“Was MarySue a believer?” Jack asked me in an undertone.

“Not that I knew of,” I whispered. “Jim doesn’t look too happy about this, does he?”

Jack shook his head. Even from the back row I could see Jim’s face was ashen and sweat was pouring from his forehead. He kept opening his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. The only sound was the ringing of the shaman’s bell.

As we all watched, Jim approached the shaman, reached out to touch him or take the bell, I have no idea. What I do know is that Jim clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor. After that there was pandemonium.

“Call 911,” someone shouted. Others including Jack, raced up to surround Jim.

The funeral director in the black suit told everyone to leave the premises except for the immediate family. There was a rush for the doors, but I found Dolce.

“What happened?” I asked her as we walked slowly to the parking lot.

“My best guess?” she said. “A heart attack.”

“He must have been overcome with grief or guilt or emotion,” I said.

“Who was that strange man in the orange robe?” Dolce asked when we got into her car.

“My best guess? He’s a shaman. A kind of holy man. A healer.”

“What was he doing there? Obviously Jim didn’t invite him.”

“I think he came to escort MarySue to the afterlife,” I said.

“Do you really believe that?” Dolce asked as she started the car and drove toward the exit. Before I could answer, an ambulance raced into the parking lot, sirens screaming. We watched the EMTs jump out and enter the building. Then we left. There was nothing more to be done.

“It’s just possible,” I said, following up on her question.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Dolce said.

“So no post-funeral celebration of MarySue’s life today,” I said as we drove past Portnoy’s Tavern, the place Jim had planned to have the party. “I wonder if Jim will make it.”

Dolce drove slowly down the street. “He looked awful,” she said.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. My mind was spinning. Finally I said, “If the shaman is really a healer, why didn’t he show up a little sooner like last week? If he cared about MarySue enough to come to her funeral and escort her to wherever she’s going, why did he let her die in the Adirondack chair?”

“So if these shaman have certain powers, maybe he’ll at least save Jim’s life,” she said.

“Maybe he will. I would have liked to ask him if he’s the one who saved me when I fell into that oak tree. How else did I survive with just a sprained ankle and a minor concussion?”

Dolce looked at me as if I’d had another concussion because the thought of being rescued by a shaman was as alien to her as it would be to everyone at the funeral. I couldn’t help hoping MarySue would have an escort to somewhere after what she did for me. Yes, she’d shoved me off the ladder, but then she’d taken me to the hospital—otherwise, I might be lying lifeless under her tree still today.

Later that week we heard Jim did indeed have a minor heart attack but he was “resting comfortably” as they say, in the hospital. Patti called Dolce to tell her that the shaman had paid Jim a hospital visit and assured him he’d live to see many more days. The holy man then confided he’d been invited to the funeral by MarySue’s cousin Beth who had spent time at his ashram in Tibet. Patti agreed with Dolce that maybe Jim should have been told about the shaman ahead of time. Patti then assured Dolce the celebration of life at MarySue’s favorite spot was still happening. Just as soon as Jim’s doctors gave him the okay. In fact, the event along with the shaman’s blessing had given Jim something to think about while in his hospital bed as well as an incentive to get well soon.

Around noon on Saturday when the crowd in the boutique had thinned out a little, Dolce suggested we work on a new outfit for me. Our customers often took a shopping break at a café across the street where they could have a house-baked pastry, a lovely sandwich on seven-grain bread or homemade soup, all on the outdoor covered patio. Instead of us taking a lunch break, she and I went through the racks of late arrivals.

“We have to find something for your Sunday night date,” she said.

“I was thinking of a filmy skirt,” I told Dolce. “With a knit top.” I didn’t mention the idea came from my nurse practitioner.

“I like it,” she said. “Relaxed elegance is what we’re after.” I was glad to see her so energetic and enthusiastic. Ever since MarySue’s funeral, she’d not been herself. I wasn’t sure if it was a lack of customers and sales or what. She spent more time in her office hunched over her computer, piles of bills on her desk, her brow furrowed. I was afraid to ask how bad the financial situation was.

She went to a rack of skirts and pulled out several for me to try. First was a bright floral print.

“It’s vibrant and eye-catching,” I said, blinking rapidly, “but . . .”

