be somewhere else, and I was still sitting on the couch, leaning back, my head cushioned on a pillow.
Finally Jack Wall took the shoe box from his assistant detective and opened it. It was empty. Just as we thought.
“Believe me,” I said to Wall, “I have as much reason to find the shoes as you do. Maybe more so. My boss Dolce entrusted them to me. MarySue snatched them out of my hands without paying for them so she could wear them to the Benefit and now they’re gone. As soon as I recover”—I glanced at my swollen, bandaged ankle—“and I will recover, God willing, then I will recover the shoes. If I don’t, my job, my boss, our shop . . . we’re all in trouble.”
“We appreciate your
“You’d like to hear? I’d like to hear too,” I said. “But if I were in law enforcement instead of a simple salesgirl, I’d say that whoever did steal the shoes put it there to frame me for the theft and maybe even the murder. Which is crazy because I was in the hospital when the crimes were committed.”
There, I’d given them the motive for the placement of the shoe box, and I’d included my alibi so they could narrow their search and quit wasting their time and mine. But not a word of thanks did I get. What I got instead was a scolding for trying to recover the shoes on my own. The odd couple didn’t even seem slightly grateful. I mean, what more did they want? It was so obvious what had happened. All they had to do was dust the box for fingerprints and presto—they’d have the answers they were looking for. Did I dare suggest it? No, I didn’t. Let them fumble their way to solving this crime.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I said with a glance out the window. “I do hope you’ll keep in touch, but it’s time for my medicine.” And my dinner. Or was it lunch? My inner clock was seriously screwed up. I looked anxiously at my watch as if I might lapse into a coma without my medication. Not to mention the harassment I was getting from these two. That was enough to set me back days in my recovery program.
Before they left, Detective Wall handed me his card. “If you have any more information for me, give me a call. Anytime. When you’re better, of course, and thinking more clearly. That’s my cell phone number on the back. We’re anxious to get this high-profile society-type story solved and off of the front page and let the community know about the good works we’re doing.”
With the delivery man coming up the walk, my stomach rumbled, and I wanted them to leave in the worst way, but I couldn’t resist seeing if he could back up his claim, by asking, “Which good works are those?”
“The Wilderness Program for City Kids, the Celebrity Tennis Tournament Fund-Raiser, Saint Anthony’s Dining Room . . .”
He must have noticed that my forehead was furrowed as I tried to picture this suave detective serving the homeless at St. Anthony’s in the crime-ridden Tenderloin district.
“I work the line on Saturday nights,” he said as if he’d read my mind.
Not sure what that meant. Maybe he had no social life. Maybe he was devoted to serving the poor. He just didn’t look the type in that expensive suit. I started to think they’d never leave and it was my fault asking him about his charity work when it was murder we needed to discuss. Not just discuss, but do something about.
They did finally leave. They crossed paths with the delivery man, and Detective Wall noted the van and wrote something on his famous notepad. Then he turned and looked back at my house. As if he might wonder just how sick I was if I could handle a tofu crepe stuffed with bean sprouts.
It turned out I could handle it just fine. After polishing off every single delicious bite, I drifted off again. When I woke up, I read a few chapters from a well-regarded vampire novel (not in the original, but translated from Romanian into English) guaranteed to put me to sleep again. The book probably gives some readers nightmares, but I don’t scare easily. The next thing I knew it was Monday morning, and after I had a cup of coffee and the rest of the chocolate alligator, I called Dolce to report to her about my interview and ask her about hers. And explain why I wasn’t at work today.
Five
“Dolce,” I said.
“Rita,” she said. “What happened? I tried to call you last night and again this morning.”
“Sorry, I turned off my phone.” I stretched my leg out and critically surveyed my ankle. I thought the swelling had gone done a little. “My doctor wants me to rest.”
“You had me worried. I thought they might have arrested you and hauled you off to the new county jail.”
“The one they call the San Francisco Hilton South? No they didn’t, but I’m sure the detective in the long flowered skirt would have liked to.”
“That skirt,” Dolce said with an audible shudder, “was bad enough. Then there was her sweater. Jones New York if I’m not mistaken. Someone should tell her to avoid raglan sleeves or at least wear a scarf tossed over the sweater to broaden her shoulders. I’m telling you, if the fashion police had been on duty that woman would be behind bars.”
“Was it that bad?” I asked. “I didn’t notice.”
“Didn’t notice her sloped shoulders? Rita, you must really be sick. Now don’t even think about coming in today.”
“I have to. I can’t sit here with my foot up another day of watching TV and reading Romanian vampire novels or I’ll go mad, I swear. How was your interview on TV?”
“Fine, in fact we got some free publicity from it. We’ve been mobbed so far today.”
“I wish I’d seen it,” I said.
“I TiVo-ed it so I can play it for you. Of course they tried to get me to say something incriminating, but I think I did pretty well dodging the questions. ‘How well did I know the deceased? What kind of clothes and accessories did she purchase ? Any financial problems? When was the last time I saw her?’ You should have heard me doing a sidestep. How about you? Did you tell the police you went to get the shoes back from MarySue?”
“They didn’t ask. Either they already knew, or they still don’t know or don’t care.”
“What did you think of Detective Wall? Quite a hunk, as you girls would say, or were you too sick to notice? Can’t complain about his taste in clothes. I hope he didn’t give you a bad time.”
“He asked questions, but I think I convinced him I couldn’t have killed MarySue or stolen her shoes. The bad thing is they found the shoe box in my garbage can.”
“
“That’s the one,” I said. “Needless to say I have no idea how it got there except that whoever put it there is someone who wants to frame me.”
“Who would want to frame you? Everyone likes you. Except MarySue of course and she’s dead. Why, everyone’s asking about you. Claire Timkin is here now. On her way to a teachers’ meeting.”
“Don’t tell me she’s actually buying something?”
“No, of course not. How can she even look at our merchandise on her salary? And why waste high fashion on the fourth-graders in her classroom? But she tries to keep up. She does. She comes in and she looks. Then she goes to Macy’s and buys her clothes.” I could just picture Dolce shaking her head at the tragedy of it all. A woman with solid-gold taste forced to shop at a department store. “At least that’s my theory.”
“You sound better, Dolce. How do you feel?”
“Physically I’m fine, but I can’t help think about the shoes . . .” Her voice dropped as I reminded her of the trouble she was in. Both of us actually.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Any word from the repo people?” I asked. “I was hoping they’d found them and somehow later dumped the box in my garbage.”
“No such luck. If only I’d never ordered them, never sent you to get them, . . . Never mind, I’m afraid the shoes are gone for good,” she said sadly.
“Maybe not,” I said, feeling the medicine kick in and elevate my mood as well as relieving my pain. “No one
