Murder After a Fashion (20 page)

“You’re right,” Diana said. “Although Weldon leaves everything to me, which makes changes easy.” I tried to imagine having enough money to call in the painters to redo my walls. Maybe I could if I married someone like Weldon.
For some reason, I’d gotten some negative vibes from him. No matter how much money he made or how much he indulged his wife in her interests.

We all trooped out the front door at the same time, except for Armando, who was packing up his leather, his wire and his jewelry knives in the kitchen.

Maxine drove me home. At the corner of Van Ness and California we saw an ambulance with its lights flashing turn onto California and head west.

“An accident,” I murmured. “Or maybe a heart attack.”

We talked about the class and Armando and Diana and her husband all the way. She was as impressed as I was with Armando and with Diana’s house. She was just as determined as I was to try to make jewelry on her own.

“Do you think you learned enough tonight to do it on your own?” I asked.

“I can only try,” she said thoughtfully as she put the car in second gear and started up steep Telegraph Hill toward my house. “I mean, it’s easier with the artisan right there in the room with us.” After a few moments of silence, Maxine abruptly changed the subject. “What did you think of Diana’s husband?” she asked me.

What could I say? He was weird? Or maybe all VC’s are like that? “I’ve never met a venture capitalist before, so I didn’t know what to think,” I said. “It must be nice to have a husband who indulges you in everything.” I sighed. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Spoken like a swinging single girl,” she said with a smile. “So do you think tonight’s chef was single too?”

“He wasn’t wearing a ring,” I said. “I couldn’t help noticing.”

She pulled up in front of my house and that was the end of
the conversation about our class. She asked if she’d see me at the house and garden tour. I said I wouldn’t miss it. I went inside telling myself I must master some type of craft, since I was a washout as a cook.

After a hot soak in my very own claw-foot tub, I thought about poor Jonathan and the unappetizing health food I’d brought him when he was sick. I doubted that he’d eaten it even though I’d gone to a lot of trouble to shop and then bring it to him, to say nothing of Meera’s effort to cook it for him. I wrapped myself in my terry-cloth robe and called him on his cell. I figured if he was in the middle of an emergency, he wouldn’t have his phone on, and if he was just sitting around the doctors’ lounge trading stories about patients with bug bites, stings, sudden chest pains and shortness of breath, then he’d pick up.

He did pick up. I asked him how he was feeling.

“Much better. Those drugs finally kicked in.”

“Maybe the food I brought helped.” If he’d eaten it, which I doubted.

“Maybe,” he said, making me conclude he’d thrown it down the garbage disposal after I left. “I really appreciate your coming by. I was completely down and totally out of it. You saw me. You know. Sorry I was such a terrible host. I owe you. As soon as I get a night off, I’ll have you over for a real dinner. I’m not cooking, don’t worry. There’s a local restaurant around the corner that delivers. I ran into the delivery guy in the elevator, and he gave me the menu. Sounded and smelled pretty good. What are you up to?”

“Actually tonight I had a jewelry-making class.”

“Don’t tell me it was with a guy named Armando.”

“Why, do you know him?”

“I know he had an accident tonight. Came into the ER a
couple of hours ago. Just bandaged him up and sent him home in a taxi. No stitches required. Was he relieved.”

“Was it a car accident?” As we were leaving Diana’s house, I’d noticed an SUV parked in the driveway that I’d assumed was Armando’s. It hadn’t been there when I arrived.

“He cut himself with his own knife. Can you believe that? A professional jewelry maker. Maybe it happens a lot, but not on my watch.”

I felt a shiver go up my spine. I’d seen Armando’s knives. I’d used one of them tonight to cut the leather for my bracelets. They were so sharp, they looked like they could cut right through an artery. “Did he cut through an artery?” I asked. Then I remembered that Jonathan had said he didn’t require any stitches. “No, I guess not,” I added quickly so as not to seem clueless.

