The male co-anchor paused and then asked Amy, “The question is, would someone kill for a pair of shoes?”
“Well, Larry, it depends on the shoes. We have a photo of the shoes here, and you be the judge. To the best of our knowledge, these were custom, hand-spun silver stiletto heels.”
Larry gave an appreciative whistle. “Those must be worth a large chunk of change, Amy.”
“Indeed they are. I’ve done a little digging and found they were purchased at Dolce’s, the upscale Hayes Valley boutique owned by Dolce Loren. Ms. Loren is the niece of San Francisco native daughter Lauren Loren. Here they are in an old photo pictured in front of the landmark building before the elder Loren died a year ago. How many women at that Benefit were dressed and accessorized by Dolce, do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Larry confessed.
“Probably half of the guests,” Amy said. “I’m hoping to have an in-depth interview with Dolce Loren on our news program tonight. Stay tuned for more on this disturbing story.”
I turned down the volume when they moved on to another story, and stared at the screen without seeing anything. Homicide? Someone killed MarySue for her shoes? My boss Dolce interviewed on TV? What would she say?
Under the influence of my painkillers I unfortunately dozed off and on all day and missed the news. What had Dolce said? I woke up feeling empty. No wonder, I hadn’t eaten anything for hours, maybe days. I reached for the menu from a Cambodian restaurant in the Mission, knowing they delivered. Everything sounded good, especially my favorite, the tofu crepe stuffed with bean sprouts, ground pork and coconut smothered in a lemon-garlic sauce. Something we never had back in Columbus, I can tell you. The hostess in her charming Cambodian accent assured me it would be delivered within the hour.
I’d just hung up when the phone rang. I looked at the screen. Dolce!
“Rita, where are you?”
“I’m at home. I have a grade-one concussion and a sprained ankle. What’s happening? How was your interview?”
“Fine, fine. Rita, the police are here. They’re asking questions nonstop. It’s been awful. Now they want to know about you.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Is it regarding MarySue?”
“Yes. What were you doing at her house last night?”
“I . . . I went to get the shoes back.” No sense pretending I wasn’t there. Someone picked me up there and brought me to the hospital. But who? How did Dolce know about it?
“I told you not to.”
“I know, but I couldn’t let her get away with them.”
“Did you kill her?”
I gasped. “Of course not. How could you even ask?”
“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s the police. They need to talk to you. They’re on their way to your house.”
“What?” I shrieked. I dropped the phone and staggered to my feet. The police. At my house. On Sunday. Asking questions. What would I say? And more important, what would I wear?
Four
I hopped on one foot to my walk-in closet and flipped past a boxy red military-inspired jacket from Ralph Lauren that would look terrific over a feathered gown if I had one. But hardly appropriate for a police interrogation. I dug out a pair of shiny cocoa-colored leggings that were meant to be tucked into a pair of Gucci over-the-knee fringed boots. Or how about a pair of kitten heels? I shook my head. Not for a housebound invalid with a sprained ankle.
I briefly considered the olive green Theory dress from my latest buying spree, which just happened to occur while I was in my quasimilitary phase. “No, no,” I muttered and tossed it on top of the pile on my bed. Wrong, all wrong. What was I thinking? I was not the military type, no matter what I wore. And olive green would make me look even sicker than I was. On an ordinary day I wanted to be tough and vulnerable at the same time. Today I needed something to make me look pale, casual, and of course, innocent. But stylish too. In an understated way.
Denim? It was casual all right, and never out of style, but the Ralph Lauren jeans and the Gap shirt in my closet conveyed a kind of sloppiness. I tried tucking the shirt into the jeans, but the overall effect was way too preppy. I’d be arrested on the spot by the fashion police or the real ones for looking like I just got off my motorcycle after killing someone for her shoes.
Aha, there it was. Soft pants with a drawstring waist from Rebecca Taylor that I’d picked up at Neiman Marcus in their semiannual sale. Paired with a comfy knit tank, I had the look I wanted. Like I just tumbled out of my sickbed. Too ill to remember what happened the night MarySue was murdered but cooperative and helpful as possible to the authorities. I pulled my hair back in a casually messy updo, scrubbed my face and added a touch of mascara. A pair of cashmere socks completed my ensemble, and exhausted from all the preparation, I sank back onto the couch, waiting. And waiting. Wondering if my food would arrive before the gendarmes. Or simultaneously. Nervously I gnawed on a fingernail. Then I staggered to the freezer and replaced the peas with the regulation cold pack.
Finally two plainclothes detectives arrived at my door. I could see through the window one was young, one was older. One was short and one was tall. One was a woman, the other a man.
They rang the bell and I called “Come in.” I was determined not to move off the couch and to play the invalid role to the hilt.
“Ms. Jewel?” the tall man asked as he came through the door. “I’m Detective Jack Wall, San Francisco PD.” He and his partner Sylvia Ramirez both flashed their IDs. Actually, “plainclothes” was not the right word for what Detective Wall wore. I didn’t have to see the label to know he was sporting a Ralph Lauren two-button, single-breasted suit with a striped shirt and tie that shouted Wilkes Bashford, the guy who’d been dressing San Francisco men practically since the earthquake. How in hell did a public servant afford clothes like that? Looking so gorgeous, was he on his way to somewhere like a wedding or a funeral?
“I’m Rita Jewel,” I said. “Won’t you come in and sit down?” Aunt Grace would have been so proud hearing me in my gracious-hostess mode. “Tea, coffee?”
They both declined my offer of a beverage. No tea- or coffee-drinking allowed on the job, probably. Just as well since I was hardly up to brewing anything for them. Then Detective Ramirez, with her long curly hair and her pear-shaped figure wrapped in a long flowered skirt designed by Isaac Mizrahi for Liz Claiborne, looked around my living room. Her outfit was absolutely wrong for her body shape, which she would know if she ever read a fashion magazine, which she probably didn’t. Such a shame. Now if she’d been in uniform, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Detective Wall explained they were investigating the death of MarySue Jensen. I looked up at him and nodded. As if I sort of knew but didn’t really know much at all.
“You were acquainted with the deceased?” Detective Wall asked as he eased his long frame into the chair opposite the coffee table where I’d propped my foot, making sure my ACE bandage and cold pack were visible. I’m not sure he noticed. Instead, his gaze lingered on my soft, Balmain plain gray tank top I’d picked up on sale last month. I felt a shiver of awareness go up my spine. Was it the presence of the long arm of the law? Or was it the arrival of a bona fide sexy barracuda in my living room? Or was it just my medication that made my heart race?
I’d been in the city for months without meeting one attractive man. In the past two and a half days I’d met a gymnast, a doctor and now a cop. All in my target age bracket and all definitely worthy of a second glance. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course, this cop was made of steel and the gymnast was from another culture and the doctor might be unavailable and laden with med-school debt, but none of them was wearing a ring. It gets to be a habit, looking at ring fingers.