“It’s vibrant and eye-catching,” I said, blinking rapidly, “but . . .”
“A little too vibrant,” she said, reading my mind like a true fashion consultant would. “Absolutely right.” She immediately whisked the skirt back on the rack. Next up: a long skirt in creamy cognac. She held it up to my waist and stood staring at it before she snatched it away.
“Too utilitarian,” she decided. I had to agree. Not just because she was my boss, but the skirt just didn’t do anything for me. Finally we settled on a gray silk number with splashes of crimson handkerchief panels. I liked the way it swooshed around my calves. With a tight gray sleeveless sweater for balance against the gauzy skirt, I finally felt good about my selection. So did Dolce. She sat back on the padded bench in the middle of the room and looked me up and down.
“Ah, to be young again,” she said. “I had a skirt like that once. I wore it to a wedding.” She gazed off in the distance lost in her memory. What would I be doing at her age, I wondered. Would I be living alone above a shop somewhere, dressing others for parties and concerts I wasn’t invited to? Would I stay home and worry about my customers not paying their bills? Or would I marry a doctor, a gymnast or a police detective, retire and join the ladies who lunch and shop? I was too goal oriented to while away my days that way. Maybe I could do volunteer work feeding the poor like Detective Wall did. Or maybe I’d have a few children. I’d send them to an alternate school where they’d learn cooperation instead of competition. They’d be artistic and imaginative instead of driven by money and financial success. Since living the good life in San Francisco can be expensive, maybe a jolt of ambition was not altogether a bad thing. I pictured myself dressing the little darlings up and taking them to brunch on Sunday to the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel where they’d behave perfectly and display good manners.
I was still daydreaming when Dolce jerked me back to the present where although I was well dressed, I was still relatively poor and definitely single. She reminded me I was not completely dressed for Sunday. Not yet. “All you need is a tailored blazer and you’re good to go.”
“I have a few of those,” I said. Actually I had about ten in different colors and fabrics. “But what about shoes?”
“I guess you’re not ready for a pair of sling backs.” She looked at my bare feet and my still slightly swollen ankle. “Or I have a low-heeled Chloe sandal that would be perfect with that skirt.”
“Afraid not,” I said sadly. “I can’t wear any kind of heel yet, even a low one. Doctor’s orders.”
“I know!” she said and dashed off to the shoe department in the small alcove next to the accessories. She came back with a flat Alexandre Birman sandal. I knew how expensive they were, but Dolce told me not to worry. She could discount them seeing as they were from last spring’s collection. They fit perfectly, and even though they were decidedly functional, they were stylish too.
“Now,” Dolce said, “you’ll need to have your hair done along with a pedicure and manicure. What about Harrington’s sister Marsha? Isn’t she a stylist at the Bella Noche in North Beach?”
“But it’s Saturday, she’ll be booked, won’t she?” She’d also be expensive. Nervous about so many purchases, I was thinking of stopping at one of those discount places on my way home for a blow-dry.
“I’ll give her a call. And don’t worry about the cost. It’s my present to you.”
My eyes filled with grateful tears. “Dolce, how can I thank you?” I was truly touched but also worried. Sales were down, I knew that. Could Dolce really afford to be so generous? It worried me she hadn’t had her car repaired or just bought a new one.
She brushed her hands together as if it was all in a day’s work and she had no cares to keep her awake at night. “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “I couldn’t be happier about these opportunities you’re having if you were my own daughter. So let me indulge myself. It’s what my great-aunt, Lauren, did for me when I was your age. I wish she could be here now.” Dolce paused and looked around the shop. I swear she too had tears in her eyes. Would her great-aunt be pleased with what she’d done with her house? Or would she have wanted it kept completely the way she left it? What would she say if she knew her great niece was involved in a murder case? What would she say if she knew a customer had stiffed Dolce? Not to mention the loss of her car.
“Just remember all the details. Tell me everything. The food, the music, the atmosphere. The other diners. And your date of course. Now I’m going to get you an appointment with Marsha or someone.”
