afternoon so it wouldn’t wake you up? I was so lucky to work here. It was more than a job. It was a way of life. It was a glimpse into a world I didn’t really belong in. A world where a woman could be murdered for a pair of shoes she hadn’t even paid for.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a package wrapped in brown paper.
“Your Romanian friend brought it for you. It’s called zama , a native soup made of green beans, which is supposed to make you feel better. He said not to disturb you. How was your lunch?”
“Wonderful. We went to a great restaurant at Pier 39. Great food and a beautiful view.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Dolce said, leaning against her office door. “Last week you were complaining that you never met any men. That you had nothing to do on Saturday nights but watch old vampire movies by yourself. Then I sent you to Florida. You met this Romanian on the plane who has now cooked up some soup for you. When you got back, MarySue stole a pair of shoes from us. You were injured trying to retrieve them. You mysteriously ended up at the hospital where you met a doctor. MarySue was murdered. You met a detective. And now all three men are feeding you either their grandmother’s zama or lunch overlooking the Bay or dinner at a posh bistro. Have I missed anything?”
I shook my head. It did sound pretty impressive and in some ways improbable. “I know it sounds like I’m some kind of socialite myself, but I’m not. I’m the new girl in town, that’s all. You’re right, something happened. MarySue got killed and I got popular. Why? I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that for now I’m having a great time and I owe it all to you, Dolce. If you hadn’t sent me to pick up the shoes . . .”
“You don’t owe me, you owe MarySue,” Dolce said. “Don’t forget she’s the one who started this whole thing. Those were her shoes. That was her house. There’s her husband and her sister-in-law. Everything goes back to MarySue. She’s not here anymore, so you have to enjoy life while you can, because no one knows how long it lasts. You deserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you killed MarySue. Who else has benefited as much as you?”
“Good question,” I said, leaning one arm on the desk and cupping my chin in my palm so I wouldn’t end up facedown on the desk again. “If we knew the answer to who wanted MarySue dead, we could probably solve this murder without the help of the detective, his assistant or anybody. Who do you think did it?” I asked her.
“I’m not saying I know who did it, but isn’t it obvious that Jim was not happy with her? Or Patti?” Dolce said.
I nodded. “I do have some bad news for you.”
Dolce pulled up a folding chair and sat down, the better to receive bad news. There wasn’t a sound from the showrooms. I assumed she’d closed up. She looked tired and so subdued, I hated to tell her what I’d seen at Janice Powers’s shop.
“I stopped at the Glass Slipper on my way back from lunch.”
“But that’s two blocks from here. No wonder you had to take a nap.”
“I was a wreck,” I said. “My ankle was killing me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“You should never have come to work today.”
“But if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have had lunch at Pier 39 with the detective. I wouldn’t have seen Patti French at lunch.”
Dolce leaned forward. “How did she look?”
“She was wearing the wraparound dress and the blazer you sold her. A dynamite outfit.”
Dolce nodded and smiled proudly. I wished she’d seen her too. Those are the moments we live for. “But here’s the weird thing. She was wearing a pair of silver Jimmy Choo sandals with striped hose.”
Dolce frowned. “I didn’t sell her those.”
“I know. Which is why I stopped at the Glass Slipper, and guess what I saw?”
“The shoes?”
I shook my head. “No. I saw several of your best customers.”
“But . . . but why?” Dolce
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to a package wrapped in brown paper.
“Your Romanian friend brought it for you. It’s called zama , a native soup made of green beans, which is supposed to make you feel better. He said not to disturb you. How was your lunch?”
“Wonderful. We went to a great restaurant at Pier 39. Great food and a beautiful view.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Dolce said, leaning against her office door. “Last week you were complaining that you never met any men. That you had nothing to do on Saturday nights but watch old vampire movies by yourself. Then I sent you to Florida. You met this Romanian on the plane who has now cooked up some soup for you. When you got back, MarySue stole a pair of shoes from us. You were injured trying to retrieve them. You mysteriously ended up at the hospital where you met a doctor. MarySue was murdered. You met a detective. And now all three men are feeding you either their grandmother’s zama or lunch overlooking the Bay or dinner at a posh bistro. Have I missed anything?”
I shook my head. It did sound pretty impressive and in some ways improbable. “I know it sounds like I’m some kind of socialite myself, but I’m not. I’m the new girl in town, that’s all. You’re right, something happened. MarySue got killed and I got popular. Why? I don’t know for sure. All I can say is that for now I’m having a great time and I owe it all to you, Dolce. If you hadn’t sent me to pick up the shoes . . .”
“You don’t owe me, you owe MarySue,” Dolce said. “Don’t forget she’s the one who started this whole thing. Those were her shoes. That was her house. There’s her husband and her sister-in-law. Everything goes back to MarySue. She’s not here anymore, so you have to enjoy life while you can, because no one knows how long it lasts. You deserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you killed MarySue. Who else has benefited as much as you?”
“Good question,” I said, leaning one arm on the desk and cupping my chin in my palm so I wouldn’t end up facedown on the desk again. “If we knew the answer to who wanted MarySue dead, we could probably solve this murder without the help of the detective, his assistant or anybody. Who do you think did it?” I asked her.
“I’m not saying I know who did it, but isn’t it obvious that Jim was not happy with her? Or Patti?” Dolce said.
I nodded. “I do have some bad news for you.”
Dolce pulled up a folding chair and sat down, the better to receive bad news. There wasn’t a sound from the showrooms. I assumed she’d closed up. She looked tired and so subdued, I hated to tell her what I’d seen at Janice Powers’s shop.
“I stopped at the Glass Slipper on my way back from lunch.”
“But that’s two blocks from here. No wonder you had to take a nap.”
“I was a wreck,” I said. “My ankle was killing me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“You should never have come to work today.”
“But if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have had lunch at Pier 39 with the detective. I wouldn’t have seen Patti French at lunch.”
Dolce leaned forward. “How did she look?”
“She was wearing the wraparound dress and the blazer you sold her. A dynamite outfit.”
Dolce nodded and smiled proudly. I wished she’d seen her too. Those are the moments we live for. “But here’s the weird thing. She was wearing a pair of silver Jimmy Choo sandals with striped hose.”
Dolce frowned. “I didn’t sell her those.”
“I know. Which is why I stopped at the Glass Slipper, and guess what I saw?”
“The shoes?”
I shook my head. “No. I saw several of your best customers.”
“But . . . but why?” Dolce
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