Three weeks is hardly forever, I thought. But whatever. I knew death didn’t have to be horrible especially if you didn’t get along with the deceased.
“It will be a chance to remember MarySue’s life,” Patti said. “We’ll serve her favorite drinks, a little food, say nice things about her, play her favorite songs and talk about the good times. Well, I’d better get my shoes on. I’m next.” She peeked around the corner. “Don’t tell me that’s Detective Wall back there? Looking hot as usual. I didn’t know he was into fashion.”
“Oh, yes, definitely,” I said. I was sure Detective Wall was here undercover and wanted to remain that way while he observed the guests. I had to agree he was hot looking. Not only that, he had money and good taste in clothes. If only he didn’t have a suspicious nature and an attitude problem.
I took a seat off to the side of our makeshift runway to watch the others model their clothes. I was so anxious about seeing Marsha in those shoes, I gripped the edge of my chair.
When she came out of Dolce’s office, she was wearing a tangerine strapless chiffon gown with an empire shirred bodice I’d never seen before. Where had that come from? Not our shop. I looked over at Dolce, whose eyes were fastened on the dress as if she’d never seen it before. But it was the shoes I couldn’t stop staring at. Oh my God, the shoes. I could have sworn . . . The shoes were the exact copy if not the exact shoes that MarySue had ordered, I’d carried across country and MarySue had worn to the Benefit. Were they the same shoes I’d seen at the restaurant?
Were they or weren’t they? I blinked rapidly and kept my eyes glued to her feet as Marsha walked slowly around the room, a coy smile on her face. Because she knew she looked great? Or because she knew her brother made the shoes, which looked fantastic with the orange dress? Or were those the shoes that had cost a fortune? How many people in that room knew the history of the shoes?
I tore my eyes from Marsha and studied the audience’s reaction. Peter Butinksi had leapt out of his chair and was standing, staring at her shoes. Detective Wall held a tiny camera in his hand, no doubt getting evidence, but of what? Dolce’s mouth was hanging wide open. Jim Jensen looked pale. A man in the back row gave an admiring whistle. Her husband? Her boyfriend? Or was it Harrington? Marsha did look sensational, her blond hair, the tangerine dress and the silver shoes. She might not have been the most stylish, in fact her dress was almost bridesmaidy, but she made the rest of us look pale and anemic by comparison.
Marsha had just finished her pivot and was headed back to our makeshift dressing room when Detective Wall walked up and stood in front of the room.
“San Francisco PD,” he said, holding his badge up. “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a pair of shoes I need as stolen evidence in an unsolved murder case.”
The tension in the great room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Some people gasped, others murmured something like, “Oh, no.”
The fashion show stopped dead. Detective Wall followed Marsha, who never broke her stride. What poise, I thought. I wished I could see her face. Would she be resigned? Would she be nervous? Did she know she was wearing stolen shoes?
The next thing I heard was Harrington shouting at Jack Wall. “Just a damn minute,” he yelled as he followed his sister and the detective out of the room. “Those are my shoes. I made those shoes. You can’t take those shoes. They’re hers.”
Thank heavens for Dolce. She calmed the crowd. She explained that this act was all part of the fashion show. That the clothes and the shoes we were wearing were all worthy of being stolen but of course they weren’t. They were all available through Dolce’s exclusive women’s wear. Did anyone believe her? I couldn’t tell. The important thing was they all sat down and acted like they did. And the show went on. Without Jim Jensen. The next time I looked around the room, he was gone. Why? A recurrence of his “warning”? Would he make it home or had he collapsed on the front steps? I looked out the window but he wasn’t there.
I was shaking, and I was sure the other models were too, but we couldn’t let Dolce down. I had to make three appearances in three complete outfits. But not Marsha. She had disappeared. Was she thinking that she couldn’t outdo her first entrance? Jack was gone too. Had he taken her away to be questioned? And what about her brother?
I glanced at Dolce. She shrugged. I wanted to go back to her office where I suspected some kind of scene was playing out between Jack, Marsha and Harrington. But we all stuck to our parts in the charade. We owed it to Dolce and the other guests.
After the show was over, the audience clapped enthusiastically. Then we models changed into our street clothes, which, by the way, were not too shabby, and served wine and tiny little cheese puffs from the caterer down the street. Of course the guests must have been curious. Surely they didn’t all swallow Dolce’s story that the scene was a setup. But no one said anything.
I caught Dolce coming out of her office with a glass of wine in her hand.
“They’re gone,” she muttered.
“But where?” I asked with a glance over my shoulder to be sure we were alone. There were only a few people left in the great room. Everyone else had had a drink, a bite to eat and left. My fellow models had gone home with their families.
“How should I know?” Dolce said.
“What about the shoes?” I asked.
“That’s what I’m talking about. The shoes. The shoes are gone. So is Jim. Along with Marsha, her brother and the police.”
“You don’t think Detective Wall arrested any of them, do you?” I asked.
“You tell me,” she said. “Were they the same shoes?”
“I . . . I can’t be sure.”
“But you saw them. You picked them up in Florida. You brought them here. You saw MarySue before she went to the Benefit. They must have looked different from the copies. They had to look one-of-a-kind expensive.” Dolce was staring at me, her face inches from mine.
“But you were at the Benefit. You saw the shoes too,” I said. “Didn’t you?”
She avoided my gaze. She looked at my necklace and studied the collar of my dress. Wasn’t that a dead giveaway of someone lying? Now I was getting worried. My beloved boss was acting so strange I wondered if I really knew her at all.
“I think I told you I never saw MarySue, by the time I got to the Benefit, it was late and she wasn’t anywhere to be found. I blame myself. If I’d gone earlier, if I’d found her first, taken the shoes back, she might still be alive.”
“You mean by the time you arrived she was already . . .”
“Dead? I don’t know. I have no idea what time she was murdered and I don’t want to know. I keep imagining her in the Adirondack chair with her legs stretched out, barefoot.”
“So you’ve never . . .” I said.
“Never saw the shoes. No. Never saw her. I only know about where she was found from listening to the news. I never saw the so-called copies of the shoes either. All I’ve seen is the picture of them in the magazine. You, Rita, you’re the only one who’s been involved in both pairs of shoes—the real ones and the copies. So which was Marsha wearing tonight?” She grasped my wrist and held me tight. So tight I couldn’t breathe. I started to panic. She was desperate for answers. I was just desperate. After a whole evening of being charming, Dolce was finally cracking. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lower lip trembling, her grip tightened. My fingers were numb.
“I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I could. “This is the second time I’ve seen Marsha in those shoes. The first time I was sure those were the ones. But now . . .” I shook my head and jerked my arm away from Dolce. I was a fashionista. I studied clothes, jewelry, shoes and accessories for fun and for my livelihood. I was proud of my knowledge of the latest trends. But when it counted, when someone’s life was at stake, it seemed I couldn’t tell the difference between fake shoes and real ones. My self-confidence was crumbling. I had to get out of there and put some space between me and my boss and those damn shoes.