Died with a Bow (26 page)

“We’re having it because I am asking you once more to stop interfering. How much clearer can I be? Don’t tell people to call me with their off-the-wall suggestions. Don’t go to pawnshops. Don’t interview suspects. You’re getting a name for yourself and that’s not good. Not when there’s a murderer out there.”

“So you haven’t found him.” I tried not to sound gleeful, but I was. Jack had as good as admitted that he was at a dead end or that I was getting close and he wasn’t. Instead of discouraging me, he was having the opposite effect.

“Good night, Rita.”

“Wait, what was that you said about my getting a name for myself? What name? Who told you?”

He hung up.

I turned out the light and tried to sleep, but I kept hearing gunshots and seeing flashing lights even with my sleep mask and my headphones on.

A few days went by with relatively little excitement, and that was fine with me, and with Dolce too. Patti French came by with tickets to the Sports and Boat Show. Dolce bought two. After all, Patti was not just a good customer, she was a fabulous customer, not only spending lots of money at the shop but also sending her friends there to spend freely as well. No one said anything about the event she’d sent us to at the Palace Hotel that was followed by Vienna’s demise. It would have been tacky to mention it.

“Wine, cheese, chocolates and yachts,” Patti said. “What’s not to like? You don’t have to buy a yacht, although there are some fantastic bargains these days as some people are forced to sell. It’s so sad.” She sighed. “Anyway, your ticket is also a raffle ticket. You could go home with a dinghy, an inflatable or a previously owned yacht.”

I tried to look excited about the prospect. Maybe I should
take up sailing, I thought. Right after I got my water safety certificate, which I was training for once a week at my health club. The class made it easier for me to stay on schedule. Instead of just recreational swimming, I had a goal.

Dolce left early one evening that week to have drinks with William. She looked her best in a Helmut Lang crepe twist dress in black and white with suede boots, and she carried a pouchy bag.

“You don’t mind if I leave you to lock up?” she asked.

I assured her everything was under control.

“I almost forgot. A salesman from Convertible Fashion is coming by to show us his latest thing. Something I saw on Bravo. He sells this sartorial shape-shifter that you twist and wrap and presto, you’ve got four outfits in one. Kind of intriguing. Tell him I’m sorry I missed him and just reschedule.”

I watched from the window as she got into William’s BMW. I had my fingers crossed things would go well. With the murder investigation and the loss of Vienna, Dolce needed this distraction, which had come at just the right time.

When the salesman came with his case full of samples, I told him Dolce wasn’t here, but he insisted on showing me how the shape-shifter worked. “Everyone’s doing it,” he said. “Not just our company. You’ll see these designs at Target and Victoria’s Secret and all over the place. But ours are better. Let me show you how they work.”

He lifted a one-piece outfit from his case and held it up. I must have looked unimpressed, because he said, “Okay, so they haven’t got much hanger appeal, but they work wonders. Just give me a chance and I know you’ll get the picture. In this economy, a garment like this makes even more
sense. You can tweak it so you can go from work to the gym and then to cocktails. All without changing clothes. With just a few folds and tucks. Watch.”

Then he took the jersey outfit he called “convertible knitwear” and began wrapping himself in the fabric. From a halter dress he made a swingy skirt and then a strapless party dress. Of course, it all looked ridiculous on him, but I could see the possibilities. I had turned down his offer to let him dress me even though I was intrigued. Call me nervous, but after what I’d been through? We were alone in the shop, and though the guy looked harmless, I was not about to undress. I’d wait until he left. Undeterred, he took out another “infinity” dress, which he made into a cap-sleeved sheath and then into a wide-leg discothèque pants outfit. There was also a skirt that converted to a shirt or a culotte. I was definitely interested and anxious to try them out on my own.

“You really think I could do what you’re doing by myself?” I asked. “That’s the question. Our customers want to be able to dress themselves. They won’t want to have to rely on a YouTube video to teach them how to put this thing on. They’re busy, active women.”

