Died with a Bow (16 page)

“That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

Was there any point in telling Jack that Paul had accused me of murdering Vienna? Why should I contribute to my own problem? I shouldn’t. No one is required to incriminate themselves, are they? But again I seemed to have no control over my mouth.

“Then he said he thought I was the one who’d killed her, that Vienna told him I hated her. I didn’t hate her, and Vienna wouldn’t have cared if I did. She was that confident. You see how ridiculous his accusation is. The man is crazy. He didn’t know what he was saying.”

“Then why did you listen to him?” Jack asked.

“I was merely being polite. Maybe you don’t think I’m capable of it, but I do try. I didn’t know he was crazy at the time. I just thought he was another guest, a relative, which he was. What do you think I should have done? I’m getting used to being accused of murder by madmen.” I didn’t say Jack was a madman, but if he came to that conclusion, I couldn’t stop him.

That’s when his mouth twitched again, a sign he was
getting ready to leave or that he thought what I’d said was almost too ridiculous. Imagine, suggesting that a San Francisco police detective was crazy. It boggles the mind.

I didn’t know about Jack, but I’d learned very little today.

A waiter came by with a tray of champagne. I snagged a glass and so did Jack. I took that as a sign neither one of us was ready to leave. Not until we’d made some kind of progress.

“What if Paul escaped from his institution, had an argument with Vienna, perhaps at the Bachelor Auction, then followed her to the boutique where he strangled her and took her necklace?” I suggested.

Jack took a sip of his champagne and raised an eyebrow.

“Why did she go to the boutique?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “Maybe she wanted to change clothes without going all the way home. Leave her dress on a hanger and slip into something couture but still casual. Perfectly acceptable and totally okay with Dolce. I’ve been known to do it myself. As I did Sunday morning when I found her body. Dolce always said the shop was not only her home but ours too. The clothes were there for her customers of course, but for us too. After they’re worn by one of us, Dolce has them dry-cleaned and puts them on her bargain rack.”

“If I were Vienna, I would have changed into a pair of loose tweed trousers and a long cashmere sweater in a diamond pattern,” I continued. “And a pair of ballet flats from the new Maria Sharapova collection we just got in. Perfect for more casual after-the-formal activities. And what a relief to change out of her dress, which was beautiful but had to be constricting.”

“Was anything missing from the shop?” he asked. “The
clothes or the shoes you mentioned. You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t notice,” I said. But of course I would have or Dolce would have and we hadn’t. I wasn’t discouraged. We’d been too distraught on Monday—and too busy helping the would-be funeral goers choose outfits—to take inventory. “Let’s just say it’s possible it happened that way. Vienna went to the boutique; Paul, who was angry about something, followed her; and before she could change clothes, he killed her. He’s crazy. He couldn’t help it. It makes sense to me. In which case, you can follow up, arrest him and if he’s found guilty by reason of insanity, your work is done. He’s already under wraps, under lock and key except for family funerals, I’m guessing, where he accosts an innocent guest and accuses her of murder. It’s embarrassing for the family, but that’s all.” I really liked this scenario. It was all so neat and clean. Sometimes I amazed myself.

As I basked in the glow of self-congratulation, I had to step aside to allow guests to walk through on their way out the front door. It was time to leave. I’d done everything I could. Watched Dolce give a touching speech, showed that I was a bona fide mourner and finally solved the murder. Maybe Jack wasn’t totally convinced, because I made it look too easy, but he’d come around when he ran out of suspects and time. He had to.

“Good to see you again, Detective,” I said on my way to find Dolce and pay our respects to our hosts. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, let me know.”

I could just hear him saying, “Anything
else
?” in an incredulous tone, as if I hadn’t done a thing for him. But I had. And I’d continue to try to help him or at least shake up his current theories, whatever they were. What else could
he do to me but haul me down to the station again for more questioning? His case against me was weak. At least that’s what I hoped.

