“Just a dinner date,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t want anyone at the clinic to find out I had a date with Dr. Jonathan. For all I knew, he was dating all the nurses at the hospital at the same time. Although if he was, why not take one of them to the cafe? “It’s Sunday, so I don’t want to go overboard and be overdressed.”
“If I were you, I’d go with a filmy skirt. I don’t know about you, but I’m so tired of stiff structured dresses.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Filmy it is. What do you think of the long look?”
“I like it, as long as you don’t look like you just stepped out of
“And flats?” I had to be sure she was getting the same picture I was. “Are you sure?”
She stared at me for a long moment, then she nodded. “If it weren’t for your sprain, I’d tell you to wear an ankle-strap sandal with . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a peekaboo toe. That would be stunning. But I’m a nurse, not a fashion consultant,” she said with a rueful smile.
“It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “I
“It’s not Dolce’s, is it?”
Surprised, I asked, “Have you been there?”
“They have the most fabulous stuff. But it’s so expensive. You probably get a big discount.”
I nodded. “It’s a great place to work. Usually,” I added, thinking of MarySue stealing the silver shoes and my run-in with her husband.
“I love what you’re wearing right now,” she said. “It’s so out there.”
“Thank you.” How often does a nurse notice what the patient is wearing? I noticed that under her white lab coat Verity was wearing a tunic and a pair of chic black leggings. I wanted to ask where she got them but thought that maybe it wasn’t polite under the circumstances. What I did say was, “I love your braids. They’re so Mary Kate.” It was true. Her blond braids were wound tight at the crown and slightly loose at the side with tendrils to soften the look. “I wish I had long enough hair for braids.”
“They’re not real,” she said. “They’re extensions.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
There was a knock on the door, and someone said her next patient was waiting in the next room.
“Good luck,” she said as she left the room. “Stay off the ankle and I hope you have a great time Sunday.”
I didn’t mention that I couldn’t stay off my ankle if I was going to a funeral that afternoon. Just mentioning a funeral seemed like a downer, and I didn’t want to explain how and why and who died.
Dolce and I closed the shop at two and hung a sign in the window, “Closed for the Jensen Funeral.” I didn’t tell Dolce that Jim had warned me not to show up. What was he going to do when he saw me there? Toss me out? Dolce had enough to worry about without thinking about my confrontation with Jim.
She drove us in her rented Mercedes to the funeral parlor in the town of Colma, which advertises itself as the town with “fifteen hundred people above ground and one point million underground.” It is truly the cemetery capital of California, maybe the whole world.
We were nervous about viewing MarySue in her open coffin, not knowing what she’d be wearing. Everyone would assume we’d dressed her, but we hadn’t even been asked for our suggestions. That hurt. We should have been consulted. Under normal circumstances, we would have been. But these circumstances were definitely not normal.
“The coffin is stunning,” Peter Butinski said when we ran into him just inside the viewing area. “It’s a handmade mahogany box with a silk embroidered lining. Nothing but the best for MarySue as usual.”
“I didn’t know you knew her,” Dolce said.
“You didn’t? I know everyone in town and everyone knows me. Everyone who cares about footwear, that is.”
“So is she wearing anything on her feet?” I asked.
Peter shook his head. “Not that I know of. I would hope I would know if she was. After all. You two will notice her outfit.” He covered his mouth as if to hide a smile or a sneer. “I’m anxious to hear what you think of it.”
“Who dressed her?” Dolce asked. “It wasn’t us.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Who do you think did?”
“Was it Patti?” I guessed. “Or Jim?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s too late now.”
“Too late for what?” I asked Dolce in a sotto voce as we approached the coffin.
“Too late to change her clothes, I guess.”
I couldn’t remember ever seeing a dead person before, so I didn’t know what to expect. What Dolce and I both expected was that she’d be wearing something from the shop. Or at least something suitable for a woman who cared deeply about fashion. Unless Jim was so angry with us and with his wife that he’d deliberately chosen something else.
Whoever picked out her outfit did so to shock us—and not just us. Dolce and I stood staring at the pin-striped suede and denim jacket she was wearing. Something you might wear to hang out with your BFF on Friday night, barhopping in the Mission. But not to your funeral. Since we could see only the top half of her body, we had no way of knowing what else she was wearing. Hopefully a pair of slouchy trousers with a low waistline, which would either offset the jacket or make a strong statement like “I’m dead and I’ll wear whatever I want.”
“Is it Tory Burch?” I muttered to Dolce.
“Or Agatha?” she asked.
I was just as eager as Dolce to identify the designer of her jacket. I stifled a desire to try to find the label under her collar. I have to say I was more than a little surprised to see something like this obviously one-of-a-kind item, but not disappointed. It was a bold choice, not what I would have chosen, but it wasn’t my funeral. I could only hope it was what MarySue would have appreciated. After all, it was her last chance to make a splash. To show everyone she was a fashion original. To start a buzz before she was laid to rest.
On the whole she looked good. Her face was skillfully made up. Not overdone, just the right amount of foundation and blush. She was wearing a matte red lipstick, and her brows were artfully defined. Whoever was responsible should be congratulated. Her hair was swept into a soft, feminine updo, which had been gently and stylishly disheveled by someone’s skillful fingers. Marsha’s?
An ordinary person might have worn something in allseason wool jersey to her own funeral seeing as it was a transitional time between summer and fall. But MarySue had never been ordinary as much as Patti or Jim wanted her to be.
“Where did she get that jacket?” I whispered to Dolce.
“No idea,” she muttered. “Why didn’t she wear the Juicy Couture cashmere top she liked so much?” I could tell Dolce was upset that MarySue wasn’t wearing one of the many outfits she’d bought at our boutique. Any of which would have been more appropriate than this jacket. “Or her black Alexander McQueen cape? Now that would have stood out from all the other bodies. It would have said, ‘I’m not afraid to be myself. I can make a statement.’”
“Dead or alive,” I murmured. “I was hoping to see her in something understated. Or what about the black Versace gown she bought for the Spring Gala?”
Dolce shook her head. “Not really funereal, Rita, but it would have been better than what she’s wearing. Anything would. I just don’t get it,” she said sadly.
“It’s because she didn’t get to choose her clothes,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I just wondered who did. “I heard the Jackson family all wore Versace to Michael’s funeral. Too bad the Jensens didn’t coordinate their clothes that way. In honor of MarySue who would certainly have appreciated it.” I surveyed the room. Jim Jensen was surrounded by friends. He looked properly serious. What did he think of the denim jacket? Was he the one who chose it as a rebuke to his wife for overspending on her wardrobe? I wouldn’t put it past him. I only hoped he wouldn’t explode with anger when he saw me. I planned to sit in the back row where I wouldn’t be noticeable. “Maybe it was Patti,” I suggested. Knowing that the two weren’t close, I would suspect Patti of choosing something totally off the wall for her sister-in-law.
