I was breathing hard, she was leering at me. I wasn’t locked in, but suddenly I wished I was. A moment later our tour guide came around the corner. Meera disappeared down the hall in the other direction.
“The last ferry leaves in one half hour,” she said. “You don’t want to be stuck here overnight.”
Not with a weirdo on the loose, I thought. The guide smiled, but I didn’t. My face felt frozen. Before I could say, “Wait for me,” he’d hurried on by on his way to round up the rest of the tour group. I pushed on the cell door. It wouldn’t budge. Where was everyone? Even Meera had gone. I tried to scream, but my throat was clogged and I couldn’t speak. I was a prisoner inside a solitary cell even though I had done nothing wrong. I’d be here at least overnight and God only knew how long until someone found me.
Fourteen
I took several deep calming breaths and told myself Jonathan wouldn’t leave without me. But I couldn’t hear a sound. No voices, nothing but the voices in my head from the prisoners and their guards who were all dead and gone. Is this how they felt when visiting hours were over? Or were there no visiting hours? I’d forgotten to ask. If I got out of here alive, there were a lot of questions I’d ask.
I’d ask Jim Jensen if he killed his wife. I’d tell him she said he would if he found out about the shoes. So, did he? I’d ask everyone I knew what the fortune meant—“You cannot step in the same river twice without getting your feet twice as wet.”
Did that message have something to do with MarySue’s death? Or was it meant for me especially?
Another question I’d ask everyone involved in the MarySue affair was, “Did you put the shoe box in my garbage? And if so, why?”
After about two minutes I gathered up all my strength and pushed against the cell door. It swung open, and I almost laughed with relief. I hadn’t been locked in at all. My rabid imagination was running away with me. I ran down the corridor and out the front door into the fresh air where Jonathan was waiting for me.
“There you are,” he said. “I was asking everyone if they’d seen you.”
“I was getting the complete prison experience,” I said breathlessly. “I’m glad I don’t have to stay here.”
As we boarded the last ferry, I looked around but didn’t see Meera. Was she still on the island by choice? I didn’t know and I didn’t care.
Jonathan and I stood outside on the deck as shadows fell across the city. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I was grateful for the warmth of the arm and his jacket, which I was still wearing.
He said he’d made reservations at the Cliff House, and I almost swooned. The place was historic. Perched on the cliffs above Ocean Beach, it was once a bathhouse but now housed one of the most famous and expensive restaurants in the city. We had a table at the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was still light enough to see the seals on the rocks below and hear the waves crashing. I couldn’t believe little me from Columbus, Ohio, was here watching the sun set over the Pacific with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors—or maybe the most eligible.
We ordered baby spinach salad with citrus and candied pecans, then crab cakes and filet mignon with truffled potatoes. We seemed to have the exact same taste in food and maybe lots of other things, like fashion. And what a relief to be with a man who didn’t constantly tell me to butt out of his business. Jonathan seemed to enjoy talking about his job and didn’t mind when I chimed in and asked questions. My kind of man.
He picked up the menu and read the back cover. “There’s been a cliff house at this location since 1863,” he said. I didn’t bother to do the math, but I wondered, if Meera were here with us, would she tell us she’d been around then? She’d probably have some interesting stories to share of how she met the Stanfords, the Crockers and the Hearsts, who would drive their carriages out to the beach for horse racing and kite flying. Sometimes the life of an ageless, undead vampire pretender sounded downright glamorous. I just didn’t want to hear about it or even worse, hear her threaten me. Isn’t that what she’d done in the prison? Or was I being too sensitive?
I forced myself to stop thinking about Meera or my other obsession, which was the murder of MarySue. When Jonathan brought me home, I told him it was the most perfect day I’d had since I’d arrived over six months ago. Of course it would have been more perfect without Meera, but I put her face out of my mind.
Jonathan said he’d had a great time too. I felt I had to reciprocate after he’d spent a fortune on me, so I said I’d invite him over for brunch on my patio where I had a not-so-shabby view of the Bay. I decided I’d worry about what a non-cook like myself would serve later. And I didn’t say anything about MarySue’s upcoming memorial. Surely he wouldn’t want to attend. He couldn’t possibly attend the funeral of every patient he’d lost. I wouldn’t go either if I didn’t have an interest in studying the crowd to see who looked sad, who looked relieved and who got hysterical.
I said good night to Jonathan and told him I’d see him soon. Then I checked my messages. There was one from Detective Jack Wall asking me to come down to the station to identify the silver shoes Marsha had worn at the fashion show. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
He sounded slightly sarcastic, but with him you never knew. In any case I was eager to ID the shoes. I knew it was wrong to make up my mind too early, but I just knew they weren’t the shoes I’d brought back from Florida.
The next day I phoned Dolce to tell her I’d be late because I was heading for the police station to ID the silver shoes. She seemed nervous, but I didn’t know why. Money problems? Was she going to ask me to cut back on my hours? Was she going to close the shop? I couldn’t bear to think about it.
I dressed carefully in an easy-fitting double-breasted jacket, high-waisted fluid harem pants and my brogues. Then I took the bus, transferring once, to the small station in the same neighborhood where I’d volunteered at the church and I’d eaten Vietnamese food with Jack. No wonder he knew his way around, where to eat and where to volunteer. This was his beat. One not many others would want, but definitely where the action was if that’s what you were interested in.
He was sitting at a desk behind a glass partition, which I assumed was bulletproof. He stood and gave me a long look as if he couldn’t remember who I was or why I was there. Or maybe he was just trying to decide if I was wearing Tahari or Jil Sander, both known for exceptional pantsuits. Finally he pressed a buzzer that allowed me to walk in. He thanked me for coming. I said I was always glad to help the police. He didn’t mention my hiding behind a mask, and I didn’t say anything about his lack of a social life. We went into a small room lined with files and boxes. He took a box from a shelf and lifted the lid. There they were, a pair of silver stilettos gleaming in the rays of the overhead light. For a moment I wasn’t sure. Were they or weren’t they? What was wrong with me? Had I lost my keen sense of real versus fake?
“Can I touch them?”
He held out a pair of rubber gloves. I put them on. Then I picked up the shoes one at a time and looked at them, ran my fingers over the leather and tapped the heels lightly with my knuckles. All the while Jack was watching me. What he thought, I had no idea. Maybe he thought I was faking it. That I didn’t know anything. But I did. My confidence was returning. I knew my shoes and I knew I knew them.
“Well,” he said after I’d done the same with both shoes and put them back in their box.
“Fake,” I said.
“How can you be sure?” he said.
I picked up a shoe and held it up to the light. “A slanted, easily breakable heel, faux leather, and studs instead of diamonds,” I said.