So I went back into the living room and made my way through what was left of the crowd. Dolce and I said good-bye to Noreen and went out to the car. On the way we passed the motorcycle parked in the driveway, which reminded me of Geoffrey. Why hadn’t I seen him today? Or had I but didn’t recognize him because he’d blended in in a dark suit and tie? I told Dolce to get in the car, since she looked like she was about to collapse, and I circled the parking lot on foot hoping Geoffrey would turn up. He did.

Just as Geoffrey was putting his helmet on, I hurried over to say hello. “I’m Rita Jewel from Dolce’s,” I said. “We spoke on the phone.”

He frowned. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I saw you one day when you picked up Vienna from the shop. And I saw your picture on your web site.”

“Oh.”

“How did you like the wake?” I asked, hoping he’d say something I could wrap my mind around. Even though I’d just solved the murder myself, I didn’t want to leave any stone unturned, so to speak.

“Only one I’ve ever been to. Kind of weird. So that guy you were talking to in there, he’s the cop, right?”

“Yes, he is. Isn’t he the one who interviewed you?”

“No, it was a woman. She came to my studio. Asked some
questions, then she left. Wanted to know where I was Saturday night.”

“I didn’t see you at the auction,” I said.

He snorted. “I don’t do that charity crap.”

I wanted to say, “What do you do?” but I didn’t. I knew what he did for a living, but I didn’t know where he was that night. He didn’t tell me.

“They find the killer yet?” he asked, a little too casually I thought.

“Not that I know of. I mean, Detective Wall wouldn’t tell me if he had. I’m just an ordinary citizen. If and when he solves this case, I’ll probably read about it in the paper.” It was probably true. The idea made me furious. After all I’d done for the police. And yet no one appreciated me. “Those other guys you mentioned, Raold and Emery, were they here today by any chance?” I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity to meet all the men in Vienna’s life, just in case my case fell apart.

“Yeah, they were. I don’t know why. Maybe to get some free food. They didn’t know her that well.”

Didn’t know her that well? Then why had they picked her up after work? Or didn’t they? “I suppose they left already then?” I craned my neck to look back at the house. How had I overlooked two twenty-something guys who I wanted badly to meet? I hated to leave without checking out everyone I could.

He shrugged, straddled his motorcycle and turned the key in the ignition. I got the message. He’d had enough of me.

“Okay,” I shouted over the roar of the motor. I realized I wasn’t getting much out of this interview and I’d been dismissed. “Good to meet you. If you have any other ideas about who killed Vienna…”

“Besides you?” he said, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t really think…Yes, maybe he did.

“Since I didn’t do it, I’d like to know who did.”

“Got it,” he said. But the look he gave me wasn’t reassuring. I had the distinct feeling he still thought I was guilty. Join the club. Had he told Ramirez that? Because I was sure she was the woman cop he’d mentioned. I watched while he tore out of the circular driveway. Then I went back to the car intending to tell Dolce I needed to run into the house for something I’d forgotten. But she told me she was feeling unwell and wanted to leave. I’d think of another way to meet these guys. Dolce and I drove back to the city.

I awoke Wednesday morning feeling like I’d hit a brick wall in the investigation of Vienna’s murder. Frustrated, I decided that I wouldn’t participate in the antiviolence program at the Central Police Station where I’d probably see Detective Wall and he’d once again make light of my brilliant observations. Not only that, but he’d make me feel like he was waiting for me to give up and confess I’d murdered Vienna. So instead, I’d go for a less-strenuous activity like a cooking class at Tante Marie’s Cooking School and try to forget all about Vienna. Her funeral was over; it was time to get on with the living.

Easy for me to say, harder to act on. Just walking up the steps to the front door of the shop made my heart pound and my legs shake. What if the door was unlocked just as it had been that fateful Sunday that now seemed like eons ago? What if I opened the door to find another body lying there? It could happen. If word had somehow gotten out this was the place to dump bodies. What would the cops do then? Would Jack Wall blame me? Probably.

