Died with a Bow (18 page)

“The Palace of Fine Arts was built in 1915. But years later it began to crumble away, since it was only built for the World’s Fair. So in the sixties they rebuilt it following the same pattern.”

“So new,” Nick said.

“Yes, compared to Romania where you have castles that are from the Middle Ages, right?”

“Yes, but this looks old.”

“It’s supposed to. The original architect, Bernard Maybeck, got his ideas from Greek and Roman architecture. The people who rebuilt it wanted to keep it looking old.”

“Like the columns and the dome,” Nick said as he opened a small cheese he called
cascaval
and cut me a slice. I tore
off a piece of bread and ate it with the plum brandy he poured for me. “Romanian picnic tradition,” he explained as he lifted his paper cup. “To your health.”

“What a nice tradition,” I said. Nick went to find the men’s room inside the Palace, and I lay down and rested my head on my jean jacket. I’d just closed my eyes for a moment when I heard someone say, “Rita. Rita Jewel?”

I sat up and saw a man in shorts and a helmet on a bike who’d stopped on the path and was looking at me. I didn’t think I knew him.

“Emery Grant. Heard you’re looking for me.”

I blinked rapidly. Yes, I was looking for him, but not now. Not today. Not here. First, how had he recognized me? Second, did he know I’d be here? And finally, I knew why I wanted to see him, but why did he want to see me? I would have thought he’d try to avoid me as did everyone connected with Vienna these days.

“What do you want?” he said, dragging his bike across the grass.

I was so startled I almost forgot what I wanted to ask him. But when he stood looming above me, I had to defuse the situation. Following Romanian tradition, I offered him a drink of
tunica
, which he accepted. Once he saw the ornate bottle it came in, he couldn’t refuse. He sat on the picnic cloth next to me.

I hated to bring up the subject of Vienna’s murder today when I was taking a well-deserved break from the tension. I especially didn’t want to muddy the atmosphere between Nick and me. I didn’t want him to know anything about it. It was so good to spend an hour with someone who was in a different world than the one of funerals, police inter
rogations and family feuds that I was in every day, where everyone suspected everyone else. Since Nick was conveniently gone for the moment, I decided to make the best of the situation.

“I…how did you know me? How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

“I saw you when I went to pick up Vienna,” he explained. “You worked in the shop with her.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, slightly annoyed to be caught at a disadvantage. He knew who I was. If he was guilty of killing Vienna, why stop and say hello? Why not keep his distance and out of sight?

“I went to the store to see you today, and your boss told me you’d be here. I just want to get one thing straight. I didn’t kill her. Why would I?”

“Why come all this way to tell me?” I asked. “Why don’t you tell the police you’re innocent?”

“Because they didn’t accuse me, you did.”

“You did know Vienna,” I said.

“Yeah, of course. We went to San Francisco Prep together. When she came back to town, she looked me up.”

“You came to pick her up from the store, didn’t you, in your…Lotus?”

He shook his head. “Do I look like a drive a Lotus?’

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick ambling toward us across the grass. He would be so confused, and I didn’t want to go into the whole long story. Not now. Not ever really.

I didn’t answer his question about his looking like he drove a Lotus. I wasn’t very knowledgeable about cars. I decided to cut to the chase.

“If you didn’t kill Vienna, who did?” I asked breathlessly as Nick drew closer.

“Hah. That’s what everyone wants to know. Could be any number of people. Sure it wasn’t you?” he asked.

I shook my head vehemently.

“She wasn’t exactly the most popular girl at our school. For one thing, she cheated on tests and she cheated on her boyfriends, but somehow she never got caught. There were people out to get her. To pay her back.”

This was news to me. Would it be news to Jack? “So did you tell this to the police?” I asked.

Before he answered, Nick joined us. “Hello,” Nick said with a curious glance at the newcomer.

“Nick, this is Emery, a friend of a friend. Just stopped by to say hello.”

