“Rita,” she said. “What happened? I tried to call you last night and again this morning.”

“Sorry, I turned off my phone.” I stretched my leg out and critically surveyed my ankle. I thought the swelling had gone done a little. “My doctor wants me to rest.”

“You had me worried. I thought they might have arrested you and hauled you off to the new county jail.”

“The one they call the San Francisco Hilton South? No they didn’t, but I’m sure the detective in the long flowered skirt would have liked to.”

“That skirt,” Dolce said with an audible shudder, “was bad enough. Then there was her sweater. Jones New York if I’m not mistaken. Someone should tell her to avoid raglan sleeves or at least wear a scarf tossed over the sweater to broaden her shoulders. I’m telling you, if the fashion police had been on duty that woman would be behind bars.”

“Was it that bad?” I asked. “I didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t notice her sloped shoulders? Rita, you must really be sick. Now don’t even think about coming in today.”

“I have to. I can’t sit here with my foot up another day of watching TV and reading Romanian vampire novels or I’ll go mad, I swear. How was your interview on TV?”

“Fine, in fact we got some free publicity from it. We’ve been mobbed so far today.”

“I wish I’d seen it,” I said.

“I TiVo-ed it so I can play it for you. Of course they tried to get me to say something incriminating, but I think I did pretty well dodging the questions. ‘How well did I know the deceased? What kind of clothes and accessories did she purchase ? Any financial problems? When was the last time I saw her?’ You should have heard me doing a sidestep. How about you? Did you tell the police you went to get the shoes back from MarySue?”

“They didn’t ask. Either they already knew, or they still don’t know or don’t care.”

“What did you think of Detective Wall? Quite a hunk, as you girls would say, or were you too sick to notice? Can’t complain about his taste in clothes. I hope he didn’t give you a bad time.”

“He asked questions, but I think I convinced him I couldn’t have killed MarySue or stolen her shoes. The bad thing is they found the shoe box in my garbage can.”

“The shoe box?” Dolce said. “The one the silver shoes came in?”

“That’s the one,” I said. “Needless to say I have no idea how it got there except that whoever put it there is someone who wants to frame me.”

“Who would want to frame you? Everyone likes you. Except MarySue of course and she’s dead. Why, everyone’s asking about you. Claire Timkin is here now. On her way to a teachers’ meeting.”

“Don’t tell me she’s actually buying something?”

“No, of course not. How can she even look at our merchandise on her salary? And why waste high fashion on the fourth-graders in her classroom? But she tries to keep up. She does. She comes in and she looks. Then she goes to Macy’s and buys her clothes.” I could just picture Dolce shaking her head at the tragedy of it all. A woman with solid-gold taste forced to shop at a department store. “At least that’s my theory.”

“You sound better, Dolce. How do you feel?”

“Physically I’m fine, but I can’t help think about the shoes . . .” Her voice dropped as I reminded her of the trouble she was in. Both of us actually.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Any word from the repo people?” I asked. “I was hoping they’d found them and somehow later dumped the box in my garbage.”

“No such luck. If only I’d never ordered them, never sent you to get them, . . . Never mind, I’m afraid the shoes are gone for good,” she said sadly.

“Maybe not,” I said, feeling the medicine kick in and elevate my mood as well as relieving my pain. “No one could wear those shoes in this city without being noticed. And once they are noticed, the police will be all over them. I’ve got Detective Wall’s card here with his cell phone number.” I didn’t tell her I wouldn’t mind calling him with some information just to see how he took it. Would he really be grateful enough to change his opinion of me as a dimwit, treat me with respect, maybe even give me a medal or a certificate the police hand out to citizens who help solve crimes? Or would he just dismiss me with a curt thank-you and hang up. I was a little intrigued and very curious about how he planned to solve this murder case. The sooner the better. “Who else was in? Was everyone talking about MarySue?”

“Not everyone, no. Some people avoid the subject like the plague, but it’s on everyone’s minds, that’s for sure. Harrington Harris dropped in and said he’d be back with his sister a little later so she can see our fall collection. He won’t buy anything, of course. Why do I cater to these deadbeats?” She sighed. “Here I am with another penny-pinching schoolteacher taking time off so he can troll the shop for ideas for his drama productions. Says it’s part of his job. Never buys a thing, just steals ideas. Guess I can’t prosecute him for that. But funny thing, he did ask about MarySue’s silver shoes. Probably hoped to get his hands on them.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” I said. “How did he know what she was wearing? Was he at the Benefit?”

“I don’t think so. He said he saw them in a magazine last month and he’s the one who showed the picture to MarySue. Then she got us to order them for her. So in a way he’s responsible for her death, am I right?”

“I suppose . . .” I said. Suddenly it was all too confusing. “Time for my medicine, Dolce. I’ll come in as soon as I can pull myself together.” By that I meant as soon as I found an appropriate outfit to wear.

