I said good-bye and picked up my vampire book to soothe myself before turning out the light. The Gothic setting, the suspicious actions of the female vampire and her almost lifelike qualities were gripping but not soothing. I tossed and turned thinking about Detective Jack Wall. Then I got up and looked out my bedroom window. There on the street below a police car made its way slowly down the block, pausing in front of my house before it drove on. A patrol car sent to watch me? Or just a cop making his rounds? The whole neighborhood was eerily quiet. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt empty inside even after a big bowl of zama. I needed something to calm my nerves and my stomach. Something all-American and non-Romanian. Unfortunately I’m not much of a cook. But fortunately for me my next-door neighbor Mrs. Heldmyer had given me a jar of her homemade pickles and I knew I had a loaf of whole-grain bread in the freezer and a wedge of Vermont white sharp cheddar cheese I’d picked up at Whole Foods. I wrapped up in a fleece robe, went to the kitchen and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles in my countertop toaster oven. The combination of salty, sour pickles with the rich cheese and crisply toasted bread was delicious. Warm inside and out, I went back to bed and finally fell asleep.
The next few days were comparatively calm at the shop. When I told Dolce about Jim Jensen threatening me, she was horrified. She said we should hire a security guard, but I decided if Jim didn’t kill MarySue, then he was so overcome with grief that he was acting out his depression by lashing out at me and probably felt remorseful by now. I’d already told Detective Wall what I thought of Jim and his rage. And Ramirez was apparently on his case. Although I had a feeling she would prefer to implicate me and wouldn’t mind all that much if Jim attacked me either verbally or physically. I knew I wasn’t being fair. After all, Jim had just lost his wife and wasn’t himself. Anger is surely one of the seven stages of grief. I wasn’t sure what he was like before the murder, but I wasn’t all that fond of him now.
On Wednesday, I had my follow-up medical appointment. The good news was that it seemed neither Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou were on duty at the hospital that day. They must still be working nights. Even better news was that Verity, the nurse practitioner who saw me, said my ankle was healing beautifully.
“Can I wear high heels by Sunday?” I asked, thinking of my date with Dr. Jonathan.
She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Not even three inch?”
“Why? Big date?” she asked with a smile.
I nodded. But refrained from mentioning with whom.
“Not a good idea. Your ankle is still weak. I’d hate to see you take a tumble. Stick to flats. What about a simple Kenneth Cole in cracked leather?”
“Hmmm.” I had to admit it was a fresh idea and not a bad one.
“Metallics are in this fall. When your ankle heals, you can pick up a pair of silver heels that are perfect for a fun night out or even work.”
I felt a shiver go up my spine at the thought of the silver shoes and what they could lead to. I took a deep breath and continued. “The problem is, I don’t have an outfit yet.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, turning from her computer screen where she was updating my file to study my work ensemble—a striped jacket, a spotted skirt and a flowered shirt. I could tell by her expression she was well aware that mixed prints were definitely in and similar-patterned outfits were out.
“Just a dinner date,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t want anyone at the clinic to find out I had a date with Dr. Jonathan. For all I knew, he was dating all the nurses at the hospital at the same time. Although if he was, why not take one of them to the café? “It’s Sunday, so I don’t want to go overboard and be overdressed.”
“If I were you, I’d go with a filmy skirt. I don’t know about you, but I’m so tired of stiff structured dresses.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Filmy it is. What do you think of the long look?”
“I like it, as long as you don’t look like you just stepped out of Little House on the Prairie. You’d have to make it modern with bold jewelry and a narrow shirt or a casual stretchy top.”
“And flats?” I had to be sure she was getting the same picture I was. “Are you sure?”
She stared at me for a long moment, then she nodded. “If it weren’t for your sprain, I’d tell you to wear an ankle-strap sandal with . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a peekaboo toe. That would be stunning. But I’m a nurse, not a fashion consultant,” she said with a rueful smile.
“It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “I am a fashion consultant. I work at a boutique in Hayes Valley.”
“It’s not Dolce’s, is it?”
Surprised, I asked, “Have you been there?”
“They have the most fabulous stuff. But it’s so expensive. You probably get a big discount.”
I nodded. “It’s a great place to work. Usually,” I added, thinking of MarySue stealing the silver shoes and my run-in with her husband.
“I love what you’re wearing right now,” she said. “It’s so out there.”
“Thank you.” How often does a nurse notice what the patient is wearing? I noticed that under her white lab coat Verity was wearing a tunic and a pair of chic black leggings. I wanted to ask where she got them but thought that maybe it wasn’t polite under the circumstances. What I did say was, “I love your braids. They’re so Mary Kate.” It was true. Her blond braids were wound tight at the crown and slightly loose at the side with tendrils to soften the look. “I wish I had long enough hair for braids.”
“They’re not real,” she said. “They’re extensions.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
There was a knock on the door, and someone said her next patient was waiting in the next room.
“Good luck,” she said as she left the room. “Stay off the ankle and I hope you have a great time Sunday.”
I didn’t mention that I couldn’t stay off my ankle if I was going to a funeral that afternoon. Just mentioning a funeral seemed like a downer, and I didn’t want to explain how and why and who died.
Dolce and I closed the shop at two and hung a sign in the window, “Closed for the Jensen Funeral.” I didn’t tell Dolce that Jim had warned me not to show up. What was he going to do when he saw me there? Toss me out? Dolce had enough to worry about without thinking about my confrontation with Jim.
She drove us in her rented Mercedes to the funeral parlor in the town of Colma, which advertises itself as the town with “fifteen hundred people above ground and one point million underground.” It is truly the cemetery capital of California, maybe the whole world.
We were nervous about viewing MarySue in her open coffin, not knowing what she’d be wearing. Everyone would assume we’d dressed her, but we hadn’t even been asked for our suggestions. That hurt. We should have been consulted. Under normal circumstances, we would have been. But these circumstances were definitely not normal.
“The coffin is stunning,” Peter Butinski said when we ran into him just inside the viewing area. “It’s a handmade mahogany box with a silk embroidered lining. Nothing but the best for MarySue as usual.”
“I didn’t know you knew her,” Dolce said.
“You didn’t? I know everyone in town and everyone knows me. Everyone who cares about footwear, that is.”
“So is she wearing anything on her feet?” I asked.
Peter shook his head. “Not that I know of. I would hope I would know if she was. After all. You two will notice her outfit.” He covered his mouth as if to hide a smile or a sneer. “I’m anxious to hear what you think of it.”