house?” “Does she hang out with lowlifes?” “Does she throw loud parties while wearing stolen shoes?” “Would she kill for a pair of Louboutin shoes? Manolo Blahniks? Roger Viviers? Or was I reading too much into her absence? Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette.
Now I was alone with the detective. The room seemed smaller. The atmosphere heavy with unspoken questions. Mine and his. Finally he spoke. “Regarding the shoes Ms. Jensen was wearing. Any idea what happened to them?” he asked. “Do you know anyone who would murder someone to get a pair of shoes?”
“Most women love shoes. I’m no exception,” I confessed. “But murder? I can’t imagine going that far. Although they were silver.”
“Were they worth stealing?” Detective Wall asked.
I shrugged. What was the right answer? I had no idea. “Depends.”
“Worth killing for?”
I blinked. What could I say? I thought I’d already answered that.
“Do you know how much they’re worth?”
I shook my head.
“Are you sure?” the tall, smooth detective asked.
I wanted to say, “Come on, tell me how much they’re worth. You know. You must know,” but I didn’t. Of course I had an idea. But why should I share it with him?
He turned over a page in his notebook. Perhaps signaling a different topic or at least a new approach since he wasn’t making much progress this way.
“I have a few names here. Customers or others in the fashion business. I’d like to get your impression of them. Don’t think too hard. After all, you’ve just had a concussion.” He looked at me and I didn’t see a shred of compassion in those dark eyes. After all I’d been through. It was as if daring me to contradict him or make an excuse. I didn’t. “Just tell me the first thing that comes into your mind.”
I sat up straight and tried to prepare myself for his little game.
“Dolce Loren.”
“My boss. A wonderful woman. Kind and caring.” I paused. He was sitting there staring at me. “Smart and savvy,” I added.
“Patti French.”
“Patti has a great fashion sense. She loves Tom Ford, Prada, and Louis Vuitton. She’s MarySue’s sister-in- law.” Like he didn’t know that. “I mean she was or she still is now that MarySue is dead. I’m not sure how that works.”
“Jim Jensen.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Did MarySue ever mention him?”
“Not to me.”
“Peter Butinski.”
“Peter is our new shoe supplier.” I felt my mouth twisting and my eyes narrowing despite my effort to stay neutral. The shoe guy was a little too high on himself, in my opinion, but what he had to do with MarySue was beyond me.
“Was he acquainted with Ms. Jensen?”
“I don’t think so, unless she special ordered shoes from him.”
“It sounds like there was a possible connection there. Would you agree they were both interested in shoes?” he asked.
I sighed. “Who isn’t?”
The detective had just flipped another page in his notebook when the front door opened and his cohort burst in looking like she’d just won the lottery. She was wearing rubber gloves that did not match her outfit and holding a shoe box in her hand. My eyes widened. My heart pounded. It was the brown cardboard box the silver stilettos came in. Where in the world did she get it? And were the shoes inside? If so, mystery solved, or at least part of it.
“I found this box in your garbage,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Recognize it?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said as calmly as I possibly could while my mind spun in circles. After all it wasn’t necessarily
“Come now, Ms. Jewel,” she said, holding the box away from me as if she was afraid I would contaminate the evidence. “Tell the truth. Did you or did you not transport this box and the shoes inside it across the country last Friday?”
“The shoes are inside the box?” I asked eagerly.
“I’m asking the questions,” she said curtly.
I glanced at Detective Wall. Where did he stand in this confrontation between his cohort and myself? He was inscrutable as usual, watching the dialog play out as if the two of us women were actors in some existential drama.
“I transported
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said weakly, leaning back on the couch, “I’m feeling faint, and since I’m under a doctor’s care who has prescribed rest and ice packs for the next few days, I’ll have to stop now and . . .” I closed my eyes as if it was all too much for me to handle in my current weakened state. When no one said anything, I opened my eyes again. “I’m so sorry. Really. But my memory isn’t very good right now. Not unusual in these cases. I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone our conversation, as interesting as it is.”
Ramirez was not unaware of how sarcastic my comment was. She glared at me. “We are not here to converse with you,” she said. “We are here to investigate a murder.”
“I understand that,” I said, “but your questions are upsetting me. Exactly what my doctor warned me about. No agitation. No commotion, no excitement. Or there may be complications,” I warned. I stared at Detective Ramirez, daring her to continue. After knowing what the risk was. I paused to let the significance of complications sink in.
“I hardly think a few questions . . .” she said, obviously unwilling to give up and go away just because I was suffering the effects of a fall from a two-story building into a tree.
“I would love to answer however many questions you have at some later date when my head clears. Right now I’m at risk for a relapse, and I know you wouldn’t want to be responsible for it.” Besides, I thought I saw the Angkor Wat delivery truck outside and I was eager to get rid of these two.
Ramirez darted a glance at Wall, who shook his head, and she bit her lip. Probably furious and frustrated she couldn’t nail me. Did she really think that after I stole MarySue’s shoes and killed her, or killed her and then stole her shoes, that I would then check into the hospital with a concussion and a sprained ankle, return home and toss the shoe box in my garbage can? It boggled the mind.
“Of course, if you’d care to look in my closet for the silver shoes before you leave . . .” I cocked my head in the direction of my bedroom, knowing she’d decline.
Again she looked at her partner, who again shook his head. It was too bad in a way because I would have liked to show off my shoe collection. I had no silver shoes, but I was proud of my taste in footwear, ranging from sporty two-tone brogues to a pair of brand-new leather t-straps and everything in between. It seemed to me that choosing the right footwear was almost the most important decision a girl could make. Did Ramirez want to see my shoe collection just out of curiosity or did she think she’d find the silver shoes in my closet, arrest me and get a promotion? I’d like to see her face when she came up empty.
“No?” I said when she didn’t respond to my offer. “I can only assume that the shoes are back in their box safe and sound.”
If looks could kill I would have been dead meat. We all remained where we were, frozen in place for thirty seconds at least. The delivery van was looking for a parking spot. Detective Ramirez was staring at me with the unopened box in her hands, Detective Wall was standing in the middle of my living room looking like he wanted to
