Murder After a Fashion (17 page)

“No idea at all,” I said. Occasionally I do know how to keep my mouth shut. Telling Patti anything would guarantee the word would be all over town in minutes.

“Come on, Rita,” Patti said with a playful poke to my ribs. “You
have an in at the police department. You must know something. The word on the street is that someone who buys her clothes here at Dolce’s is a suspect.”

I fought the urge to blurt out something like, “Where did you hear that?” Or, “Who are you talking about?” Instead, I laughed lightly as if her suggestion were the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Then I changed the subject.

“I met Chef Guido when I took a class from him. I thought he was absolutely inspirational. I can’t imagine who would want to kill him. He made me want to master the art of fine cooking. Unfortunately I haven’t made much progress,” I confessed.

“How about this?” she said. “I’ll mention a few names and you just nod if I’m getting close. Then you won’t be guilty of spilling any beans, if you catch my meaning.”

So she hadn’t forgotten her quest for the suspect after all.

“Molly Green,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. As if this game of hers wasn’t bad enough, she was now joined by two of her best pals, who were all ears and just dying to see what they could learn. “Jenna Lindon, Mavis Brown, Diana Van Sloat.” She paused dramatically, and the three of them looked at each other, then at me.

“I really have no idea,” I said as calmly as I could, though my mind was spinning. I tried to keep my face emotion-free, as if I’d had a shot of Botox.

“Really?” Patti said. She wasn’t buying my innocence at all.

Desperate for a way out and eager to escape this trio, I went to look for another long skirt with which to distract Patti. I suggested she wear a belt with a full skirt and tuck in the
shirt for contrast. “But if the skirt is form fitting, then I’d wear a long knit sweater or a fitted tee or tank with it.”

I did such a good job of changing the subject and selling her the full skirt, and a long knit Alarice sweater with bold stripes and a sporty V-neck silhouette, a wide Ralph Lauren cross-grained D-ring belt and a pair of Marc Jacobs pilgrim shoes, that I talked myself into shopping for a new outfit. Before she left, Patti put on the shoes and I told her they were the latest trend and with socks they would not only be comfortable but would also stand out in any crowd. Fortunately Dolce hadn’t heard the gossip about her best customer or she would have been upset. I was upset enough but also smart enough to keep it to myself. It was just gossip, I told myself. Tomorrow there would be another suspect everyone was talking about.

Dolce was all for my finding a new outfit. She said I was a walking advertisement for the clothes we sell. So when we had a quiet moment, I looked for something new for myself. A dress was what I wanted. A dress makes it easy to look put together without too much effort. I went with something I could wear every day: a bright blue and white lightweight knit dress by Tory Burch, a pair of casual Florian sandals with high, chunky heels, and a set of Lydell bracelets.

Dolce added a slouchy shoulder bag, and I was ready to go anywhere. Unfortunately the only date on my calendar was jewelry-making class. Me, the klutz, noncook, the girl who loved to wear clothes and jewelry but had no idea how to make them. Me, the girl who would rather solve mysteries than slave over a hot stove or make craft items. But taking a class at Diana’s would give me a chance to make sure,
with a small amount of amateur sleuthing, she was as innocent as I believed her to be.

True to my plans to find Mr. Right, I put in a call to my doctor, and Jonathan said he was feeling better. So much better he planned to go back to work the next day. I asked him if he’d eaten the soup or the beets, and he didn’t say yes or no, he just thanked me again for coming by. Then he said one of the nurses had stopped in to see him.

I gritted my teeth, thinking it was probably that skanky flirt I’d seen in the cafeteria who probably had a better bedside manner than I did.

“What did she do for you?” I asked.

“She brought some kind of rice pudding made with egg whites and flaxseed oil.”

“Was it good?” I asked.

“Terrible. Nurses can be a real pain,” he said. “When you’re sick.”

I agreed. When I was in the hospital with my concussion, I’d met two of them. Two too many.

“I hope you’ll be well enough to come to my next dinner party,” I said.

“Why wait?” he said. “As soon as I’m well, we’ll hit the Indian Grill in the Mission. Ever been there?”

No, I hadn’t been there, but I would
love
to go. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Then let’s go. How about tomorrow? I have the day off.”

“But I thought you were sick,” I said.

“I’ll be better by then, and I need a change of scene,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.

So I told him I was free without looking at my calendar. This was a date too good to pass up. Interesting food and
an even more interesting man to eat it with. I loved going out for lunch or dinner or any time at all. I knew I should work on my hostess skills to boost my confidence, and I would as soon as this murder business was over.

“See you then. I’ve missed you, Rita.”

