Murder After a Fashion (18 page)

When I stopped feeling sorry for myself and my single status, I noticed Jonathan was standing off to the side, staring intently at the young couple with a smile on his face. No reason to assume he was regretting his single state. Though for some single people, there was nothing like a wedding to make them feel alone in the world.

I walked over to him. “Anyone you know?” I asked. Maybe that’s why he was so interested.

“One of my patients. I’m glad she recovered enough to get married.”

“Let’s go inside the church and look around. I think it’s just a museum now.”

Next we wandered into the oldest building in San Francisco. After giving a small donation to the building’s restoration fund, we read about the place from a brochure as we walked around.

“The rough-hewn redwood timbers are lashed together with rawhide,” I said, “It’s the only intact chapel left of the twenty-one churches built under the direction of Father Junípero Serra.” I didn’t mention how many slaves lost their lives during this era and how Father Serra was blamed for the way they were treated. Everyone knew that.

“It’s a miracle the mission survived the 1906 earthquake,” I said. “It says the ground settled but the building stayed standing.”

“Like me,” Jonathan said. “I was so sick, I thought I’d never get well, but here I am still standing. I can’t say it wasn’t good for me, because I finally know what my patients are going through. Thanks to you for coming by to cheer me up.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said. “You’re a survivor just like the mission. Shall we go?” I said.

He nodded, and we went back outside the thick adobe building into the sunshine. Enough of dwelling on the past.

“What about some coffee and a donut?” I suggested. “I heard there’s a fabulous donut shop somewhere around here.”

Jonathan agreed, so we asked someone and were directed to the place I’d heard about and was dying to try.

We sat at a sidewalk table outside the small donut shop, ordered coffee, then poured over the menu trying to decide what kind of donuts to order. Chocolate saffron? Apricot cardamom?

A couple at the next table were drooling over maple-glazed bacon apple. Bacon, in a donut? Really? My eyes popped open as I listened to them rave about it. Jonathan looked more like his old self sitting out here in the sun with the prospect of a donut in sight. We ordered a half dozen
different kinds. After all, we didn’t have to eat them here on the spot. We could take some home.

When we got our order in a cardboard box, I took a tiny, tentative bite of chocolate rosemary almond and shock waves went through me. I was in heaven. Paradise.

Jonathan smiled indulgently. I knew there must be some doctors who would look askance at the eating of donuts, but not this doctor. I sighed happily, and he tried the apricot cardamom. He said it was great and ate another. “It’s good to feel hungry again,” he said. “And who was that you were speaking to on the phone?” he asked. “You looked disturbed.”

“You mean back there at the church? Dolce called to tell me she had a surprise customer today.”

“Isn’t the shop closed?” Jonathan asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “The customer is a woman I met at the funeral of my cooking teacher, and she acts as if she has a sense of entitlement about her. That doors should open, money should come and people should cater to her. She just marched up to Dolce’s and knocked on the door. It happened that Dolce was there, so she let her in. Not that she minded. Dolce is always willing to make a sale.”

“That’s what makes our country great, the entrepreneurs like Dolce, and you too.”

“Of course, I want to sell clothes and accessories any day of the week,” I said. “But even shop owners need a day off to refresh the merchandise and themselves.”

“You look very refreshed,” he said with the sexy smile I was glad to see had returned. I wanted to believe he was himself again after what he’d been through.

All in all it was a good day. Jonathan and I continued our
tour of the Mission district by buying a map of the murals painted on the walls of various buildings. We strolled and looked and read about them. Some were cartoonlike pictures that looked like they’d been drawn by children; others treated serious subjects, like people who’d died of AIDs. Another honored the artist Diego Rivera and his wife, the painter Frida Kahlo.

Finally I couldn’t look at another painting or drink any more coffee or even eat another delicious donut, so Jonathan drove me home. He said he wanted to look in on a few of his patients this evening. He insisted I take the leftover donuts with me, and I didn’t resist. He looked more and more like his old healthy self, and I hoped that our tour of the district along with my company were part of the reason.