“Just a superficial cut, but he was freaking out. Came in an ambulance. He was in minor shock. The sight of their own blood, you know, does it to some people. Low blood pressure, cold clammy skin, dizziness. I treated him, but sometimes a doctor’s job is just reassurance. Someone to say you’re okay. I’ll fix it. Don’t worry. Nothing serious.”

I knew Jonathan was the perfect doctor to soothe a nervous bleeding patient. But Armando nervous from a superficial knife wound? Didn’t seem possible. But what did I know? Stranger things happened every day. Who would have imagined Jonathan suffering in the unfamiliar role as a patient. Although he was always kind and caring, which I should know, since I’d been his patient at one time. I really had to be grateful to the woman who’d pushed me off that ladder, which had landed me in the hospital and into Jonathan’s hands with a concussion and a sprained ankle. Otherwise, I
would never have met him. Not the way my social life was going. I would thank her if I could, but she’d been murdered shortly after our encounter.

“I don’t blame the man for being nervous,” I said. “Seeing your own blood is a downer.” Like I would know. I’d had a lot of pain but no loss of blood.

“So you know this guy?” Jonathan asked.

“I just met him tonight. He was fine the last I saw of him. I’m glad to hear he recovered so fast, thanks to you, I’m sure. He taught us how to make some dynamite pieces of jewelry. I’m dying to make something on my own next.”

“Good luck with that,” he said. Then he said they were paging him and he had to go.

I couldn’t get over the vision of poor Armando cutting himself and bleeding all over the kitchen. I wanted to call Diana, but it was too late. She must be freaked out to have had that happen at her house. Not that that would be her first concern. I was sure she was worried about Armando. Maybe she took him to the ER. No, he’d gone in an ambulance. But who drove him home from there?

And who cleaned up the blood in Diana’s once-spotless kitchen? I shouldn’t worry about that. She could call a cleaning service, who’d have it like new again. What did her husband think? Would he put the kibosh on future jewelry-making classes? I could tell Diana loved being creative. Apparently she loved to share her house and her favorite experts. Like at our class.

The next day I dressed carefully, as usual. I wore a short Emilio Pucci print skirt, a French striped T from Saint James with a double-breasted, cropped Rudsak trench over it, tights and a pair of two-tone Chanel ballet flats. I didn’t
wear my new bracelets, and I didn’t say anything to Dolce about my lesson in jewelry making. Even if I’d wanted to, she was preoccupied, worried about our sales, which she said had been slipping. She was going through catalogs and on the phone with distributors when I arrived.

“We’re going to expand our shoe and jewelry sections,” she announced when she got off the phone. “I’m tired of seeing our clients buy an outfit here and go somewhere else for their footwear and their cultured pearls, their cocktail rings and the latest earrings. We’ve got to be a one-stop shop.”

That’s when I almost blurted out, “I know how to make some stunning custom bracelets you could sell.” What if they didn’t sell? What if it took me hours to make one bracelet and then it looked amateurish? Better get some more practice before I went pro.

Some people cut back when business isn’t good. Dolce’s philosophy was to expand, and so far it had worked. I already thought we were a one-stop shop. It was disturbing to hear our customers’ loyalty was slipping. I vowed to step up my salesmanship. Giving free advice and fashion tips was not enough. Not in these trying times. I had to put a little pressure on, in a tactful way, of course.

Dolce opened a catalog and showed me the shoes she’d ordered in her new favorite color—traffic-stopping red.

“You’d look great in these Aldo’s,” she said, pointing to a pair of red suede wedges. “Or these patent leather and wicker wedges.”

When I didn’t look enthusiastic enough, Dolce said, “I am truly, madly, deeply in love with wedges. They are a heel lover’s best friend.”

“I agree,” I said. “They were hot this summer.”

“And they’ll be hotter this fall. You’ll see.”

“They are stunning,” I said, referring to the red shoes she’d showed me. In those shoes my feet would be stunning, but what about the rest of me?