Nick, who was instilled with the Romanian spirit of hospitality and generosity, shook his hand and refilled Emery’s cup.

“So, uh, would you be willing to share your information with others?” I asked, meaning the police.

“No way,” he said. “That would be inconvenient. No names. I’ve got to live in this town. If someone I know did anything wrong and he knows I ratted him out, I could be next. So don’t go telling them I know anything.”

Was he kidding? Was he really afraid he’d be killed like Vienna was? On a sunny day having a picnic and drinking Romanian wine, it didn’t seem possible.

He glanced at Nick. “Who’s he?”

“Sorry, I should have introduced you. Meet Nick Petrescu. He’s a Romanian gymnast. He speaks very good English.”

“Okay,” Emery said with a brief nod to Nick as he
nimbly got to his feet. He turned to me. “You got my message, I got yours. This is it.”

“Wait,” I said. “Give me your number. In case I need to talk to you.”

As I reached in my bag for a pen, he called out some numbers, which I quickly jotted down on a scrap of paper Nick handed me. The more I saw Nick, the better I liked him. He didn’t accuse me of anything. Didn’t ask me to do anything. He provided me with food, and he even treated this guy politely, a guy whom he didn’t even know.

When Nick brought out a thermos of hot coffee and a bag of
cornulete
, crisp Romanian cookies rolled in cinnamon and sugar, I was so content I’d almost forgotten my worries. As long as no one else came riding by on a bicycle to tell me he did not kill Vienna, I would call it a perfect day.

Maybe it was because I so badly needed a break from work and from everyone who was connected to the shop. Or maybe it was just because Nick was a kind and caring friend. Here he was suffering from a torn tendon and yet he’d been able to put together this wonderful lunch and had even suggested this historic spot, though he was far from being a native. It made me want to visit Romania with someone like him for a guide.

I wondered what my detective friend would think if I told him I was leaving for Romania. Would he put out a warrant for my arrest? Put me under shop or house arrest? Take my passport, which I didn’t have, to prevent me from leaving the country? Since I didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket to Bucharest, I decided to hold off and just pretend I was there. Sitting on the grass gazing at the Corinthian columns of the Palace mirrored in the lagoon, it was almost like being in Europe, I thought, though I wasn’t sure, since I’d
never been there. Why else would Nick have chosen this spot for our picnic? Surely because he felt at home here. I was feeling so much at home myself I hated to get on the bus and go back to work. I finished my coffee, looked at my watch and told Nick I had to leave.

“Thank you so much for the picnic lunch. It was delicious. Now it’s my turn to invite you.”

He smiled widely. Probably thinking: It’s about time Rita repaid me for all I’ve done for her. And me with my torn tendon.

“I’m going to have a dinner party,” I said. “Uh, next Sunday night.” Thinking fast, I knew I was busy Saturday night, but I planned to have all day Sunday to prepare the salad and the fish in the bag. “I hope you can come. I’ve taken a cooking class, and I want to show off what I’ve learned.”

“How nice that will be,” he exclaimed. “You are living in the same place?”

Nick had visited me when I hurt my ankle and even then he’d supplied food for me.

“Same address, but I’ve moved upstairs to a smaller apartment.” It was so much smaller I was wondering how to fit everyone in because I intended to invite everyone I owed. Never mind. I’d worry about that later.

Nick walked me to the bus stop. He was limping, but he assured me he’d improved a lot since his accident on the high bar.

“I hope you had a friend or someone to help you out besides your aunt Meera.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I wondered if he was going to mention the Romanian woman I’d overheard speaking to him while I was standing outside his apartment.

“Yes, other people have been kind to take care of me,”
he said at last. But no names were mentioned. It was none of my business really.

I thanked him again and waved good-bye from the bus stop.

While on the bus I called Jonathan and left a message inviting him to my dinner. I’d be seeing him on Saturday night, but I wanted to give him enough notice so he could find a substitute if he was on the ER schedule for Sunday.

