Authors: Grace Carroll
“Where are you training?” he asked.
“At my health club, and the swim is from the Marina to Alcatraz.”
“Then I gather you’re not afraid of sharks.”
“Sharks?” No one had said anything about sharks. I acted nonchalant, as if sharks were the least of my problems. Actually they were. “I’m more afraid of the police arresting the wrong person.”
He gave me a half smile. “Relax. It’s not going to happen as long as everyone tells the truth.”
“I assume you are referring to the Vienna Fairchild case?” I said. “Is there anything else I should be concerned with?”
“You should be concerned with the fact that you lack an alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Surely I’m not the only one,” I said.
“No, you’re not.”
Was he referring to Dolce? She said she wouldn’t involve
her new boyfriend in her alibi, but what if it came down to proving she wasn’t at the scene of the crime, which she couldn’t do without him. Then what?
“The only person you should worry about is yourself. You have enough on your plate with your job and your social life. Leave the rest to me.”
“How can I do that when you suspect me of murder?”
“Try.”
I sighed loudly. He said good night, then turned and took the stairs two at a time down to the street. Why shouldn’t he rush off? He’d gotten what he came for and more. He’d gotten a free dinner. And he’d had a look at my friends. Maybe he’d been analyzing them, wondering if one of them, probably Dolce since she was under his microscope and had no ready alibi for Saturday night, was the most likely suspect.
Now he would go home or back to work and pore over the faces in the yearbook just as I’d planned to do tonight, trying to decide who among Vienna’s high school friends and foes had had a motive and the opportunity to kill her. I liked to think I knew more than he did about the people in Vienna’s inner circle. He very likely didn’t agree. Maybe he thought I was full of myself. Little Ms. Amateur Detective who was coasting on her last case, which she’d solved purely by chance.
His lack of confidence in me just made me more determined to get to the bottom of the murder before he did. Maybe Vienna’s murder had nothing to do with what happened in high school. Maybe by taking the yearbooks, he was off on a tangent to nowhere. He’d spared me from the needless task of looking through them. I would go in a different direction. But where? Which one?
…………………
By the next morning I’d changed my mind. I had to get those yearbooks. If Jack hadn’t wanted them enough to come to my house, crash my party and take them, I wouldn’t have been so sure they held the answer. But now I was. I decided to pay a visit to Vienna’s private high school, San Francisco Prep, or for those in the know, simply “Prep.” Surely they’d have a collection of old yearbooks in the library or somewhere I could borrow. But not until noon. I couldn’t let Dolce down by coming in late today even though she’d told me I could. So I got ready for work at the usual time, dressing carefully in semi-teen style: a stretchy pink top, miniskirt, see-through, classic Bobbie Gray baseball jacket, and canvas wedge sandals.
I wasn’t sure the outfit would let me pass as a teen, but after I’d braided my hair in one long braid that I tossed casually over one shoulder, I was more confident. Actually I didn’t need to masquerade as a teen, since I was going to the school to get the loan of a yearbook, but I didn’t want to stand out either. You never know when you might want to slip in and slip out unnoticed.
But just in case the slipping-in-and-out plan didn’t work, I decided to call one of our customers, a fashion-conscious fellow named Harrington Harris, the drama teacher at Prep, who bought an occasional item at the shop. Dolce and I had even attended a sneak preview of one of his plays last fall.
“Harrington,” I said after identifying myself, “we haven’t seen you at the boutique forever.”
“Darling,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “So good to hear from you. Please don’t take my absence from Dolce’s personally. I’m up to my ears in rehearsals. But I want to hear all about the spring collection. I might drop by on Saturday.”
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I was hoping to get a tour of your school. One of our customers has a daughter who’s looking at Prep and Sacred Heart and Menlo and Saint Francis. She can’t decide. She asked us for our opinion, but not being from San Francisco originally, I didn’t know what to say except that I knew Prep had a dynamite theatre program.”
“So true,” he murmured. “If I do say so myself. Why don’t you send your customer and her daughter and I’ll give them a tour of the facilities. We get points for introducing new students if they actually enroll.”