But this time I’d at least know what to do. Better yet,
what not to do. I would not touch anything. Nothing. I would immediately call the police. I wouldn’t even turn the body over to see who it was or if she was dead. It didn’t matter. I had to think of myself first for a change. I had to protect myself from baseless accusations.

Today the door was locked. Of course it was. I used my key to unlock it and walked in. There was no one lying on the floor. I straightened my shoulders and proceeded into the great room. The morning sun bathed the merchandise in golden beams of light. The clothes were back where they belonged. With Dolce’s permission, I’d moved the bright citrus colors favored by Vienna to a small alcove. She didn’t want to be reminded of Vienna any more than I did, for different reasons.

We got through the day somehow. When I told Dolce about my cooking class, she thought it was a great idea. “Every woman, whether she has a career or not, should know how to cook. I wish I’d learned,” she said as I stood in her office at five o’clock. “Maybe if I had, things would be different.”

I hated to see her so down in the dumps. So it was true: her spotless kitchen was not used for cooking.

“It’s not too late,” I said. “Take the class with me.”

“I can’t. I’m wiped out. Have a good time,” she said. She looked pale and tired. It had been a slow day. Just what we expected after the blockbuster day when we sold all those funeral outfits. Good day for Dolce, since she didn’t have to go into full sales mode, but bad for me. I was bored and antsy. Glad I had plans for the evening that involved self-improvement and food.

Dolce seemed ready to fall apart. I could understand that. Her favorite girl had been murdered right here on these
premises, unless she wasn’t. In any case, Dolce might be feeling guilty. If Vienna hadn’t come to work here, would she be alive today? Was it something about her work here that had led to her demise? Or was the reason she’d been found lying on the floor here just because it was a convenient spot for some vagrant to attack her? I wished I knew.

I told myself there was nothing more I could do. It was time to stop obsessing over Vienna, was time for some “me” time instead of Vienna time. The woman had taken over my life since the day she first appeared in our shop. And she continued to cast a long shadow over me even after she was dead.

What had I ever done to deserve this? I’d given up my lunch hour so she and Dolce could go out together. I’d meekly retreated to the back room so she could be the bright new salesgirl racking up sales and making friends with women I used to think were
my
customers. Did I complain? Did I beg Dolce to let me back into the showrooms? Did I ever utter a harsh word to or about Vienna? No, no and no.

I took the number twenty-two Fillmore bus to Eighteenth Street, the heart of Potrero Hill where Tante Marie had her cooking school. Good choice, I thought as I walked up a steep hill toward the school, catching a glimpse of the Bay in the distance.
Potrero
is Spanish for “pasture,” the hill so named because it was given as a land grant to Don Francisco de Haro in 1835 to graze cattle in the
potrero nuevo
—the new pasture. That’s what it said on a historical marker on the corner.

Potrero Hill, once used for farming and shipping, was now a sunny neighborhood even when the rest of the city was socked in with fog. I passed cafés and restaurants, shops and narrow frame houses that lined the streets. Each house,
no matter how small and modest, boasted a garden of sorts or at least a flower box or a tree in front of it.

Tante Marie had chosen a storefront for her cooking school, showing a frugal and a practical nature. Inside the front door was a desk where I registered and paid a fee for the class, and in the back was a huge kitchen and several rows of chairs.

I’m not sure if there really was a Tante Marie; if there was, I didn’t meet her. Instead, I learned our teacher for tonight was Guido Torcelli, who looked like the quintessential Italian chef unless you think all Italian chefs are rotund. Guido was tall and lean with flowing gray hair and a thick accent. I was disappointed to hear this was a demonstration class, not hands-on. I really needed to get some experience. After all, I could watch cooking classes on television any time, but what I was paying for was to have a professional like Guido watch me and tell me what I was doing wrong. I guessed I hadn’t read the fine print, although, to tell the truth, I was so eager to start my new life filled with cooking and exercise, I’d just impulsively rushed right into this class tonight. I know that’s my problem. I’m impulsive and I don’t always do my homework, but who wants to think everything over before acting? If I did that, I’d never get anything done.