“MarySue—Mrs. Jensen, that is—was a customer at the boutique where I work.” I knew the rules from watching crime shows on TV. When interrogated, don’t ever say any more than you absolutely have to.
“A good customer?” he asked and crossed his legs. I had a glimpse of black calf Stamford loafers.
“Yes, I mean she came in often and she appreciated fine jewelry and clothes. She had excellent taste. With her height she could wear anything and look great. French Connection bodysuit or a little dress by Missoni. If that’s what you mean,” I said. Now why did I go on and on about MarySue? Unnecessary information.
“What I mean is did she have trouble paying her bills?”
“You’d have to ask my boss Dolce,” I said primly. “I’m just a sales assistant.” I tried to look modest and humble. If that’s possible while wearing new high-waisted underwear.
“Tell us about her shoes,” Detective Wall said.
“Her shoes?” I repeated, sounding like a parrot.
“The shoes you picked up in Florida that she was wearing the night of her death,” said the short detective in the yellow cardigan that matched the flowers in her skirt.
“But I thought she wasn’t—”
“She wasn’t wearing them when she was found,” the tall, extremely well-dressed cop said. “That’s right. How did you know that?”
I froze. Wasn’t I supposed to know that? “I heard someone say so. A nurse in the hospital who was there when she was brought in. Plus I heard it on the news. Why, is it a secret?”
He ignored my question. Instead the female detective jumped in. “So you yourself just happened to be in the same hospital when Ms. Jensen was brought in?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm, her dark eyes locked on mine.
“It’s a big hospital, San Francisco General. They have an excellent trauma center. That’s why I—”
“That’s why you ended up there the same night as MarySue Jensen. Quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?” Detective Wall asked. His name suited him, I thought, as he zeroed in on me. His face had became a wall keeping out any sign of empathy or emotion. Which made me try even harder to win him over. I focused on stopping my brain from rambling when it should have been focused on telling these guys what they wanted to know without telling them more than they needed to know. But I was having trouble staying on task. “Or was it?”
“Was it?” There I went repeating again. I honestly forgot what the subject was. I was recovering from a concussion, for God’s sake. Didn’t they know that?
“A coincidence,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”
“Can you describe the incident that brought you to the hospital?”
“Concussion and sprained ankle,” I said, wiggling my foot.
“I didn’t ask for the diagnosis, I asked you about the incident,” Detective Wall said coolly.
Okay, I could play it cool too. I’d give him the facts and nothing but the facts. “I fell off a ladder. I blacked out. And I woke up in the hospital.”
“What time was that?” he asked, taking out a small notepad. Didn’t the police have access to laptop computers or the latest iPad? Or did this guy spend all his high-tech allowance on his clothes?
“I don’t know. I mean, I left the hospital in the early morning. But I don’t know what time I arrived at night. Or how I got there. I had a concussion. I was unconscious.” I didn’t want his pity, and I was grateful he hadn’t asked why I was on a ladder or the location of the ladder. Did he know I went to get the shoes back or not? If not, I wasn’t going to tell him. “You can check with the hospital. They will have a record.” Did I have to suggest this to a cop?
That’s when Detective Ramirez excused herself and went outside. I watched her light a cigarette just outside the window and walk around the side of the house. Just a cigarette break or was she up to something like knocking on doors to interview my neighbors, asking things like, “Does Ms. Jewel practice martial arts in the patio behind her house?” “Does she hang out with lowlifes?” “Does she throw loud parties while wearing stolen shoes?” “Would she kill for a pair of Louboutin shoes? Manolo Blahniks? Roger Viviers? Or was I reading too much into her absence? Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette.
Now I was alone with the detective. The room seemed smaller. The atmosphere heavy with unspoken questions. Mine and his. Finally he spoke. “Regarding the shoes Ms. Jensen was wearing. Any idea what happened to them?” he asked. “Do you know anyone who would murder someone to get a pair of shoes?”
“Most women love shoes. I’m no exception,” I confessed. “But murder? I can’t imagine going that far. Although they were silver.”
“Were they worth stealing?” Detective Wall asked.
I shrugged. What was the right answer? I had no idea. “Depends.”
“Worth killing for?”
I blinked. What could I say? I thought I’d already answered that.
“Do you know how much they’re worth?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?” the tall, smooth detective asked.
I wanted to say, “Come on, tell me how much they’re worth. You know. You must know,” but I didn’t. Of course I had an idea. But why should I share it with him?
He turned over a page in his notebook. Perhaps signaling a different topic or at least a new approach since he wasn’t making much progress this way.
“I have a few names here. Customers or others in the fashion business. I’d like to get your impression of them. Don’t think too hard. After all, you’ve just had a concussion.” He looked at me and I didn’t see a shred of compassion in those dark eyes. After all I’d been through. It was as if daring me to contradict him or make an excuse. I didn’t. “Just tell me the first thing that comes into your mind.”
I sat up straight and tried to prepare myself for his little game.
“Dolce Loren.”
“My boss. A wonderful woman. Kind and caring.” I paused. He was sitting there staring at me. “Smart and savvy,” I added.
“Patti French.”
“Patti has a great fashion sense. She loves Tom Ford, Prada, and Louis Vuitton. She’s MarySue’s sister-in-law.” Like he didn’t know that. “I mean she was or she still is now that MarySue is dead. I’m not sure how that works.”
“Jim Jensen.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Did MarySue ever mention him?”
“Not to me.” If Jim finds out how much they cost, he’ll kill me. Isn’t that what MarySue said to Dolce? Did he do it?
“Peter Butinski.”
“Peter is our new shoe supplier.” I felt my mouth twisting and my eyes narrowing despite my effort to stay neutral. The shoe guy was a little too high on himself, in my opinion, but what he had to do with MarySue was beyond me.
“Was he acquainted with Ms. Jensen?”
“I don’t think so, unless she special ordered shoes from him.”
“It sounds like there was a possible connection there. Would you agree they were both interested in shoes?” he asked.
I sighed. “Who isn’t?”
The detective had just flipped another page in his notebook when the front door opened and his cohort burst in looking like she’d just won the lottery. She was wearing rubber gloves that did not match her outfit and holding a shoe box in her hand. My eyes widened. My heart pounded. It was the brown cardboard box the silver stilettos came in. Where in the world did she get it? And were the shoes inside? If so, mystery solved, or at least part of it.