Blood of Others (2 page)

Julie Zegler
was talking on her cell phone
while disarming the security system at the rear of Forever & Ever, her
bridal boutique near Union Square.

“You’re sure it’s finally done,
Ronnie?”

“Completely. I stayed until nine
last night to finish it.”

Zegler could hear the bells of
the cable cars on Powell Street clanging as the control keypad beeped an
all-clear. She entered her shop, switched on the lights.

“You know, she’s picking it up
this morning. In two hours.”

“I know.”

Zegler went to the work room to
get the completed gown.

“Any problems, Ron?”

“The bodice. Her recent
augmentation complicated things. Of course, there was her attitude.”

“What? Sorry, I can’t seem to
find --”

“Don’t you remember? Her
attitude. Rhymes with rich.”

The store phone began ringing.
Please.
We don’t open for another hour.
Zegler rustled through the finished orders.
Brannigan, a size-four chiffon mermaid. Dodd, trumpet skirt in a ten tall.
Lorenzo, an organza affair, size seven.

No Carruthers.

“Ronnie it’s not --”

“Remember, she invited me to
lunch at her
favorite
French restaurant on Belden two
months ago. Never once saying Christoban is in a Malibu detox center. In her
phony baby-girl voice she says: ‘Oh, Ronnie I just
have
to have you! I
want the best Veronica Chan ever! Transform me….’ ”

Zegler bit her bottom lip and
kept searching. Li, petite princess, size two. Shire, a size-eight readingcoat.
Tannenbaum, five, a classic taffeta. Wong, a size four, a bouffant.

No Carruthers.

The phone stopped.

“…she goes, ‘Ronnie, you’re the
artist. Create. I just insist on some teeny things.’
Teeny things?
She
unfolds her three pages of hideous sketches of Christoban knockoffs.”

“Ronnie, where did you put --”

“Nothing to do with my themes.
Then the way she kept snapping her fingers at me: ‘Oh Ronnie, make it magical,
make it divine.’ Julie, I feel sorry for her dot-commie millionaire beau. You
can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can’t --”

“Ronnie! It is not here!”

The phone started again.

“Julie.
It’s there.
It’s
with the others.”

“Well, I can’t find it.”

“I placed it with the others,
Brannigan, Dodd. Did you look?”

“Yes! What time did you leave
last night?”

“Nine. I told you.”

“What about Clarice?”

“Left at eight. I was the last to
leave. Look again.”

“I am telling you it is not
here!”

“I am telling you,
it is
there!”

Zegler rubbed her temple. The
security system was properly activated. Nothing was amiss. The store phone
continued ringing.

“Ronnie, I cannot find it.”

“What do you want me to do,
Julie?”

“Get your butt down here and find
the goddamn gown, Veronica!”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a six-thousand-dollar
order! We flew in the satin from Paris, the tiara’s from Italy.”

“Julie, I am on the Golden Gate
Bridge, late for an appointment in Marin. I will be back in time.”

Zegler snatched the ringing store
phone, slamming down the receiver. An icy silence passed between the cell
phones of the two women. Veronica Chan saw San Francisco’s skyline in the
rear-view mirror of her sapphire Mercedes 450 SL. She resented Zegler’s tone.
She was Zegler’s partner, not her employee. It was Chan’s artistry that
attracted the top-end clients, not the cobwebbed reputation of a senile Bay
Area seamstress.

Outside the shop a police siren
sounded. Loud. Near. Very near.

“What’s that?” Ronnie asked.

Someone began banging on the front
door.

“I don’t know, Ronnie. I have to
get the door. Something’s going on.”

“You deal with this. I’ll be
there within two hours.”

Making her way to the front,
Zegler took calming breaths, inhaling the fragrance produced by the automated
aroma machine. It simulated an English country garden, accenting the shop’s
elegant European motifs and plush carpet. Was she losing her mind? She was rude
to Veronica. Perhaps it was time to consider retiring. She should have answered
the store phone. It might have been Clarice. Maybe the order was picked up
after closing. Or delivered. But Clarice was dependable, always leaving a clear
note at the back. This was not good.

Hurrying by the ornate writing
tables and chairs of the Victorian sitting area where brides planned and
dreamed, then passing the archway to the change rooms, Zegler massaged her
temples, glancing down the darkened corridor to the empty change cubicles, the
floor.

She stopped dead.

Is that a shoe?

The front door was now being
hammered.

An empty shoe?

Emergency lights were flashing
through the four mannequins in the window display. The door thudded, cracked. A
large uniformed police officer forced his way into the shop.

“Good Lord.”

“Lady, are you all right?”

“Yes, what is this? I --”

His gun was drawn. He grabbed
Zegler’s shoulder pulling her to the street, instantly assessing her, then the
shop.

“Are you alone in the store?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand.”

He spoke into his crackling
portable radio calmly, saying, “We got a staff member in front. Kick the back
entrance.” A female officer was in the patrol car parked in front, talking
softly, comforting two people in the backseat, an old man, his arm protectively
around an old woman. She was sobbing.

