questions. Yes, I could take the coward’s way out and hang on to this injury for a while.
During the first act, which was definitely still a work in progress, I shifted restlessly in my seat. I looked around for Marsha in the front row, but I never saw her. Finally Dolce and I slipped away at the break. We’d made an appearance and that’s what counted. I only hoped our customers noted that we supported the arts. I could still follow up on Marsha. All I had to do was make another hair appointment. She was expensive, and this time I’d have to pay for it myself, but if I could crack this mystery, it would be worth it.
Dolce drove me home, and I wrapped myself in a plush microfiber robe with matching slippers and sat alone in my living room with my foot up trying to put this shoe story together. If MarySue wore the shoes to the Benefit and turned up dead without shoes, how would Marsha have gotten them? Surely she wasn’t even at the Benefit. If Dolce was at the Benefit as the photos suggested, she might have taken the shoes, which really belonged to her anyway. But why didn’t she tell me? Because she killed MarySue?
If Jim Jensen killed his wife, then he possibly still had the shoes. Jim was holed up in his house while his heart healed. Which gave him a good excuse for hiding out. He was also angry, which may have brought about his heart attack if it wasn’t caused by the arrival of the shaman. Then there was Patti French, who was also annoyed with her sister-in-law and had reasons to want to get rid of her. Did she? I kicked myself, only mentally of course, for not pursuing Marsha tonight. Why hadn’t I just asked her, “Was that you in the bathroom wearing the silver shoes? And if so, what did you do with them?”
Saturday was a busy day at the shop, with lots of customers shopping for something to wear that night. What about me? Should I wear a costume as Nick had suggested others did on the vampire tour? Maybe just a black velvet dress, a cape and black boots. All of which I had in my closet. The important thing was the makeup. I’d powder my face white and wear lots of eye shadow.
Nick called me in the afternoon to make sure I was up to walking the streets of San Francisco. I assured him my ankle was feeling normal. He said he too would be wearing a black cape and he’d pick me up at seven thirty.
We parked in a lot on top of Nob Hill and joined his aunt and the group on the corner of Taylor and California Streets across the street from Grace Cathedral, the historic towering gothic church perched atop the hill.
Nick’s aunt, Meera, said she was delighted to meet me after she’d heard so much about me. She spoke with a definite all-European accent, which could have been real . . . or not. She wore a flowing black dress and carried a battery-operated candelabra and led Nick, me and about ten others on a brisk walking tour of Nob Hill where the gold rush barons like Leland Stanford, James Flood and Mark Hopkins built their mansions in the nineteenth century.
“I’ve been here since 1857,” Meera told us.
What? I was sure Nick said she was one hundred twenty-seven. But maybe even vampires lie about their age. Or maybe math was not her strong suit. I looked around the group, assembled in a circle in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, built on the site of the railroad magnate’s mansion which was completed in 1878 after his death, but destroyed in the fire which followed the ’06 earthquake. There I saw definite signs of amusement and even some plain disbelief on a few faces. Meera must get disbelievers on her tours all the time. She must be used to them. She certainly didn’t look the least bit chagrined. In fact, she looked just about as charged up as the batteries on her candelabra.
Before anyone could question our tour leader, Meera continued. “I became a vampire in Romania, my home country and home to others more famous than myself—Vlad the Impaler and Count Dracula. The count was jealous of my power, and he’s responsible for my becoming a vampress and for banishing me around the world to California. Of course, I was unwilling to go so far from home and family, but it turned out to be a good move for me. I arrived by ship in San Francisco, but at the time the action was all in the goldfields, so it was overland for me to the mother lode country. Long story short, since the late nineties—that’s the 1890s—I’ve lived under and on the streets of this great city. Until recently, when I moved to the suburbs. Of all the neighborhoods, Nob Hill, one of the original seven hills, is my favorite. When I retire, I intend to move back here.” She waved her arm toward the houses nestled between high-rises. “It has the best views and the biggest mansions. I’ve seen a lot of history made here. Felt the aught-six earthquake. Escaped the fire. Saved a few lives. And met a lot of interesting people.”