When I got back to Dolce’s, I hurried inside, worried I’d taken advantage of my boss’s good nature by dragging out this lunch date. The place was crowded with customers, which made me feel guilty I hadn’t been here to help. Dolce looked overwhelmed as she handed a slip dress to a slim twenty-something I’d never seen before and a preppy shirt to someone else at the same time.

I immediately went into my sales mode, helping our customers two and three at a time, finding pieces to mix and match. A silk shirt here, some funky shoes there, a girly skirt and a tuxedo jacket to pull it all together.

I felt like I had a new lease on life. So that’s all I’d needed—a break from the everyday stress of being a murder suspect. I’d even forgotten about Emery, glad he hadn’t ruined my picnic with Nick. How tactful of Nick not to ask
me any questions about him, like who he was or what he was talking about.

Smiling at the thought, I finished helping Sharon, one of our good customers, find the right leather handbag to go with her new off-white pants outfit. When she gasped at the prices, I reminded her, “A leather bag is an investment that you will keep forever.” But I did give her a choice between one in faux leather and a real leather satchel. Naturally she chose the satchel.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young woman come in the front door, the same woman I’d seen at the funeral home wearing sparkly bracelets that had belonged to Vienna.

“Can I help you?” I said, rushing to the foyer where she stood looking a little lost.

“I’m Danielle, Vienna’s roommate,” she said.

What was she doing here? She couldn’t be shopping, could she, because she sure didn’t fit in with the typical Dolce clientele: rich, married women who wore real jewelry and belonged to the social set. Even in the designer clothes she wore, which I recognized as Vienna’s. Did Dolce know who she was? I hoped she wouldn’t come in and make a scene. I remembered she had a temper.

“I’m here to pick up Vienna’s stuff,” she said.

“What stuff?” I asked.

“You know. Whatever she left here.”

“Did her parents send you?”

“Nobody sent me. Look,” she said, fixing me with a steely stare, “Vienna skipped out without paying the rent. She owes me.”

“I hardly think being murdered qualifies as skipping out,” I said tersely.

“How do you know she was murdered?” she asked,
placing her hands on her hips. “What, was there a bullet hole in her head? Maybe she had a heart attack.”

A heart attack? I only wished it was that simple. I shuddered at the thought of the image I’d seen that morning. Just days ago. No wonder I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Seeing Vienna’s prostrate form on the floor with those marks around her neck had been bad enough; now I was being asked to verify her murder, by her rude roommate no less? It was more than I could take. Why had I even bothered to talk to this woman?

“I’m only going by what the police told me,” I said stiffly. “I’m sure they’d be glad to explain it to you. Let me give you the card from the detective on the case. You can call him.”

“Detective Wall?” she said. “I already saw him. And I told him what I thought.”

“Does he know you’re wearing Vienna’s clothes?” I asked, deliberately eyeing her coat and shoes.

She flushed. So I was right.

“He didn’t ask me if I was wearing her clothes. What difference does it make if I wear them or some homeless person wears them, which is what her parents would do with them, donate them to a shelter. So if she left anything here, like the above-the-knee suede boots she bought or her designer sunglasses, give them to me. I’ll appreciate them more than anyone else. And like I said, Vienna didn’t pay the rent up front, so she owes me. Either I take her clothes or I get some money.”

“Maybe if you tell her father…” I suggested.

“I thought about it, but I don’t want to bother him right now. Instead, I’ll just take whatever I can get here. So what about your boss? Vienna said she’d given her a bunch of stuff. Where is it?”

Dolce had given Vienna a bunch of stuff? Like what, I wondered. And where was it?

“How should I know?” I asked. “How do you know Vienna anyway? Did you go to San Francisco Prep with her?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t in her crowd. She was a preppie. Always looked like she should be on the cover of a Ralph Lauren magazine. Then she went away to school and she changed her style.” She paused and looked around the store. “Perfect place for her to work, if you can call waiting on rich spoiled women work.”