carved in her forehead. Ever since the MarySue incident, business had fallen off. To cheer her up, I told her she looked like a walking advertisement for the shop in sequined pants and a navy satin vintage Victorian-era top.
As for me, I’d decided to start out funky with a pair of high-top multicolored sneakers and an Italian cotton voile print dress by the Italian designer Marni. It was from her fall collection, and I’d admired it since Dolce got it in earlier.
“I love the dress on you. I know you’ve already got your two outfits, but those sneakers have so much attitude,” Dolce said. “You have to wear them. They say ‘girls just wanna have fun,’ don’t you think?”
“Which reminds me,” I said, “is Peter coming tonight?”
“You know him. Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to pitch his shoes,” Dolce said.
“He won’t be happy I’m not wearing any of his shoes,” I said.
“You can always use your ankle as an excuse,” Dolce suggested.
When all the models arrived around five, we were hungry, so we ordered takeout and sat around the great room in our street clothes munching on food delivered from Dolce’s favorite Chicago-style eatery down the street. I was sure no real models would ever indulge in hot dogs and Polish sausage sandwiches on poppy-seed buns loaded with peppers, tomatoes, pickle relish, onions and dill pickle spears. They’d probably have a bottle of water and a cracker and call it dinner, but then, we weren’t professionals.
Every one of us chowed down as if we hadn’t eaten all week—which some of us hadn’t—though the aftereffect was that we all had to spray our mouths with an advanced formula breath freshener in Dolce’s powder room.
The last one to arrive just as we were getting dressed was Marsha. She said she’d had some last-minute clients. By that time we had all the chairs set up and were just putting on our makeup. Marsha very kindly offered to do comb-outs for anyone who wanted one.
“I’ll sign up,” I said. “I know what a genius you are.”
“Tousled beach waves are really gone,” she explained with a critical look at my hair as she heated her flat iron in Dolce’s office. “It’s fine to embrace your natural waves for summer, but not now that it’s fall. Straight hair is in, the silkier and shinier the better.”
My hair wasn’t nearly as silky or shiny as she would have liked, but what could I do? At least she didn’t suggest a retro beehive. Instead, she told me to increase my intake of Vitamin E. “You should eat more brown rice, nuts and wheat germ, which will help get your hair healthy.”
I was glad she hadn’t witnessed the Polish sausage sandwich I’d just eaten. I vowed that tomorrow I’d go on a Vitamin E diet. I bent over so she could iron my hair on a towel on Dolce’s desk. I couldn’t help notice she’d brought a cloth bag with her shoes in it. I could hardly restrain myself I wanted to look at them so badly.
“So those are the shoes your brother made?” I asked as she smoothed my hair with practiced fingers.
“Right. You won’t believe how fabulous they are.”
I wouldn’t believe he’d made them either, and neither would the police, I thought.
“He’ll be here, won’t he?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “You know Harrington.”
I wondered if I did know Harrington. I knew he’d do anything for his sister. But would he steal for her? Kill for her? Whatever he did, I was sure she didn’t know about it. How could she if she’d brought the shoes to wear tonight.
When I came out of her office, Dolce gasped in surprise at my straight, flattened hair. Everyone said it matched my funky outfit perfectly. Marsha did some of the others as well and by seven o’clock, all of us—Patti, Claire, Patricia, Dolce, two other customers, Lisa and Allison, and I—were ready to go.
Dolce greeted everyone at the front door. The rest of us were in the accessory alcove peeking around the corner. I was afraid enough people wouldn’t come, but the place filled up. I saw Peter Butinksi looking ridiculous as usual in his plastic shoes and his thinning hair dyed a startling shade of brown. I saw Patti’s husband and Harrington, and at least twenty or thirty others, men and women alike. I had a warm feeling of satisfaction all over about my idea of the fashion show. It was working. It was really working. Now if only some of these voyeurs would turn into buyers.
