Shoe Done It

could sell water to a drowning man. I wanted to be like that. Dolce was my role model, my idol and my inspiration. I had to get the shoes back or Dolce would be ruined. Plus she’d never trust me again.

Three

The rest of the day we were so busy I didn’t even have time to wonder “how” or “when.” I didn’t even have time for lunch. Several times I stopped in the hallway to ask Dolce, “Any word?” But she just shook her head and hurried away. What did it mean? Had she called the repo people or not? Were they doing their job, or had they even agreed to take the job? At five o’clock Dolce closed the front door and hung the “Closed” sign in the window.

When I tried to ask her what was happening, she told me not to worry about it. “I’ve put the matter in the hands of professionals, Rita,” she said. “If they can’t retrieve them, no one can. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you Monday.”

“But it will be too late,” I protested. “We have to get the shoes back before she wears them to the benefit.” I looked at my watch. We only had an hour.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” she said, brushing her hands together. “Either they get them or they don’t. Frankly, right now I have other things on my mind. Would you mind locking up on your way out?”

Of course I agreed, then I stood watching while she walked slowly up the stairs to her apartment. I couldn’t believe she’d just turn her back on the whole thing. That accident last night must have been more serious than she let on. Maybe it had affected her brain. Or sapped her of her will. I had enough will left for both of us, and some to spare. Maybe it was my expensive colorful outfit that made me feel so confident and determined to get revenge on MarySue. Had I been wearing muted colors, I might have let the repo agents take over. Who knows? Maybe it was just a strong inner resolve I’d just discovered that I had. Whatever it was, I was going to get those shoes if it was the last thing I ever did.

First, I stopped in the office, which Dolce had uncharacteristically left unlocked, and I flipped through her Rolodex to find MarySue’s address in Pacific Heights.

When my cab pulled up to MarySue’s, I saw the house on upper Broadway was an Italian Renaissance hilltop mansion. The views they had of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge must be spectacular. I got out of the cab and stood there on the sidewalk, breathless and awestruck. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Many of Dolce’s clients lived in houses like this, I supposed. But most of them paid their bills on time and didn’t order shoes they couldn’t afford. No time to stand and gawk and envy the rich and overdrawn big spenders who breathed the rarified air around here.

I opened the gate and walked up a winding path between the furry green foliage and vivid red flowers of the California fuchsia on the right and blue-flowering Ceanothus maritimus on the left. Obviously someone here cared enough about the environment to stick to native plants. Then I saw it. A small discreet “For Sale” sign at the front entrance. I stopped dead in my tracks. How long had that been there? Was there any connection between the shoe theft and the selling their McMansion?

I rang the bell and knocked on the door so hard I bruised my knuckles. Nothing. I pressed a button next to an intercom.

“Yes?”

I took a deep breath.

“Rita Jewel here to see MarySue Jensen.”

“Who?”

“Rita from Dolce’s Boutique. It’s about the shoes.” No sense in pussyfooting around. Come out with it. Give her a chance to hand over the shoes before she was in real trouble.

“Sorry, Mrs. Jensen isn’t here.”

I rocked back on my heels. I could have sworn that voice sounded like MarySue herself.

“Could you tell her she’s in serious legal trouble if she doesn’t return the shoes to me right now? Otherwise I’ll be forced to call the police.”

The answer was a firm click. She’d hung up on me. So, it was her. She was in there. I went back down the path and looked up and down the street. A few houses away there was a van in the driveway with “Smythe’s Landscape Service—Water-wise Garden Gems” painted on the side. I looked around, not a landscape artist to be seen on the street. Probably all busy pruning or planting Garden Gems or whatever out of sight. I looked back at the Jensen house. On the third floor I saw the outline of a figure. Someone was looking out. Was it MarySue or maybe an accomplice? It was getting late. If she was in there, she’d have to leave soon for the Benefit. Should I wait for her to come out and tackle her and take her shoes? Or would she run me down first in her Mercedes on her way out? I contemplated hiding in the backseat of her car and surprising her when she got in, but when I tried the door to the three-car garage, it was locked.

I went back to the front door and pushed the intercom again.

“Yes?”

“Smythe’s Landscape Service and Garden Gems here to do the yard maintenance,” I chirped.

“Go to hell. Back where you came from, toady sycophant.”

I didn’t even blanch. That was MarySue all right. I smiled with satisfaction despite the insult. I’d rather be a sycophant than a shoe thief. Now I knew two things. She hadn’t left yet. And she had the shoes.

I walked around the side of the house, pushed open a gate and found myself in the middle of a Japanese garden. A waterfall cascaded over a rocky precipice and into a small pond filled with colorful koi. A small wooden bridge arched over a stream lined with rocks. If this was his work, I must remember to hire Smythe when I made my first million. Then I saw it. A tall ladder propped against a sick old oak tree. The oak trees of California were under attack from sudden oak death. I knew the symptoms—yellowish brown leaves, stains and lichens on the bark. They were all there. This tree would have to come down. Maybe that’s the reason the ladder and the chain saw were resting against the tree trunk.

My heart was racing. I knew I didn’t have much time. I knew if I didn’t get those shoes back before the benefit, MarySue would return them tomorrow damaged or stained and she’d never pay Dolce the money she owed her. Or she’d sell her house and leave town with the shoes on her feet. Dolce would face financial ruin, I’d be out of work and . . . I . . . I didn’t know what I’d do.

Right now I had to do what I could to stop MarySue. I dragged the ladder from the tree to the back of the house. I climbed up a few steps and paused, my fingers gripping the steel rungs. I half expected someone to pull it out from under me. Maybe Smythe, maybe Jim Jensen, MarySue’s husband. Maybe MarySue herself. But nothing happened except the ladder wobbled. I leaned into the house and grabbed a handful of the ivy that covered the wall. I took a deep breath and climbed higher. My fingers were so stiff I could barely hold on to the rungs of the ladder.

I was opposite a window level with the second floor. Afraid of heights, I didn’t dare look down or I’d get dizzy and fall. Where was MarySue? Where were her shoes? No, not her shoes, she hadn’t paid for them.

A moment later I had the answer to my questions. MarySue came to the window. Her eyes bulged when she saw me looking in at her. She was wearing a simple but costly black beaded sweater dress by Chloe. She was right. She needed those silver shoes to set it off. But from that angle I couldn’t tell if she was wearing them now or not. I almost felt for her. The fashionista in me almost wanted her to have them. I almost felt like climbing down the ladder and going home. No one would blame me. No one would know I’d failed except MarySue, and she’d be glad I had. But I didn’t. I rapped on the window. “Give me the shoes,” I shouted.

She shook her head. Then she opened the window. Her cool blue eyes darted from my face to my shoulders to my white knuckles. She put both hands on my shoulders and pushed. The ladder tilted backward. I reached out to grab something, anything. Preferably MarySue. The ladder swayed forward then backward again. I swayed with it. I screamed as I felt myself falling, falling backward into the branches of the dead oak tree. Then everything went black.

“Dr. Foster. Calling Dr. Foster. Report to the ER. Marjorie Lambert, fourth-floor Obstetrics stat. Dr. Kramer, you have a call on line three.”

The voices were so loud they penetrated my poor brain. Where in the hell was I, and how did I get there? I opened my eyes, but the lights were so bright I quickly closed them. All I knew was I was flat on my back in a