Murder After a Fashion (22 page)

“How nice,” Dolce murmured. We set our glasses on a table and took the champagne instead. “Have you met her husband?” she asked me.

“Yes, we met him the night of the class. He’s a venture capitalist, and he seemed very busy but also very involved with Diana’s life at the same time.”

“Sounds like the ideal husband. Good-looking too?”

“Not exactly. Oh, there he is now.” Weldon Van Sloat was strolling across the patio greeting the voyeurs and neighbors like the lord of the manor he was. I was glad Dolce got a glimpse of him so she could make up her own mind. Was he good-looking enough to be married to Diana, who was not only lovely but smart too? Was he a doting husband or an over-the-top controller?

I said hello to him, but he didn’t give me a second glance. Probably didn’t remember me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was a nobody. I had no capital to invest in any ventures, and he probably knew that by looking at me.

We went inside then and straight to the kitchen. Dolce loved it, as I knew she would. She admired all the period touches as well as the updates, like the Sub-Zero double-doored stainless refrigerator, while I looked for signs of anything out of the ordinary, like bloodstains. But everything
was perfect. Not a smudge on the marble counters or the tiles on the floor. Not that I expected there to be.

A woman in a white apron came in, said hello and transferred a baking sheet of canapés onto a decorative wooden tray. Then she took our empty champagne glasses, whisked them away and offered us crisp crackers covered with blue cheese, pecans and a half of a grape. It was a delicious combination.

“Did Mrs. Van Sloat make these?” I asked the woman. I could just imagine Diana knocking herself out preparing for today’s open house. What I really wanted to ask was, where is Mrs. Van Sloat?

“No, they’re all from Kate’s Catering on Fillmore,” she said. Then she went out to the living room before I could question her further. I couldn’t help wondering why Diana wasn’t here. She loved her kitchen, and she loved playing the hostess. Maybe she was in the craft room or one of the many other gorgeous rooms I hadn’t seen yet, showing off her house and giving information about its history.

Dolce was equally impressed when I took her to the craft room with its bins of supplies and the spacious counters and work surfaces.

“What luxury to have so much space for your hobbies,” Dolce remarked, and I agreed. She didn’t ask what I’d made there, and I modestly didn’t say anything.

Dolce and I proceeded to take the elevator up to the third floor. No stairs for us. The elevator was vintage and tiny, room for two, with glass walls and a small velvet bench. I loved the idea of it, but even with the glass walls I felt claustrophobic and was glad to get out. I mean, what if it stalled between floors? But it didn’t.

We’d only just exited the elevator and taken one step
toward a wood-paneled room with a pool table in the center when I saw Detective Wall standing by the window talking to a tall woman in a chic maxi dress by Marc Jacobs and very high-heeled sandals in the color I call cinder.

Dolce recognized her immediately, or at least she recognized the dress.

“That’s the Italian woman from the funeral.”

“Guido’s ex-wife?” I asked. “Who bought some clothes from you? I thought she’d gone back to Italy.” Yet there she was at the Van Sloat open house with San Francisco’s best detective. What was that all about? Was she still in town because Jack had ordered her not to leave? Was she staying in town until the murder was solved? Was she a suspect? If I thought I had a chance of getting the answers to these questions, I knew better. Jack would never tell me anything. So I was on my own. If I wanted to know anything, I’d have to do the footwork myself. So I left Dolce admiring some museum-quality landscapes hanging on the wall and walked up to the two of them. They stopped talking immediately, and neither looked pleased to see me. In fact, she actually glared at me. Not that I let that discourage me. Not even when Jack looked at me like I was on the Most Wanted List. But not his list. Someone else’s.

I still didn’t take these slights personally. It just proved there was something going on. Either Jack was hitting on her or she was hitting on him or they were talking about Guido, her ex-husband. Did Jack think she had something to do with his murder?

“Hello,” I said brightly. “What a surprise to see you,” I added, to Guido’s ex-wife. “I thought you’d be on your way back to Italy.”

“I was going to leave,” she said, “but your town is so charming, I could not bear to go so soon.”

The way she said it made me think she was lying through her teeth. But why? Because she didn’t want to say she was a suspect in Guido’s murder and was required by the law to stick around? I could understand how that might be embarrassing.

“I love your dress. I hear you went on a shopping spree at our store. I hope you are pleased with your purchases,” I said.

She smiled briefly but didn’t answer. She said she was going to visit the rest of the house. Maybe she was glad to escape the evil eye of Jack Wall, or maybe she was mad at
me for interrupting an intimate conversation that had nothing to do with murder. I couldn’t imagine Jack forgetting his job for even a minute, but then I couldn’t imagine him hooking up with a stylish Italian either, but there they’d been together, having an intimate conversation. It could have been an interrogation; I wouldn’t put it past Jack. Or it could have been some romantic small talk, the kind I never had with the detective.

I watched her walk to the door, wondering if I’d ever be able to achieve the effortless European flair she had whether wearing American-designed clothes, like today, or the Italian couture she was used to. She was an even better advertisement for our shop than we were. Too bad she wasn’t wearing a sign around her neck telling everyone where she’d bought that dress.

It occurred to me that Jack, being a very hot, rugged American type, might be looking for a fling with an attractive Italian tourist and looking for a murderer at the same time.

“I’m surprised to see you here too,” I said. Though I wasn’t really. After all we’d been through, I expected him everywhere and anywhere. The surprise was when I
didn’t
run into him. “Can I assume you’re at work even though it’s Sunday?”

“Assume whatever you want. What about you?”

“This is part of my job. Definitely. We’re schmoozing with our customers, checking out what everyone’s wearing.”