“A little too vibrant,” she said, reading my mind like a true fashion consultant would. “Absolutely right.” She immediately whisked the skirt back on the rack. Next up: a long skirt in creamy cognac. She held it up to my waist and stood staring at it before she snatched it away.

“Too utilitarian,” she decided. I had to agree. Not just because she was my boss, but the skirt just didn’t do anything for me. Finally we settled on a gray silk number with splashes of crimson handkerchief panels. I liked the way it swooshed around my calves. With a tight gray sleeveless sweater for balance against the gauzy skirt, I finally felt good about my selection. So did Dolce. She sat back on the padded bench in the middle of the room and looked me up and down.

“Ah, to be young again,” she said. “I had a skirt like that once. I wore it to a wedding.” She gazed off in the distance lost in her memory. What would I be doing at her age, I wondered. Would I be living alone above a shop somewhere, dressing others for parties and concerts I wasn’t invited to? Would I stay home and worry about my customers not paying their bills? Or would I marry a doctor, a gymnast or a police detective, retire and join the ladies who lunch and shop? I was too goal oriented to while away my days that way. Maybe I could do volunteer work feeding the poor like Detective Wall did. Or maybe I’d have a few children. I’d send them to an alternate school where they’d learn cooperation instead of competition. They’d be artistic and imaginative instead of driven by money and financial success. Since living the good life in San Francisco can be expensive, maybe a jolt of ambition was not altogether a bad thing. I pictured myself dressing the little darlings up and taking them to brunch on Sunday to the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel where they’d behave perfectly and display good manners.

I was still daydreaming when Dolce jerked me back to the present where although I was well dressed, I was still relatively poor and definitely single. She reminded me I was not completely dressed for Sunday. Not yet. “All you need is a tailored blazer and you’re good to go.”

“I have a few of those,” I said. Actually I had about ten in different colors and fabrics. “But what about shoes?”

“I guess you’re not ready for a pair of sling backs.” She looked at my bare feet and my still slightly swollen ankle. “Or I have a low-heeled Chloé sandal that would be perfect with that skirt.”

“Afraid not,” I said sadly. “I can’t wear any kind of heel yet, even a low one. Doctor’s orders.”

“I know!” she said and dashed off to the shoe department in the small alcove next to the accessories. She came back with a flat Alexandre Birman sandal. I knew how expensive they were, but Dolce told me not to worry. She could discount them seeing as they were from last spring’s collection. They fit perfectly, and even though they were decidedly functional, they were stylish too.

“Now,” Dolce said, “you’ll need to have your hair done along with a pedicure and manicure. What about Harrington’s sister Marsha? Isn’t she a stylist at the Bella Noche in North Beach?”

“But it’s Saturday, she’ll be booked, won’t she?” She’d also be expensive. Nervous about so many purchases, I was thinking of stopping at one of those discount places on my way home for a blow-dry.

“I’ll give her a call. And don’t worry about the cost. It’s my present to you.”

My eyes filled with grateful tears. “Dolce, how can I thank you?” I was truly touched but also worried. Sales were down, I knew that. Could Dolce really afford to be so generous? It worried me she hadn’t had her car repaired or just bought a new one.

She brushed her hands together as if it was all in a day’s work and she had no cares to keep her awake at night. “It’s my pleasure,” she said. “I couldn’t be happier about these opportunities you’re having if you were my own daughter. So let me indulge myself. It’s what my great-aunt, Lauren, did for me when I was your age. I wish she could be here now.” Dolce paused and looked around the shop. I swear she too had tears in her eyes. Would her great-aunt be pleased with what she’d done with her house? Or would she have wanted it kept completely the way she left it? What would she say if she knew her great niece was involved in a murder case? What would she say if she knew a customer had stiffed Dolce? Not to mention the loss of her car.

“Just remember all the details. Tell me everything. The food, the music, the atmosphere. The other diners. And your date of course. Now I’m going to get you an appointment with Marsha or someone.”

It turned out she did get me an appointment with Harrington’s sister. Why she was available on a busy Saturday afternoon I have no idea. I hoped it wasn’t because she wasn’t any good.