Zegler heard more sirens,
glimpsed an ambulance approaching. The noise, confusion, chaos.

“Ma’am, please stand by my car.
Please, so my partner can see you.”

“Yes, but, Officer, what’s
wrong?”

A small crowd gathering. A bike
courier muttering “Jee-zus! That's real!” The officer ordering rubberneckers
back.

“Everyone back!” The officer’s
face taut. “Over there, ma’am, stand by my car.” His hand on his gun as he
stepped into the shop. “Do not talk to anyone, please, ma’am.”

Zegler hearing the old man
pleading with the female officer over the old woman’s sobs.

“We were just walking. Can’t they
cover it, or take us away? Please. We were just…”

Cover what?

Zegler turning to her storefront,
discovering
five
brides on display, not the usual four. The strobe of
police lights staining the gowns. Confused, her mind shocked, gasping, thinking
it was a joke, her eyes not believing the Carruthers order, a slipper satin
ball gown, floor-length chapel, Venice lace, open sweetheart neckline, illusion
veil, the tiara, the entire front saturated in crimson, ruby, scarlet and deep purplish
Burgundy against the shiny fabric.

A bouquet of white silk roses
affixed to her hands, the bride was standing, shoulders secured to the steel
rods of two heavy metal bases, head bowed, her bare feet in the pool of dark,
blackish red, widening on the hardwood floor of the display case.

Dear God! That’s not a
mannequin! It’s a woman! She’s --

Zegler covering her mouth.

The droplets splashing like red
tears.

Oh, dear God!

Sirens screaming. The tolling
bells. Cable cars laden with office workers. The graceful lettering of the
boutique’s sign over the blood-soaked bride promising to...MAKE IT A DAY YOU
WILL REMEMBER FOREVER & EVER.

As usual
Olivia Grant’s commute began by
opening a paperback on her lap after finding a seat for the ride down Market to
her job near Union Square.

But today she couldn’t
concentrate on her book.

Olivia was drawn to the young
mother and father across the aisle. Early thirties. Happy baby strapped snugly
to Dad’s chest. The parents looked exhausted but their faces radiated absolute
joy. The bond with their baby.
Pure love.

It overwhelmed Olivia, awakening
anxieties that had been stirring inside her for months. Years. She would never
have what the woman across the aisle from her had. Olivia was alone. Utterly
alone.

Her eyes glistened, blinking at
the truth as she tried to return to the sanctuary of fiction. It was futile.

Time to face reality, girl.

You ache to have someone in
your life but do nothing about it, clinging to the schoolgirl hope someone
perfect is just going to walk into your world and rescue you. How many years
have you been dreaming that dream?

Soon she would turn thirty-five.
Thirty-six was next. Forty was looming. Birthdays were blurring by,
accelerating her trip to middle-aged spinsterhood. Not the life she had
envisioned. In high school Olivia had fantasized about how sweet it would be
with her husband, her beautiful children, and their perfect home.

But boys seldom approached
Olivia. She was painfully shy. Terrified of rejection. She had had few dates.
In college it was the same story. She had expected to find her future mate
there, but it didn’t work out that way. Olivia had rarely dated in college. She
had supported herself working part-time at Caselli’s Gift Shop downtown, never
once thinking some fifteen years would pass and she would still be there.

What a sad life. Stop it,
Olivia. You’re just a little bothered about nearing thirty-five and still being
single. Nothing wrong with that. No big deal. Everyone finds their own path.
Besides, there is always tomorrow and there is always hope.

Sounded like one of the greeting
cards at the store, Olivia rebuked herself, caressing her tiny gold heart. She
had bought it for her thirty-second birthday, a comfort gift to soften the
letdown of her last date.

He was a lawyer who came to the
shop occasionally. One day he asked her out. It was nice. He brought her a
white carnation, they had dinner, walked along Marina Green. But Olivia had
been nervous. So self-conscious she barely spoke. When it ended, he thanked
her, then kissed her cheek. She never heard from him again. She placed the
carnation in the pages of a hardcover romance novel she kept on a shelf in her
bedroom. Some nights she would look at it and touch its dried, dead petals,
then the cheek he had kissed.

That was three years ago.

Olivia got off at Union Square
and walked her workday route. It would take her by the bridal boutique and its
enchanting storefront brides displaying the prettiest gowns. Surely that would
revive her belief that dreams can come true. That maybe,
just maybe,
she
would find somebody to love and live happily, Forever & Ever….

The yelp of a siren was the first
indication something was wrong. She saw the revolving red lights, police cars,
TV news crews, a huge tarpaulin covering the display window. Emergency radios
chattering, police directing downtown workers to walk around the scene.

One man shouted: “Yo, Officer, I
hear somebody got herself killed in there. Whatsup, man?”

“Move it along, please. Move it
along.”

Killed?
Olivia cast a
worried look in the direction of the shop.
A woman dead in Forever &
Ever?
A firm hand touched her shoulder. “Miss, please keep moving.”