I smiled into the phone. It sounded like Jonathan’s sickness had affected his feelings for me in a good way. Then he had to hang up because someone was at the door. Another nurse on the prowl, I thought. They were a determined bunch, and no wonder. Jonathan was a man worth pursuing, especially when he wasn’t sick and crabby. He sounded much better, and I was encouraged that he wanted to get out and take me with him.

When Jonathan came to pick me up at noon, he was wearing casual slim Ludlow suit pants in fine-stripe cotton with a crisply tailored cotton shirt. He took a good look at me and told me I looked terrific. I returned the compliment. He’d bounced back from his illness with determination, and although a little pale, he was still a head turner.

We drove to a garage on Seventeenth Street to park his vintage Maserati, and took advantage of the good weather to stroll around the colorful Mission district, admiring the small shops and restaurants. We passed several burrito joints that smelled so good I could hardly resist stopping for one.

“Next time we’ll come for Mexican food,” Jonathan promised.

It was good to know he was already planning on another date. Because what they say about these burritos is true. They’re huge and everyone loves them. Basically they are tortillas stuffed with meat, cheese, rice, beans and everything
else you can imagine. Knowing we were heading toward a gourmet Indian lunch, I used my willpower to hold off. When we finally arrived, I thought the restaurant looked like a large, imposing box from the outside. Once inside I realized it was gorgeous, though a bit dark.

From the first look at the menu, and the attentive waiter and the soft music, I knew I was in the right place. All that and Jonathan too, with his sun-bleached hair, his vibrant good looks, his quick thinking and his natural charm. I thought I must be in heaven.

The food was heavenly too. We started with assorted tandoori appetizers like chicken tikka and samosas pakora, then moved on to the curries and basmati rice. For dessert we had mango lassi, a refreshing drink.

After lunch we continued our walk around the neighborhood. Jonathan wanted me to see the old Mission church, so we stopped at the small adobe building that dated from 1791, and observed it from the outside while he described its history.

“You know these twenty-one missions are located up and down the coast of California at approximately one day’s horseback ride from each other. They were not just churches but communities with sheep and cows and other livestock. Ranching and farming were done all along a beautiful clear creek. And there was always a hospitable place to stop and rest for the travelers.”

I gave Jonathan a surprised look. How strange it was to have a guy who spent many hours taking care of sick people explain California history to me, who had lived here longer than he had. He was so proud of his role as tour guide, his
once pale face positively glowed in the afternoon sunlight. What a contrast between now and just a few days ago. Of course, no one could blame an invalid for being out of sorts. Did nothing get him down except being sick?

“But what about the natives?” I asked. “I heard the Spanish settlers used them as slaves and treated them badly. If they tried to run away, they were beaten and imprisoned and often worked to death.”

Jonathan frowned. Maybe he didn’t like that part of the American frontier fairy tale. None of us did.

He was spared from answering my question when my phone rang. I fished it from my bag and when I saw it was Dolce, I walked to a nearby bench and sat down.

“Rita,” Dolce whispered breathlessly, “you’ll never believe who just came to the shop.”

“Dolce, I can hardly hear you.” Why was she whispering? And why had anyone come to the shop on Sunday?

“That’s because I’m in my office and she’s in the shop.”

“She, who? Why did you let them in when you’re closed?”

“That woman from the funeral, the chef’s ex-wife. I couldn’t say no. She came all the way from Italy.”

“You mean Gianna? How strange.”

“It’s all right. She’s buying up a storm. She says everything is less expensive than in Europe. Still, as you know, our clothes are not cheap. She said she is going to inherit some money soon, so she wants to celebrate.”

“Celebrate? She’s celebrating someone’s death, and I think we know who. But why would Guido leave her any money if they were divorced?”

“Do you want me to ask her?” Dolce said. Because she was whispering, I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

“Sure, go ahead,” I said. What did we have to lose? “Should I come there? Do you need any help?”

“No, I just wanted you to know. I hope you’re having a nice time.”

“Very nice. Jonathan and I are walking around the Mission after a delicious lunch. Let me know what happens.”

When I hung up, I noticed that Jonathan had disappeared and there was a bride and groom standing on the steps of the basilica, which, unlike the old mission next door, was a combination of Moorish, Corinthian and Mission styles. The couple was surrounded by what appeared to be their wedding guests. The men were in dark suits and ties and the women all in dresses and hats. I tried to identify the dress designers while a photographer snapped pictures of the bridal party. Several shots with their parents, many others with the attendants and small flower girls. I had a twinge of envy as the groom put his arm around the bride and kissed her. They looked so happy. I wondered if that would ever be me standing at the door of the church after my wedding, kissing my groom. And if so, who would the groom be? One of the three men in my life or someone I hadn’t met yet? If I didn’t learn to cook soon, why would anyone marry me? That’s the question my aunt Alyce would ask.