Shoe Done It

she was the one who needed reassurance. The rest of the morning flew by. There I was, cozily ensconced in the office with my foot wrapped in ice on the desk, taking calls and feeling useful. Best of all, I was not feeling lonely and unwanted. Everyone who called, no matter what they wanted, asked me how I felt. What I felt was a warm, appreciated glow that counteracted the pain in my ankle and my head.

I was taking a break to take my pill and thumb through the latest Vogue when there was another knock on the office door.

“Are you in there Rita? It’s Peter, and I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Peter Butinski, the shoe supplier? Oh, no. I wasn’t up to being nice to anyone I didn’t like. But what could I say?

Six

“Come in,” I said reluctantly.

I couldn’t believe he, someone in the upscale shoe business, would be wearing Crocs on the job. With all the great men’s shoes out there . . . sport or dress, leather or suede, why choose plastic or rubber shoes or whatever they’re made of, they’re just plain ugly. What was wrong with him? Not only was he clueless about his shoe choice, he wore his thinning hair in a comb-over. I forced a smile. After all, this was business and Dolce trusted me to deal with everyone—whether I liked them or not. “Hi, Peter, how are you?”

“Heard you had quite a weekend,” he said, looking at my ankle.

“Oh, that,” I said, wondering what he’d heard exactly. “Just took a tumble. It’s nothing really. What’s new in the shoe biz?”

“Glad you asked,” he said, setting a stack of shoe boxes on Dolce’s desk. “Have I got something for you with your bum foot. Perfect for those days you don’t want to teeter in to work, when you’re wearing an ACE bandage, for example.” He gave a nod at my ankle and whipped off the cover to a shoe box to reveal a pair of sandals.

“Warm weather must-haves,” Peter said.

“Nice,” I said politely. Then I caught a glimpse of the price tag and I gasped.

“Too much? Okay, let’s see what else I have for you.”

I tried to be patient as he flipped open box after box, but I knew I wasn’t going to buy a single shoe, no “caged” booties and no ankle-tie stilettos and definitely no wooden wedge with a Mary Jane strap. Nothing from this guy no matter how much I loved them or how good a deal they were.

“Sorry, Peter, with my bad ankle I can’t wear any of these gorgeous shoes until I recover. Besides, I’m not in the same league with the customers here. I’m a working girl.”

“Got it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m leaving them here with you and Dolce on spec. If you sell them, you get the usual fifteen percent. So get out there and hustle,” he said with a toothy grin. “When you’re up to it, I mean.”

My cell phone rang and I expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He picked up the same magazine I’d been reading and stood there leafing through it while I answered the phone. Even though I shot him a get-lost look, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Ms. Jewel? This is Jonathan Rhodes.”

I spun around in Dolce’s office chair so fast I almost fell on the floor.

“Dr. Rhodes, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks. Calling to see how you’re doing. Taking it easy, I hope.”

“Oh, absolutely. Actually I had to come in to work, but I have a desk job for today with my foot elevated and an ice pack on my ankle.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Not too much pain?”

“I’m managing,” I said bravely.

“Good girl. I’m actually calling on a personal matter.”

A personal matter? My heart pounded and I reached for my water bottle to soothe my dry throat. What did that mean?

“One of my patients plays in a trio at the Cafe Henri—it’s a little French bistro kind of place.”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said. What I’d heard from customers was that it was small, elegant, pricey and a place I could never afford to go to. I gripped my phone tightly, still breathless from the shock of having my Greek god doctor actually call me. I wondered what was coming next. Maybe instructions to change my bandage. No, he said it was personal. Maybe he wanted me to pick out something for his mother’s birthday from our jewelry collection.

“I promised Daniel I’d go hear him play this weekend,” he said. “I wondered if you’d like to go with me Sunday night. If you like jazz and French food, that is.”

“I love jazz and all kinds of food,” I said. “And I’d love to go.” A date. An actual date with an eligible professional man. If I’d had two good ankles, I would have stood up and shouted it to the skies. I wanted to phone Aunt Grace. I had to tell Dolce first.

Dr. Rhodes, Jonathan that is, said he wouldn’t be at the hospital on Wednesday for my follow-up appointment, but he took my address and said he’d pick me up at seven on Sunday.

After I hung up, I sat there staring at the wall in a state of semishock. Unlike my so-called lunch date today where Detective Wall was no doubt going to soften me up then try to find out who killed MarySue, this was a real date. With no hidden agenda as far as I knew. My first date in a whole year. It had nothing to do with shoes, murder or anything. Except for the fact that because of the shoes, I’d gone to MarySue’s that night, then fallen off the ladder, then was taken to the ER. If not for those events, I’d be sitting at home on Sunday night as usual. So though I was sorry MarySue had stolen the shoes, and sorry I had a sprained ankle, and sorry MarySue had been murdered in the park, I was glad I hadn’t broken my neck when I fell off the ladder and even happier that I’d met Dr. Rhodes. What would those two chatty nurses say if they knew?

I couldn’t wait to tell Dolce. When I swiveled around, I realized Peter had finally left. The stack of shoes and the issue of Vogue he’d been looking at were gone too. Couldn’t he buy his own magazine?

I hobbled to the door and waved to Dolce, who was artfully tying a silk scarf around the neck of a customer. A few minutes later, she entered the office.

“Dolce, you won’t believe who just called and asked me out.”

“Jim Jensen?” she asked.

My eyes widened. “Jim? You don’t think . . . I mean, MarySue is barely cold in her grave, if she’s even in her grave yet. He couldn’t possibly be . . .” The idea of dating Jim Jensen whether he was a wife-murderer or not made me a little nauseous.

“Of course not,” she said soothingly. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that I can’t help thinking about him. And wondering . . .”

“If he killed her?” I said.

She didn’t say anything, just stared off in space for a long moment. Then she said, “I don’t know if you heard MarySue say that Jim would kill her if he found out she’d bought the shoes.”

I nodded. “But people say things like that all the time.”

“And sometimes they mean it.”

“Should I tell the detective?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” Dolce said. “I do know withholding evidence is a crime.”

I shivered, picturing myself in the county jail awaiting trial, missing my date . . . I had to tell the detective what I’d heard. It was just crazy not to. If Jim killed his wife, it was better to find out as soon as possible.

“Dolce, my doctor just called me.”

“Is it bad news?” she asked, leaning down to grasp my hand, mistaking my trembling voice for fear instead of excitement.

“No, no, he asked me out on a date. Is that . . . I mean is that in violation of some kind of code? I don’t know.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Where else would doctors meet women if not in their clinics?”

“I thought maybe in med school.”