“Really, well what a good idea. I hate to impose, but if you’re sure…” Of course I was making up the whole thing. Why hadn’t I realized that the mythical mother and daughter who didn’t exist would get invited on a tour when I was the one who wanted to see the school, the better to get my little hands on those yearbooks?
“The problem is that they’re too busy with…other things, so what if I took the tour instead?” I suggested. “Or at least dropped by, since I have time today, say around noon? Then I’ll pass on my impressions of the school, which I’m sure will be superpositive, and you’ll get your bonus.” I could only hope Harrington would not hound me about this new student and his bonus. I had to believe he’d eventually forget about it. Or maybe someone would ask my opinion about private schools and I’d be able to say that the excellent teachers, the outstanding activities and Prep’s reputation in sports were all worth the astronomical tuition and that he or she should definitely go there.
“Come ahead. We’ll have lunch in the cafeteria, which is pretty decent since the overhaul last year. Salads and lots of healthy veggies. At least the teachers like it, while the
students sneak out and hit the fast-food places when they can.”
“Are you sure I’m not disrupting your schedule?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “I have a light class load this semester because of the play. Just have the secretary page me because I’ll be in the scene shop supervising the painting of the sets. Kids get assigned to help me instead of having to go to detention, so I have to keep an eye on them. We’re doing
Amadeus
. And I’m not sure it was a good idea. I’ve had my doubts since day one. Sure it’s got beautiful music, great parts and of course a spectacular set. But there are too many problems.”
“I’m sure you’ll work them out,” I said. I had no idea what
Amadeus
was about, but I thought it was safe to say that Harrington would solve the problems of putting on the play, or why choose the play in the first place? “Though it is an ambitious choice,” I added hopefully.
“Maybe too ambitious,” he said. “For starters, the girl playing Mozart’s wife comes across as a giggling high school junior instead of a frightened and bitter wife. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t tackled a musical again. Or if I had to do a musical, why not pick
Rent
?”
Now there was a musical I’d heard of. “But isn’t
Rent
about sex, drugs and criminals?” I asked.
“You’ve just described high school,” he said with a laugh. “Unfortunately, the head of school is a Mozart fan, which is the real reason we’re doing
Amadeus
. He insisted his son get the role of Salieri. I’m afraid this kid is going to terrify the audience instead of impress them with his over-the-top performance. His loud outbursts make me wonder if he might really be crazy. If you ask me, he’s a bona fide psycho and shouldn’t even be here at Prep, but that’s how it goes
when your father pulls the strings. You’ll get a chance to see for yourself if you stay for rehearsal.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ll have to hurry back to work. In any case, I’ll see you at noon.”
I couldn’t believe all the trouble I had to go to to get those damn yearbooks, and for what? So I could pore over the books hoping something, a picture, a blurb under someone’s photo would turn on a lightbulb and there’d be an “aha” moment when all would be clear? Yes, actually, I thought, reassuring myself. Yes, because then I’d know who killed Vienna, and I’d finally get credit for solving the crime. And then we could all go back to work. Faking my way through lunch with Harrington and suffering through a bit of his WIP would be worth it if I walked out with the yearbooks.
When I got to work, Dolce gushed about my party, saying that William had such a good time he’d invited her to take a spin in his Learjet next Sunday to Southern California. It was wonderful to see her back to normal, even better than normal as she seemed to glide smoothly around the shop, wearing a gray, figure-hugging Carolina Herrera dress, which I thought I’d seen in a photo of Carla Bruni, the former model and first lady of France. I was a little surprised by her choice, but this was a new Dolce, one who took chances, one who was dressing for someone besides her customers, and I was glad to see it. I watched her greeting old and new customers with good cheer. I didn’t ask her if she’d had to lie about her actions on the night of Vienna’s murder. I didn’t want to know.
After a morning of helping customers find the right sexy gown or leather jacket or flouncy skirt, I told Dolce I had some errands to do on my lunch hour. She told me to take my time and didn’t ask where I was going. Did her
laissez-faire attitude have anything to do with her ongoing connection to William? I hoped so. She also surprised me by saying, “I’m thinking of closing the shop on Mondays. We’re never that busy, and I think we deserve two days off like everyone else. What do you think?”
