Murder After a Fashion (9 page)

“I look forward to seeing you again soon,” he called to me. But he didn’t mention any date. That was my trouble. I had three men I was interested in, but I couldn’t seem to close the deal on any one of them. My fault.

I slept well that night despite all the caffeine from the coffee with Jonathan and the tea with Nick and my men problem. And the disturbing fortune I’d been given. I like to think it was thanks to my strong belief that the woman knew nothing and that somehow soon the real killer would be found. I told myself before I went to bed that the answer would be clear at the funeral on Thursday. All l I had to do was keep my ears and eyes open.

On Wednesday Dolce hung an “Out to Lunch” sign on the door before the funeral and we went through the racks looking for our outfits. It wasn’t like this was the first time we’d gone to a funeral together. It was the third. Each one was significant. One was for one of our customers, the other for one of our staff. Today it was someone Dolce didn’t even know and I’d only met twice. What they all had in common was that Detective Jack Wall was convinced I’d had something to do with the murders. It seemed like by now he’d give me a break, wouldn’t you think? I mean, as it turned out I’d had nothing to do with the other murders but something big to do with solving the cases.

I was determined to continue to do what I could to protect the innocent (me) and bring the guilty to justice. I had no idea who that might be; I just knew it wasn’t me.

“I appreciate your going with me,” I told Dolce while I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself dressed in a modestly priced black Joseph pantsuit with a frilly white Orvis shirt and a pair of Eric Rutberg Vallanta high-wedge sandals. I could see the expression on Dolce’s face in the mirror. She didn’t look pleased.

“Too boring?” I asked.

She nodded. “We both know the rules: dress up to show respect. Don’t wear red. Don’t call attention to yourself. Black is safe. But…” She didn’t need to go on. I knew what she meant. How to make a fashion statement while not saying “Look at me.”

“I don’t want to call attention to myself,” I said, “and yet I want to make an impression so people will talk to me, spill some dirt so to speak, if that’s not disrespectful.”

“You’re trying to find Guido’s murderer,” she said. “How much more respectful can you be?”

“If only everyone saw it that way,” I replied ruefully.

“Here’s something,” Dolce said, going to the rack of new fall dresses. It was a simple, long-sleeved black sheath from Tahari that hit me right below the knees. For a moment I was shocked. It fit perfectly, but it was almost ordinary. That’s when Dolce pulled out a bold (there she went again) metallic faux-fur jacket from Kate Spade. I tried it on, and she clapped her hands in delight.

“I knew it,” she said. “With black gloves and sunglasses to hide your puffy eyes from crying, you’ll be sensational. I know, you’re not going to cry, but no one has to know that.

“And after the funeral, another day perhaps,” she said, “you can wear the jacket with skinny leather pants and a tank top. How cool!”

“You really think…”

“I do,” she said. “I think it’s sensational. Wait until our detective sees you. I think I know what the verdict will be—too gorgeous to be guilty.”

“So he’ll drop all previous charges?” I asked her as I walked around the shop in what I hoped was a runway strut just to see what it felt like.

“Only guilty of looking fabulous,” she said.

“What about you?” I asked, feeling guilty for focusing on myself so much.

“I’ll wear my old black suit. It’s classic, and I’m not there to impress anyone. I just want to blend in and fade into the woodwork.”

“And keep your ears open.”

“Will do,” she promised, and then we were off in a cab to the classic Italian church, with its twin spires and gleaming
white stone exterior, in the heart of North Beach. It was so Italian it was once known only as La Chiesa de Italia de Ovest.

Standing at the entrance, Jack was dressed appropriately in a timeless, elegant black Italian suit, by Boggi if I wasn’t mistaken, a Versace silk striped tie and polished Calvin Klein slip-on dress shoes.

“Good to see you, Rita,” he said solemnly. “You look very nice. You too, Dolce.”

I looked better than nice in my feathery faux-fur jacket and sunglasses. I knew it. He knew it too. I could tell from the way he was looking at me. It gave me a warm glow under the faux fur.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Nothing like an Italian funeral for tradition, last rites, prayers, mass, remarks and all that. Last chance to see Guido. Or…I mean, is he, um, available for viewing?” I stammered.

“I believe so,” he said. “It looks like an open coffin.”

“Good,” I said to myself. I wanted to see him, and most of all I wanted to see who else wanted to see him either to pay their respects or to be sure he was dead. Who would it be?

“I thought maybe you’d come for the reception and the food afterward,” he suggested.

“Well, there is that. I was glad to hear they were holding it at my cooking school.”

Dolce and I proceeded inside where we sat in the back so we could watch everyone come in. “Tell me if you see anyone who looks suspicious,” I whispered to Dolce.

“What do you mean?” she asked, craning her neck to watch the mourners arriving.

“Someone who looks overly upset, like they’re putting on an act,” I whispered. “Or
someone who looks too happy, like they’re really not sad at all. Or someone who looks nervous, like they’re worried they’ll be accused of murder.”

Dolce nodded as if she understood. “Some people are going up to look at his body,” she said to me.

My heart started to flutter. I thought I’d have no problem surveying the corpse, but now that I was within walking distance of the coffin, I wondered if I could handle it.

“What’s wrong?” Dolce asked. “You look pale.”

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just…”

“Nervous?”

“A little. I mean, it’s not like it’s my first funeral, my first open casket. But…”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

“Do you want to?”

“Not really. But I will. I mean, I should. But I’ll go up by myself and have a look first. You stay here. I’ll just see how he looks and be right back.”

I nodded. Sometimes I didn’t understand Dolce at all. But a dead body can have a weird effect on the most normal people. Which was why I stood watching while Dolce strode purposefully up to the open casket. She stood there for a long moment, then turned and walked back. Her face was pale and her eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“I’m shocked,” she said.