Dolce gave a great talk about transitioning your summer wardrobe into fall. She suggested scarves and held up a few from a local designer. She wrapped a lightweight cashmere scarf with ruffled edges around her neck and knotted it over one shoulder. “Why not try a scarf like this over a tank top with a pair of designer denims?” she asked.
I could see women nodding their agreement.
“This time of year can be tricky,” she explained. “It’s fall but it feels like summer. Some days are warm, but the September fashion magazines”—she held up a recent
There was a smattering of light laughter. Dolce was a natural at this. If anyone could encourage loads of sales, it was Dolce.
“The best way to transition from one season to the next is with accessories,” she said. “Fortunately our shop has everything you need, and if we don’t, we can get it for you. If there’s one thought I want you to take away with you today, it’s scarves and pashminas. Wear them outdoors and indoors. Over tanks and tees and a light jacket for cooler days. And now what you’ve been waiting for, our fall collection worn by our very own models.”
Dolce perched on a stool at the side of our makeshift stage and narrated like a pro. She introduced us and told what we were wearing. When it was my turn, I strutted the way I’d seen the real models do. I was glad I was wearing my high-tops even though my ankle felt almost normal. The shoes gave me confidence I wouldn’t trip or fall. Until I saw Detective Wall. Then I stumbled but caught myself before I fell. I don’t know why I was so surprised. I’d told him to come tonight. In the excitement of being a model, I’d forgotten about him.
He was standing at the back of the room in a shawlcollared Henley and straight-fit cords. No uniform for him, of course. He could have been anybody. Somebody’s brother, boyfriend or husband. But he wasn’t. He was looking right at me with narrowed eyes as if I was under suspicion. And just as I was about to make my turn the way Dolce told me, head held high and hips swiveling, the front door opened and Jim Jensen walked in, looking fit and completely healthy. Several people turned to see who it was, but most of the others didn’t even notice he was wearing a pair of J. Crew classic-fit wool pants and suede Macalister shoes. He looked normal tonight, his cheeks a ruddy color and no scowl on his face. Was he finished healing? Had he been given an okay from his doctor to resume activities? Or had he dragged himself out of bed to confront me once again? Or was he finished blaming me for his wife’s death?
I looked at Dolce, she looked at me. She must have been surprised to see him, but she never lost her poise. Did she know he was coming? I didn’t think so.
I went back to the accessory room to change into my V-neck dress with booties.
“Isn’t this fun?” Patti said to me as she zipped the skirt she was wearing. “MarySue would have loved it if she’d lived. She always wanted to be a model. She blamed Jim for standing in her way. He said there was only room for one professional in their family.”
“I’m glad he was able to come tonight,” I said. “After what he’s been through.” I wondered if Jim felt threatened by MarySue even though she wasn’t a model and she didn’t have a job as far as I knew.
“I knew he’d want to be here, so I told him he had to get an okay from his doctor first. I’d left a message for him about the show. I thought it would do him good to get out for a change and not stay home taking his medicine and doing his exercises. He’s had too much time to think. It was getting him down.”
“He’s looking good,” I said. “It must not have been a serious heart attack.”
“I believe it was more of a warning than a real attack,” she said. “So now he’s busy planning MarySue’s memorial celebration. You and Dolce have to come. We’re having the party at Portnoy’s Tavern across from the cemetery. You know the place. It’s been there forever. A real San Francisco icon and one of MarySue’s favorite spots. Death doesn’t have to be horrible, you know. She wouldn’t want us to go on grieving forever.”
Three weeks is hardly forever, I thought. But whatever. I knew death didn’t have to be horrible especially if you didn’t get along with the deceased.
“It will be a chance to remember MarySue’s life,” Patti said. “We’ll serve her favorite drinks, a little food, say nice things about her, play her favorite songs and talk about the good times. Well, I’d better get my shoes on. I’m next.” She peeked around the corner. “Don’t tell me that’s Detective Wall back there? Looking hot as usual. I didn’t know he was into fashion.”
