I hopped on one foot to my walk-in closet and flipped past a boxy red military-inspired jacket from Ralph Lauren that would look terrific over a feathered gown if I had one. But hardly appropriate for a police interrogation. I dug out a pair of shiny cocoa-colored leggings that were meant to be tucked into a pair of Gucci over-the-knee fringed boots. Or how about a pair of kitten heels? I shook my head. Not for a housebound invalid with a sprained ankle.
I briefly considered the olive green Theory dress from my latest buying spree, which just happened to occur while I was in my quasimilitary phase. “No, no,” I muttered and tossed it on top of the pile on my bed. Wrong, all wrong. What was I thinking? I was not the military type, no matter what I wore. And olive green would make me look even sicker than I was. On an ordinary day I wanted to be tough and vulnerable at the same time. Today I needed something to make me look pale, casual, and of course, innocent. But stylish too. In an understated way.
Denim? It was casual all right, and never out of style, but the Ralph Lauren jeans and the Gap shirt in my closet conveyed a kind of sloppiness. I tried tucking the shirt into the jeans, but the overall effect was way too preppy. I’d be arrested on the spot by the fashion police or the real ones for looking like I just got off my motorcycle after killing someone for her shoes.
Aha, there it was. Soft pants with a drawstring waist from Rebecca Taylor that I’d picked up at Neiman Marcus in their semiannual sale. Paired with a comfy knit tank, I had the look I wanted. Like I just tumbled out of my sickbed. Too ill to remember what happened the night MarySue was murdered but cooperative and helpful as possible to the authorities. I pulled my hair back in a casually messy updo, scrubbed my face and added a touch of mascara. A pair of cashmere socks completed my ensemble, and exhausted from all the preparation, I sank back onto the couch, waiting. And waiting. Wondering if my food would arrive before the gendarmes. Or simultaneously. Nervously I gnawed on a fingernail. Then I staggered to the freezer and replaced the peas with the regulation cold pack.
Finally two plainclothes detectives arrived at my door. I could see through the window one was young, one was older. One was short and one was tall. One was a woman, the other a man.
They rang the bell and I called “Come in.” I was determined not to move off the couch and to play the invalid role to the hilt.
“Ms. Jewel?” the tall man asked as he came through the door. “I’m Detective Jack Wall, San Francisco PD.” He and his partner Sylvia Ramirez both flashed their IDs. Actually, “plainclothes” was not the right word for what Detective Wall wore. I didn’t have to see the label to know he was sporting a Ralph Lauren two-button, single- breasted suit with a striped shirt and tie that shouted Wilkes Bashford, the guy who’d been dressing San Francisco men practically since the earthquake. How in hell did a public servant afford clothes like that? Looking so gorgeous, was he on his way to somewhere like a wedding or a funeral?
“I’m Rita Jewel,” I said. “Won’t you come in and sit down?” Aunt Grace would have been so proud hearing me in my gracious-hostess mode. “Tea, coffee?”
They both declined my offer of a beverage. No tea- or coffee-drinking allowed on the job, probably. Just as well since I was hardly up to brewing anything for them. Then Detective Ramirez, with her long curly hair and her pear-shaped figure wrapped in a long flowered skirt designed by Isaac Mizrahi for Liz Claiborne, looked around my living room. Her outfit was absolutely wrong for her body shape, which she would know if she ever read a fashion magazine, which she probably didn’t. Such a shame. Now if she’d been in uniform, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Detective Wall explained they were investigating the death of MarySue Jensen. I looked up at him and nodded. As if I sort of knew but didn’t really know much at all.
“You were acquainted with the deceased?” Detective Wall asked as he eased his long frame into the chair opposite the coffee table where I’d propped my foot, making sure my ACE bandage and cold pack were visible. I’m not sure he noticed. Instead, his gaze lingered on my soft, Balmain plain gray tank top I’d picked up on sale last month. I felt a shiver of awareness go up my spine. Was it the presence of the long arm of the law? Or was it the arrival of a bona fide sexy barracuda in my living room? Or was it just my medication that made my heart race?
I’d been in the city for months without meeting one attractive man. In the past two and a half days I’d met a gymnast, a doctor and now a cop. All in my target age bracket and all definitely worthy of a second glance. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course, this cop was made of steel and the gymnast was from another culture and the doctor might be unavailable and laden with med-school debt, but none of them was wearing a ring. It gets to be a habit, looking at ring fingers.
“MarySue—Mrs. Jensen, that is—was a customer at the boutique where I work.” I knew the rules from watching crime shows on TV. When interrogated, don’t ever say any more than you absolutely have to.
“A good customer?” he asked and crossed his legs. I had a glimpse of black calf Stamford loafers.
“Yes, I mean she came in often and she appreciated fine jewelry and clothes. She had excellent taste. With her height she could wear anything and look great. French Connection bodysuit or a little dress by Missoni. If that’s what you mean,” I said. Now why did I go on and on about MarySue? Unnecessary information.
“What I mean is did she have trouble paying her bills?”
“You’d have to ask my boss Dolce,” I said primly. “I’m just a sales assistant.” I tried to look modest and humble. If that’s possible while wearing new high-waisted underwear.
“Tell us about her shoes,” Detective Wall said.
“Her shoes?” I repeated, sounding like a parrot.
“The shoes you picked up in Florida that she was wearing the night of her death,” said the short detective in the yellow cardigan that matched the flowers in her skirt.
“But I thought she wasn’t—”
“She wasn’t wearing them when she was found,” the tall, extremely well-dressed cop said. “That’s right. How did you know that?”
I froze. Wasn’t I supposed to know that? “I heard someone say so. A nurse in the hospital who was there when she was brought in. Plus I heard it on the news. Why, is it a secret?”
He ignored my question. Instead the female detective jumped in. “So you yourself just
“It’s a big hospital, San Francisco General. They have an excellent trauma center. That’s why I—”
“That’s why you ended up there the same night as MarySue Jensen. Quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?” Detective Wall asked. His name suited him, I thought, as he zeroed in on me. His face had became a wall keeping out any sign of empathy or emotion. Which made me try even harder to win him over. I focused on stopping my brain from rambling when it should have been focused on telling these guys what they wanted to know without telling them more than they needed to know. But I was having trouble staying on task. “Or was it?”
“Was it?” There I went repeating again. I honestly forgot what the subject was. I was recovering from a concussion, for God’s sake. Didn’t they know that?
“A coincidence,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Absolutely.”
“Can you describe the incident that brought you to the hospital?”
“Concussion and sprained ankle,” I said, wiggling my foot.
“I didn’t ask for the diagnosis, I asked you about the incident,” Detective Wall said coolly.
Okay, I could play it cool too. I’d give him the facts and nothing but the facts. “I fell off a ladder. I blacked out. And I woke up in the hospital.”
“What time was that?” he asked, taking out a small notepad. Didn’t the police have access to laptop computers or the latest iPad? Or did this guy spend all his high-tech allowance on his clothes?
“I don’t know. I mean, I left the hospital in the early morning. But I don’t know what time I arrived at night. Or how I got there. I had a concussion. I was unconscious.” I didn’t want his pity, and I was grateful he hadn’t asked why I was on a ladder or the location of the ladder. Did he know I went to get the shoes back or not? If not, I wasn’t going to tell him. “You can check with the hospital. They will have a record.” Did I have to suggest this to a cop?
That’s when Detective Ramirez excused herself and went outside. I watched her light a cigarette just outside the window and walk around the side of the house. Just a cigarette break or was she up to something like knocking on doors to interview my neighbors, asking things like, “Does Ms. Jewel practice martial arts in the patio behind her