“Of course,” he said. “But they’re also savvy women, right? They want the kinds of clothes that other women don’t have. Tell you what. I’ll leave these samples with you. You let me know how it goes. I’m betting you’ll be calling me with some big orders. Remember to tell your customers that with a little tweaking, one versatile outfit can go from workplace to gym to cocktails.”

I promised to let him know if I was able to take any orders.

“It’s not all about the money, you know,” he said. “They’re
fun to play with. They require creativity. Everyone wants to be a stylist, have you noticed?” he asked.

I agreed and as soon as he left, I slipped into the dressing room to try on the four-in-one outfit I thought might have possibilities. Before I tried to sell it to anyone, I would have to be able to wear it myself in all four ways: baggy pants, cap-sleeve party frock, long-sleeved tunic and outerwear. Imagine how I’d feel when a customer called me up on a Saturday night.

“Rita, I’m stuck in my four-in-one dress. I’m trying to convert it from a rugged parka to a draped Aphrodite gown, and I’m leaving in five minutes for a cocktail party.”

I couldn’t let that happen.

I tried everything. I hitched it, I tied it, I buttoned it and I draped it, but the so-called versatile outfit just wouldn’t do what I wanted it to, which was to look like something I could wear outside on the street. I pulled it up from my ankles, and I pulled it down over my head. At one point my arms were caught in the folds of fabric and my head was covered, which would have been fine if I had to wear a burka. When I heard the door open and a voice call, “Anyone there?” I almost laughed. Finally a customer who’d help me figure this out.

“I’ll be right out,” I said, struggling to uncover my head. Finally I pushed the curtain to the dressing room open.

“Rita, is that you?” The deep throaty voice was familiar, but I couldn’t put a face to it. It would help if I could uncover my own face so I could see, but the harder I tried, the more determined the stretch fabric was to stay where it was in folds over my eyes.

“Sorry,” I said. “Dolce’s not here, and you’ve caught me at an awkward time. Just trying on the latest, four pieces in
one shape-shifter, can you believe it? Could you come back another time? Or can I help you find something?” Dolce would have been so proud of me, waiting on a customer while I was covered with knitwear and unable to extricate myself. Who was the customer? Someone who could help me out of this mess, I hoped.

The person laughed, but it sounded hollow. Maybe it
was
funny that I, a clothing saleswoman, was caught in a clothing bind. But who was the laugher?

“You’re the one I’m looking for,” she said. I assumed it was a woman. Our customers were women. Who else would come to Dolce’s at closing time for a last-minute purchase?

“Could you give me a hand with this freaking outfit?” I asked.

“Sure.” With that, the person approached and pulled the hood down farther over my head.

“Not down, up,” I said, a little hysterical at this point. Of course, pulling down instead of up was an easy mistake to make with all that cloth, but still, no help at all.

“How’s this?” she said, tying something around my neck. A scarf? A belt?

“No, no,” I said to her. If it was a woman, she was very strong. “It’s too tight.” I gasped. I didn’t like the way she’d tied it. And I didn’t want to believe I was in danger. Didn’t want to believe someone was trying to choke me and leave me here unconscious or worse, but what else could I think with Vienna’s unfortunate strangling death so fresh in my mind?

“I don’t know who you are, but what do you want?” I asked in a raspy voice as I shook my head to loosen the hood while trying to pry the rope from around my neck with my stiff fingers.

“I want you to stay out of the Vienna investigation,” she said harshly. “She wouldn’t appreciate your help. She never liked you, you know.”

I stiffened. Now I was really worried. “What do you mean?” I said. “It doesn’t matter whether she liked me or not. I have nothing to do with her murder. The police—”

“Don’t play games with me, Rita Jewel,” she said. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. You think you can solve this case? You think because you helped the police before they want your help this time?”

