“Would you?”
“Wouldn’t I!”
I heard muffled laughter and then nothing. I hobbled to the door and looked out. The hall was empty except for Dr. Rhodes on his way back with my medicine. He gave me more instructions along with the ice pack and the meds and said he had an emergency but he’d see me later that week. “Oh, and Rita . . . stay off of ladders,” he added with a twinkle in his cobalt blue eyes.
“I will,” I promised. I would have promised him anything at that point.
I clomped out to the waiting room barefoot on crutches the nurses had left for me, my shoes in a plastic bag, and made an appointment to see Dr. Rhodes in three days at four in the afternoon, which I was already looking forward to. I was intending to call a cab when I saw Nick Petrescu leaning against the counter chatting up the receptionist. What was he doing here?
“There you are now,” he said. “I am waiting for you.”
“But . . . it’s still early morning. How did you know I was here?”
“They called me after finding my card in your possession. Perhaps thinking I am next of kin? How is your feeling?”
“I’m okay.” I wasn’t okay. I was weak and tired and in pain. I needed one of my pain pills, and I needed to go home. “I just need some rest.”
“What happened?”
“I fell off a ladder. It could happen to anyone.”
He looked confused, as if his English wasn’t quite good enough to figure it out.
“I will bring my car around to the front of building.”
I nodded. I didn’t know he had a car, and I didn’t know the emergency people would go through your purse to see if there was a business card with the number of a gymnastics coach they should call. But they’d obviously done just that.
A half hour later Nick dropped me off at my house. He looked worried when I collapsed on my living room couch and propped my bandaged foot on the coffee table. I told him I was fine and I just needed to lie there for a day or two. It was true. I didn’t want anyone hovering around watching me while I recovered. I knew what I had to do. Take my medicine and follow Dr. Rhodes’s instructions for RICE: R—rest, I—ice, C—compression and E— elevate.
“I am sorry I have advanced tumbling class today or I could cook something for you. Some
“Thanks, Nick, I couldn’t eat a thing right now, but I appreciate it.” All I wanted to do was lie there and watch some mindless program on TV. My brain wasn’t working very well. I guess I was lucky to be alive, all things considered. It seemed MarySue hadn’t been so lucky. Brain or no brain, I had to find out what really happened last night. Was it true MarySue was dead?
“If you are not better tomorrow, I think you should see a different doctor. I don’t believe this Dr. Rhodes is very good, and he is not a specialist in brain injuries.”
“My brain is fine,” I insisted. How did he know anything about Dr. Rhodes? Or anything about my brain? Had he met my doctor? Had he overheard some gossip? No way was I going to change doctors. “I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.”
Nick finally left after promising to come by tomorrow with a bowl of his grandmother’s
As soon as he left, I hopped on one foot to the kitchen. I put the cold pack they’d given me in the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas to wrap around my ankle until the real thing was ready. I don’t eat frozen peas or any kind of peas. They’d been left there by the previous tenant and I’d forgotten completely about them until now when they sure came in handy. Back on the couch, I slapped the bag of peas on my ankle, propped my foot above my heart, clutched my remote control and watched the local news.
When the news anchors finished with the weather report, they got to the juicy stuff.
“Police are calling socialite MarySue Jensen’s death a possible homicide,” said the attractive dark-haired anchorwoman.
The peas rolled off onto the floor as I swung my legs around, leaned forward and turned up the volume.
“Here’s what we know, Amy. Well-known society maven MarySue Jensen, wife of California Airlines exec Jim Jensen, was taken to San Francisco General Hospital last night after she hosted the Golden Gate Garden Benefit at the Lakeside Nature Reserve in Golden Gate Park. Her lifeless body was found in an Adirondack chair late last night by park rangers who called the authorities. Her grief-stricken husband Jim Jensen didn’t realize her expensive and one-of-a-kind hand-spun silver shoes were missing until hours later. The case is now being treated as a possible homiciderobbery.”
The male co-anchor paused and then asked Amy, “The question is, would someone kill for a pair of shoes?”
“Well, Larry, it depends on the shoes. We have a photo of the shoes here, and you be the judge. To the best of our knowledge, these were custom, hand-spun silver stiletto heels.”
Larry gave an appreciative whistle. “Those must be worth a large chunk of change, Amy.”
“Indeed they are. I’ve done a little digging and found they were purchased at Dolce’s, the upscale Hayes Valley boutique owned by Dolce Loren. Ms. Loren is the niece of San Francisco native daughter Lauren Loren. Here they are in an old photo pictured in front of the landmark building before the elder Loren died a year ago. How many women at that Benefit were dressed and accessorized by Dolce, do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Larry confessed.
“Probably half of the guests,” Amy said. “I’m hoping to have an in-depth interview with Dolce Loren on our news program tonight. Stay tuned for more on this disturbing story.”
I turned down the volume when they moved on to another story, and stared at the screen without seeing anything. Homicide? Someone killed MarySue for her shoes? My boss Dolce interviewed on TV? What would she say?
Under the influence of my painkillers I unfortunately dozed off and on all day and missed the news. What had Dolce said? I woke up feeling empty. No wonder, I hadn’t eaten anything for hours, maybe days. I reached for the menu from a Cambodian restaurant in the Mission, knowing they delivered. Everything sounded good, especially my favorite, the tofu crepe stuffed with bean sprouts, ground pork and coconut smothered in a lemon-garlic sauce. Something we never had back in Columbus, I can tell you. The hostess in her charming Cambodian accent assured me it would be delivered within the hour.
I’d just hung up when the phone rang. I looked at the screen. Dolce!
“Rita, where are you?”
“I’m at home. I have a grade-one concussion and a sprained ankle. What’s happening? How was your interview?”
“Fine, fine. Rita, the police are here. They’re asking questions nonstop. It’s been awful. Now they want to know about you.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Is it regarding MarySue?”
“Yes. What were you doing at her house last night?”
“I . . . I went to get the shoes back.” No sense pretending I wasn’t there. Someone picked me up there and brought me to the hospital. But who? How did Dolce know about it?
“I told you not to.”
“I know, but I couldn’t let her get away with them.”
“Did you kill her?”
I gasped. “Of course not. How could you even ask?”
“It’s not me who’s asking. It’s the police. They need to talk to you. They’re on their way to your house.”
“What?” I shrieked. I dropped the phone and staggered to my feet. The police. At my house. On Sunday. Asking questions. What would I say? And more important, what would I wear?
Four
