Sure enough, later when I’d kicked off my shoes and wiped the white makeup off my face, I checked the playback icon on my Nikon and saw I’d taken some great shots of the park, the hotel and the restaurant, but Nick’s aunt’s image was nowhere to be seen. There was just a blur where she was sitting at the table. I sat at my kitchen table staring off into space. There was no such thing as vampires, but anyone who believed in them would tell me it is impossible to take their pictures and capture them on film. A blur just mean I’d jostled my camera, that’s all.
Eleven
The next week was a downer at Dolce’s. I knew I should ask Dolce if and why she was at the Benefit before Jack Wall zoomed in on her and took her down to the station, wherever that was, for questioning, but I hated to bring up the subject. So I kept putting it off. With the Benefit over and other parties fading from the schedule, there weren’t many customers. Nick didn’t call. Maybe he was disappointed I didn’t sign up for his class. Or maybe he had gotten involved with that au pair or one of his many adult female students. Dr. Jonathan didn’t call. Maybe he was on call or he’d hooked up with an attractive, warm and caring nurse. I didn’t hear from Detective Wall either. Maybe he’d solved the case on his own and didn’t need me anymore. If so, the least he could do was to let me know. But the silence out there was deafening.
On Tuesday I was sick of trying to act busy when I had nothing to do, so I suggested we have a fashion show. Dolce perked up a little, then she frowned. She was worried about the lack of customers and sales, I could tell. “But we can’t afford to hire models. Even if we did, who would come to see the show?”
“Your best customers will be the models. They’ll love it,” I said. “Everyone wants to be a model. And when they wear something for the show, they’ll want to buy it.”
“You think so?” she asked. “You really think so?”
I nodded emphatically. “As for who will come to see the show . . . their friends and their husbands. We’ll serve drinks and finger food. We’ll clear out the great room and set up folding chairs. The women can dress in the alcove. I’ll make up a sign-up sheet.”
Dolce seemed happy to have me organize the event, and I was glad to have something to do. We picked a date, five o’clock on Friday night. I went into her office, flipped through her file and started calling the customers. By the next day the place was full of wannabe models trying on clothes for the fashion show. Dolce told me I was a genius.
“Let’s see how much they actually buy,” I said in an undertone, “before we go out and celebrate.”
When Patti French came out of one of the dressing rooms wearing a silk trench coat, a canvas jacket and silk pants all in the same shade, she asked me what I thought.
“Gorgeous,” I said. “The best way to mix and match neutrals is to combine different fabrics and textures.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, running her hand over the smooth silk of her rolled-up pants.
“With your height you could have been a model,” I said. It was true. She had the slim figure and the cheekbones to pull it off. “And your hair looks fabulous.”
She ran her hand over her sixties beehive. “You like it? Harrington’s sister did it for me. She assured me I wouldn’t look too retro.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “It’s more textured than earlier versions. Very much in the now.”
“My hair is so fine she had to use a ton of a thickening hairspray,” Patti said.
“Whatever works,” I said. “Marsha really knows what she’s doing. I wonder if she’d like to model. She’s short, but that’s okay. She has great taste.” Maybe I could get her to wear the shoes her brother made for her. I’d love to get a closer look at them without her suspecting that I suspected her or her brother of anything. When I got back to the office, I called and left a message telling her to come by the shop if she was interested in being in our show.
Claire Timkin, the schoolteacher, was thrilled to be a model. She said she’d invite all the moms of her current students now that school had started. I said the more the merrier even though I wasn’t sure those women were our target audience, but maybe they had more money than Claire. I suggested she model some designer denim, but she wanted a fresh, feminine look.
“Prints are fun,” I said, pulling a Missoni dress off a hook for her to try. “I’ll find you some jewelry to complement the look.” I brought her some bangles for her upper arms, which were nicely toned thanks to the hours she spent doing bicep curls or maybe just lifting books off the shelves.
She said she loved the dress I showed her and asked what kind of a discount we would give her if she bought it. I told her to ask Dolce. I knew how hard it was to be poor in the midst of wealth, but somehow Claire had found a way to dress like a millionaire on a teacher’s salary. On a whim I asked, “Were you at the Benefit, Claire? What did you wear?”
“I was there, and I wore a blue silk and jersey dress Dolce sold me last year. Long sleeved. Maybe you remember it? Timeless, she told me at the time. Of course, I would have loved something new, but you know how it is . . .” She shrugged. Yes, I knew how it was.
“Anyway it was a fabulous happening event,” Claire said. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. The clothes, the shoes, the gardens. It was the last time I saw MarySue,” she said, blinking rapidly as if she was going to cry. Had they been friends?
“How did she seem?” I asked, zipping her dress for her.
“Just the same. Full of life.” Claire shook her head. “I wish I’d known she was going to die. I would have said something to her.”
“Like what?” I asked. I really wondered.
“Well, I would have told her how much I admired her style. I was always envious of her. A big house, a successful husband and all the clothes and shoes she ever wanted.”
I wondered how many other women envied MarySue with no idea she was in financial trouble.
“Who else but MarySue had the confidence to wear a plain black dress with silver shoes? I don’t know how much they cost. Probably a fortune. You know what they say, if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford them. Anyway she looked great. If you have to die, you should look your best, don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said thinking of her funeral. “Definitely. I suppose she was there with Jim?”
“I guess so. I know he was there. Everyone was there, even Dolce.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Dolce? Are you sure?” So she was there. How many people had seen her? And how many people had she seen?
“Oh, yes it was her. But I only saw her for a minute. She was going toward the garden. I was surprised, you know?”
“You mean because she hardly ever goes to these things,” I said.
She nodded and went to look around the shop for another fashion show outfit.
Now I was really worried. First the newspaper photo and now Claire, who would have no reason to lie about seeing Dolce. What about Claire? Did she covet those silver shoes enough to kill MarySue to get them? She loved clothes, and she didn’t have the kind of money the other customers had.
By the end of the day we had ten customer-models lined up, each with two complete outfits to wear on our faux runway in our shop. Not every model would buy a complete outfit, not everyone would buy anything they wore, but it was worth a try, I told Dolce before she closed up that evening. And even if we didn’t sell to our models, we had the audience watching, admiring, clapping and hopefully buying. Each of our models would invite all their friends and relatives.