When I got home, I went out on my deck to catch the last rays of the sun and to gaze at the view of the Bay at dusk. I bundled up in a warm Ralph Lauren Blue Label cashmere shawl cardigan. I often have a hard time finding a good sweater. Either they’re super stylish but don’t keep you warm, or they’re dumpy and easy to snuggle up in. Hard to know which is best. This cardigan was perfect I thought as I called Detective Wall. After all, didn’t he tell me to keep in touch? Or was that wishful thinking?

When he answered on the second ring, I was glad I didn’t have to leave a message. He might not have returned my call unless I exaggerated my news.

“Don’t you ever take a day off?” I asked.

“Not when there’s a high-profile murder on the books.”

“So the Guido case comes under the heading of high profile, or are you working on another murder?”

“Just this. Have you got something for me?” He sounded
impatient, so I organized my thoughts so as not to ramble and lose his attention.

“I might. I heard from Dolce that Gianna was in the shop today.”

“On Sunday?”

“Yes, Sunday,” I said impatiently. “The important thing is that she said she was going to inherit some money. What do you make of that?”

“I have no time for Q and A, Rita. Just give me the facts.”

Honestly sometimes I wonder if Detective Wall appreciates me.

“I did. Gianna is Guido’s ex-wife, as you know. Now we know she had a motive for killing him. His money.”

“Is this news?”

“If you’ll give me a chance…”

“Sorry, I have an Italian relative of Guido’s here who is waiting to see me. He says he knows who did it.”

“I guess you can’t tell me who it is. His cousin? His brother?”

“No, I can’t. Now, you were saying…”

“That his ex-wife said she’d only arrived in time for the funeral, but it seems that she was here before he died and I just wondered—”

“You wondered if she’d killed him? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“She had a motive,” I insisted. “They weren’t getting along, and today she went to Dolce’s and bought the store out. She said something about inheriting some money. Am I making myself clear?” How many times did I have to say it?

There was no point pussy-footing around the basic questions.
When you wanted to find out something from Jack, you had to ask point-blank.

“You may have something, and I appreciate your call. Now I really have to go.”

I bit my lip in frustration.
You may have something
. That’s all he could say? I was sure I had something, and if he wasn’t going to follow up, I would. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew I would try. I knew I should hang up then and give up, but that’s not my style. He thanked me politely and hung up.

I won’t say I was discouraged by that conversation; I will say that after I hung up, I decided to focus on improving myself instead of helping the police. Sometimes I’m just too unselfish for my own good. So the next day I did something for myself and only my own self-esteem. I decided to attend the jewelry camp that was scheduled to be held at Diana’s spacious house in Pacific Heights. Even if I didn’t learn how to make unusual artsy bracelets for myself, I would have a better appreciation for those who did make jewelry, which we then sold at Dolce’s. It seemed to be a win-win situation for me. I might learn a craft, and even if not, I might further my sales career by understanding what goes into designing original pieces and impress our customers with what I knew. If nothing else, I’d get a chance to see how the rich live and spend their leisure time.

I arrived at Diana’s house on Wednesday evening at five. Dressed for a hands-on project under my black stretch-cotton Theory jacket, which was a pitch-perfect choice for casual layering, I was wearing a Parker minidress with bat-wing sleeves and a wide boatneck. I’d paired it with charcoal leggings and pair of Prada woven platform oxfords. They were expensive but so comfortable they were worth every penny I’d paid for them.

I’d had to leave work a little early, but Dolce was fine with that. She thought my learning to make bangles and beads would help me sell jewelry, and besides, it’s always good to get to know our customers better socially. Especially Diana, who was customer numero uno.

I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Diana lived in a mansion on one of the city’s poshest streets in Pacific Heights. After all, she spent freely at Dolce’s, and I thought I’d heard her husband was a venture capitalist. But I was surprised when Patti French joined me to gape wide-eyed at the four-storied house behind the brick walk and the acres of flowered gardens that surrounded the mansion. Like she didn’t have one just as large and just as gorgeous as this? Tonight she was dressed appropriately for a jewelry design workshop in a belted Donna Morgan shirtdress and a pair of yellow leather Miu Miu peep-toe platform heels.