“So how was your class?” Dolce asked after she’d taken her pen and circled the picture of the fire engine red shoes.

I took a deep breath. I was dying to talk about the house and Armando the artiste, Diana and Diana’s husband, but how much should I say about what happened after we left? Maybe for once I should keep my medical horror stories to myself. “It was fine. We made some unusual pieces I want to show you. The house is incredibly gorgeous. Apparently it’s on the house and garden tour that’s coming up.”

“Is it?” Dolce said. “I bought the tickets, of course, but I haven’t had time to look at the schedule. All I know is that there are five houses featured and a tea at the last one on the list. We can go together.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. As usual, Dolce made it possible for me to mix socially with the upper class and enjoy the same perks they did, like house and garden tours or designer shoes, the kind of things I couldn’t afford to do on my own. Even though the tour wasn’t until next week, Dolce
said we should put our outfits together right then while we weren’t busy waiting on customers. When I said something about wearing an outfit already in my closet, she shook her head emphatically.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” she said. “We are walking advertisements for our shop, you and I. We will be seen all afternoon as we make the round of the houses. Not only will we see how our customers live, but we’ll also see everyone who’s taking the tour and they’ll see us. Some of whom may have never even been in this shop, if you can believe that.”

I shook my head in dismay. Someone in the social scene who hadn’t been to Dolce’s? I had to feel sorry for anyone so out of touch.

“Too bad we can’t wear signs that say ‘Dolce’s’ with the address,” I said jokingly.

“No need for signs,” she said seriously. “We will get the message across with the help of our regular customers. I’ve been on these house tours. There’s just so much you can say about the molding and the energy-efficient light fixtures and the antique porcelain doorknobs, then the talk turns to fashion.” She turned to a rack of pants and tops that had just come in. “What do you think, long and lean or flirty and feminine?”

I didn’t know what to say. I was having a rare moment of fashion indecision. Fortunately Dolce stepped up to fill in the void. “You know, prints can be fun without being overwhelming,” she said. “How about something flowy in a wide-legged pant?”

Taking her suggestion, I found a pair of wide print pants by Alice and Olivia that I liked, then went to look for something to go with them.

“Nothing voluminous on top,” Dolce warned, “or you’ll look sloppy, especially if the top is on the long side.”

“What about a body-conscious, form-fitting Tory Burch cashmere sweater?” I asked, riffling through a pile of sweaters for one in my size.

Dolce had cocked her head to one side as if to get a better look at the ensemble, which I hadn’t tried on yet. She waved one arm as if to say “Go ahead and try it on,” which I did. A few minutes later I came out of the dressing room.

“It looks like you,” Dolce said.

“Is that good? Shouldn’t I try to look like someone else sometimes?”

“How about wearing it with a pair of red and black striped Prada heels with the strap?”

“Print skirt and striped shoes?” I said just to be sure I’d heard correctly.

“Why not?” she asked. And she went into the alcove to find the shoes she said had been waiting for me to come along.

That’s the thing about Dolce: she’s always turning fashion rules on their head, which is why she’s such a great saleswoman. What would the world be like if we all followed the rules every day?

She was right; even though the pants were so long I almost tripped on them, the shoes peeped out and gave the whole ensemble a jolt of surprise. The top clung to my torso, and the print pants swished against my skin like cumulous clouds.

“What will you wear?” I asked her.

Dolce bit her bottom lip as she always does when she’s thinking. “I’m thinking head-to-toe solids,” she said. “One of those Akris Punto skinny pantsuits we got in the other
day. I love this shade of gray.” She held up the suit for me to see.

“With a chartreuse blouse and a pair of those red shoes you love,” I suggested.

“Rita, that’s brilliant,” Dolce said.

I was amazed that Dolce was going so far to be trendy. Usually she’s more conservative than I am, but not today. Maybe it was because of her financial situation that she was willing to take more chances.