted I became. Maybe I ought to take off. What if he saw me and had a relapse and blamed it on me? I glanced up at the thirdfloor windows where I’d thought I’d first seen MarySue. Something moved. Someone or just a curtain? I leaned against the pillar on the front porch for support. I could just imagine Jim coming downstairs to confront me with accusations. I didn’t mind the yelling as much as I’d mind if he tried to kill me the way he’d killed his wife. All I wanted to know was, did he bring me to the hospital that night? Or was it MarySue?

I looked around. No car in the driveway. But I did see the gardeners’ truck down the street. Had they brought me to the hospital? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. All I wanted to do was thank them and fill in a blank in my memory bank. They wouldn’t be offended if I approached them, would they? I had to try.

I was walking down the street toward the house with the truck in the driveway when my cell phone rang. It was Jonathan.

“Rita, I just talked to the Admissions Department. The man on duty that night remembered you.”

“Really? And did he remember who brought me in?”

“He said she didn’t leave a name.”

“She? It was definitely a she?”

“He said she was wearing a black dress.”

“And shoes? What kind of shoes?” I held my breath.

“Silver shoes. He said he’d never seen silver shoes before so they stuck in his mind. When he asked for your name or her name, she left. He remembered that because it was so unusual. He called after her, but she was gone.”

“Oh, my God,” I said.

“Does that help?” he asked.

“Yes. I mean, I think so. It had to be MarySue, the woman who was murdered that night. The one who was brought into the hospital later, after I got there. So she was there twice that night. Once alive, the other time dead. Thanks, Jonathan.”

“You’re welcome. Gotta run now. They’re paging me.”

I put my phone into my Michael Kors zip-top designer satchel and kept walking past the truck, past the mansions with the city’s most hoity-toity addresses. I was so caught up with the idea that the same person who’d tried to kill me had turned around and taken me to the hospital that I scarcely noticed the stately Victorians with elaborate wooden gables and towers and the house that looked like a French Baroque chateau. I was walking past some of the most elaborate symbols of the city’s colorful past and all I could think of was how glad I was to be alive. I didn’t even care if I never lived in a mansion built by a tycoon with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I was alive. The only way I could think of to thank my rescuer, MarySue Jensen, was to find her killer. I owed it to her. I glanced back for a last look at her house before I turned the corner.

“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I’ll avenge your death. I’ll catch your killer. It’s the least I can do for you.”

I glanced at the garden truck to see a man who was lifting a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer stop and stare at me. Hadn’t he ever heard anyone talking to herself before?

Twelve

When I got home, I called Jack Wall and told him about the fashion show. “I suggest you come by,” I said. “Besides all the possible suspects under one roof, there’s a chance the silver shoes will be there too.”

“The stolen silver shoes?”

“I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but there’s a good chance. I’m not saying the wearer is the murderer or even a thief, but—”

“Never mind speculating or accusing anyone,” he said. “That’s my job.”

“I thought you’d be glad I alerted you,” I said stiffly. “And I was wondering if you had identified the fingerprints on the shoe box you found in my garbage can,” I said.

“So far they don’t match any known criminal in our system.”

Exasperated, I said, “Of course they don’t. They belong to any one of a short list of people who wanted those shoes. Society women who are not in your database because they haven’t committed any previous crimes. Not until now. Which I will be happy to provide you with.”

“The list or the shoes?”

“I don’t have the shoes,” I said through clenched teeth. Sometimes I wondered why I went out of my way to help the police.

“Do you admit you want the shoes?” he said. “Would you turn them down if they appeared in a box in your garbage can?”

“Yes, I would. I am not the silver-shoe type. But I repeat: they did not appear in my garbage. That was the box, but not the shoes.”

“Who is?”

“Who is what?” I asked.

“The silver-shoe type.”

“I’ll make the list for you,” I said. That was the kind of job I loved. Matching customers with the right styles. That’s what I was good at. Dolce thought so anyway.

“You do that,” he said.

