attention. Then she handed out discount cards for the Transylvania Cafe to everyone. She told Nick she’d meet us there.
“Are they still open?” I asked Nick as he drove west on California Street.
“Of course. Romanians dine stylishly late. It’s their custom. You will find others from the tour there. The chef is an old friend of Meera’s.”
“By old do you mean more than one hundred twenty-seven?”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe Chef Ramon is as old as my aunt, but I am sometimes wrong about such matters. In any case, the food is authentic and they stay open for those who work late.”
“Like security guards and funeral directors?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The food in the tiny restaurant out in a residential neighborhood called the Sunset was served family style. I didn’t see any of my fellow tourists there, but there were other eaters who looked like they might be Romanian. Of course I was famished by that time, and the
Meera sat next to Nick and spoke Romanian to him from time to time. Then she leaned over and told me she was so happy to have her favorite nephew here in the United States where there was more opportunity for jobs.
“He’s a very good teacher,” I said. “I observed his class recently.”
“And you yourself will be taking gymnastics, Nick tells me,” she said. “Many women have signed up for classes at the gym since my nephew arrived. He is not only a gifted teacher, but a very attractive man, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yes, I did,” I said politely. “And I’m definitely interested in a class. As soon as my ankle is completely healed and I have a go-ahead from my doctor.” I wanted to have an out in case I decided I wanted to go back to kung fu.
Before we left the restaurant, I asked Meera what was the difference between
Sure enough, later when I’d kicked off my shoes and wiped the white makeup off my face, I checked the playback icon on my Nikon and saw I’d taken some great shots of the park, the hotel and the restaurant, but Nick’s aunt’s image was nowhere to be seen. There was just a blur where she was sitting at the table. I sat at my kitchen table staring off into space. There was no such thing as vampires, but anyone who believed in them would tell me it is impossible to take their pictures and capture them on film. A blur just mean I’d jostled my camera, that’s all.
Eleven
The next week was a downer at Dolce’s. I knew I should ask Dolce if and why she was at the Benefit before Jack Wall zoomed in on her and took her down to the station, wherever that was, for questioning, but I hated to bring up the subject. So I kept putting it off. With the Benefit over and other parties fading from the schedule, there weren’t many customers. Nick didn’t call. Maybe he was disappointed I didn’t sign up for his class. Or maybe he had gotten involved with that au pair or one of his many adult female students. Dr. Jonathan didn’t call. Maybe he was on call or he’d hooked up with an attractive, warm and caring nurse. I didn’t hear from Detective Wall either. Maybe he’d solved the case on his own and didn’t need me anymore. If so, the least he could do was to let me know. But the silence out there was deafening.
On Tuesday I was sick of trying to act busy when I had nothing to do, so I suggested we have a fashion show. Dolce perked up a little, then she frowned. She was worried about the lack of customers and sales, I could tell. “But we can’t afford to hire models. Even if we did, who would come to see the show?”
“Your best customers will be the models. They’ll love it,” I said. “Everyone wants to be a model. And when they wear something for the show, they’ll want to buy it.”
“You think so?” she asked. “You really think so?”
I nodded emphatically. “As for who will come to see the show . . . their friends and their husbands. We’ll serve drinks and finger food. We’ll clear out the great room and set up folding chairs. The women can dress in the alcove. I’ll make up a sign-up sheet.”
Dolce seemed happy to have me organize the event, and I was glad to have something to do. We picked a date, five o’clock on Friday night. I went into her office, flipped through her file and started calling the customers. By the next day the place was full of wannabe models trying on clothes for the fashion show. Dolce told me I was a genius.
“Let’s see how much they actually buy,” I said in an undertone, “before we go out and celebrate.”
When Patti French came out of one of the dressing rooms wearing a silk trench coat, a canvas jacket and silk pants all in the same shade, she asked me what I thought.
“Gorgeous,” I said. “The best way to mix and match neutrals is to combine different fabrics and textures.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, running her hand over the smooth silk of her rolled-up pants.
“With your height you could have been a model,” I said. It was true. She had the slim figure and the cheekbones to pull it off. “And your hair looks fabulous.”
She ran her hand over her sixties beehive. “You like it? Harrington’s sister did it for me. She assured me I wouldn’t look too retro.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “It’s more textured than earlier versions. Very much in the now.”
“My hair is so fine she had to use a ton of a thickening hairspray,” Patti said.
“Whatever works,” I said. “Marsha really knows what she’s doing. I wonder if she’d like to model. She’s short, but that’s okay. She has great taste.” Maybe I could get her to wear the shoes her brother made for her. I’d love to get a closer look at them without her suspecting that I suspected her or her brother of anything. When I got back to the office, I called and left a message telling her to come by the shop if she was interested in being in our show.
Claire Timkin, the schoolteacher, was thrilled to be a model. She said she’d invite all the moms of her current students now that school had started. I said the more the merrier even though I wasn’t sure those women were our target audience, but maybe they had more money than Claire. I suggested she model some designer denim, but she wanted a fresh, feminine look.
“Prints are fun,” I said, pulling a Missoni dress off a hook for her to try. “I’ll find you some jewelry to complement the look.” I brought her some bangles for her upper arms, which were nicely toned thanks to the hours she spent doing bicep curls or maybe just lifting books off the shelves.
She said she loved the dress I showed her and asked what kind of a discount we would give her if she bought it. I told her to ask Dolce. I knew how hard it was to be poor in the midst of wealth, but somehow Claire had found a way to dress like a millionaire on a teacher’s salary. On a whim I asked, “Were you at the Benefit, Claire? What did you wear?”
“I was there, and I wore a blue silk and jersey dress Dolce sold me last year. Long sleeved. Maybe you remember it? Timeless, she told me at the time. Of course, I would have loved something new, but you know how it is . . .” She shrugged. Yes, I knew how it was.
“Anyway it was a fabulous happening event,” Claire said. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. The clothes, the shoes, the gardens. It was the last time I saw MarySue,” she said, blinking rapidly as if she was going to cry. Had they been friends?
“How did she seem?” I asked, zipping her dress for her.
“Just the same. Full of life.” Claire shook her head. “I wish I’d known she was going to die. I would have said