Olivia hurried to Caselli’s. The
tiny gift shop was shoehorned between a grand café and large boutique on Maiden
Lane.

Her keys jingled as she unlocked
the front door. The transom bells rang loudly as she went to the back, switched
off the alarm, put her lunch in the small refrigerator, hung up her jacket, and
went through her morning opening routine.

She prepared the cash register,
checked the credit and debit card machines, phone messages, mail, the fax
machine, the computer, and the store’s Web site for e-mailed orders.

Before he died, Mr. Caselli set
up an automated on-line service to provide quick delivery of small gifts,
flowers, and cards for busy downtown customers at risk of forgetting important
occasions. Caselli’s Internet service and the walk-in lunch-hour traffic kept
the gift shop afloat. The store had a vast selection of greeting cards --
announcements, birthday, graduation, showers, wedding, anniversary, get-well,
forgiveness, sympathy, congratulations, all the big days, Valentine’s, Mother’s,
Father’s, and many others.

Over the years Olivia had helped
customers mark milestones in their lives. It was funny that in the region many
regarded as the world capital of cyberspace, many people still gave traditional
greeting cards.

The lunchtime rush was winding
down when the doorbells jingled and an older heavyset woman, white hair in a
high, tight bun, toddled in. Seventy-one-year-old Mrs. Caselli. As always, she
was there to relieve Olivia for lunch.

“How is it today?” Even though
she had come to America as a young girl, Mrs. Caselli had not lost her accent
entirely.

Olivia checked the day’s list on
the store’s computer. “Busy. Thirty-two orders dispatched.”

Mrs. Caselli placed a hand
against her face, stared into the street. “Isn’t it just horrible about the
bride store? The TV news is saying a woman was murdered.”

“Yes. It’s awful. The customers
were talking about it.”

“Such a horrible thing in my
beautiful city. I’m going to pray.”

“Don’t worry.”

“You’re not frightened, Olivia?
It’s so close.”

“I guess. I don’t know. A lot of
other things frighten me. I’d like to know more about her, about what
happened.”

“Maybe you should close early
today. Make me feel a little better. One hour earlier, please?”

“Sure. But don’t worry.” Olivia
patted Mrs. Caselli’s hand, then finished on the computer and got ready.

The older woman smiled, noticing
Olivia’s outfit. A cream-colored gabardine straight skirt with slash pockets, a
navy knit print top with elaborate designs and a scoop neck.

“Nice clothes. Are they new?”

“A weekend sale at JC Penney.”
Olivia grabbed her lunch and jacket from the back room. “See you in an hour.”

Olivia headed to Union Square,
missing how the old woman used to optimistically ask if she was “meeting
somebody” for lunch. But Mrs. Caselli’s motherly concern about her marital
status had faded when Mr. Caselli died. Unlike his wife, the old guy had been
blunt. His big eyes had crinkled at the corners when he talked to Olivia about
her not having any boyfriends.

“Life is too short to be eating
by yourself from a paper bag with only the birds for company. A pretty girl
like you should jump into life. Don’t be so shy all the time. Don’t be afraid
of heartbreak or two. Olivia, that is how you know you are alive. Better to
have loved and lost…” A smile rose under his thick white moustache. Two days
later he had a massive coronary.

Mr. Caselli was right. She was
not participating in life. She was observing it from a safe distance where
nothing could hurt her.

So why was she in pain?

How many times at the end of the
day had she spotted women cradling flowers, or toting a Caselli’s bag
containing a card
she
had selected, a gift
she
had suggested, and
wrapped. She pictured those women, hurrying home to their children, their
husbands, boyfriends, or life partners, for dinner, a movie, or to simply talk.

Every day Olivia helped strangers
find the right gesture for important moments in their lives but could do
nothing to help herself. She had devoured countless books and articles about
not needing a man to define herself, nor a career, about her biological clock;
had studied advice on overcoming dating paralysis, the twin curses of shyness
and low self-esteem. She had gone to a dating service but backed out.

She got a makeover once. The
beautician, a gay man, had looked over her five-foot four-inch,
one-hundred-twenty pound frame, then her face, and whistled.
“Look at you.
High cheek bones, natural tones, classic features. Hazel eyes. A hetero
heartbreaker, sweetie. Just keep that hair out of your eyes and smile more.”
At home Olivia had stared at herself.
Who is that?
She had scowled, then
scrubbed off the makeup, returned her shoulder-length auburn hair to her side
part. She could hide there. It was safe.

Olivia sat on a bench in Union
Square, chewing her egg-salad sandwich, gazing into her novel, then at the
Corinthian column that had survived the 1906 earthquake. Long ago she had come
to Caselli’s a painfully shy and lonely college girl. A lifetime later, here
she was, an older, lonelier woman.

Was this it? Was this all there
was to her life? What was the point?

A cool breeze brushed Olivia’s
face turning her thoughts to the bridal shop and the dead woman.
Murdered.
Wasn’t it strange how that woman had died where she had come to plan the rest
of her life?