Murder After a Fashion

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Dolce’s Fashion Advice for the Summer–Fall Transition

Recipes

Dressing the part

The next day I dressed carefully, as I always do for an investigation. I had what they call an “office-ready” gray pin-striped suit with a pencil-slim skirt that hit just above the knee and a no-nonsense jacket that hugged my curves, which I’d bought on sale at Ann Taylor. Most of my clothes come straight from Dolce’s, but not all of them. She understands that sometimes I shop at the mall. With the suit I wore a pair of black, medium Sam Edelman stacked heels I picked up at Neiman Marcus. I’d have to change when I got to work in case the customers thought I was in mourning, which I wasn’t. Even though I was an admirer of the chef, we really weren’t close enough for me to mourn his demise.

Although I would certainly go to his funeral. I have found that a funeral brings out the best and the worst in people. People cry or they laugh or they say something inappropriate that they shouldn’t, which is helpful when you’re looking for a murderer. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be looking for a murderer, but how could I help it?

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Grace Carroll

SHOE DONE IT

DIED WITH A BOW

MURDER AFTER A FASHION

I’m not a native, but I do know one thing about San Francisco. The weather is as unpredictable as the people. Take that warm cloudless September day when I was on my way to work wearing a pair of Bruno Magli Italian leather sandals. They were all the rage that spring and summer, and I still loved them because they worked with either a pair of jeans or a skirt. No matter what else you’re wearing, those shoes make you look like you made an effort. And believe me, I always made an effort. Not just because my job was selling clothes and accessories in a boutique, but also because that’s the way I was. I still am.

I was on the Thirty Stockton bus in a bright jade blue flowy dress by Cladiana that could go from work to cocktails and a cream-colored linen Nicole Farhi blazer that gave the outfit a daywear look, and was reading a depressing
article in the
San Francisco Chronicle
, “Changing Weather Patterns Spell Doom for Humanity.” Suddenly the sky clouded over and just as I got off the bus, it started to rain, dampening my clothes and the chic fedora perched jauntily on my head. Talk about doom. Rain in September in everyone’s favorite city? Not going to happen. But there it was.

When my boss Dolce saw me come through the door of the historic Victorian house she’d converted to a stylish shop, she said, “Rita, get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death. What were you thinking?” She shook her head. It wasn’t really a lecture, not from Dolce. She was simply showing her concern and sympathy for me, the daughter she never had.

“Isn’t it true,” I asked, “that September, October and November are the best months in San Francisco weather-wise? ‘Fall days are warm and sunny, nights are cool and clear.’ That’s what I heard before I moved here. What happened?” I shivered as I tossed my damp hat toward a rack on the wall. “Can’t be global warming.”

Dolce shook her head again but said nothing about the weather changes indicating the end for humanity. Maybe she hadn’t read the paper (which I wished I hadn’t), or perhaps she was in denial, which wasn’t a bad place to be.

“Go put on something warm. You’ll feel better.” She waved an arm at the racks of fall clothes in earth tones and basic black hanging on racks in the large showroom that used to be the salon of the grand old Victorian residence. Once upon a time in the mid-1800s, this Hayes Valley neighborhood was filled with even more of these beautiful homes, along with smaller houses for the craftsmen hired to build the mansions. Thankfully the area was spared the fire that burned much of the city after the 1906 earthquake. But old
houses are not always taken care of the way this one had been. Dolce’s aunt who’d willed her this house had saved it from demolition, and Dolce had restored it to a bit of its former grandeur. Her small, well-appointed apartment above the shop might have once been the servants’ quarters.

I wondered if those old-timers had worn black and earth tones too? Or had they tired of the same-old, same-old and longed for some warm fall days to break out the satin slippers and their bright, flirty Victorian dresses, if there’d been such a thing. I sighed and went to pick out something that said fall in the strict sense of the word, but the only word I could think of was “dull.”

Pawing through a shelf full of cashmere sweaters in shades of eggshell, eggplant and ochre, I just couldn’t get excited about wearing such blah colors. I refused to let the rain dampen my spirits the way it had my clothes. I had to deal with the unpredictable nature of the weather and the populace. Wearing a bright dress lifted my mood, but was I pushing my luck by pushing my fashion sense to the brink?

“Remember to mix it up,” Dolce called from the jewelry section where she was arranging a display of chains, huge chunky rings, cuffs and leather bracelets. “Add some mohair with brocade or popcorn knits. And tweeds with flat wool. Instead of linen, why not try a tailored wool blazer with padded shoulders.”

Why not? Because my shoulders didn’t need any padding, but Dolce was my boss and she was usually right when it came to fashion. That’s what made things interesting, I told myself. Different styles, different people, different seasons and different weather.

It was so typically Dolce to offer me anything in the shop even though I couldn’t really afford the haute couture she
sold. Either she gave me a huge employee discount, or she just gave me things that were left over from the last season.