Authors: Grace Carroll
“Go ahead,” I said, sorry I’d gone off on a tangent like that. “I’ll call a cab and lock up.”
After Dolce left, I waited for at least a half hour for the cab while keeping my foot up on the desk as prescribed. Finally, I heard a knock on the big front door. I was just gathering my paraphernalia together when the knocking got louder and a man shouted, “Dolce, are you there? Let me in.”
Even though it was probably just a last-minute customer, I was a little nervous. Dolce’s words, “There’s a murderer out there
.
Who knows who’s next?” rang in my ears. And even though I’d been taking martial arts for the past three months, I was hardly in shape to defend myself from a determined killer.
But just in case, I slipped Dolce’s letter opener into my pocket and went with my crutches to open the heavy solidwood front door.
Seven
Jim Jensen stood on the threshold looking like he was out for blood. I knew it was him from the photo in the newspaper of him in his airline pilot uniform. His eyes were bloodshot and blazing, and his short-cropped hair was standing on end. His face was flushed, and it flashed on me instantly that he must be his wife’s killer. He looked like a killer. Who else wanted the spendthrift MarySue out of his life more than he did? Had he been hiding outside until Dolce left, knowing I was alone inside? Was he waiting his chance to kill me next? Because he thought I was responsible for MarySue’s murder? Or he thought I knew that he was the murderer? I tried to stay calm and focused, but my mind was spinning and my ankle was throbbing.
Subtly, carefully, I reached into my pocket and fingered the letter opener. “He’ll kill me,” MarySue had said. I was not going to let him strike again. Not without a struggle.
“I’m sorry,” I said as calmly as I could while my heart was hammering. “We’re closed for the day.”
“Closed for the day or closed for good?” he asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I laughed nervously. “Of course not,” I said. “Dolce’s is an institution. Part of the fabric of this neighborhood. The women of the city couldn’t get along without us. We’re here to stay.”
“You think so? I don’t think so. I think you’ll be closed for good when I get through with you. You’ll be sued for slander for starters.”
“What?”
“You’re Rita, aren’t you?” Jim demanded.
A dozen different replies went through my mind.
No, I’m the cleaning lady. Or the temp. Or Dolce’s niece.
But he didn’t wait for my answer. “I know who you are.” He pointed his finger at me. “You’re the one who told the cops I killed my wife.”
“No, no, of course not. You couldn’t kill your wife. Why would you?”
Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to. I was just babbling, hoping to fill some time before I could escape.
He suddenly turned his back on me, barged into the hall and strode into the great room where he paced around a small antique chair that had belonged to Dolce’s grandmother. I thought about making a break for it then and heading right out the front door. He looked dangerous and if he’d already killed MarySue, he wouldn’t think twice about knocking me off too. But what chance would a cripple like me have with a determined murderer in pursuit? Curiosity got the better of me and I followed him. When he plopped into the antique chair, the legs creaked under his weight and I gasped. I thought
my
legs would collapse along with the chair legs, so I sat on a small tufted bench under the window, trying to catch my breath.
When I found my voice, I said, “Jim, you’re upset. I don’t blame you. MarySue has been gone for only a few days. I don’t know who killed your wife. I certainly did not tell the police you killed your wife. I have no idea who did.”
Unless it
was
you or Patti or some other customer who coveted her shoes.
“Somebody told her it was me,” he said grimly. “If it wasn’t you, who was it? She came to my office and treated me like a common criminal. Do you know why?”
She? He must mean Detective Ramirez.
I shook my head. I was waiting to hear why.
“Insurance.” He spat the word out like he could hardly get it out of his mouth fast enough. “They think I killed MarySue to collect the insurance on her. As if that would make up for my loss.” He ran his hand through his closecropped hair. “MarySue was the love of my life. Sure, we had our differences. Every married couple does. You know what I think? I think you killed her. Don’t look so shocked. And don’t think you’ll get away with it. The police know everything. They know you came to my house that night to get the shoes back. Oh, yeah, she told me about that. She wouldn’t give them to you, so you followed her to the park, didn’t you? You waited your chance and you drugged her. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her. You just wanted to knock her out so you could take her shoes. You didn’t need to take them. I would have paid you for them if you’d asked me. You didn’t need to come after her like she was a common criminal. Now they’re gone and they were all I had to remember her by.” He buried his head in his hands and he started shaking all over. It even sounded like he was sobbing. Was he really upset or faking it for my benefit?
