“Although there’s also power, love, possessions.”
“Possessions, like a cooking school or a famous recipe,” Dolce said, “that someone wanted to get their hands on.”
“Would you kill for this place?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Not for a cooking school or the recipe for veal scallopini. But a boutique would be different.”
“Your aunt died of natural causes, didn’t she?” I asked. Not that I thought Dolce would have offed her aunt to get control of the shop.
“I was halfway across the country when she died, but I believe that pneumonia was the cause.”
“What about revenge, anger and self-defense?” I suggested.
“Don’t forget cheating or insanity,” she added. “All popular motives.”
“Sometimes I wonder if Meera is insane,” I said. “You know she claims to be a vampire.”
“She’s definitely odd,” Dolce said. “I notice your detective friend seems to be getting around.” We both looked across the room to see he was now talking to Guido’s Italian relatives.
“The Italians,” I murmured. “Is that who he thinks did it? I need to spend more time with them. Maybe they had some unfinished business from the old country. All kinds of family disputes last for generations.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve seen a few movies about that. They carry grudges from generation to generation and on. It could be some motive we would never understand. Why don’t you forget this murder and let Detective Wall handle it?” she asked. “It’s probably more complicated than we think. Imagine Diana being called to testify. What could he be thinking?” She shook her head. “Come on, have somethingto eat and let the detective do his work. You’re a fashion consultant, Rita, and a darned good one. You don’t need to help the police. Especially if they don’t appreciate your help.”
“Did Jack Wall tell you to say that?” I asked. For all I knew, she and Jack had been talking about me behind my back today. I knew Dolce only meant to stop me from acting foolish and overstepping my boundaries, but I don’t like to be told what to do outside of work, even by my beloved boss.
“Not exactly,” she said. “Well, he may have said something along those lines.”
“You can tell the detective for me that I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral. Instead of telling me to butt out of this business, he ought to be grateful to me. Never mind, I’ll tell him myself,” I said. I turned around and scanned the room, but he was nowhere in sight.
All day I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye either silently surveying the place or working the room, moving from group to group like just another casual mourner, no doubt picking up valuable pieces of information. Maybe he was getting ready to make an arrest, while I was moving in slow motion, learning practically nothing important. Why should I care if he was about to arrest someone as long as it wasn’t me? Then I could go back to my real life, getting some modest exercise and selling clothes to the upper classes. But deep down I wanted to show him I could figure out a difficult problem like who killed Guido, and win his respect.
After a second glass of Prosecco, I gathered my courage and went up to the woman in the big hat who was holding a glass in her hand just as I was. “My name is Rita Jewel—that’s
bigiu
in Italian,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
I didn’t know if she meant she knew who I was or she knew what “jewel” was in Italian.
“Are you named for Saint Rita?” she asked.
“Probably, although I’m no saint,” I added, in case she hadn’t heard.
“I am Gianna.”
I said I was happy to meet her, and then my mind went blank. I had questions to ask her, but what were they? Why did I think I could find out anything? Why did I bother? Jack was right: he was the expert. He’d been trained as a detective. I hadn’t been trained as anything except as a salesgirl by Dolce.
“I just
“Possessions, like a cooking school or a famous recipe,” Dolce said, “that someone wanted to get their hands on.”
“Would you kill for this place?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Not for a cooking school or the recipe for veal scallopini. But a boutique would be different.”
“Your aunt died of natural causes, didn’t she?” I asked. Not that I thought Dolce would have offed her aunt to get control of the shop.
“I was halfway across the country when she died, but I believe that pneumonia was the cause.”
“What about revenge, anger and self-defense?” I suggested.
“Don’t forget cheating or insanity,” she added. “All popular motives.”
“Sometimes I wonder if Meera is insane,” I said. “You know she claims to be a vampire.”
“She’s definitely odd,” Dolce said. “I notice your detective friend seems to be getting around.” We both looked across the room to see he was now talking to Guido’s Italian relatives.
“The Italians,” I murmured. “Is that who he thinks did it? I need to spend more time with them. Maybe they had some unfinished business from the old country. All kinds of family disputes last for generations.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve seen a few movies about that. They carry grudges from generation to generation and on. It could be some motive we would never understand. Why don’t you forget this murder and let Detective Wall handle it?” she asked. “It’s probably more complicated than we think. Imagine Diana being called to testify. What could he be thinking?” She shook her head. “Come on, have somethingto eat and let the detective do his work. You’re a fashion consultant, Rita, and a darned good one. You don’t need to help the police. Especially if they don’t appreciate your help.”
“Did Jack Wall tell you to say that?” I asked. For all I knew, she and Jack had been talking about me behind my back today. I knew Dolce only meant to stop me from acting foolish and overstepping my boundaries, but I don’t like to be told what to do outside of work, even by my beloved boss.
“Not exactly,” she said. “Well, he may have said something along those lines.”
“You can tell the detective for me that I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral. Instead of telling me to butt out of this business, he ought to be grateful to me. Never mind, I’ll tell him myself,” I said. I turned around and scanned the room, but he was nowhere in sight.
All day I’d seen him out of the corner of my eye either silently surveying the place or working the room, moving from group to group like just another casual mourner, no doubt picking up valuable pieces of information. Maybe he was getting ready to make an arrest, while I was moving in slow motion, learning practically nothing important. Why should I care if he was about to arrest someone as long as it wasn’t me? Then I could go back to my real life, getting some modest exercise and selling clothes to the upper classes. But deep down I wanted to show him I could figure out a difficult problem like who killed Guido, and win his respect.
After a second glass of Prosecco, I gathered my courage and went up to the woman in the big hat who was holding a glass in her hand just as I was. “My name is Rita Jewel—that’s
bigiu
in Italian,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
I didn’t know if she meant she knew who I was or she knew what “jewel” was in Italian.
“Are you named for Saint Rita?” she asked.
“Probably, although I’m no saint,” I added, in case she hadn’t heard.
“I am Gianna.”
I said I was happy to meet her, and then my mind went blank. I had questions to ask her, but what were they? Why did I think I could find out anything? Why did I bother? Jack was right: he was the expert. He’d been trained as a detective. I hadn’t been trained as anything except as a salesgirl by Dolce.
“I just
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