It turned out she did get me an appointment with Harrington’s sister. Why she was available on a busy Saturday afternoon I have no idea. I hoped it wasn’t because she wasn’t any good.
The salon was in trendy Noe Valley, not North Beach, and of course Dolce insisted I take a cab and take the rest of the day off. The minute I stepped inside Bella Noche, I felt a sense of peace and tranquility. It might have been the sand-colored hardwood floors and matching walls that made me feel like I was spending a day at the beach. Or maybe it was the New Age music coming from everywhere and nowhere. I didn’t see Marsha at first. Her assistant gave me a cup of comforting herbal tea, then a stress-relieving scalp massage that left me as limp as a wet noodle.
I was so relaxed I forgot completely about MarySue, Jim Jensen or anyone connected with the murder. Even the dashing cop who might or might not still suspect me of having a hand in the homicide. When the color consultant came along and asked if I saw myself as a sleek redhead, a tousled brunette or a sun-streaked blond, I was thrown into confusion.
“Leave it to me,” she said. So I did. Where was Marsha? I didn’t need to worry. She came for the final round. Apparently she was at the highest level a stylist can be—she was only there to put the finishing touches: the cut and shaping and the final blow-dry.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said. “You are going to look fabulous when we get through with you.”
Did that mean I was not at all fabulous before I came in? I wondered if she thought I was the biggest challenge she’d ever met. No, of course not. And yet the day I’d met her at the shop she did give me a certain look that bordered on pity. Or maybe it was just that she was dying to get her hands on me for the transformation. If so, I thought, go for it, Marsha. So far I’d been massaged, washed, dried, colored and now this. While she ran her hands through my hair, she called for a manicurist and pedicurist to work on my nails. I didn’t remember asking for them, but apparently that’s what Dolce ordered, so I sat back in the padded chair and let it all happen.
“I see you and your brother are both artistic,” I said, watching Marsha work her magic on my newly streaked golden brown hair.
“That’s right. He’s my idol. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. He paid for me to go to cosmetology school, then he got me an internship with Mr. Rene in Beverly Hills after my training with Vidal. He’s always been my guardian angel. Fortunately for me, since our father wasn’t around and our mother had to work two jobs. Harrington swore when he grew up he’d get me anything I wanted—clothes, jewelry, shoes, whatever. If he had to make it himself. Which he does. All I have to say is ‘I like that dress,’ or ‘I love those shoes’ and presto, he figures out a way to make them or somehow get them for me.”
I wondered if one way to get a pair of shoes was to steal them. Not that Harrington seemed like a thief or anything. I just wondered. I wished I could forget the shoes for a few hours. But even now, having a luxury beauty treatment, the MarySue murder was on my mind.
“I suppose you had a lot of business right before that big benefit the other night,” I said, still watching Marsha in the mirror.
“Oh yeah. Lots of women coming in at the last minute. It was a scene all right. We were open until seven. I was exhausted. I went home and collapsed.”
So she wasn’t at the Benefit. But was Harrington? “What about your brother?” I asked trying to sound like I was just making polite conversation. I hardly knew what polite conversation was anymore. Everything I said, every question I asked anyone was designed to elicit some information. Unfortunately it didn’t always work out.
“He’s amazing,” she said proudly.
There you go. I didn’t want to know how amazing he was, I wanted to know if he’d been at the park that night. The night MarySue was murdered for her shoes.
“Everyone says the shows he puts on at the high school are just as good as Broadway,” I said.
“That’s true,” she said as she heated her curling iron for the final touches. “Especially the costumes and the sets. They’re all his designs. All his work. Someday he will be directing plays on Broadway. I’m telling you, he’s that good. He’s wasted on that school. They don’t appreciate him.” With her curling iron in hand, she curled a few more strands around my face, then she stepped back and gave me a critical look from every angle.
“How do you like it?” Marsha asked, swiveling my chair around so I could get a full-front view of my new hairstyle. I gasped in surprise. I looked completely different. My hair was lighter, shorter, fuller and much more stylish. Did I look better? Marsha thought so. I hoped Dr. Jonathan would agree with her. When my nails were