“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously.

“Absolutely. I’ll come in even if I’m on crutches. I have to get out of the house.”

“If you think you’re up to it. I really need you, so I won’t say no. I wouldn’t mind if sales were up, but it seems like everyone just wants to drop in hoping to hear some gossip. But they’re not buying. They all want to know what she was wearing. Why she was murdered. Who killed her. I wish I’d never ordered those shoes for her. It was my fault. I was too trusting. I’m going crazy.”

I was feeling a little crazy myself, so I hung up, took a pain pill and still hungry, found a fortune cookie in the bottom of the take-out bag I’d thrown away. Cambodians made fortune cookies? Who knew. Anyway, mine said, “You cannot step in the same river twice without getting your feet twice as wet.” I puzzled over this for a few minutes, knowing I’d heard it before. But where? In my dreams or in my college class on pre-Socratic philosophy? Greek thinkers are sometimes hard for me to follow, which is why I took Romanian in college instead of Greek. I put the fortune aside to try again later.

Before I left for the shop, I had to check on MarySue’s house. I started to wonder how much of Saturday night was real and how much was a nightmare. I scrolled through “Houses for Sale” on my BlackBerry and found the Jensen house with the number of the realtor. So it really was for sale. I really did see that sign. I called the real estate office.

“Sorry, ma’am,” said the real estate agent on desk duty, “the house is no longer on the market.”

“But I just saw the sign on Saturday.”

“The owner has decided not to sell. Just got a call on that. Circumstances have changed. It happens. Sorry about that. We have some other listings in the Pacific Heights neighborhood I’d be happy to show you. Some with fantastic views, high ceilings, hardwood floors, spas, offices, skylights . . . You name it, we’ve got it.”

“Never mind.” Just got a call? From whom? Jim Jensen? Now that he had the life insurance on his wife to collect he could afford to stay in the house, was that it? It was no secret to Dolce or to me that they were in financial trouble. Enough to cause Jim to cut up MarySue’s credit cards. Was Jim mad enough at his wife for her free-spending habits to kill her, and take her shoes to get a refund or just toss them in the Bay and collect her life insurance? And then take down the “For Sale” sign. It all made a kind of terrible sense. If it was this apparent to me, why didn’t the police follow up on it? I thought about calling Detective Wall to find out if he’d heard about the house, but I didn’t. I had to get to work. I had to see people. I had to get back to the real world . . . or was it?

But first I had to get dressed. It took forever. Partly because of my injuries. Have you ever tried on your new thong while avoiding putting weight on your ankle, the one with the ACE bandage? It wasn’t easy, but even harder was trying to decide what looked right over the new lingerie. I was so tired of looking like an invalid, I wanted a complete change. I had to look professional, but maybe a little more casual than usual.

I peered out the back window at the view of the East Bay to see that the sun was out. Back in my closet I pulled out a pair of gray Kasbah pants made of natural fibers that had a relaxed fit but a sophisticated look at the same time. With the pants I chose a quiche-colored Tencel and cotton ribbed top. No Louboutins today, nothing with a heel at all. I’d be lucky to squeeze my poor feet into anything but an orthopedic boot. But I did. Before I stuffed both feet into retrofitted floral sling-back flats, I rewrapped my ankle, grabbed an oversize granny sweater and my bag and called a cab. No way was I up to fighting the crowd on the bus with my crutches. It took me about ten minutes just to climb the stairs to the front doors of Dolce’s boutique one step at a time. In my commodious tote bag were all my supplies—extra cold packs and ACE bandages and my meds.

As soon as I opened the front door of the boutique, the whole shop full of customers turned to look at me. I must say I made a grand entrance. And even if my ankle was going to take an extra week to recover, it was worth it.

Apparently Dolce had alerted all the regular customers, who couldn’t have been nicer. Before I could say “I’m back,” they’d taken my sweater, my purse and my bag out of my hands and I was eased onto the big overstuffed chair in the great room with an antique mahogany footstool for my bandaged ankle.

“Poor you,” said Claire Timkin, who was still hanging out wearing an oversize crimson shirt with a pair of skinny boot-cut jeans, the brand that costs at least two hundred dollars. She got those at Macy’s? She’d never get away with jeans in her classroom, but for a teachers’ meeting she’d be fine. Better than fine, the older, stodgy, less-stylish faculty members would either be all green with envy or shake their heads with disapproval. While in between summer and fall, Claire was obviously taking advantage of not having any dress code enforced by her principal. Not today, anyway.

Dolce saw me giving Claire the once-over and sent me a brief wink as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

I looked around the room. After my initial splash, the customers drifted away to look at racks of scarves, stacks of T-shirts and piles of gypsy ruffled skirts. Now that the Benefit was over, it was time for some casual wear.