“Nice, isn’t it?” I said, not wishing to seem overly blown away by all the opulence.

“‘Nice’ isn’t the word,” Patti said as a breeze tossed her carefully streaked well-coiffed hair. “This house is a Grand Tudor Revival from 1922. I know because it was on the house tour last year before the Van Sloats bought it.”

“Mr. Van Sloat must be doing well,” I said, hoping she’d elaborate.

“I guess he is. I only met him once. He’s older than Diana, and he seems to adore her. Hanging on her every word. Okay, I’m jealous. My husband takes me for granted,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe you’ll get to meet Weldon, although he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hangs out in the craft room handing out advice or compliments.”

“If I was rich,” I said, “I don’t know if I’d bother with making my own jewelry when there are so many talented
designers around. I think I’d just find one and tell her to accessorize me.”

“Oh, come now, Rita,” Patti said with a smile. “You know you want to be able to say, ‘You like it? I made it myself!’”

“That would be satisfying,” I admitted. “Anyway, Diana seems motivated, and I appreciate her inviting me. Heaven knows I’m all thumbs and I could use some one-on-one lessons.”

Patti said she too was looking forward to the class. “Diana told me she has a surprise for us. A real live well-known jewelry designer will be here to show us how he does it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. How like Diana to hire the best in the business. If it wasn’t a famous chef, it was a famous artisan. Now I was really nervous. What if I made a mess of it and this designer threw up his arms in disgust?

“It’s a secret,” Patti said, holding her finger against her lips. “I have a gazillion friends’ birthdays coming up, and what better to give than something original I’ve made myself, right?”

Even with a designer’s help, I could just imagine what my friends would say when I handed them a weird-looking bracelet constructed of leather and twine and resembling something I might have made in kindergarten. “Rita, you made this? You shouldn’t have! Really.” Then they’d make an effort to say something nice, like “How amazing! How artistic! How different!”

Patti looked over her shoulder. “Are we the only ones here?” Just then a small sleek Porsche 911 Turbo pulled up and Maxine, the newbie in town, stuck her head out the window. “Is this the place?” she called.

I told her it was, and instead of leaving her car in their
driveway, she drove down the street to find a parking place while we waited for her. That was like Maxine not to want to intrude on their space. I was glad to see her expanding her horizons just as I was.

Speaking of horizons, Patti, who’d been there before on the house tour, told me to expect nothing less than extraordinary views from every room. “Wait until you see the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. And notice the moldings and the leaded glass windows. They just don’t make interiors like that anymore. Of course you’ll see beaucoup gorgeous houses on the home and garden tour next week, but Diana’s house is one of a kind.”

When Maxine joined us, we walked up the brick path toward the house, which was set way back from the street for privacy and quiet. After a quick look, I noticed Maxine was wearing a Lafayette canvas skirt in an animal print with a loose, classic Eileen Fisher shirt in silk georgette.

“You have to see the black-bottom pool and spa behind the house,” Patti said. “They are to die for.” With that, she opened the gate and waved us around to the back of the house as if we were on tour. I hoped that Diana wouldn’t mind us making ourselves at home on her property.

We stood at the outside of the pool house gazing not at the sapphire blue pool but off in the distance at the sweeping views of the whole Bay area. Since it was dusk, the lights of the city in the foreground were just now sparkling like diamonds. For a moment no one said anything. Even though the other two women both had houses of their own that I assumed were not too shabby, they were just as speechless as I was. There was the house, the views and then the silence, which was suddenly broken by the sound of voices coming from the house.

“You told me it was a woman,” a man’s voice said. I looked at Patti. She looked at me. Maxine turned to look at the house. None of us knew what to say, so we said nothing, frozen in place as if we were statues.

“She couldn’t come so she sent her uncle. He’s an Italian. And rather famous in certain circles. I was lucky to get him.”

“Where is he?” the man shouted. We heard a crash, and then a door slammed.