“Even me?” he asked. I thought this was a bit disingenuous. He knew perfectly well he was one of the best-dressed men in town. And in this crowd of mostly women, he easily took the prize.

“Especially you. You put the other men to shame in your two-button
wool tweed blazer. No golf or bomber jacket for you.”

He merely shrugged, so I continued.

“You’re not messing around, and you’re not off duty, I assume. I hope you’re enough of a metrosexual to enjoy a good house and garden tour. While you’re still here on business, or are you?” I asked wide-eyed, as if I thought he’d tell me. He said nothing. Of course he wouldn’t talk. I should have known. “You seem to be well acquainted with Guido’s wife already.”

“I’m investigating her ex-husband’s murder, so the answer is yes, we have quite a lot to talk about.”

I bet you do, I thought. “I imagine she’s almost as eager as you are to find out who killed her husband. By the way, wouldn’t it be interesting to know if she’s the beneficiary of his property like the school and the chateau?”

Jack gave me a look that said he knew exactly what I was up to and he was having no part of it.

“No idea,” he said. “That’s not my job.”

“Come on. Isn’t it your job to establish a motive?” I asked. “Such as money? And what about this girlfriend he was supposed to have? Have you located her yet?”

I looked at him expectantly, although what were the chances he’d tell me if he had? I just had to show him I had some information up my sleeve, like the girlfriend thing. What I didn’t say was that I’d heard Guido was trying to get rid of her. What if she’d gotten rid of him first.

“I have some leads,” he said.

“Which you got from his ex-wife, I suppose. She’d be the perfect person to talk to about any women in Guido’s life who’d want to kill him. That way she could get back at the
girlfriend and solve this crime and absolve herself from any guilt.”

Jack smiled and I wanted to think he was blown away by my astute observations, but the smile could have just meant he considered my opinions to be absurd. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe Guido’s supposed girlfriend was the subject of the conversation I’d interrupted, but maybe it was just an international flirtation between an American cop and an Italian Carla Bruni lookalike.

“Let’s talk about your job and your customers. It seems every woman here is connected to Dolce’s. Coincidence? Or is something going on there I should know about?” he asked.

“This neighborhood, with its views, elite private schools and mansions, is our demographic. Maybe we don’t live here, but our customers do. That’s why we’re here. We support the charities that the house tour benefits.”

“So what did your jewelry class have to do with your shop?” he asked.

“The customers were also the students, that’s it. Diana Van Sloat, whose house this is, is one of our best customers and an avid hobbyist. She invited me to join the class, which was excellent, by the way. I can’t wait to show you the bracelets I made. Now I’ve told you everything I know. Which is more than you’ve done for me.” I should have known by now this relationship of ours was totally one-sided. I talked. He listened.

“I haven’t seen the craft room yet,” he said. “Where, I assume, these lessons take place. Want to show it to me?”

I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the room. If he really suspected something was going on there. He knew about Armando and the accident and where it had taken place, so why hadn’t
he headed straight for his target? Waiting for me to show it to him? I didn’t think so.

“So what made you decide to take lessons from an Italian artisan?” Jack asked as we wended our way through the spacious hallway lined with portraits.

“Just my never-ending goal of self-improvement,” I said lightly. “And I thought that one day I might be good enough to actually sell some of my jewelry.”

I paused in front of a portrait on the wall of a man with a dog, and gazed at it. “Looks like Weldon, don’t you think? Must be one of his ancestors. I assume you’ve met him.”

“I’ve met Weldon but not his ancestors,” Jack said. “He was at the door when I came in. Very friendly guy.”

“I assume he didn’t know you were a cop,” I said dryly.

“I’m not wearing a uniform, but if anyone asks—”

“Has anyone asked?” I couldn’t picture one of these well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-connected women or men asking Jack if he was in law enforcement and if so, was this a social call or…

“No, and I’d appreciate your keeping quiet.”

“You want me to lie?” I exclaimed with mock horror.

“Of course not. I just don’t want you to blow my cover if you don’t have to.”

“So you admit you’re here undercover. But why?”

“It’s my day off, and I’m here as an admirer of classic architecture and as a San Francisco history buff. That’s all. No one else has put his or her profession on a name tag, have they? Why should I?” He glanced at my breast as if he was checking. He was checking all right, but not for a name tag.

“Nice necklace,” he said. “Brass tubes. If there’s a plumbing problem, we know who to call.”

I fingered my necklace. I knew it was unusual. I’d seen
other people look at it. I assumed they were admiring my taste. Or rather Dolce’s taste, which was impeccable.

“I know you only call me when you need help,” I said.

“And you only call me when you want some inside information.”

“If it’s your day off, why aren’t you out on the Bay in your sailboat?”

“No one to go with me. It gets lonely out there.”

I shook my head. That lonely millionaire act wasn’t going to work on me.

“Maybe you should branch out, meet some new people, and I don’t mean suspects.” I turned and headed for the craft room.

“How would I do that?” he asked a few steps behind me. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he’d be wearing a sardonic smile that went with everything he wore.

“I could introduce you to some nice women who are all right here today,” I offered.

“I saw them. Just assumed they were married.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” I said. “It doesn’t stop them, according to our customers. Not that I ever listen to gossip.”

We were in the hallway when he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is someone you know cheating on her spouse? Like one of those women who hung around Guido after class? I think you know something you’re not telling me.”

“Gossip, that’s all it is. You don’t want me to repeat gossip, do you?”

I flashed on the sight of Guido’s nervous face as he stood at the door the night he was killed. Because he had someone with him? Someone’s wife? Is that why he was so anxious to get rid of me…and of her?