I was just about to get up from my comfortable chair and try to help Dolce wait on customers, when Harrington Harris came back with his sister as promised. He was dressed just as you’d expect from the extremely dramatic drama teacher with a huge wardrobe of his own. He sported a hopsack blazer, tight jeans and a shirt open a little too far at the neck.

“Back to window shop and steal more ideas,” Dolce whispered to me on her way to look for a medallion necklace in the jewelry department. “Earlier he was wearing a snakeskin vest.” She rolled her eyes. “What next?”

I shook my head in dismay. I asked myself if he only stole ideas, or would he steal a pair of shoes if he had the chance?

“I want you to meet my sister, Marsha,” Harrington said to me. “Marsha loves fashion too. It must be genetic. I’ve told her so much about Dolce’s, I had to bring her by. She’s a hairstylist. Absolutely passionate about hair, am I right?” He fondly ruffled her supershort, silver-blond hair. “She trained with Vidal Sassoon,” he added.

I ran a hand through my hair, conscious that she must be horrified to see what shape my hair was in, which was no shape at all.

“What with my injury I haven’t had time to do a thing about my hair,” I said.

She nodded. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her card and gave it to me. “Give me a call,” she said. “I think I can help you.”

No doubt she could, I thought when I saw the name of the salon and the location. But at what cost?

“So tell me, Rita,” Harrington said, “I hear you’ve actually seen the fabulous silver shoes.”

“Well, yes, but only briefly,” I said. What was he getting at?

“What did you think? Worth the money?”

“They were beautiful all right,” I said. But how did I know what they were worth? I didn’t know how much they cost. Did he? I didn’t know where they were now either—did he?

“Are you enjoying the summer off?” I asked him, to change the subject.

“Summer off? Not for me,” he said. “It may look like I’m not working, but I am. Call it a sick day or call it research. I need it. You know I’ve been busy at school all summer, and starting tomorrow I’m in full fall season mode. Besides rehearsals, I’ve got meetings, meetings and more meetings. I tell you it’s all too much. I have two classes of remedial English to teach along with the plays I direct. The worst part is I’m under the thumb of a principal with the most sophomoric taste. We’re doing Bye Bye Birdie this fall and High School Musical in the spring. Can you imagine anything more banal? I make all the costumes, props and you name it.”

I tried to look sympathetic, but my head was starting to ache. I wanted to say, “Then hadn’t you better hustle on back to the scene shop at your high school and get busy cutting and stitching costumes, or pounding nails together for a set?” Instead, I reached into my bag for my pain pills and my bottled water.

Harrington and his sister both watched as if they’d never seen someone popping pills before. Not the ones prescribed by a doctor anyway. I hoped he’d take the hint and take his sister to lunch or at least go look at this season’s costume jewelry in the back room.

“Heard you had an accident. What happened to you?” he asked, his eyes on my bandaged ankle.

“Just a slight sprain.” I held my breath, expecting him to pursue the topic as Detective Wall had done by saying, “I didn’t ask for a diagnosis, I asked what happened,” but he didn’t. “I guess I’d better quit malingering and get up to help Dolce.” I struggled to get out of the chair, and Harrington took my hand and pulled me up. With hands that smooth, how was he going to construct sets and paint scenery?

I murmured something about how good it was to see them both before they wandered over to Dolce’s casual wear collection. Now what would I do? I could hardly stand around with one sprained ankle trying to help customers. Maybe I shouldn’t have come back to work so soon after all. Fortunately Dolce realized how awkward my position was, and she asked me to hang out in her office and answer the phone, which was ringing off the hook today.

“Is it because of MarySue?” I asked after gathering up my stuff and plopping myself into the chair behind her desk.

She said she didn’t know and closed the door behind her. “I wouldn’t mind the extra traffic and calls if they added up to sales, but as you saw out there, everyone just wants to talk about the murder. I’m going back and try to actually sell something. If anyone asks for me, just say I’m with a customer and take a message. Or better yet, try to solve their problem, whatever it is. An order for something special? Take it. Store hours? Tell them. Directions? Give them. What I hate is when they just want to ask about MarySue. If they do, just say she was a valued customer and I’m devastated. So upset I can’t talk about it. But I’m open for business. How does that sound?”

“Makes sense to me,” I assured her. But I hoped no one would ask. What if I said the wrong thing? What if someone really tried to pin me down about my relationship with MarySue, like the detective had? Maybe I could pretend to be the answering service.

“Take a break,” I said to Dolce. “I’m fine in here with my leg up on the desk. Don’t worry about a thing. Go mingle with the customers. I’ll handle all the calls.” I smiled and shooed her out. She closed the door behind her and immediately the phone started ringing.

