Before I left for the shop, I had to check on MarySue’s house. I started to wonder how much of Saturday night was real and how much was a nightmare. I scrolled through “Houses for Sale” on my BlackBerry and found the Jensen house with the number of the realtor. So it really was for sale. I really did see that sign. I called the real estate office.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the real estate agent on desk duty, “the house is no longer on the market.”
“But I just saw the sign on Saturday.”
“The owner has decided not to sell. Just got a call on that. Circumstances have changed. It happens. Sorry about that. We have some other listings in the Pacific Heights neighborhood I’d be happy to show you. Some with fantastic views, high ceilings, hardwood floors, spas, offices, skylights . . . You name it, we’ve got it.”
“Never mind.” Just got a call? From whom? Jim Jensen? Now that he had the life insurance on his wife to collect he could afford to stay in the house, was that it? It was no secret to Dolce or to me that they were in financial trouble. Enough to cause Jim to cut up MarySue’s credit cards. Was Jim mad enough at his wife for her free-spending habits to kill her, and take her shoes to get a refund or just toss them in the Bay and collect her life insurance? And then take down the “For Sale” sign. It all made a kind of terrible sense. If it was this apparent to me, why didn’t the police follow up on it? I thought about calling Detective Wall to find out if he’d heard about the house, but I didn’t. I had to get to work. I had to see people. I had to get back to the real world . . . or was it?
But first I had to get dressed. It took forever. Partly because of my injuries. Have you ever tried on your new thong while avoiding putting weight on your ankle, the one with the ACE bandage? It wasn’t easy, but even harder was trying to decide what looked right over the new lingerie. I was so tired of looking like an invalid, I wanted a complete change. I had to look professional, but maybe a little more casual than usual.
I peered out the back window at the view of the East Bay to see that the sun was out. Back in my closet I pulled out a pair of gray Kasbah pants made of natural fibers that had a relaxed fit but a sophisticated look at the same time. With the pants I chose a quiche-colored Tencel and cotton ribbed top. No Louboutins today, nothing with a heel at all. I’d be lucky to squeeze my poor feet into anything but an orthopedic boot. But I did. Before I stuffed both feet into retrofitted floral sling-back flats, I rewrapped my ankle, grabbed an oversize granny sweater and my bag and called a cab. No way was I up to fighting the crowd on the bus with my crutches. It took me about ten minutes just to climb the stairs to the front doors of Dolce’s boutique one step at a time. In my commodious tote bag were all my supplies—extra cold packs and ACE bandages and my meds.
As soon as I opened the front door of the boutique, the whole shop full of customers turned to look at me. I must say I made a grand entrance. And even if my ankle was going to take an extra week to recover, it was worth it.
Apparently Dolce had alerted all the regular customers, who couldn’t have been nicer. Before I could say “I’m back,” they’d taken my sweater, my purse and my bag out of my hands and I was eased onto the big overstuffed chair in the great room with an antique mahogany footstool for my bandaged ankle.
“Poor you,” said Claire Timkin, who was still hanging out wearing an oversize crimson shirt with a pair of skinny boot-cut jeans, the brand that costs at least two hundred dollars. She got those at Macy’s? She’d never get away with jeans in her classroom, but for a teachers’ meeting she’d be fine. Better than fine, the older, stodgy, less-stylish faculty members would either be all green with envy or shake their heads with disapproval. While in between summer and fall, Claire was obviously taking advantage of not having any dress code enforced by her principal. Not today, anyway.
Dolce saw me giving Claire the once-over and sent me a brief wink as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
I looked around the room. After my initial splash, the customers drifted away to look at racks of scarves, stacks of T-shirts and piles of gypsy ruffled skirts. Now that the Benefit was over, it was time for some casual wear.
I was just about to get up from my comfortable chair and try to help Dolce wait on customers, when Harrington Harris came back with his sister as promised. He was dressed just as you’d expect from the extremely dramatic drama teacher with a huge wardrobe of his own. He sported a hopsack blazer, tight jeans and a shirt open a little too far at the neck.
“Back to window shop and steal more ideas,” Dolce whispered to me on her way to look for a medallion necklace in the jewelry department. “Earlier he was wearing a snakeskin vest.” She rolled her eyes. “What next?”
I shook my head in dismay. I asked myself if he only stole ideas, or would he steal a pair of shoes if he had the chance?
“I want you to meet my sister, Marsha,” Harrington said to me. “Marsha loves fashion too. It must be genetic. I’ve told her so much about Dolce’s, I had to bring her by. She’s a hairstylist. Absolutely passionate about hair, am I right?” He fondly ruffled her supershort, silver-blond hair. “She trained with Vidal Sassoon,” he added.
I ran a hand through my hair, conscious that she must be horrified to see what shape my hair was in, which was no shape at all.
“What with my injury I haven’t had time to do a thing about my hair,” I said.
She nodded. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her card and gave it to me. “Give me a call,” she said. “I think I can help you.”
No doubt she could, I thought when I saw the name of the salon and the location. But at what cost?
“So tell me, Rita,” Harrington said, “I hear you’ve actually seen the fabulous silver shoes.”
“Well, yes, but only briefly,” I said. What was he getting at?
“What did you think? Worth the money?”
“They were beautiful all right,” I said. But how did I know what they were worth? I didn’t know how much they cost. Did he? I didn’t know where they were now either—did he?
“Are you enjoying the summer off?” I asked him, to change the subject.
“Summer off? Not for me,” he said. “It may look like I’m not working, but I am. Call it a sick day or call it research. I need it. You know I’ve been busy at school all summer, and starting tomorrow I’m in full fall season mode. Besides rehearsals, I’ve got meetings, meetings and more meetings. I tell you it’s all too much. I have two classes of remedial English to teach along with the plays I direct. The worst part is I’m under the thumb of a principal with the most sophomoric taste. We’re doing Bye Bye Birdie this fall and High School Musical in the spring. Can you imagine anything more banal? I make all the costumes, props and you name it.”
I tried to look sympathetic, but my head was starting to ache. I wanted to say, “Then hadn’t you better hustle on back to the scene shop at your high school and get busy cutting and stitching costumes, or pounding nails together for a set?” Instead, I reached into my bag for my pain pills and my bottled water.
Harrington and his sister both watched as if they’d never seen someone popping pills before. Not the ones prescribed by a doctor anyway. I hoped he’d take the hint and take his sister to lunch or at least go look at this season’s costume jewelry in the back room.
“Heard you had an accident. What happened to you?” he asked, his eyes on my bandaged ankle.