other. Mark Hopkins, Collis Huntington, Leland Stanford, James Flood and myself. I don’t know if you know this, but Strauss came to California from Bavaria to open a branch of the family dry goods business. He had the most charming accent.” She smiled dreamily and Dolce shot me a look that said, “Can you believe this woman?”
“When he got here he planned to make tents and wagon covers out of canvas for the forty-niners. He knew there was money to be made in the support services. But nobody wanted his tents. I felt terrible for him. He told me he was thinking of going back to Bavaria, but I convinced him to stay. I suggested he try something new like making sturdy pants for the miners.”
“So you were responsible for his success. It was your idea he should make Levi’s?” I asked politely. I knew I sounded skeptical. I was. She didn’t mind. She must be used to it.
She nodded. “But not out of canvas. Too stiff. Too hard to work with. I suggested he use a kind of denim with copper rivets.” She twisted her gold ring around her finger. What could we say? There was no one around to contradict her. Everyone from that era was dead. I began to see the benefits of being a vampire and living forever. I wanted to pin her down about her age and the discrepancy in her stories. How could she have hung out with the miners and the early movers and shakers if she was really only 128? But now was not the time to do it. Maybe that time was never.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Meera said to me.
I wanted to say, “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Alcatraz,” but I pretended I’d forgotten all about our last meeting when she tried to lock me in the cell.
“I’ve never been here before,” I said. “We’re here for a . . . gathering . . . One of our customers, uh, recently died unexpectedly. We’re here to celebrate her life.”
“It must be Mrs. Jensen,” Meera said. “I heard about her. What did she die of?”
“Actually, she was poisoned at a society function.”
“A murder?” Meera’s eyes lit up. “How exciting. Who did it?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a few people I recognized from the funeral just arriving at the historic tavern. Dolce drifted away from me and toward them. Probably had had enough of Meera. For some reason I hung around. Wasn’t it possible Meera knew something I wanted to know, like who might have killed MarySue?
“No one knows,” I said. “But it seems to be connected to a pair of expensive shoes she was wearing at the time.”
“Killed for a pair of shoes!” Meera said. “They must have been some shoes.”
“They were silver stilettos.”
“I say forget the shoes and look for the next of kin,” Meera said, peering over her spectacles to observe the crowd gathering at the bar. “Is that her husband over there?”
I followed her glance to where Jim was playing the host by serving drinks.
“That’s Jim,” I said. “But why would he want to kill his wife?” Of course I knew the answer to that one. He was furious with her for ordering the shoes and spending so much money. He could collect on her life insurance, and he might even have planned to return the shoes and get the deposit money back.
“I know nothing about this case, but I have been witness to many a murder over the years. President Harding died right here in San Francisco.”
“Really? When was that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, twenty-two or three, I think. Poisoned. Just like your friend MarySue. Some suspected his wife Florence, but in that case it was not a matter of cherchez la femme. No, there’s the difference. If I were the officials, I would definitely go after the husband here. Jim is his name? He looks guilty to me.”
I thought about the life insurance, and I had to admit that she had something there. But I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’d solved in minutes a crime the police hadn’t been able to solve in weeks.
As if she’d read my mind, she said, “I will have to have a word with the police. I’ve been helpful to them in the past you know. Ah, there is that handsome policeman now.”
I turned to see Jack standing in the doorway. Now how did Meera know who he was? No uniform. He blended in with the other mourners who were filling the bar now. How Meera intended to help Jack solve this crime, I didn’t know. I watched as she walked across the room, her lace-up boots clacking against the floorboards. She sidled up to Jack and began an animated conversation. I had no doubt she’d let him know exactly what she thought she knew. I was glad because Jack wouldn’t have believed me if he didn’t have this chance to interact with her himself.
Dolce found me and handed me a fresh drink. “I thought you could use one after getting rid of that nutcase.”
“So you didn’t buy her story?” I asked.
“Hardly,” she said. “It’s a story, that’s all.”
“I know,” I said. “If she really wants us to believe she was around for the gold rush, then she’s got to confess to being at least one hundred seventy, doesn’t she?”
Dolce frowned. “Rita, I’m worried about you. There’s no such thing as vampires. The woman is a con artist.”
“I know,” I assured her. “It’s just—”
“You’ve been working too hard trying to help the police. Forget the murder. It’s not your problem.”
“I can’t forget it,” I protested. “Not when I’m a suspect.” Or
“Who suspects you?” she asked me.
I pointed across the room to where Meera and Jack were still talking. “Jack, the cop on the case, thinks I know more than I’m letting on. I had a motive—to get the shoes back. I thought I had an alibi, but no one clocked me in at the hospital when I arrived. Someone saw a woman who could have been MarySue drop me off, but it’s all so murky,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room,” I said. I had to freshen up before more people arrived. I headed toward the rear of the bar where I saw a sign in several languages.
I’d just turned the corner down a dim hallway toward the restroom when I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned around, I saw Jim Jensen looming over me.
“There you are,” he said. “You have a lot of guts coming to my party.”
“Who me?” I said. Maybe he’d mistaken me for someone else in the dark.
“Yes, you, Rita Jewel. You’re responsible for MarySue’s death.”
“I wasn’t even there that night. I was in the hospital.”
“I don’t care if you were in the morgue. You are an enabler. You knew MarySue had a compulsive shopping addiction.”
“No, no, I didn’t,” I protested. I wondered if Dolce knew.
“And you did nothing. Worse than nothing. You encouraged her to buy more stuff. Her closet was overflowing. Her credit card was maxed out until I cut it in half. I signed her up for a twelve-step program, but she wouldn’t go. She went shopping instead. Mumbled something about ‘retail therapy.’ ”
“I swear I didn’t know,” I said, backing up until I hit the wall.
“You went to Miami to buy those shoes for her, don’t deny it.”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“You didn’t think. All you cared about was your commission on a pair of shoes. You might not have put the poison in the champagne, but you are responsible for my wife’s death just the same. You brought the shoes for her, and someone wanted the shoes so bad he killed her to get them.”
By then I was shaking, my arms were covered with goose bumps. I didn’t know what to say except something like
“Jim,” I said as calmly as I could, “I’m sorry for your loss. You’re obviously on step one in the seven stages of grief. It’s stressful and exhausting, but it’s natural. Everyone has to go through it. You aren’t alone and you’re not yourself.”
“How do you know I’m not myself?” he demanded.
“I, uh, I just know. I know you have to work through it. There’s no skipping over even one step. Believe me, I had no idea MarySue had a shopping problem. I mean, our store is full of shoppers who buy clothes and accessories day after day. MarySue wasn’t any different than they are.”
