Shoe Done It

she was a common criminal. Now they’re gone and they were all I had to remember her by.” He buried his head in his hands and he started shaking all over. It even sounded like he was sobbing. Was he really upset or faking it for my benefit?

“But she said . . .”

“What?” he said, jumping up from his chair. “What did she say?”

She said you’d kill her. “I . . . I’m not sure,” I stammered. “Something about being afraid of something. I can’t remember.”

“The only thing you need to remember is this: I’ll get even with you, Rita. You can’t pin my wife’s murder on me and get away with it.” He stood up and glared at me. “One more thing. You are not welcome at her funeral.” Then he stomped out of the great room all the way to the front door, which he slammed behind him.

Suddenly the room was so quiet I could hear my heart pounding. What would happen next? Would Detective Ramirez come back to my house and arrest me based on Jim Jensen’s crazy theories? Did Jim kill his wife or not? And if he didn’t, why had he put the house up for sale and then taken it off the market? Also, if he didn’t kill MarySue, who did?

All I had to remember her by. I grated my back teeth together. What crap. He had a closet full of clothes and shoes to remember MarySue by.

I heard my cab honk and I rushed out of the shop as fast as I could with my crutches and tote bag, locked the door behind me and collapsed in the backseat of the taxi.

As soon as I got home, I changed into a pair of jeans I had ripped and distressed myself with bleach, a piece of chalk and a penknife, and heated the zama for dinner. Fear and anxiety made me extra hungry, so even after that large lunch I was glad to have a ready-made green bean and chicken Romanian stew on hand. When I finished eating, I called Nick to thank him, but the receptionist at the gymnastics school said he was teaching a trampoline class, so I left a message. Then I put in a call to Detective Wall to tell him about Jim Jensen. I didn’t want him to think I was a whiny crybaby afraid of my own shadow, but I did think he should know Jim had threatened me. “I’ll get even with you,” he’d said. And I believed him.

I got the detective’s voice mail, so I left a brief message. I was just getting into bed in my organic knit pajamas that are as soft as an old T-shirt but more stylish, when Jack Wall called me back.

“Ms. Jewel,” he said. “What’s this about Jim Jensen?”

“It’s probably nothing, but I thought you should know. He came to the shop after we’d closed today and said he’d had a visit from the police. He thought I told you he killed his wife. Naturally he was angry. He said he’d get even with me.”

“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Detective Ramirez should have warned you he was on the warpath.”

“Maybe she shouldn’t have told him I’d fingered him. Or yes, she should have warned me. I was alone in the shop when he barged in. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe not. All I can say is that I was scared.” I certainly wouldn’t mind if Detective Ramirez got in trouble for sending Jim Jensen on the warpath. At first I was willing to give her the benefit of a doubt, but I didn’t think she deserved it. “Maybe your associate Ramirez wanted to scare me into confessing. Maybe she still thinks I killed MarySue.”

“Of course not,” Jack Wall assured me. “No one thinks that anymore. Except Jim Jensen.”

“But why? What possible motive would I have? I barely knew her. Sure, I wanted her to pay Dolce for the shoes, but her being dead wasn’t going to help matters. Another thing which I didn’t have a chance to tell Jim Jensen is that I wasn’t even there that night. Whoever killed her was at the Benefit. Do you have a guest list?”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “It will take time, but we are questioning all the guests.”

“Good,” I said. “Although that’s a lot of work and a waste of time if it was Jim all along. Any word on MarySue’s life insurance as to who’s the beneficiary?”

“As a matter of fact, we do have some information on that. Jim Jensen is the beneficiary. Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he cautioned. “Most married couples work it that way.”

“But still, isn’t that a good motive?” I asked eagerly. I’d love to see Jim behind bars and this whole mess put behind us.

“It could be,” he said.

“How much will he get?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”

“Enough to hold onto his house, I assume.”

“You are free to assume what you like, Rita,” he said. At least he called me Rita as if we were friends. “Now tell me, do you still feel threatened? Do you want me to send over some police protection?”

I pictured a cop sitting in his marked car in front of my house, scaring all the neighbors.

“No, I’m okay.” I hoped to get a little respect for bravery anyway. But who knew? Jack Wall was the type to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Next time Jim pays you a visit like that, give me a call right away. Or if you see anything suspicious. In the meantime, I have some pictures of Benefit guests you might know. I’d like your help in identifying them. I’ll give you a call sometime this week.”

I said good-bye and picked up my vampire book to soothe myself before turning out the light. The Gothic setting, the suspicious actions of the female vampire and her almost lifelike qualities were gripping but not soothing. I tossed and turned thinking about Detective Jack Wall. Then I got up and looked out my bedroom window. There on the street below a police car made its way slowly down the block, pausing in front of my house before it drove on. A patrol car sent to watch me? Or just a cop making his rounds? The whole neighborhood was eerily quiet. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt empty inside even after a big bowl of zama. I needed something to calm my nerves and my stomach. Something all-American and non-Romanian. Unfortunately I’m not much of a cook. But fortunately for me my next- door neighbor Mrs. Heldmyer had given me a jar of her homemade pickles and I knew I had a loaf of whole-grain bread in the freezer and a wedge of Vermont white sharp cheddar cheese I’d picked up at Whole Foods. I wrapped up in a fleece robe, went to the kitchen and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles in my countertop toaster oven. The combination of salty, sour pickles with the rich cheese and crisply toasted bread was delicious. Warm inside and out, I went back to bed and finally fell asleep.

The next few days were comparatively calm at the shop. When I told Dolce about Jim Jensen threatening me, she was horrified. She said we should hire a security guard, but I decided if Jim didn’t kill MarySue, then he was so overcome with grief that he was acting out his depression by lashing out at me and probably felt remorseful by now. I’d already told Detective Wall what I thought of Jim and his rage. And Ramirez was apparently on his case. Although I had a feeling she would prefer to implicate me and wouldn’t mind all that much if Jim attacked me either verbally or physically. I knew I wasn’t being fair. After all, Jim had just lost his wife and wasn’t himself. Anger is surely one of the seven stages of grief. I wasn’t sure what he was like before the murder, but I wasn’t all that fond of him now.

On Wednesday, I had my follow-up medical appointment. The good news was that it seemed neither Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou were on duty at the hospital that day. They must still be working nights. Even better news was that Verity, the nurse practitioner who saw me, said my ankle was healing beautifully.

“Can I wear high heels by Sunday?” I asked, thinking of my date with Dr. Jonathan.

She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Not even three inch?”

“Why? Big date?” she asked with a smile.

I nodded. But refrained from mentioning with whom.

“Not a good idea. Your ankle is still weak. I’d hate to see you take a tumble. Stick to flats. What about a simple Kenneth Cole in cracked leather?”

“Hmmm.” I had to admit it was a fresh idea and not a bad one.

“Metallics are in this fall. When your ankle heals, you can pick up a pair of silver heels that are perfect for a fun night out or even work.”

I felt a shiver go up my spine at the thought of the silver shoes and what they could lead to. I took a deep breath and continued. “The problem is, I don’t have an outfit yet.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, turning from her computer screen where she was updating my file to study my work ensemble—a striped jacket, a spotted skirt and a flowered shirt. I could tell by her expression she was well aware that mixed prints were definitely in and similar-patterned outfits were out.