The salon was in trendy Noe Valley, not North Beach, and of course Dolce insisted I take a cab and take the rest of the day off. The minute I stepped inside Bella Noche, I felt a sense of peace and tranquility. It might have been the sand-colored hardwood floors and matching walls that made me feel like I was spending a day at the beach. Or maybe it was the New Age music coming from everywhere and nowhere. I didn’t see Marsha at first. Her assistant gave me a cup of comforting herbal tea, then a stress-relieving scalp massage that left me as limp as a wet noodle.

I was so relaxed I forgot completely about MarySue, Jim Jensen or anyone connected with the murder. Even the dashing cop who might or might not still suspect me of having a hand in the homicide. When the color consultant came along and asked if I saw myself as a sleek redhead, a tousled brunette or a sun-streaked blond, I was thrown into confusion.

“Leave it to me,” she said. So I did. Where was Marsha? I didn’t need to worry. She came for the final round. Apparently she was at the highest level a stylist can be—she was only there to put the finishing touches: the cut and shaping and the final blow-dry.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said. “You are going to look fabulous when we get through with you.”

Did that mean I was not at all fabulous before I came in? I wondered if she thought I was the biggest challenge she’d ever met. No, of course not. And yet the day I’d met her at the shop she did give me a certain look that bordered on pity. Or maybe it was just that she was dying to get her hands on me for the transformation. If so, I thought, go for it, Marsha. So far I’d been massaged, washed, dried, colored and now this. While she ran her hands through my hair, she called for a manicurist and pedicurist to work on my nails. I didn’t remember asking for them, but apparently that’s what Dolce ordered, so I sat back in the padded chair and let it all happen.

“I see you and your brother are both artistic,” I said, watching Marsha work her magic on my newly streaked golden brown hair.

“That’s right. He’s my idol. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. He paid for me to go to cosmetology school, then he got me an internship with Mr. Rene in Beverly Hills after my training with Vidal. He’s always been my guardian angel. Fortunately for me, since our father wasn’t around and our mother had to work two jobs. Harrington swore when he grew up he’d get me anything I wanted—clothes, jewelry, shoes, whatever. If he had to make it himself. Which he does. All I have to say is ‘I like that dress,’ or ‘I love those shoes’ and presto, he figures out a way to make them or somehow get them for me.”

I wondered if one way to get a pair of shoes was to steal them. Not that Harrington seemed like a thief or anything. I just wondered. I wished I could forget the shoes for a few hours. But even now, having a luxury beauty treatment, the MarySue murder was on my mind.

“I suppose you had a lot of business right before that big benefit the other night,” I said, still watching Marsha in the mirror.

“Oh yeah. Lots of women coming in at the last minute. It was a scene all right. We were open until seven. I was exhausted. I went home and collapsed.”

So she wasn’t at the Benefit. But was Harrington? “What about your brother?” I asked trying to sound like I was just making polite conversation. I hardly knew what polite conversation was anymore. Everything I said, every question I asked anyone was designed to elicit some information. Unfortunately it didn’t always work out.

“He’s amazing,” she said proudly.

There you go. I didn’t want to know how amazing he was, I wanted to know if he’d been at the park that night. The night MarySue was murdered for her shoes.

“Everyone says the shows he puts on at the high school are just as good as Broadway,” I said.

“That’s true,” she said as she heated her curling iron for the final touches. “Especially the costumes and the sets. They’re all his designs. All his work. Someday he will be directing plays on Broadway. I’m telling you, he’s that good. He’s wasted on that school. They don’t appreciate him.” With her curling iron in hand, she curled a few more strands around my face, then she stepped back and gave me a critical look from every angle.

“How do you like it?” Marsha asked, swiveling my chair around so I could get a full-front view of my new hairstyle. I gasped in surprise. I looked completely different. My hair was lighter, shorter, fuller and much more stylish. Did I look better? Marsha thought so. I hoped Dr. Jonathan would agree with her. When my nails were done, I thanked Marsha and gave her and the manicurist a healthy tip after I made sure her fee had been taken care of by Dolce.

She told me to have a good time wherever I was going. She said she’d come by the shop to look at the new collections on her day off next week. I was sure that meant she wouldn’t be buying anything. Just like her brother, she was a window-shopper. Having heard about their background, I understood why. If I wasn’t employed by Dolce, I’d probably be in their same boat wearing off-the-rack clothes. I shuddered at the thought.