“But Count Dracula, he’s not real is he? Isn’t he just a character in a book?” a woman asked.
Meera shot her a stern look. “Romanians have many legends and stories, most based on true persons and facts. We have many counts, princes and kings. Only a Romanian knows for sure who is for real and who is not. It is not for me to spread rumors if I want to return to my country.”
The questioner still looked dubious. I thought I’d better keep my mouth shut even if I had a few questions. That is if I wanted to stay on our guide’s good side, not to mention the fact that I was the guest of her and her nephew.
“How does it feel to be so old?” someone asked. “Let’s see, you must be . . .”
“One hundred twenty-seven,” Meera said automatically as if she didn’t realize she had her dates off. “I feel fine. Never better. My job allows me to talk about myself and my country and the history of this city every Friday and Saturday night. I know, some of you think vampires don’t exist.” Here she gave a pointed look toward the woman who’d had the audacity to question her. “They’re only imaginary, mythical or literary, you may say. But here I am. A member of the undead, alive and in person.”
She smiled and her sharp pointed teeth gleamed in the light from her candelabra.
“How do you feel about living forever?” someone else asked after Meera’s remarks had settled in.
“It’s great. How can I complain? As long as I have my health, I couldn’t be happier. I get a front-row seat to history happening right before my eyes. I don’t fear death or old age. What can be wrong with that?”
I thought I knew what Jack Wall would say. “Sure, she wears black, looks pale and has her teeth capped, but come on, give me a break. Don’t you get it? She claims to have supernatural powers because she feels powerless. You don’t have to be a psychotherapist to see what’s going on here. She’s a fraud, a phony and she’s psycho.”
I didn’t let his unsaid words stop me from asking Meera a question.
“Do you ever get a chance to meet the recent undead, I mean those who have just crossed over?” I asked. I know it was crazy, but what was the harm in playing along with the woman? What if she knew something? Who was I to turn down any helpful information no matter who it came from? She looked confused. Maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right. Maybe she didn’t know who I meant. Maybe I should have waited until later to ask about a specific person, namely MarySue.
“We meet the new arrivals at orientation. So, yes, there’s a meet-and-greet every few months. Is there someone special . . . ?” she asked eagerly. “Someone rich and famous perhaps?”
“Not really,” I said. MarySue was richer than I was, but not rich enough to buy the kind of shoes she wanted. And famous? I’d have to say she was well-known in certain circles, but not really famous.
“She just died recently, and I have no reason to think she’s a vampire. Except I saw someone wearing her shoes the other night and I thought maybe . . .” I waited hopefully. Not that Meera was really a vampire, but she might know something. It was worth a try.
“Of course you thought she’d returned. Which is quite possible especially if the mourners looked back as they left the grave site. Is that what happened?”
I shrugged. How did I know?
“That way the body could easily find her way back, you see.”
I nodded, thought I really didn’t see.
“But I have to tell you the undead often come back in a different form than when they were alive,” Meera said. “And they usually wouldn’t be wearing the same shoes.”
I felt foolish for asking. Now everyone would think I was gullible enough to believe.
The next question was from a guy standing on the edge of the crowd. I wasn’t even sure he was with the tour.
“Do you drink blood?” he asked.
“Good question. Most vampires do not actually drink blood,” Meera said patiently. “We enjoy real food, mostly red meat but leafy green vegetables also.”
“Do you only come out at night?” a woman asked.
“Vampires typically have night jobs,” Meera said. “We find it difficult to adjust to daytime schedules. So we work as night watchmen, security guards, nurses, air-traffic controllers or funeral directors. Things like that.”
When she finished the tour of the hotels, the men’s club and a private residence, Meera thanked us for our
