Giants and might be looking for someone to fill the seat next to him. Even though baseball was not part of my heritage, I was always open to new experiences. And tasty new food choices. I’d read in the newspaper the ballpark now offered Caribbean cha-cha bowls and tropical drinks as well as crab cocktails and grilled crab sandwiches. All that along with the traditional popcorn and hot dogs. I was willing to sit through a lot of baseball if it meant sitting next to Jonathan fortified with a cha-cha bowl or two. My mouth watered. I’d been so busy I hadn’t eaten lunch and now I was weak with hunger. All the better to appreciate some French food.
“We didn’t have a baseball team back in Columbus.” At least I hoped we didn’t or I’d look like an idiot.
“What about the Columbus Clippers?” he asked.
“The Clippers,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What a season they’ve had, right?” I figured whether it was a good season or a bad one, it had to have been one or the other.
“Sometimes minor league ball can be just as exciting as the big show,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said as we walked out of the house. How did a doctor have time to surf, follow baseball and shop for the latest in men’s fashions? I had to remember to read the sports section of the newspaper before my next date with Jonathan if there was one. With Nick I didn’t have to bother. His sport was gymnastics and I wasn’t expected to know anything about it. As for Detective Wall, all he wanted me to talk about was murder. No sports, just homicide.
I commented on Jonathan’s car, and he said he’d always wanted a Carrera. “The Turbo is a little wider and a little lower, but I went with the nine-eleven.”
“Good choice,” I murmured as the engine purred. Another good choice was Cafe Henri. I’d looked it up and read a review that said it was “an unpretentious neighborhood meeting place.” What it didn’t say was how terribly charming and French the restaurant was with its cozy banquettes for seating inside and its outdoor heated patio.
On a blackboard the specials were listed along with the standard onion soup gratinee, coq au vin in red wine sauce, croque monsieur and salade nicoise. A small sign advertised the Daniel Ortega Trio.
I wondered if Jonathan would take it upon himself to order for me as had Detective Wall. Was this the San Francisco way? Was I supposed to take the initiative and tell my date what I wanted? Or wait to be asked? Or just let them order for both of us?
What happened was our waiter suggested we order a leg of lamb with a robust Cote du Rhone wine. “It’s been cooked for seven hours,” he said. “Tender, succulent and delicious. And it comes with potatoes dauphinoise.”
I should have eaten something before I came because I was now light-headed with hunger and anticipation. I slipped off my blazer, and when Jonathan asked me how I’d spent the day, I could hardly say I’d given myself two facials and had been interrogated once again by a detective because I was suspected of murder or at least of aiding and abetting a murderer. No matter what I’d done how could it compare with healing the sick and saving lives? I was sure he’d removed an appendix or two, delivered a baby and maybe even more—like admitting a vagrant with the DT’s, discharging a malingerer, anesthetizing a pre-op, stitching up a knife wound . . . all while I was having a mud bath. Instead I said I’d spent some time in my garden hoping it sounded like I was the thoughtful, contemplative type who spends her Sundays in the fresh air gazing out through the trees toward the waters of the Bay and thinking deep thoughts about land preservation, the urban landscape and fighting toxic substances.
It was almost a relief when Jonathan brought up the subject of MarySue’s demise. Otherwise the murder would have hung over our date like a dark cloud. “I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Jonathan said when the waiter brought our dinner salads. “But the police came to the hospital to ask about you.” He leaned forward in case I wanted to confide in him that I was the high-society murderer. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Some people find homicide exciting and sexy. But that wasn’t why he invited me here, was it?
“Really?” I said, feigning surprise. “Maybe it’s because that was one of our customers at the boutique where I work who was murdered the same night I was brought in to the hospital.”
“But what does that have to do with you?” he asked after he speared a stalk of white asparagus with his fork. “It was Saturday night. The place is full of victims. Gunshot wounds, hit-and-run, smoke inhalation from house fires, gang warfare. You name it, we’ve got it. Don’t tell me the cops are blaming you for an unrelated homicide.”
“Oh, no,” I said lightly as if I wasn’t worried about it. Nothing like being accused of murder to spoil a date with a doctor. “They’re just asking everyone who was on the scene that night if they know anything.”
“In any case, I assured them whatever it is they’re investigating couldn’t have anything to do with you,” he said. “Although . . .”
I stiffened. Now what?
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
But I was worried.
“According to our records, I didn’t see you until four in the morning,” he said.
“Yes but I arrived at the hospital way before that. At least that’s what the nurse said. She said I had to wait my turn in the hall because my injuries weren’t as serious as some of the others, like the gunshot wounds you mentioned.”
“Did you notice what time you actually did arrive?” he asked. “That would help.”
“I was unconscious,” I said. “So how could I? There must be a record on my chart.”
“There should be, but sometimes on a Saturday night things fall through the cracks. Probably just a clerical error,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. What possible reason would you have to kill someone?”
“Exactly,” I said. I was glad that he knew nothing about the shoes. Even gladder he never asked about my fall from the ladder that had led to my concussion and sprained ankle.
He gave me a reassuring smile. He had a great smile. Dazzling white teeth offset by a tanned face. The kind of smile that made you warm inside. The kind of smile you couldn’t help returning. I was able to forget MarySue and everyone connected to her demise once the food came. The lamb was every bit as tender and delicious as the waiter had said, and the creamy, cheesy potatoes were a perfect complement to it. The restaurant filled up, but the tables were placed in a way that everyone had a private dining experience. We continued to sip the wine and talk about how much we liked living in the City by the Bay—the cool climate, the stupendous views of the water, the hills and the stimulating people who lived here.
We ordered profiteroles for dessert and coffee. I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, which was just as awesome as I’d expected. The Zen atmosphere of calm and quiet, the designer fixtures, the music, the warm towels, it was all there. There were even original French paintings on the wall. I was just about to leave the stall when someone else came in and I glanced over at the feet next to mine. I almost fainted. The woman was wearing the very same silver stilettos I’d last seen the day MarySue ripped them out of my hand. I froze. I told myself I was hallucinating. Or I’d had too much wine. My head was spinning. I tried to speak, but my mouth was too dry. For one crazy moment I thought MarySue had come back to life to haunt me. I bent down for a better look and everything went black for a moment.
I was so dizzy I had to sit down again. I knew if I had another concussion I wouldn’t have far to go to find a doctor. Or maybe it was a hangover from my last concussion. Finally I stood and unlocked the door with trembling fingers. The woman in the shoes was standing at the sink.
I coughed. I choked. I reached out as if to grab her. She breezed out of the bathroom so fast she left a trail of scent in her wake. It was familiar, but I couldn’t decide what it was. There was a hint of musk, vanilla and spice. Was it Chanel?
I washed my hands and raced out of the bathroom. But she was gone. Almost like the day MarySue rushed out of the shop with the shoes in her hand. Just like then, I’d waited too long once again. I walked slowly away from the restrooms, looking right and left. What I couldn’t do was crawl on the floor to observe everyone’s shoes. It was maddening and frustrating. The shoe thief and presumed murderer was right here in this restaurant. So it was a woman. Unless it was a man who stole the shoes to give to a woman. Could Jim Jensen have given them to his girlfriend? No one had said he had a girlfriend, but maybe Detective Wall should look into it. I circled the restaurant before I went back to our table, but I didn’t see anyone I knew or anyone who looked like they were wearing silver shoes.
I took several deep breaths before I joined Jonathan at the table. I tried to act like nothing had happened, but Jonathan, being in the medical field, noticed.
“Are you all right?” he asked, looking at me closely.