“I can see that. I should have gone with you.”

“No, I had to do it by myself. To see for myself…”

“To see what?”

“If it was him. The man who came into the shop last week. And it was. It was him. It was while you were out to lunch.”

My mouth fell open. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I had nothing to say. He came in and asked for advice. What to give the woman who has everything. I asked how well he knew her. He said very well. I suggested a set of gold and diamond bangle bracelets, a Josie Natori charmeuse silk robe or a pair of Pineider leather gloves, but he said nothing was quite right or good enough, he said it had to be perfect or else…”

“Or else what? The woman would be angry,” I said, my mind spinning with this information. “So angry she might kill him. But who was she? Someone who’s here today?” I looked around the room as if someone would stand out as the murderer.

“He didn’t say who she was. He finally left without buying anything except an imported handkerchief with lilies of the valley hand embroidered on the edges.” She shivered as if a cold breeze had blown in.

I didn’t blame Dolce for falling apart. It was creepy to look at a dead body whether you knew him as a customer or not. But I had to do it. “Sit down and rest,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.” I stood and walked slowly up the aisle to the front of the church where Guido was lying. There were two women standing there.

“Solid poplar, if I’m not mistaken,” said the woman in a hat with a veil.

“That’s fitting.”

“How do you mean?”

“Grow fast but they don’t last long. They usually use the wood to make cardboard boxes.”

“That’s not good.”

“White crepe lining, very tasteful,” her friend said.

“It makes me sad to think of what happened,” said the
woman with the veil. She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from her purse. I almost lurched forward and demanded to know, what happened? Or I could have snatched the hankie out of her hand. How many women use handkerchiefs? Was this the one with the hand-embroidered flowers? I couldn’t tell. Before I could do anything, they left. I watched them walk back to find their seats, thinking they were so cool they might have killed Guido. But why? Because the handkerchief wasn’t good enough? Because she expected a diamond bracelet from the famous chef?

Now alone, I swallowed hard and forced myself to look down at Guido. He was dressed formally in a Calvin Klein tuxedo with a black tie and vest.

From behind me the voice of Jack Wall said, “What do you think of the tux?”

He joined me at the coffin, and I took a deep breath before I answered. “I don’t know. If I was a chef, I’d want to be buried in my toque and apron. That’s what he was wearing when I last saw him.”

“What about you?” Jack asked.

“What was I wearing?”

“What would you want to be buried in?” he asked.

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation at another funeral.”

“It’s possible,” he admitted. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Clothes, of course. I would choose something simple,” I said. “But not black. Maybe a wool dress by Missoni in dark green. I’ve been told that green brings out the flecks in my hazel eyes.”

He stared into my eyes, and I felt my knees weaken. It could have been the overwhelming cloying scent of the
flowers banked at the altar, or it could have been the look in his eyes, so dark, so intense. Even in ordinary, off-the-shelf clothes Jack would be more attractive than any officer of the law had a right to be. But today he looked especially disturbingly sexy.

“On the other hand,” I said trying to stay on subject, “my eyes would be closed, so…”

“I assume you’d want people to say, ‘What an unusual choice. Is it Marc Jacobs or Alexander Wang? No, wait a minute, it’s Missoni.’”

Amazing how well the man knew me and my taste in clothes when I didn’t really know him at all. “Is that wrong to want to be noticed at your own funeral? If not then, when?”

“Not wrong at all,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

I had a vision of myself lying in my coffin in a Georgette water-washed maxi dress from Nicole Miller, simple but elegant. Note to self: be sure to leave instructions to next of kin. So many people don’t think ahead, as I did.

“I seem to remember your saying you wanted to have a brass band marching, playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ Have you changed your mind?” I asked Jack.

“That’s what I want when we march through the streets of the city. But later at the cemetery…” He paused and looked thoughtful. But I didn’t see him looking at Guido. Too disturbing? Maybe he wasn’t as tough as he pretended.

“How about ‘Nearer My God to Thee’?” I suggested.

“Why not?” he said.

I looked over my shoulder. “I wonder why no one else is coming up to view the body. Is it because you’re here?”

“Could be. I have that effect on people.”

“Even out of uniform and in plain clothes you are shunned? Not that your clothes are ever plain. Is your suit Fendi, D and G, or Bocci?”

“You’re close,” he said, but he didn’t divulge the designer. I thought I was more than close, I had hit the nail on the head. But Jack wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“Any luck finding the, uh, murderer?”

“I have some suspects.”

I assumed he included me in his list.

I glanced at Guido, this time studying his face for a clue to his untimely demise. He looked so calm and peaceful I couldn’t believe he’d died a violent death at someone else’s hand.

“Hard to believe there’s a bullet in his heart,” I said. “Or is there? Did you find it?”

“How do you know about the bullet?” he asked.

“Just a lucky guess,” I said breezily. “So where is it? If it’s still in his heart, you’re not going to let them bury him, are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rita,” he said curtly.

Okay, I would take another approach. “Have you given any more thought to my suicide theory?”

“More thought? How could I give it any thought at all when it’s patently ridiculous.”

I flushed angrily at the way he put down my ideas. “Fine,” I said. “I will keep my suspicions and findings to myself.”

“Forget about your suspicions and your findings,” he said sternly. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“As a matter of fact…”

I was about to remind him of my demanding sales job at Dolce’s plus any upcoming self-improvement classes I might take, when two men in Bianco Brioni suits and sunglasses
came up and kissed Guido on the forehead. Brothers? Father and son? I stepped back and watched. So did Jack. The two men muttered something in Italian either to each other or to Guido, I wasn’t sure. I wished I could speak Italian because if ever there were suspects, these guys were it.