When we got to the high school, I think both Dolce and I wished we hadn’t forfeited an evening of ordering drinks and munching barbecued wonton, meatballs or shrimp cocktail at the bar to come see a bunch of high school kids jump around on stage singing and dancing.
Just a glance around the little theatre told us the place was full of the parents of the actors and a smattering of Dolce’s customers Harrington had conned into coming. “What I won’t do for my clients,” Dolce murmured. Even though I didn’t need to remind her that Harrington was hardly a good customer. Harrington met us in the lobby with our tickets. For some reason he was dressed in seventies’ disco style—a bold-patterned polyester shirt that fit tightly across his chest and a pair of wide-leg pants—even though the play was set in the sixties. Close enough, I guessed. He was greeting parents and friends alike as if he were the star of the musical himself. He was the center of attention, gladhanding the adults in the lobby as if he was Stephen Sondheim at the opening of Sweeney Todd.
His sister Marsha came up and studied my hair and my outfit. I wasn’t sure if she appreciated the combination of my print dress and brown lace-up boots, which were a vintage tribute to the character of Elaine on Seinfeld who always showed up in long floral skirts, blazers and granny shoes with socks. Even if no one else realized what my fashion inspiration was on a given day, I was confident enough to wear what I liked. Maybe I’d even be credited with bringing back nineties TV-sitcom style.
“How was your date?” Marsha asked. Not a word about my clothes. I refused to let it bother me.
“Wonderful. Thanks to you, I didn’t have to worry about my hair for a minute.”
“Where did you go?”
“We had dinner at a little French place. Great food, and a jazz trio played after dinner.”
“Really? It wasn’t Café Henri, was it?”
I stared at her. “Have you been there?” Had she seen the woman in the silver shoes?
She nodded. “Sunday night. It was my birthday. You should see what my brother gave me before we went to dinner. A pair of shoes to die for. He made them himself, but you’d never know. They look like they came from Italy or someplace. The man is a genius. Well, I’d better go get a seat up front. Harrington wants my take on his costumes. I know they’ll be fabulous, but I’m taking notes for him.” She waved a small notepad and left the lobby while I stood there staring with my mouth open.
Handmade shoes? I wondered. Would those shoes have been a pair of silver stilettos? And if so, did she really believe her brother made them? I knew he was clever, but really. Wasn’t it more likely he stole them from MarySue and gave them to his sister? I should have paid attention to her perfume. I thought if I ever smelled that musky scent again, I’d know it. But now I wasn’t so sure.
I almost followed Marsha into the theatre so I could sit behind her and get a whiff of her scent, if she was even wearing any. And then what? Ask her about the shoes? If she had been wearing the stolen silver stilettos, she’d never admit it. She was convinced her brother had made those shoes himself. Maybe he had. Maybe I was the one who was crazy. By the time I’d made up my mind to confront her, it was too late. As usual. This was the story of my life these days. When would I learn to act fast and decisively? When my ankle healed? Or never?
“Are you okay, Rita?” Dolce asked when she caught up with me. “You look like you’ve had a relapse. Maybe you’re not quite recovered from your accident.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine. But sometimes I do get a funny feeling.” Like when I thought about a pair of missing silver shoes. Like when I thought about how they kept slipping away from me. Like when I kept missing opportunities to snatch them back. I rubbed my forehead and wondered how soon we could leave. The music was terrible and the dancing even worse. And don’t get me started about the acting. Dolce suggested we go at intermission. If we could hold out that long. It occurred to me that it was actually convenient to have an injury like mine. I could blame it for just about anything, like inattention or fear of being arrested, fear of customers or their next of kin, fear of getting caught lying or looking guilty or fatigue or saying the wrong thing. I’d already used it as an excuse to avoid difficult questions. Yes, I could take the coward’s way out and hang on to this injury for a while.
During the first act, which was definitely still a work in progress, I shifted restlessly in my seat. I looked around for Marsha in the front row, but I never saw her. Finally Dolce and I slipped away at the break. We’d made an appearance and that’s what counted. I only hoped our customers noted that we supported the arts. I could still follow up on Marsha. All I had to do was make another hair appointment. She was expensive, and this time I’d have to pay for it myself, but if I could crack this mystery, it would be worth it.
Dolce drove me home, and I wrapped myself in a plush microfiber robe with matching slippers and sat alone in my living room with my foot up trying to put this shoe story together. If MarySue wore the shoes to the Benefit and turned up dead without shoes, how would Marsha have gotten them? Surely she wasn’t even at the Benefit. If Dolce was at the Benefit as the photos suggested, she might have taken the shoes, which really belonged to her anyway. But why didn’t she tell me? Because she killed MarySue?
If Jim Jensen killed his wife, then he possibly still had the shoes. Jim was holed up in his house while his heart healed. Which gave him a good excuse for hiding out. He was also angry, which may have brought about his heart attack if it wasn’t caused by the arrival of the shaman. Then there was Patti French, who was also annoyed with her sister-in-law and had reasons to want to get rid of her. Did she? I kicked myself, only mentally of course, for not pursuing Marsha tonight. Why hadn’t I just asked her, “Was that you in the bathroom wearing the silver shoes? And if so, what did you do with them?”
Saturday was a busy day at the shop, with lots of customers shopping for something to wear that night. What about me? Should I wear a costume as Nick had suggested others did on the vampire tour? Maybe just a black velvet dress, a cape and black boots. All of which I had in my closet. The important thing was the makeup. I’d powder my face white and wear lots of eye shadow.
Nick called me in the afternoon to make sure I was up to walking the streets of San Francisco. I assured him my ankle was feeling normal. He said he too would be wearing a black cape and he’d pick me up at seven thirty.
We parked in a lot on top of Nob Hill and joined his aunt and the group on the corner of Taylor and California Streets across the street from Grace Cathedral, the historic towering gothic church perched atop the hill.
Nick’s aunt, Meera, said she was delighted to meet me after she’d heard so much about me. She spoke with a definite all-European accent, which could have been real . . . or not. She wore a flowing black dress and carried a battery-operated candelabra and led Nick, me and about ten others on a brisk walking tour of Nob Hill where the gold rush barons like Leland Stanford, James Flood and Mark Hopkins built their mansions in the nineteenth century.
“I’ve been here since 1857,” Meera told us.
What? I was sure Nick said she was one hundred twenty-seven. But maybe even vampires lie about their age. Or maybe math was not her strong suit. I looked around the group, assembled in a circle in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel, built on the site of the railroad magnate’s mansion which was completed in 1878 after his death, but destroyed in the fire which followed the ’06 earthquake. There I saw definite signs of amusement and even some plain disbelief on a few faces. Meera must get disbelievers on her tours all the time. She must be used to them. She certainly didn’t look the least bit chagrined. In fact, she looked just about as charged up as the batteries on her candelabra.