“Good morning, you’ve reached Dolce’s,” I said.

“Ms. Loren? This is Detective Jack Wall. I have a few questions for you regarding the case of Ms. Jensen. I wonder if this is a convenient time to come by?”

“Ms. Loren is not available to come to the phone or for interviews,” I said, trying to sound like a temp who knew nothing about anything. “She’s extremely busy. Perhaps another day.”

“Is this Ms. Jewel by any chance?” he asked in a voice that said he knew damn well it was me and that he found it suspicious and almost criminal that I didn’t tell him up front who I was.

“Yes, it’s me,” I admitted with a sigh.

“I thought you were laid up for the duration. It’s good to know you’ve recovered enough to go to work. If Ms. Loren isn’t available, I have a few follow-up questions for you if you’re up to it.”

“We’re running a business here,” I said. “Customers might be put off by the presence of the police. It’s bad enough one of our customers is murdered, but to have the police hanging around makes people nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous, Ms. Jewel?” he asked in that deep voice of his that caused my hand to shake.

“I have nothing to be nervous about,” I said. Then why was my throat dry and my voice trembling?

“Then you won’t mind my dropping by.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. All I needed was another interrogation. “As I said, the presence of the police tends to freak out some people.”

“I know what you said,” he said. “I understand that you prefer our interview occur away from your place of work. Since it’s almost lunchtime and we both have to eat, I propose we consider this a business lunch. I will provide the food, you will provide certain information.”

I didn’t know what to say. It sounded vaguely illegal or at least immoral to exchange lunch for ratting on someone, if that’s what he meant. On the other hand, I was so hungry my stomach was growling. It must be the pain pills.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do. I can ask questions at the central police station, your home, or we can eat lunch in some outdoor facility nearby. It’s your choice.”

“Fine,” I said, wishing I knew where he meant. Lafayette Park? Ocean Beach? He said he’d be by at twelve thirty to pick me up.

When Dolce popped into the office to get her appointment book from her desk drawer, she was surprised to hear about my lunch date, as she called it. I didn’t tell her he’d originally asked to speak to her about the murder. I was sure she was still on his to-do list.

“The man is good-looking, no doubt about that. And if he wants to buy you lunch, why not go?”

I was glad to hear she approved. Then she said, “I wonder what he wants in exchange.”

“I thought I’d already told him everything I know,” I said. “Except the part about going to MarySue’s house that night. I suppose I’ll have to come clean about that.”

“Why shouldn’t you? You’re the victim there. Aren’t you?” she asked with a frown.

“That’s right,” I said. It was time to level with Dolce. “MarySue almost killed me when I tried to get the shoes back.”

“What? That’s terrible.”

“But I didn’t kill her,” I insisted. “There I was on the top of a ladder outside her bedroom because she refused to let me in. She’s inside dressed for the Benefit. I yell at her to give me back the shoes. She is not happy to see me. In fact, she opens her window and gives me a shove, right into her dead oak tree. You see, I am not just falling from a tall ladder. That’s bad enough. What’s worse is that she is furious. She reaches out. She pushes me. I fall. The next thing I know, I am waking up in the hospital with a concussion and a sprained ankle.”

“But how did you get there?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea. Maybe Detective Wall will enlighten me. I owe someone unless it was MarySue who dropped me off on her way to the park.”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Dolce said. “I picture MarySue hoping you wouldn’t wake up until the Benefit was over.”

“Which I didn’t. Which was good because I have an alibi for MarySue’s murder.”

Dolce looked thoughtful. “But I don’t.”

“You don’t have a motive either,” I reminded her. “What good would it do you to kill MarySue? To get the shoes back? Somebody wanted those shoes. But not you. Especially after they’d been worn; we’d never be able to return them.”

I pictured myself flying back to Miami with the shoes, begging the artisans at the atelier to give us back the money in exchange for the slightly worn shoes. Maybe I could clean the dirt off the soles. If it would do any good, I’d volunteer for the job.

Someone knocked on the office door. “Dolce, are you in there? I desperately need your advice on this little Ellen Tracy coat. Is it me or not?”

Dolce patted me on the head and went out to help her customer. How like her to want to comfort me when she was the one who needed reassurance. The rest of the morning flew by. There I was, cozily ensconced in the office with my foot wrapped in ice on the desk, taking calls and feeling useful. Best of all, I was not feeling lonely and unwanted. Everyone who called, no matter what they wanted, asked me how I felt. What I felt was a warm, appreciated glow that counteracted the pain in my ankle and my head.

I was taking a break to take my pill and thumb through the latest Vogue when there was another knock on the office door.

“Are you in there Rita? It’s Peter, and I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Peter Butinski, the shoe supplier? Oh, no. I wasn’t up to being nice to anyone I didn’t like. But what could I say?