When I got home with my new clothes in a shopping bag and my new hair, I wished I had somewhere to go. But I knew I had to rest my ankle for tomorrow. When Nick called and suggested coming by after his last yoga class with some cabbage rolls his aunt made for him, I couldn’t say no. It was better than eating a bowl of cornflakes and feeling sorry for myself alone on a Saturday night.

Funny, only a few weeks ago I had expected to be home alone on a Saturday night. In fact, I was always alone on Saturday night and most every other night too. Now I’d gotten spoiled with three men in my life. I knew it wouldn’t last, so I told myself to relax and enjoy it while I could. Who knew when Nick would be overbooked giving classes and Dr. Jonathan might fall for one of those nurses? Not Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou, but someone else. It was almost worth having a sprained ankle, which was almost completely healed. I just hoped Nick wouldn’t start in on my doctor and how he wasn’t good enough to treat me. What would he say if he knew I had a date with him Sunday night?

Actually Nick wanted to talk about his classes instead of my doctor or me. He didn’t say a word about my hair. Instead, he told me all about aerial skills, tumbling, conditioning and break dancing until I was almost nodding off on the couch while he heated the cabbage rolls. And he didn’t say anything about my joining his class. We ate in my living room so I could keep my foot up on the coffee table.

“How do you like Aunt Meera’s galumpkis?” he asked. “She is famous for it, all the way back in Transylvania, they talk about Meera’s famous stuffed cabbage. The recipe is a secret, so don’t ask her.”

I assured him I wouldn’t. Besides who has time to make a sauce, stuff a cabbage and then bake the whole thing for hours? Not me. But I was very grateful to anyone who had that kind of talent and time. Someday I’d learn to cook. I’d take classes at the California Culinary Academy and throw little dinner parties for my friends after shopping for fresh ingredients from the Farmer’s Market. Until then I would happily eat anything someone brought me, like this ethnic Romanian dish.

“Delicious,” I said, scooping up the sweet and sour tomato sauce on the plate with my spoon.

“Not only delicious but good for you,” Nick said. “Packed with many vitamins. They say it can cure ulcers and it is frugal too, which makes it a perfect food.”

“Your aunt must be a wonderful cook. I would love to have her recipe. Does she live around here?”

“In Marin County. When your foot is well, I will take you on her tour.”

“She gives tours of Marin County?”

“She gives vampire tours of San Francisco. She is Romanian after all and knows where they live. In the tunnels under the city. Right here.” He pointed at the floor of my living room.

After minoring in Romanian in college, I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear his aunt believed vampires had taken up residence beneath my house, but I was. “How . . . how did she find out where they are?” I asked as if there were nothing unusual about vampires being nearby.

“She’s been studying vampires since a long, long time ago. She is now one hundred and twenty-seven.”

“Years old?” I couldn’t help gasping.

He nodded, his mouth full of galumpkis, and poured me another glass of Francusa, a soft, smooth Romanian wine that complemented the cabbage rolls perfectly.

“And then she is a vampire herself,” he said with a wink while wiping the sauce off his mouth with his handkerchief. “Which is how she says she knows many histories of San Francisco. Famous people she knew like Mark Twain and other forty-niners. It is all on her tour. Huntington Park, Pacific Union Club hotels and cafés. You will see what a good actress she is.”

“I look forward to it,” I said, sure that Nick didn’t actually believe his aunt was a vampire but just went along with it. How I wished I could tell my Romanian professors about this one-hundred-twenty-seven-year-old so-called vampire. After I took the tour, I could send in her story to my alumni magazine along with a picture of the two of us on her tour. Of course, no alums believed in vampires. But everyone loves a good story. I’d take my camera and get some shots of the two of us at historic spots where the vamps supposedly hung out.

When Nick refilled my glass, I protested, but he quoted the old Romanian saying, “Three glasses of wine are just enough. The first for your health. The second for your delight. The third for a good rest.”

He left before I had a third glass of wine, when I kept yawning. I told him it must be the pain pills that made me sleepy. Certainly not his vampire stories. He suggested a trip to the Palace of the Legion of Honor to see the Impressionist exhibit the next day, but I wanted to rest up and give myself a facial before my big date. So I said I had some e-mail to get caught up on. He promised to get us tickets for his aunt’s tour in a week or two. Before he left he kissed me on both cheeks as they do in Romania, I suppose.