Authors: Grace Carroll
I knew it wasn’t polite, but I simply stood there in the middle of the great room staring at this vision, a portly policewoman wearing a trendy outfit that accented her wide hips and stocky legs.
“Detective Ramirez,” I said when I finally found my voice. “I hardly recognized you.”
“Why not? Because I wear street clothes when I’m on duty and also when I’m not?” she said.
“That’s right,” I replied, not wishing to get into an argument over what she wore or didn’t wear. “What brings you to the boutique so early this Monday morning?” And how did she get in?
As if I didn’t know why she was here. She was surely at the boutique to grill both Dolce and me about the murder of our former salesgirl. But why her? Why now? And why didn’t Jack tell me he was sending her?
“Your boss let me in,” she said. “She said she’d be with me shortly.”
“In the meantime, what can I do for you?” I asked pleasantly. I decided to assume she was there on personal business and treat her as if she were a regular customer. “A new
bag? A pleated skirt? We just got some girly skirts in that look great with oversize sweaters in neutral colors.” I don’t believe in forcing styles on our customers. Instead I try my best to find them something they like whether I think it’s appropriate for their body type or not. Which is why I thought, based on the detective’s taste in clothing, that she’d go for one of our new skirts and sweaters. My job was to help everyone, whether wraith-like or chubby, find what they wanted and if they felt good about themselves, all the better for them.
“Not today,” she said. “Actually this is my day off. As you see, I am dressed even more casually than usual. This is just an informal courtesy call. I’ve recently been reassigned to your neighborhood.”
“Really?” I said, though I wanted to ask, “How recently? Just today?” Instead, I said, “So does your assignment have anything to do with the um…death of Vienna Fairchild over the weekend?”
“It could,” she said. “I want you to know that even though I’m off duty, I’m available for consultation any time of night or day. Our goal at the SFPD is to cut down on violent crime in the area.”
“I second that. Crime in the area is not good for business.” I paused for a second. Enough pussy-footing around. “So do you have any suspects in the Fairchild murder? Any clues?” I asked. I didn’t think she’d answer, but why not push the envelope? She’d never liked me, so why pretend otherwise?
She looked surprised at my audacity. What nerve I had asking direct questions. I decided if Jack had sent her here, I was going to let go of my inhibitions and ask her anything I felt like. Even if she wasn’t on duty. Even if she refused to
answer. This was my chance to ask anything I wouldn’t ask Jack for fear of setting him off on a tangent. She could say no and that would be that. I was used to being turned down. I was also used to taking chances.
“That’s for me to ask you, Ms. Jewel,” she said. “In any case, I’d be speaking off the record if I talked about clues, since I’m not on duty today.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” I said. I got the message or I thought I did. But wait. If she wasn’t working today, then why was she here? To shop at an exclusive boutique on a public servant’s salary? “Call me Rita,” I added. “All the customers do.”
“I’m not a customer…yet. And I can only be one on my day off, Rita. So if I were here to question you—.”
“Which you aren’t,” I said flatly, daring her to contradict me. “If I can’t show you anything in the shop or help you then…” Then why in hell are you here? What
is
a courtesy call anyway, I wondered.
“I do have a few questions,” she said. “Nothing official, just between the two of us.”
Just the two of us? I didn’t believe that for a minute.
“Are any of your customers friends of Ms. Fairchild’s?
“I’m not sure,” I said. “At Dolce’s there’s a fine line between customers and friends. We like to think of our customers as our friends. And if this is in regard to the homicide, Detective Wall has already questioned me.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “But there are still more questions.”
“Of course,” I said. “You have questions and I have questions. Naturally I’m always happy to help. I’ve never met any of Vienna’s friends, although I have actually seen one of her male friends, a man named Geoffrey, and I’ve spoken
on the phone to some of her relatives as well as her roommate, Danielle. Is that what you want to know?”
She was writing all this down on a pad of paper, not her Blackberry—so it wouldn’t look official, I supposed. All the while pretending she wasn’t there on business and yet she didn’t even look at a single item on our shelves or racks.