“No,” I said. “I know they don’t. I’m staying out of it. Who are you anyway? Are you a friend of Vienna’s? A relative?” I had a vision of her crazy relative Paul, and I remembered our conversation. “Are you her uncle? Did I meet you at her funeral?”

“I was at her funeral, yes,” she said in a husky voice. Was it a man after all? “And next I’ll be at yours, you meddling bitch.”

“You have it all wrong,” I said, pawing at the material and trying to stay calm while shaking inside the tent I’d wrapped myself in. “I don’t know anything, and I don’t want anything to do with it, believe me.”

“I’ve been watching you,” she or he said. “You’ve gone too far. I’m giving you one last warning.” With that, she tightened the sash around my neck.

“Stop,” I croaked, flailing my arms in what I thought was her direction. But the word died in my throat. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t breathe.

Last warning? It was the first warning I’d gotten, and now it was my last. How did that happen? While I was choking and trying to rip off whatever was around my neck, I heard someone call my name. Was it Saint Peter at
the gates of heaven? Was it Dolce? Or was it my guardian angel?

“Rita,” the faint voice said. “Let me in. Help. It’s an emergency. I see your light. I know you’re there.” Someone out there was calling me and pounding on the door.

Finally I jerked at the rope around my neck and it came loose. I heard my assailant swear, then footsteps, high heels clacking on the floorboards, as whoever it was ran past me toward the rear of the store. And finally the sound of the back door to the shop opening and slamming shut.

With a desperate shake of my head, I finally loosened the hood around my neck. It was not a hanger or rope that choked me, though those would have worked just as well. It was a Hermes silk scarf from our collection. Did that mean the choker was not prepared and simply grabbed the scarf when she saw my face was covered? Did that mean it was a crime of opportunity and not preplanned? As the swatch of fabric fell away from my head, I took a big gulp of air. I ran to the door to see Sarah, a new client, looking desperate.

I was breathing hard, but she didn’t notice. “I’m going to the symphony tonight,” she said, “and I have nothing to wear.”

This from a woman I knew had a walk-in closet full of clothes, and one section for evening wear. What did she mean?

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she said, grasping my arm. “You’re a lifesaver.”

No, I thought,
you’re
the lifesaver.

“Symphony,” I said thoughtfully as I walked to the rack with the long dresses. Should I tell her I’d just been attacked and now I had to call the police? No, I knew what Jack would
say: “Stay out of trouble. Watch your back. You’re okay, right? You don’t know who attacked you, do you? Call us when you’ve got some details. Otherwise…”

“Rita, you’re a jewel,” Sarah said, gazing at me with admiration. “What would I do without you?” Then she paused and looked at me. “What’s that you’re wearing?”

“It’s a four-in-one outfit, the latest thing. It’s versatile, it’s convertible, and it’s for the price-conscious. But not for you. Not for tonight.”

“I don’t have to wear a ball gown and white gloves, do I?” she asked. “You know we’re new in town, and Peter refuses to wear a tux. What will people think?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, as if I was some kind of director of good taste. As if I’d ever even been part of the social scene of this city. “You’ll see a little bit of everything there, especially tonight, a week night.” What did I know except what I’d heard Dolce say. I’d never been to the symphony or the opera. But I’d love to go, if only to see what people were wearing. Right now I’d give anything to go home and fall into bed. But turn away a customer? Never. On the other hand, my knees were weak, my hands were shaking and I wondered if my stalker-assailant was outside waiting to finish me off.

“Look, Sarah,” I said, trying not to sound desperate to close up and get out of there. “Why don’t you just wear a little black dress? You’ve got one or two or three in your closet, don’t you? That would be perfect for midweek at the opera.” I could imagine what Dolce would say if she heard me. “You said
what
?” she’d ask. “You turned away a customer by telling her to go home and wear an old dress?” Yes, but I was a wreck.

“You mean you don’t have anything?” Sarah asked sadly.