Shoe Done It

And by the way, where was Jack? I was beginning to have a letdown after all that adrenaline. I locked the front door and went back inside. I was about to see what happened to Dolce when my phone rang.

“Are you alone?”

I bit my lip. “Yes, Peter, where are you?” I wanted to say, “Have you got the shoes?” but I thought it was best to get him in the shop first.

“I’m outside. Open the door.”

I skidded across the floor, the soles of my Gucci sandals slipping out from under me. There he was, looking more ridiculous than ever, which had a way of calming me down. How could I be afraid of anyone wearing a tweed jacket, a white shirt and a string tie? Also the fact that he was carrying a shopping bag was encouraging. The shoes. It had to be the shoes.

“Here they are,” he said, thrusting the bag at me.

I grabbed it. I wasn’t going to let these shoes get away from me again. The shoes were wrapped in tissue paper just as they had been when I picked them up in Florida. I took them out and examined them carefully while he stood there staring at me. I didn’t care who made them, these shoes were gorgeous. No wonder MarySue had wanted them. No wonder he wanted them.

“Okay, cough it up,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“There’s nothing to understand. I brought you the shoes, you give me the money.”

“What money?”

He laughed a mirthless laugh. “We all know how much they’re worth. You read the article. Hand over the money.”

“Peter, the deal is that you give me the shoes and I keep quiet about where I got them. We don’t have that kind of money.”

“What kind do you have?” he asked.

I laughed nervously. “Oh, you know just the day’s receipts.”

“Fine,” he said. “Hand them over.”

“You’re kidding right? You wouldn’t steal Dolce’s hardearned money from her, would you?”

“Why wouldn’t I? She’s got a big house here and I’ve got jack squat. Hand it over.”

He looked so wild-eyed and crazy I decided to play along for now. “How about I write you a check on Dolce’s account?”

“As long as it’s got a lot of zeros.”

“Sure,” I said, turning toward the office. I figured Jack would be along any minute and I could stall. No way was Peter getting away with our money. He was lucky I hadn’t thrown a fit on the spot. Instead I felt a kind of strange calm. I had things under control. Dolce was in the dressing room and Jack was on his way. Wasn’t he?

“I’ll come with you,” he said. Obviously afraid I’d call the cops from the office. Where were they? Why weren’t they here? Go slowly, I told myself.

In the tiny office I fumbled with the desk drawer handle. I pawed through the papers until I found the checkbook. All the while Peter was glaring at me. There was a bulge in his pocket. Was he armed? Was he dangerous? All of a sudden I wasn’t so calm anymore. As soon as I finished filling out the check, he snatched it out of my hand.

“You had to kill MarySue, didn’t you?” I blurted. “And take her shoes so you wouldn’t be found out.”

“You’re the clever one, aren’t you?” he said snidely. “I warned Dolce about you. You think you know fashion, but you know nothing about how it works. You think you can pick up a pair of shoes from a boutique, charge someone who can’t afford them an arm and a leg. And yet you have no idea how those shoes got there.”

“I didn’t know then, but I know now. I know that poor children are used so people like you can make money off them.”

“People like me?” His voice rose to a crescendo. “You’re just as guilty as I am, little Miss Snotnose. I know what you did. How you tried to get the shoes back. MarySue told me how you went to her house, threatened her. You’re angry because I succeeded when you failed. I got the shoes and you didn’t. I didn’t have to threaten her.”

“Then how did you do it? You killed her, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t kill her, not on purpose. I gave her a little pill, well maybe two or three or four in her champagne, just enough to put her to sleep, because she refused to turn over the shoes to me. I never meant to kill her—why would I kill the goose that laid the golden egg, so to speak? MarySue Jensen was one of my best customers. I just had to get the shoes back before someone recognized them as the ones in the magazine.”

“The Vogue magazine?” I asked. “Now I get it. You bought shoes made by little kids in third world countries who were paid a penny an hour. They looked good, those silver stilettos. You sold them through fancy boutiques and ateliers, and you made plenty as long as no one knew what you were up to, but you were afraid someone would recognize those shoes at the Benefit. You had to get them back.”

“And I did, no thanks to MarySue.”

I could just imagine how MarySue, who’d planned and schemed to get those shoes, would have refused to turn them over to Peter that night. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you’re saying killing MarySue was an accident?”

“Of course. How was I supposed to know you can’t mix a few drugs with a little alcohol? These society bitches do it all the time. I thought she’d have a headache, that’s all. Now I’m outta here,” he said. “I’m stopping at the bank on my way out of town. And if there’s a problem with this check, I’ll be back.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small gun. “I know how to use it. See?”

I felt the blood rush from my head. He was going to shoot me. Now that he didn’t need me anymore. “Why?” I said, my lips too numb to say anything else.

“Why would I shoot you? Because you know too much. Because I don’t want you calling your boyfriend the cop. I thought the shoe box in your garbage would be a warning. But you didn’t get the message, did you? Now I’m leaving the country, but I need time to get to the airport.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I said earnestly.

He laughed again, a high, hysterical laugh. Suddenly I heard the voice of my teacher Yen Po Wing in my ear: “Fluid and rapid movement. When in doubt, use the Northern Method.” That’s what he’d always told us. Easier said than done, of course, but I had to try. I should never have quit those classes, but who knew I’d need to defend myself from a shoe supplier? I leapt in the air and gave Peter one fluid, rapid and powerful kick in the groin. He doubled up and groaned loudly. I heard a crash, and I fell to the floor. I wondered if I’d been shot or just fainted. From the floor where I was lying faceup, I saw Dolce bravely rush toward Peter with some kind of weapon in her hand that looked like a coat hanger. At the same time Jack Wall burst into the room through the front door and ran into Peter on his way out. Jack grabbed him and twisted his arms behind him.

Dolce helped me up in time to see Jack put handcuffs on Peter.

“I heard the whole thing,” Dolce told Jack. “Peter Butinski killed MarySue. He said he didn’t mean to.”

“Thank you, Dolce,” Jack said. Then he turned to me. “You okay?”

I nodded weakly. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“I’d like you to come down to the station and give us a statement. Both of you.” He nodded at Dolce.

“Now? Tonight?” I asked. I was shaky and weak. I wanted to go home.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “You know where the station is.”

Dolce and I locked up after Jack took Peter away. Then we went across the street to the bar for a drink. Believe me, we needed it. No sense in facing the law without fortification first.

“You were very brave,” Dolce said to me after a few sips of her San Francisco cocktail made with two kinds of vermouth, gin and orange bitters.

“Not me. I fell down. Was that a coat hanger you were holding when you came out of the dressing room?” I asked as I reached for a deep-fried mozzarella stick on the bar.

“It was sturdy cherrywood with a trouser clamp. I could have done some damage with it. I just had to have something in my hand. I was so worried about you. So was your policeman.”

“Do you think so?” I meant to say he wasn’t mine, but it didn’t matter. “I guess we’d better go give our statements.”

Too nervous to drive, and maybe under the influence of those tasty cocktails we prudently took a cab to