When Dolce finally came downstairs, she invited Ramirez into her office and they closed the door. Dolce barely glanced at me. Just when I had a lot of questions to ask her. Question number one: Had she changed her mind about confessing to her whereabouts to save herself from being a suspect?
I went to the door and listened shamelessly. I had to know if Dolce was going to tell her what happened the night of the murder. Instead, I heard Dolce giving her fashion advice.
“Play up your curves with a high-waisted printed pant,” Dolce was saying diplomatically.
“But won’t print pants just make me look like an elephant?”
Dolce laughed softly. A laugh that said, “That’s just ridiculous.” She was so good at making others feel good about themselves. Not just good, she was a genius.
Now they were talking underwear. “You need five different bras,” Dolce told Ramirez. “Smooth, strapless, sporty, a black T-back bra and a leisure bra that is comfy and soft.”
A moment later Dolce came out of her office by herself, and I jumped out of the way. She was walking toward the great room, muttering to herself.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Why is she here, really?” I whispered.
Dolce shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.
I want to find her something to wear and send her on her way. Did she tell you it’s her day off?” she said.
“Only a half dozen times,” I said. “Maybe she says that so we’ll relax, get comfortable and tell her what she wants to know.”
“Which is?”
“Who killed Vienna.”
Dolce shot me a look that said “No way.” Then she opened a drawer in a highboy maplewood dresser and took out a striped sweater. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Horizontal stripes?” I said. “On Detective Ramirez?”
“Oh, all right,” she said with a sigh. “But large women can’t wear dark solids all day every day. And it’s a change from her uniform.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Go for it.”
Dolce looked at her watch. “Open up, will you? I want everything to appear normal.”
I looked at her. The new faux bob hairstyle complete with chic feathery bangs she’d achieved without professional help was perfect. She wore a little forest green velvet jacket with a pair of slim cocoa-color pants. But she had huge circles under her eyes that no makeup could cover. I felt so bad for her I wanted to give her a hug, but I sensed she wasn’t in the mood. She just wanted to get through this day. So did I. So did everyone connected with Vienna, I’d bet.
Shortly after I opened the front door, the great room was full of customers. We’re not usually so busy on a Monday morning, but this was no ordinary day. Everyone seemed to know about Vienna. San Francisco is a small town in some ways, even though we have a big-city symphony orchestra, world-class cuisine and unmatched breathtaking views from
every hill. Gossip travels fast. And news of the murder had been covered on the local news programs.
“Where’s Dolce?” Patti French asked the minute she stepped inside our hand-carved antique door.
“In her office. Can I help?”
“I can’t believe it. I’m the one who sold you the tickets to the auction, aren’t I? This is my fault. If I’d kept my tickets to myself, Vienna would be alive today.”
“You mean—”
“It happened that night, didn’t it? Right here, wasn’t it?” She looked around eagerly, as if she might see signs of the murder, like blood, torn clothes or clumps of blond hair.
That was the question. Did it happen right here or not? “Patti,” I said, “don’t blame yourself. Vienna would have been at the auction anyway.”
“I don’t blame myself,” she said. “I blame that madman who killed her.”
I bit my tongue to keep from asking, “How do you know it was a man?”
Now a small crowd had gathered around Patti, whose voice was rising with every word. I knew everyone in the room except for one tall dark-haired young woman who was watching and listening like a TV reporter. I sincerely hoped she wasn’t. A murder on the premises was the kind of publicity Dolce didn’t need.
“Right here?” Monica Sayles asked breathlessly. “But what was she doing here after hours?”
I shrugged. Good question. How should I know what our newest employee was doing at the shop on a Sunday morning—or was it late Saturday night? Lured here by her attacker? An assignation with someone she knew? Or just
a random break-in by a thief whom Vienna caught in the act? Or back to my theory that it didn’t take place here at all and whoever brought her here wanted to blame Dolce or me.
I wondered if I’d ever be privileged to hear any inside information from anyone. Not if Jack Wall had anything to say about it. He wanted me out of his side of the investigation. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I’d be careful, I’d be discreet, but I wouldn’t be left out.