“But she said . . .”
“What?” he said, jumping up from his chair. “What did she say?”
She said you’d kill her.
“I . . . I’m not sure,” I stammered. “Something about being afraid of something. I can’t remember.”
“The only thing you need to remember is this: I’ll get even with you, Rita. You can’t pin my wife’s murder on me and get away with it.” He stood up and glared at me. “One more thing. You are not welcome at her funeral.” Then he stomped out of the great room all the way to the front door, which he slammed behind him.
Suddenly the room was so quiet I could hear my heart pounding. What would happen next? Would Detective Ramirez come back to my house and arrest me based on Jim Jensen’s crazy theories? Did Jim kill his wife or not? And if he didn’t, why had he put the house up for sale and then taken it off the market? Also, if he didn’t kill MarySue, who did?
All I had to remember her by.
I grated my back teeth together. What crap. He had a closet full of clothes and shoes to remember MarySue by.
I heard my cab honk and I rushed out of the shop as fast as I could with my crutches and tote bag, locked the door behind me and collapsed in the backseat of the taxi.
As soon as I got home, I changed into a pair of jeans I had ripped and distressed myself with bleach, a piece of chalk and a penknife, and heated the
zama
for dinner. Fear and anxiety made me extra hungry, so even after that large lunch I was glad to have a ready-made green bean and chicken Romanian stew on hand. When I finished eating, I called Nick to thank him, but the receptionist at the gymnastics school said he was teaching a trampoline class, so I left a message. Then I put in a call to Detective Wall to tell him about Jim Jensen. I didn’t want him to think I was a whiny crybaby afraid of my own shadow, but I did think he should know Jim had threatened me. “I’ll get even with you,” he’d said. And I believed him.
I got the detective’s voice mail, so I left a brief message. I was just getting into bed in my organic knit pajamas that are as soft as an old T-shirt but more stylish, when Jack Wall called me back.
“Ms. Jewel,” he said. “What’s this about Jim Jensen?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I thought you should know. He came to the shop after we’d closed today and said he’d had a visit from the police. He thought I told you he killed his wife. Naturally he was angry. He said he’d get even with me.”
“I’m sorry about this,” he said. “Detective Ramirez should have warned you he was on the warpath.”
“Maybe she shouldn’t have told him I’d fingered him. Or yes, she should have warned me. I was alone in the shop when he barged in. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe not. All I can say is that I was scared.” I certainly wouldn’t mind if Detective Ramirez got in trouble for sending Jim Jensen on the warpath. At first I was willing to give her the benefit of a doubt, but I didn’t think she deserved it. “Maybe your associate Ramirez wanted to scare me into confessing. Maybe she still thinks I killed MarySue.”
“Of course not,” Jack Wall assured me. “No one thinks that anymore. Except Jim Jensen.”
“But why? What possible motive would I have? I barely knew her. Sure, I wanted her to pay Dolce for the shoes, but her being dead wasn’t going to help matters. Another thing which I didn’t have a chance to tell Jim Jensen is that I wasn’t even there that night. Whoever killed her was at the Benefit. Do you have a guest list?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “It will take time, but we are questioning all the guests.”
“Good,” I said. “Although that’s a lot of work and a waste of time if it was Jim all along. Any word on MarySue’s life insurance as to who’s the beneficiary?”
“As a matter of fact, we do have some information on that. Jim Jensen is the beneficiary. Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he cautioned. “Most married couples work it that way.”
“But still, isn’t that a good motive?” I asked eagerly. I’d love to see Jim behind bars and this whole mess put behind us.
“It could be,” he said.
“How much will he get?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.”
“Enough to hold onto his house, I assume.”
“You are free to assume what you like, Rita,” he said. At least he called me Rita as if we were friends. “Now tell me, do you still feel threatened? Do you want me to send over some police protection?”