Sometimes I thought he was only humoring me. That he didn’t really find my information very helpful. I considered telling him about MarySue and the hospital, but I didn’t like being humored. Besides, what would he do if he knew how I got to the hospital? I’d done everything I could to help the police except bring the murderer into the station with a full confession. And where did it get me? Nowhere. It got me only lectures on how not to help the police do their job even though they weren’t doing a very good job of it. That was it. If Jack Wall didn’t find out anything at our fashion show, I would have to avenge the murder on my own as I’d promised MarySue or her ghost. I couldn’t wash my hands of this murder even if I wanted to. I was stuck. I just hoped I found the killer before he struck again. I also hoped he or she wouldn’t strike at me. If I kept my detective work under the radar I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

The upcoming fashion show kept Dolce and me busy all week. The so-called models were all agog. They tried on their clothes, and they tried on each others’ clothes. They practiced walking and turning and smiling or alternately looking snobby. They went on crash diets to look even thinner than they were.

On Friday morning, I suggested to Dolce that she make an introduction for the show and talk a little about “How to Transition Your Summer Wardrobe into Fall.”

“What a good idea,” she said. “So timely.”

“And such a good way to encourage more sales after the show.”

She patted me on the back. “Which we could really use,” she said. I didn’t like the way the worry lines were carved in her forehead. Ever since the MarySue incident, business had fallen off. To cheer her up, I told her she looked like a walking advertisement for the shop in sequined pants and a navy satin vintage Victorian-era top.

As for me, I’d decided to start out funky with a pair of high-top multicolored sneakers and an Italian cotton voile print dress by the Italian designer Marni. It was from her fall collection, and I’d admired it since Dolce got it in earlier.

“I love the dress on you. I know you’ve already got your two outfits, but those sneakers have so much attitude,” Dolce said. “You have to wear them. They say ‘girls just wanna have fun,’ don’t you think?”

“Which reminds me,” I said, “is Peter coming tonight?”

“You know him. Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to pitch his shoes,” Dolce said.

“He won’t be happy I’m not wearing any of his shoes,” I said.

“You can always use your ankle as an excuse,” Dolce suggested.

When all the models arrived around five, we were hungry, so we ordered takeout and sat around the great room in our street clothes munching on food delivered from Dolce’s favorite Chicago-style eatery down the street. I was sure no real models would ever indulge in hot dogs and Polish sausage sandwiches on poppy-seed buns loaded with peppers, tomatoes, pickle relish, onions and dill pickle spears. They’d probably have a bottle of water and a cracker and call it dinner, but then, we weren’t professionals.

Every one of us chowed down as if we hadn’t eaten all week—which some of us hadn’t—though the aftereffect was that we all had to spray our mouths with an advanced formula breath freshener in Dolce’s powder room.

The last one to arrive just as we were getting dressed was Marsha. She said she’d had some last-minute clients. By that time we had all the chairs set up and were just putting on our makeup. Marsha very kindly offered to do comb-outs for anyone who wanted one.

“I’ll sign up,” I said. “I know what a genius you are.”

“Tousled beach waves are really gone,” she explained with a critical look at my hair as she heated her flat iron in Dolce’s office. “It’s fine to embrace your natural waves for summer, but not now that it’s fall. Straight hair is in, the silkier and shinier the better.”

My hair wasn’t nearly as silky or shiny as she would have liked, but what could I do? At least she didn’t suggest a retro beehive. Instead, she told me to increase my intake of Vitamin E. “You should eat more brown rice, nuts and wheat germ, which will help get your hair healthy.”

I was glad she hadn’t witnessed the Polish sausage sandwich I’d just eaten. I vowed that tomorrow I’d go on a Vitamin E diet. I bent over so she could iron my hair on a towel on Dolce’s desk. I couldn’t help notice she’d brought a cloth bag with her shoes in it. I could hardly restrain myself I wanted to look at them so badly.

“So those are the shoes your brother made?” I asked as she smoothed my hair with practiced fingers.

“Right. You won’t believe how fabulous they are.”

I wouldn’t believe he’d made them either, and neither would the police, I thought.