A two-day weekend? Closing the shop on Mondays? Maybe she’d gotten the idea when I took Saturday off and left her to cope on her own. What was the world coming to? I couldn’t help thinking it had something to do with William. He was retired and probably had weekends and lots of other days off. But Dolce only had Sundays off. That’s all she’d ever wanted, but that was before William came into her life. I didn’t ask about his divorce.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said. As long as I didn’t have to take a pay cut. And I could take an occasional Saturday off too when I had a big date that night. Although maybe that was just wishful thinking.
I took the bus to Pacific Heights and walked down the street past the mansions of the rich and powerful to the school where the rich and powerful sent their kids, like Vienna, and the less-than-wealthy sent their scholarship students, like Vienna’s poor and needy roommate, Danielle. It was a far cry from my public high school in Ohio with its tired old teachers, its peeling paint and the Friday night football games. The original school building had once been a stately home owned by some gold rush baron, who donated it to the city to educate the youth. It didn’t survive the 1906 earthquake, but the rebuilt structure that had stood in its place for over a hundred years was still the school of choice for those who were lucky enough to get in.
Maybe it had always been a school for the city’s entitled youth. All I knew was that it was difficult to get admitted
even if you had the money for the tuition. You had to be smart too. What I didn’t know until today was that the parking lot was full of high-end expensive cars.
Had Lex ever actually given Vienna that car he promised her, and if so, where was it? Or had Bobbi put the kibosh on that plan and Vienna had no car? If she had one, why hadn’t she driven it to work? The answer had to be that it was hard to park near Dolce’s. Even our customers took taxis or had their chauffeurs drop them off.
Standing at the wide glass front door, I glanced up at the flag flying over the school at half-mast. I frowned. Could it be for Vienna? After I walked in, I followed the signs to the office. There, a stern-looking woman with dark hair and a sort of uniform consisting of a white long-sleeved shirt, a navy vest, a pleated skirt and low-heeled shoes asked if she could help me.
I suddenly realized that the kids wore uniforms at the school and in my teen outfit I wouldn’t fit in anyway. Why hadn’t I thought this through and dressed like a wealthy matron? Oh well. I
was
expected.
“I’m here to see Harrington Harris,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”
She sighed loudly, as if he had women dropping in every few minutes, which I didn’t believe for a minute. Parents might drop in to make sure their kids were given parts in the plays, but did I look like a parent? I hoped not. She finally picked up a phone and spoke into it. “Visitor for Harris,” she said. “Harris, visitor in Admin.”
While I was waiting, I looked around, wondering if I’d see a Dolce’s customer among the teachers—or more likely, a parent here to have a teacher conference. I was desperate to keep my real reason for my visit under my hat.
Some of the students who walked down the hall were wearing regulation skorts, which would be more practical out on the playing field across town in Golden Gate Park. Not enough level ground for a playing field here among the mansions on the hill. Prep was known not only for its academics but also for its soccer team. The boys I saw in the hall wore button-down shirts and green ties, green being the school color, I assumed.
Still waiting, I took a look at the trophies in a glass case. Not only trophies but also artifacts from another era. There was a shovel used to dig for the gold that had ultimately enabled one of the gold barons to endow this school. There was a rough wooden stool that was one of many that the early students of this institution sat on while being instructed in the basics of math and English and manners.
What if I’d gone to school here? Would my life be different? Would I, like other alums, have gone on to an Ivy League college? Would I now be working as a high-end marketing guru for someone like Helmut Lang or Kate Spade instead of selling clothes in a small boutique on the West Coast? Or would I be married to a fellow student who was now making millions in real estate or investment banking?
I might live in this rarified neighborhood, send my kids to this school, shop at Dolce’s, have lunch with the other ladies who lunch at the rotunda at Neiman Marcus with its fifteen-dollar cheeseburgers and spectacular view of Union Square. Yes, that sounded like me. Or did it?