I pictured a cop sitting in his marked car in front of my house, scaring all the neighbors.
“No, I’m okay.” I hoped to get a little respect for bravery anyway. But who knew? Jack Wall was the type to keep his thoughts to himself.
“Next time Jim pays you a visit like that, give me a call right away. Or if you see anything suspicious. In the meantime, I have some pictures of Benefit guests you might know. I’d like your help in identifying them. I’ll give you a call sometime this week.”
I said good-bye and picked up my vampire book to soothe myself before turning out the light. The Gothic setting, the suspicious actions of the female vampire and her almost lifelike qualities were gripping but not soothing. I tossed and turned thinking about Detective Jack Wall. Then I got up and looked out my bedroom window. There on the street below a police car made its way slowly down the block, pausing in front of my house before it drove on. A patrol car sent to watch me? Or just a cop making his rounds? The whole neighborhood was eerily quiet. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt empty inside even after a big bowl of
zama
. I needed something to calm my nerves and my stomach. Something all-American and non-Romanian. Unfortunately I’m not much of a cook. But fortunately for me my next-door neighbor Mrs. Heldmyer had given me a jar of her homemade pickles and I knew I had a loaf of whole-grain bread in the freezer and a wedge of Vermont white sharp cheddar cheese I’d picked up at Whole Foods. I wrapped up in a fleece robe, went to the kitchen and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles in my countertop toaster oven. The combination of salty, sour pickles with the rich cheese and crisply toasted bread was delicious. Warm inside and out, I went back to bed and finally fell asleep.
The next few days were comparatively calm at the shop. When I told Dolce about Jim Jensen threatening me, she was horrified. She said we should hire a security guard, but I decided if Jim didn’t kill MarySue, then he was so overcome with grief that he was acting out his depression by lashing out at me and probably felt remorseful by now. I’d already told Detective Wall what I thought of Jim and his rage. And Ramirez was apparently on his case. Although I had a feeling she would prefer to implicate me and wouldn’t mind all that much if Jim attacked me either verbally or physically. I knew I wasn’t being fair. After all, Jim had just lost his wife and wasn’t himself. Anger is surely one of the seven stages of grief. I wasn’t sure what he was like before the murder, but I wasn’t all that fond of him now.
On Wednesday, I had my follow-up medical appointment. The good news was that it seemed neither Nurse Chasseure or Nurse Bijou were on duty at the hospital that day. They must still be working nights. Even better news was that Verity, the nurse practitioner who saw me, said my ankle was healing beautifully.
“Can I wear high heels by Sunday?” I asked, thinking of my date with Dr. Jonathan.
She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Not even three inch?”
“Why? Big date?” she asked with a smile.
I nodded. But refrained from mentioning with whom.
“Not a good idea. Your ankle is still weak. I’d hate to see you take a tumble. Stick to flats. What about a simple Kenneth Cole in cracked leather?”
“Hmmm.” I had to admit it was a fresh idea and not a bad one.
“Metallics are in this fall. When your ankle heals, you can pick up a pair of silver heels that are perfect for a fun night out or even work.”
I felt a shiver go up my spine at the thought of the silver shoes and what they could lead to. I took a deep breath and continued. “The problem is, I don’t have an outfit yet.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked, turning from her computer screen where she was updating my file to study my work ensemble—a striped jacket, a spotted skirt and a flowered shirt. I could tell by her expression she was well aware that mixed prints were definitely in and similar-patterned outfits were out.
“Just a dinner date,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t want anyone at the clinic to find out I had a date with Dr. Jonathan. For all I knew, he was dating all the nurses at the hospital at the same time. Although if he was, why not take one of them to the café? “It’s Sunday, so I don’t want to go overboard and be overdressed.”
“If I were you, I’d go with a filmy skirt. I don’t know about you, but I’m so tired of stiff structured dresses.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Filmy it is. What do you think of the long look?”
“I like it, as long as you don’t look like you just stepped out of
Little House on the Prairie
. You’d have to make it modern with bold jewelry and a narrow shirt or a casual stretchy top.”