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.
“Go ahead,” I said, sorry I’d gone off on a tangent like that. “I’ll call a cab and lock up.”
After Dolce left, I waited for at least a half hour for the cab while keeping my foot up on the desk as prescribed. Finally, I heard a knock on the big front door. I was just gathering my paraphernalia together when the knocking got louder and a man shouted, “Dolce, are you there? Let me in.”
Even though it was probably just a last-minute customer, I was a little nervous. Dolce’s words, “There’s a murderer out there. Who knows who’s next?” rang in my ears. And even though I’d been taking martial arts for the past three months, I was hardly in shape to defend myself from a determined killer.
But just in case, I slipped Dolce’s letter opener into my pocket and went with my crutches to open the heavy solidwood front door.
Seven
Jim Jensen stood on the threshold looking like he was out for blood. I knew it was him from the photo in the newspaper of him in his airline pilot uniform. His eyes were bloodshot and blazing, and his short-cropped hair was standing on end. His face was flushed, and it flashed on me instantly that he must be his wife’s killer. He looked like a killer. Who else wanted the spendthrift MarySue out of his life more than he did? Had he been hiding outside until Dolce left, knowing I was alone inside? Was he waiting his chance to kill me next? Because he thought I was responsible for MarySue’s murder? Or he thought I knew that he was the murderer? I tried to stay calm and focused, but my mind was spinning and my ankle was throbbing.
Subtly, carefully, I reached into my pocket and fingered the letter opener. “He’ll kill me,” MarySue had said. I was not going to let him strike again. Not without a struggle.
“I’m sorry,” I said as calmly as I could while my heart was hammering. “We’re closed for the day.”
“Closed for the day or closed for good?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I laughed nervously. “Of course not,” I said. “Dolce’s is an institution. Part of the fabric of this neighborhood. The women of the city couldn’t get along without us. We’re here to stay.”
“You think so? I don’t think so. I think you’ll be closed for good when I get through with you. You’ll be sued for slander for starters.”