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.