Shoe Done It

Fifteen

The next day Dolce was, not surprisingly, hungover and down in the dumps, and I was more determined than ever to solve this mystery before Jack did. I didn’t know why. He was the cop, I was the sales assistant and fashion consultant. But I was sick and tired of being accused of killing MarySue, and the only way to stop it was to find the real killer myself. I borrowed Dolce’s car to go to every bookstore in town on my lunch hour. I was looking for the recent issue of Vogue, but they were sold out. “It’s not unusual,” one clerk told me. “We don’t order that many and it’s the giant fall issue, ‘biggest in twenty years,’” she said. Even though my lunch hour was over and I still hadn’t eaten anything, I went to the main library.

There it was at the far end of the periodical section between the US Weekly and the Western Horse Review. I snatched it up and sat down at a large table where I could spread it out. I flipped the pages madly past articles on “How to Make Menswear Look Chic,” “110 Best Beauty Buys” and “Must-Have Messenger Bags.” I knew I was late. I knew I was leaving Dolce in the lurch with her postparty headache, but I just couldn’t resist perusing the article on the new fall boots. I lusted after a pair of lace-up suede and leather high-tops, and I wondered if Dolce would want to put in an order. But where was the article I was looking for?

Frustrated, I went back to the table of contents, and there it was on page ninety-one: “Third World Shoe Scam! Don’t Get Taken In!” My heart was pounding, my fingers stuck to the pages. Eighty, eighty-five, ninety . . . ninety-two. What? Where was ninety-one? Gone, that’s where. It had been ripped out. I could see the jagged edges.

I sat there staring at the place where the article should have been. I was in shock. As close to collapse, coma or even sudden death as I’d ever been.

I had to have that article. If someone wanted it badly enough to rip it out, it must be important. I went outside and called Dolce. “I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Can you handle everything for another hour?” I hated to impose on her good nature, especially when she wasn’t feeling quite right, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to find that article, even if I had to drive all over California. There must be a copy somewhere.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s not very busy. In fact, the only person who’s been in is Peter, and he’s not a customer.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to speak to you, but I told him you were out looking for a magazine.”

“What? Oh, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Why? He wants to help you. He asked me which one you wanted because he keeps all his old copies.”

I sucked in a short breath. I didn’t want anyone to know I was looking for this article. Peter Butinksi was probably a harmless bore, but who knew how many people he’d be talking to during his travels from boutique to boutique.

I got back into Dolce’s car and headed across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin County. Whoever had bought up all the magazines in the city and tore out the article in the library probably hadn’t gotten to Marin yet, or had they?

I stepped on the gas, and instead of admiring one of the world’s most beautiful bridges or the sparkling blue waters of the Bay or the view of the skyscrapers on the city’s skyline in my rearview mirror, I stared straight ahead, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw hurt. I was determined not to return until I had that magazine in my hands.

The first town I came to I turned off and hit the chain bookstore in the large shopping center. I smiled at the security guard at the entrance, glad to see the books and magazines were well protected. You wouldn’t get away with ripping out a page here or walking out with a magazine you didn’t pay for.

There they were, racks of magazines. And there in the last rack was the very issue I was looking for. On the cover was a famous movie star wearing a leopard print bustier. I reached for the magazine. I had it in my grasp when someone grabbed it and pulled it out of my hand. I yanked it back. Then I looked up and almost lost my grip. It was Peter Butinski in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, ill-fitting pants and leather sandals. I was dying to tell Dolce.

“Peter,” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing you are,” he said. “Buying a magazine.”

“This one’s mine,” I said and used both hands to hang on to the magazine. My magazine.

“I don’t think so,” he said, ripping it out of my hands with a forceful jerk.

That made me so angry I felt a surge of superhuman strength. “Give it back,” I shouted.

“What’s going on here?” someone said. I turned and saw the clerk standing at the edge of the rack, his mouth open in astonishment as if he’d never seen two customers fight over a magazine before.

“He’s got my magazine,” I said, and I lunged for it. I got hold of it by the corner, but Peter pulled so hard I heard a ripping sound as the magazine tore apart. I stumbled backward into another rack of magazines and landed on my butt.

“Security,” the clerk shouted, obviously worried about the crazies in the store.

Peter was not waiting for any security guard to escort him out. Not without the magazine—or half the magazine. He bolted for the back door of the store, and I just sat there on the floor surrounded by magazines. I was panting and holding my half of the Vogue tightly in my hand. But was page nine-one in my hand or in Peter’s? And would I be arrested for dismembering a magazine? Not if I paid for it, which I planned to do. But first things first.

I staggered to my feet and explained as calmly as I could to the security guard that I wanted to buy that magazine and I was sorry I caused a disturbance. I said I’d be glad to pick up all the fallen magazines and of course pay for the one in my hand, which was really only half a magazine. I observed that the other man wanted the magazine too, which must have been obvious. If he hadn’t done anything wrong, then why did he flee? Where had he gone? Actually I didn’t care as long as I had the article I’d come for.

I couldn’t wait another minute. While standing there, I started flipping through the pages again, this time ignoring all the tempting lists, like “Ten Best Beauty Tips” and “Naughty Sex Questions.” I’d get to them later.

I was almost up to page ninety-one when the store manager appeared and surveyed the damage. One bookcase on the floor and magazines everywhere. He asked for my name and phone number. I closed the magazine and told him I’d be glad to pay for any damaged magazines, but that it wasn’t my fault. He looked dubious.

Instead of standing there another minute and subjecting myself to questions and accusations, I decided to leave as quickly and gracefully as I could. It turned out they charged me for the Vogue and that was all. Finally alone in Dolce’s car, I found the page.

There they were, a large color photograph of the silver shoes, the same silver shoes I’d transported across country. The same silver shoes ripped from my grasp by MarySue Jensen. The same silver shoes MarySue had worn to the Benefit. The same silver shoes that had caused her murder. But who did it? Who killed her? Who stole her shoes?

I scanned the article under the heading “Third World Shoe Scam!” Then I read the questions: “Are you guilty of causing child labor? Are you wearing shoes made by children who earn pennies a day in poor countries? Do you contribute to a Slumdog Millionaire’s millions by buying shoes like these? Do you care about poor children, or do you care more about high fashion?” They mentioned the price of the shoes and I gasped.

Oh my God, what was I going to do? When I heard a loud rapping on my window, I looked up to see Peter’s face pressed against the glass. His mouth was open and he was shouting at me. “You think you’re a super salesman. Well, you’re nothing compared to me.”

I rolled down my window a crack and glared at him.

“I’m the one who knows how to sell shoes. Who do you think got MarySue to buy the stilettos?”

“Patti,” I said. “Not you.” I knew he wouldn’t let anyone top him in the sales department.

“Hah. Did Patti tell you that? She’s nothing compared to me. I was born to sell. I could sell snow to Eskimos. Or stilettos to socialites like MarySue. All it took was one look at the shoes. I showed them to her. I told her to order them.”