Some do wear costumes, but only to get to the spirit, you understand. What is your liking, Friday or Saturday night? It begins at eight and ends at ten.”
“Saturday would be fine,” I said.
“I will tell my aunt. She is looking forward to your meeting her. I told her of how we met at the airport, of course. And how you dropped your shoes.”
“She knows about the silver shoes?” I asked. By now I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone I knew had either seen the shoes, wanted the shoes, stolen the shoes, sold the shoes or worn the shoes. Maybe she was the one who took them. Maybe she was the one who was wearing them at the restaurant. If it was her, I was impressed at how fast a one-hundred-twenty-seven-year-old could dash through a restaurant.
“She knows about many things,” he said.
“Because of her age,” I said. “Do you know what kind of perfume she wears?”
“No,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“I am sorry to leave like this,” Nick said, looking at his vintage Orex watch, “but I must attend schedule meeting. And after the meeting I have a, how do you say? A previous commitment.”
Hmmm. Maybe the previous commitment was a date with the au pair. “Thanks for letting me observe,” I said. “It was very interesting.”
He stood and walked me to the door. “Until Saturday then. It will be so pleasant for me, and my aunt is the same. After the tour we will taste some Romanian food and drink together.”
I stood at the bus stop feeling glad I’d made the effort to come out here and watch a class. I’d learned I wasn’t the only woman in Nick’s life. Which made me wonder what my competition was in Jack’s life or my doctor’s? So what should I do? Take a class from Nick? Return to kung fu? Do nothing? What I was sure of was that I was looking forward to the vampire tour. Even if I learned nothing about the lost shoes or came any closer to finding out who killed MarySue, I would enjoy hearing more about the history of San Francisco and how vampires had supposedly participated in shaping the city. All that from a self-professed vampire guide who’d been around a long, long time. Maybe not one hundred years, but still quite a while. For once I’d like to go out and have a good time without thinking about MarySue, Jim Jensen, Peter Butinski or Harrington Harris. Nick knew nothing about MarySue Jensen and I was glad. I had hit a dead end trying to find out who’d killed her. I wanted to forget about her, her husband and her probable killer whoever he or she might be.
But I couldn’t forget Harrington. The next day Dolce told me we’d been invited to see the dress rehearsal at the high school of
“Already? Didn’t school just start this week?” I said.
“I can’t keep track,” Dolce said. “But apparently he’s been rehearsing it all summer. He’s certainly been talking about it all summer. No rest for the wicked, according to him. Even so, it’s bound to be terrible. He said so himself. But he’s invited all our customers. How would it look if we didn’t go?”
“You’re right,” I said. “We’re just one big happy family, aren’t we?”
Dolce gave me an approving smile. I was glad she didn’t think I was being sarcastic.
On Friday night Dolce said she’d take us to the play in her rental Range Rover, which was so unlike her. She explained she had to turn in the Mercedes and take the cheapest car in the lot. Maybe she was afraid I’d bolt if she didn’t make sure I went with her. But first we went across the street from the boutique to the upscale trendy bar, which was filled with Yuppies on a Friday night, what else? Dolce said she couldn’t face an amateur production without a drink first, and Aberration was well-known for the mixologist behind the bar.
His reputation was well-deserved. I ordered a Galapagos made with lemon and lime and even a splash of grapefruit juice, and Dolce ordered a wanderlust, a kind of super martini with organic vodka.
“You should come here more often,” Dolce told me, looking around at the crowd of young professionals. “Good place to meet men.”
I nodded. But what would I do with any more men? “Actually I have another date tomorrow.”
“With the doctor?” she asked.
“With Nick the gymnast. We’re going on a vampire tour of the city. It’s led by his aunt. He says she claims to be a vampire herself.”
“Rita, you don’t believe in vampires, do you?” she asked with a frown.
“Of course not,” I said. Why did everyone keep asking me that? Not even Nick believed his aunt was for real. “But I am interested in history. And since I minored in Romanian in college I will be interested to hear what she has to say about Vlad the Impaler who may or may not have been the real Count Dracula.”
When we got to the high school, I think both Dolce and I wished we hadn’t forfeited an evening of ordering drinks and munching barbecued wonton, meatballs or shrimp cocktail at the bar to come see a bunch of high school kids jump around on stage singing and dancing.
Just a glance around the little theatre told us the place was full of the parents of the actors and a smattering of Dolce’s customers Harrington had conned into coming. “What I won’t do for my clients,” Dolce murmured. Even though I didn’t need to remind her that Harrington was hardly a good customer. Harrington met us in the lobby with our tickets. For some reason he was dressed in seventies’ disco style—a bold-patterned polyester shirt that fit tightly across his chest and a pair of wide-leg pants—even though the play was set in the sixties. Close enough, I guessed. He was greeting parents and friends alike as if he were the star of the musical himself. He was the center of attention, gladhanding the adults in the lobby as if he was Stephen Sondheim at the opening of
His sister Marsha came up and studied my hair and my outfit. I wasn’t sure if she appreciated the combination of my print dress and brown lace-up boots, which were a vintage tribute to the character of Elaine on
“How was your date?” Marsha asked. Not a word about my clothes. I refused to let it bother me.
“Wonderful. Thanks to you, I didn’t have to worry about my hair for a minute.”
“Where did you go?”
“We had dinner at a little French place. Great food, and a jazz trio played after dinner.”
“Really? It wasn’t Cafe Henri, was it?”
I stared at her. “Have you been there?” Had she seen the woman in the silver shoes?
She nodded. “Sunday night. It was my birthday. You should see what my brother gave me before we went to dinner. A pair of shoes to die for. He made them himself, but you’d never know. They look like they came from Italy or someplace. The man is a genius. Well, I’d better go get a seat up front. Harrington wants my take on his costumes. I know they’ll be fabulous, but I’m taking notes for him.” She waved a small notepad and left the lobby while I stood there staring with my mouth open.
Handmade shoes? I wondered. Would those shoes have been a pair of silver stilettos? And if so, did she really believe her brother made them? I knew he was clever, but really. Wasn’t it more likely he stole them from MarySue and gave them to his sister? I should have paid attention to her perfume. I thought if I ever smelled that musky scent again, I’d know it. But now I wasn’t so sure.
I almost followed Marsha into the theatre so I could sit behind her and get a whiff of her scent, if she was even wearing any. And then what? Ask her about the shoes? If she had been wearing the stolen silver stilettos, she’d never admit it. She was convinced her brother had made those shoes himself. Maybe he had. Maybe I was the one who was crazy. By the time I’d made up my mind to confront her, it was too late. As usual. This was the story of my life these days. When would I learn to act fast and decisively? When my ankle healed? Or never?
“Are you okay, Rita?” Dolce asked when she caught up with me. “You look like you’ve had a relapse. Maybe you’re not quite recovered from your accident.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. But sometimes I do get a funny feeling.” Like when I thought about a pair of missing silver shoes. Like when I thought about how they kept slipping away from me. Like when I kept missing opportunities to snatch them back. I rubbed my forehead and wondered how soon we could leave. The music was terrible and the dancing even worse. And don’t get me started about the acting. Dolce suggested we go at intermission. If we could hold out that long. It occurred to me that it was actually convenient to have an injury like mine. I could blame it for just about anything, like inattention or fear of being arrested, fear of customers or their next of kin, fear of getting caught lying or looking guilty or fatigue or saying the wrong thing. I’d already used it as an excuse to avoid difficult
