something to her.”
“Like what?” I asked. I really wondered.
“Well, I would have told her how much I admired her style. I was always envious of her. A big house, a successful husband and all the clothes and shoes she ever wanted.”
I wondered how many other women envied MarySue with no idea she was in financial trouble.
“Who else but MarySue had the confidence to wear a plain black dress with silver shoes? I don’t know how much they cost. Probably a fortune. You know what they say, if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford them. Anyway she looked great. If you have to die, you should look your best, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said thinking of her funeral. “Definitely. I suppose she was there with Jim?”
“I guess so. I know he was there. Everyone was there, even Dolce.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Dolce? Are you sure?” So she was there. How many people had seen her? And how many people had she seen?
“Oh, yes it was her. But I only saw her for a minute. She was going toward the garden. I was surprised, you know?”
“You mean because she hardly ever goes to these things,” I said.
She nodded and went to look around the shop for another fashion show outfit.
Now I was really worried. First the newspaper photo and now Claire, who would have no reason to lie about seeing Dolce. What about Claire? Did she covet those silver shoes enough to kill MarySue to get them? She loved clothes, and she didn’t have the kind of money the other customers had.
By the end of the day we had ten customer-models lined up, each with two complete outfits to wear on our faux runway in our shop. Not every model would buy a complete outfit, not everyone would buy anything they wore, but it was worth a try, I told Dolce before she closed up that evening. And even if we didn’t sell to our models, we had the audience watching, admiring, clapping and hopefully buying. Each of our models would invite all their friends and relatives.
We were hanging up the outfits with the matching names taped to the dresses, pants and tops when Marsha came in.
“I got your message,” she said. “I hope I’m not too late. I’d love to be in your fashion show.”
“Great,” I said. Dolce told her to take her time and choose a couple of ensembles for the show. When she picked a pair of sleek black pants and a striped shirt to go with them, Dolce took one look and found her a pair of black spikeheeled sandals that looked stunning with her outfit.
“You’re short so you can wear these heels,” Dolce said. To add to the look, I gave her a pair of dark sunglasses and some silver jewelry.
“I love it,” Dolce told her. “No one else has the look you do.”
I agreed. With her pale blond hair and deliberate dark roots and dark nail polish, Marsha would stand out. It didn’t hurt that she was so short; in fact, she’d stand out because she was different.
For her next outfit we had her try on a short black skirt and a white silk tailored blouse with a suit jacket over it. The whole thing was so tailored yet so sexy with Marsha’s bare legs Dolce and I just stood there looking at her.
“You don’t think it’s too . . .” Marsha said, giving herself a critical look in the full-length mirror.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“Terrific,” Dolce added. “Wait, I’ve got some black leather clogs.”
“Or I could wear a pair of silver sandals my brother made for me.”
Dolce and I exchanged a knowing look.
“Why not?” Dolce said.
“That sounds good,” I said trying not to jump up and down with excitement. Since it was her idea I didn’t even have to suggest it. But why would she want to wear them unless they were just copies and not the real thing? Were we barking up the wrong tree?
Before she left, she gave us a stack of her business cards. “In case anyone wants a special hairstyle for the fashion show,” she said. We promised to hand them out for her. After she left, neither Dolce nor I said anything for several minutes.
Finally, Dolce broke the silence. “You don’t think . . .” she said.
I shook my head. “It couldn’t be them.”
And that’s all we said. But I’m sure both our minds were spinning and wondering. Had her brother really made her a pair of silver shoes? Or . . . We were both exhausted but pleased with our work and determined to put anything negative out of our minds.
“Rita, you should be in the show too,” Dolce said before I left. “You’d make just as good a model as any of the customers.”
“But I don’t have a posse to bring in any sales the way the others do,” I said. Still, I couldn’t deny I longed to strut the faux runway in some dazzling outfit.
“I insist,” Dolce said. “You have a perfect model’s body, tall and just curvy enough to look good in anything you wear.”
I blushed at the compliment. “Well,” I said, “I would love to do it if you’re sure.”
All of a sudden Dolce got her second wind. She’d looked so tired a few minutes ago, I thought she was ready to call it a day. Now she was springing from rack to rack from room to room to find something perfect for me. Maybe it was just a coping mechanism. Or it was just Dolce being Dolce. Give her a challenge, like dressing me, and she was a real fireball. It was a treat to see her in action. Both of us realized how awful it was to imagine Harrington’s sister as a shoe thief or murderess.
Dolce’s actions put me in mind of the day of the Benefit. She had looked totally worn out when I left her to go to the Jensens’ to retrieve the shoes. And yet I had two ways of proving she’d gone to the Benefit. The photos and Claire’s account.
Sooner or later I was going to have to confront her. But how could I when she was being the proverbial fairy godmother, outfitting me as if I were Cinderella.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror studying myself in an Etro patterned V-neck dress. It was a figure- hugging cut in dark gray and beige with a pencil skirt that was so in this fall season. I did a three-sixty turn and gave myself a critical look. Did I really have a model’s body? I wanted to think so, but Dolce was known to always say the right thing to her customers. No matter what you bought or didn’t buy at Dolce’s, you left feeling good about yourself. Unless you were MarySue or Jim Jensen, of course. Their behavior had stretched Dolce’s goodwill to the breaking point.
“It’s noble, dressy and simply chic,” Dolce said with a proud smile. After all, she’d picked the dress way back in spring when she’d ordered her fall merchandise. “I’ve been waiting for the right person to come along for that dress. All you need is a pair of black booties or some peep toes.”
I chose the booties, and Dolce was determined to find me another outfit. “Every one of our models should have two turns on the runway, and that includes you,” she said. “Something different this time, don’t you think?”
What could I say? I went into the tiny dressing room and slipped out of the Etro. When she opened the door, she handed me four pieces in matching burnt orange. There was a sweater, a leather jacket, tight leather pants and leather boots that covered the knees. I have to say, I was dubious. There was a certain equestrienne look to the outfit that wasn’t really me. As if I were ready to compete at the Derby. But as usual Dolce knew best. When I came out, she gasped at the total effect of all that burnt orange.
“Too much?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s rich and warm and sumptuous and so right for fall. Simply gorgeous. No need for jewelry or a scarf,” she added.
I changed back into my work clothes—a pair of white linen pants and a silver diamond-quilted jacket—which I thought were fine that morning but now seemed dull by comparison.
The question of whether Dolce was at the Benefit sat heavily on my mind. I walked to the front door, paused and turned around. I went back to Dolce’s office and knocked on the door.
“Rita, I thought you’d gone,” she said when she opened the door.
I took a deep breath. “Dolce, a funny thing happened today. Claire Timkin said she saw you at the Benefit.” I didn’t mention I’d also seen a photo of her at the Benefit. Why bring in the police if I didn’t have to?