I decided to move on to the small accessories alcove, still within hearing distance, but giving the impression that I wasn’t eavesdropping.
I was just polishing an already perfectly polished silver pendant with turquoise beads when the dark-haired young woman I’d noticed earlier joined me.
“What can I do for you?” I asked. After all, this
was
a store and we
did
have things for sale. It was not just a gossip fest. It would be different if one of our customers actually knew anything, but so far, all I’d heard was questions. Why, when, how and where?
“I’m Athena Fairchild, Vienna’s twin sister,” she said.
I almost dropped the necklace, that’s how startled I was. “Vienna had a twin sister?” I said, dumbfounded.
“Has,”
she corrected. “I’m still alive, though I must say I’m not feeling entirely confident about my chances after what happened to Vienna. This is a dangerous place.” She gave a quick look over her shoulder as if expecting an assassin to burst in at any moment.
I stared at Vienna’s twin. “But you don’t look…”
“Like her? No, we’re fraternal twins. We never looked alike. Never wanted to. Never dressed alike. Never acted alike. Never wanted anyone to know we were twins.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked while gaping at her
outfit, a pair of very wide-legged jeans, definitely fuller flaired, not quite bell-bottomed, but seventies inspired for sure. With the jeans she wore a sporty jacket and a pair of Miu Miu wedge sandals. None of which Vienna would ever have worn. Too casual. Too sporty.
“Our parents got divorced when we were small. I went to live with my mother, and Vienna stayed with my father and his new wife.”
“Bobbi,” I murmured, remembering our conversation.
“Horrible woman,” Athena said. “That’s one thing my sister and I agreed on. We didn’t have many happy family reunions.”
“Otherwise you weren’t close?” I asked. Athena certainly didn’t seem grief stricken over her sister’s death, but given their history, maybe it was understandable. And some people simply don’t show emotion the way others do.
She shook her head. “I hadn’t seen Vienna for years. I was sent to boarding school in the East, then college. My mother and Hugh would come to New York for the holidays. The only reason I’m here now is because of the auction the other night.”
“You were there?” I asked.
“Mother insisted,” she said. “She bought a whole table. She’s very charitable that way. So is Hugh. So I flew in Saturday morning. But I left after the dinner. I hate those black-tie affairs. So boring. But what could I do? Mother knew Vienna would be there. How would it look if she didn’t have her other daughter with her to balance what I call ‘the Vienna effect.’ I hear my sister bid up a storm on some hot MD.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said noncommittally. Now was not the time to mention that I not only knew the hot MD, but I also
would be going out with him, thanks to her sister’s winning bid.
“I was supposed to fly back to New York today, but my mother wants me here for the funeral. It’s tomorrow, you know.”
No, I didn’t know. “I’m sure you’re a big comfort to your mother,” I said, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. To myself, I said, “Rita, you have to go. Everyone will be there, including the killer.” That’s how it happened at my last homicide. I went to a celebration-of-life gathering as well as the funeral for MarySue Jensen, one of our regular customers, and both events were eye-openers. It would be even better this time because now I knew what to look for: someone who cries too much, who falls apart, who is a little too sad and lets you know. It’s a dead giveaway. If I was looking for a suspect who was overly distressed, it was not Athena. I wondered if she even cared that her sister was dead.
“My mother is freaked out,” Athena said. “She’s already had a call from a policeman who wants to interview her. Like she knows anything? Vienna didn’t even tell her she was working here, just that she was coming to the auction. She sent me today to see if Vienna left anything behind, any clothes or jewelry? What happened to the dress and the necklace she was wearing to the auction, Mom wants to know. She doesn’t want Bobbi to get her claws on anything, especially that necklace.”
“I don’t know where her clothes are,” I said. “I’m the one who found your sister Sunday morning, and she was wearing the dress then—but not the necklace, come to think of it. You should speak to the police. Call the SFPD and ask for Detective Wall.”
“I’ll do that. The necklace belonged to our grandmother—it’s a real heirloom piece, with an electric pink, pear-shaped tourmaline encircled in diamonds. Mom didn’t know Vienna had it until that night and she wants it back.”