Authors: Grace Carroll
“Peter,” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are,” he said. “Buying a magazine.”
“This one’s mine,” I said and used both hands to hang on to the magazine.
My
magazine.
“I don’t think so,” he said, ripping it out of my hands with a forceful jerk.
That made me so angry I felt a surge of superhuman strength. “Give it back,” I shouted.
“What’s going on here?” someone said. I turned and saw the clerk standing at the edge of the rack, his mouth open in astonishment as if he’d never seen two customers fight over a magazine before.
“He’s got my magazine,” I said, and I lunged for it. I got hold of it by the corner, but Peter pulled so hard I heard a ripping sound as the magazine tore apart. I stumbled backward into another rack of magazines and landed on my butt.
“Security,” the clerk shouted, obviously worried about the crazies in the store.
Peter was not waiting for any security guard to escort him out. Not without the magazine—or half the magazine. He bolted for the back door of the store, and I just sat there on the floor surrounded by magazines. I was panting and holding my half of the
Vogue
tightly in my hand. But was page nine-one in my hand or in Peter’s? And would I be arrested for dismembering a magazine? Not if I paid for it, which I planned to do. But first things first.
I staggered to my feet and explained as calmly as I could to the security guard that I wanted to buy that magazine and I was sorry I caused a disturbance. I said I’d be glad to pick up all the fallen magazines and of course pay for the one in my hand, which was really only half a magazine. I observed that the other man wanted the magazine too, which must have been obvious. If he hadn’t done anything wrong, then why did he flee? Where had he gone? Actually I didn’t care as long as I had the article I’d come for.
I couldn’t wait another minute. While standing there, I started flipping through the pages again, this time ignoring all the tempting lists, like “Ten Best Beauty Tips” and “Naughty Sex Questions.” I’d get to them later.
I was almost up to page ninety-one when the store manager appeared and surveyed the damage. One bookcase on the floor and magazines everywhere. He asked for my name and phone number. I closed the magazine and told him I’d be glad to pay for any damaged magazines, but that it wasn’t my fault. He looked dubious.
Instead of standing there another minute and subjecting myself to questions and accusations, I decided to leave as quickly and gracefully as I could. It turned out they charged me for the
Vogue
and that was all. Finally alone in Dolce’s car, I found the page.
There they were, a large color photograph of the silver shoes, the same silver shoes I’d transported across country. The same silver shoes ripped from my grasp by MarySue Jensen. The same silver shoes MarySue had worn to the Benefit. The same silver shoes that had caused her murder. But who did it? Who killed her? Who stole her shoes?
I scanned the article under the heading “Third World Shoe Scam!” Then I read the questions: “Are you guilty of causing child labor? Are you wearing shoes made by children who earn pennies a day in poor countries? Do you contribute to a
Slumdog Millionaire
’s millions by buying shoes like these? Do you care about poor children, or do you care more about high fashion?” They mentioned the price of the shoes and I gasped.
Oh my God, what was I going to do? When I heard a loud rapping on my window, I looked up to see Peter’s face pressed against the glass. His mouth was open and he was shouting at me. “You think you’re a super salesman. Well, you’re nothing compared to me.”
I rolled down my window a crack and glared at him.
“I’m the one who knows how to sell shoes. Who do you think got MarySue to buy the stilettos?”
“Patti,” I said. “Not you.” I knew he wouldn’t let anyone top him in the sales department.
“Hah. Did Patti tell you that? She’s nothing compared to me. I was born to sell. I could sell snow to Eskimos. Or stilettos to socialites like MarySue. All it took was one look at the shoes. I showed them to her. I told her to order them.”
“I thought it was Harrington,” I said.
“That second-rate drama queen? Maybe he did but I’m the one she turned to for fashion tips. Now give me that magazine.” He knew I had the article he wanted. I pushed the key in the ignition and tore out of that parking lot, leaving him standing there waving his arms in the air. I headed for the bridge hoping he wouldn’t follow me and cause an accident. I was shaking all over. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they were stiff. I might need help removing them so I could get out of the car.
When I got to Dolce’s, I parked in the no-parking zone in front of the shop because I didn’t have the strength to look for a legal space on a side street. I took the half magazine and ran up the front steps to the shop.
Dolce was with a customer. I could feel her eyes on me as I rushed past her to her office. In a few minutes she joined me.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse than a ghost. I’ve seen Peter Butinski,” I said. “But I’ve got the magazine.” I held it up. She sat down at her desk and squinted. “What magazine?”
“The magazine with the article about the silver shoes. The one Patti showed MarySue, or Peter or Harrington or maybe all three showed them to her. Which made MarySue fall in love with the shoes,”
Dolce donned her bifocals and was scanning the page I gave her. “But it says if you buy these shoes you’re contributing to child labor.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe MarySue didn’t read that far. Maybe she just saw the picture.”
“Then what?” Dolce said. “She ordered them from us. I ordered them from the atelier, you picked them up. If that’s how it happened, we’re all guilty.”
I shook my head. How could we be guilty for ordering a pair of shoes? “Talk about guilty. Peter Butinski is more involved than we thought. He even bragged about it to me. Said he’s the one who told MarySue about the shoes, not Patti and not Harrington. This was right after he tried to get the magazine before I did.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told him you were out shopping when he dropped in,” Dolce said. “But I thought he was harmless.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t,” I said. “So that’s why he was out looking for magazines, hoping to beat me to the punch. I suspect he has destroyed all the other copies in the city just so no one would know where the shoes came from or his name would be mud. No self-respecting socialite would ever buy from him again knowing he was a slumdog shoe seller.”
“But she didn’t buy them from him, she bought them from me,” Dolce said.
“According to him, he’s the one who talked her into them. I’m guessing he gets a commission on every pair. No matter who sells them, there’s probably enough profit to go around. If you believe this article.”
“I feel terrible,” Dolce said. “All those poor children slaving away. What can we do about it besides never order from them again?”
“Right now I’m going to call Peter and offer him a deal. I won’t tell anyone what he’s done if he’ll give us back the shoes and promise never to exploit the children ever again.”
“But you don’t know if he has the shoes.”
“I have to make him think I do know.” I tried to sound like I knew what I was doing, but I only had a vague idea.
“I don’t like it,” Dolce said, leaning forward across her desk. “He could be dangerous. He might be the one who killed MarySue.”
“I can’t believe he’s a murderer. Of all people, Peter Butinski?” Then I pictured his face contorted with fury in the parking lot. “But I’ll take precautions. I’ll get Peter to meet me here, then I’ll get Detective Wall to stand by.”
“I’ll be here too,” Dolce said. “Hiding in the dressing room.”
I smiled. Dolce was the perfect boss. I wouldn’t be alone.
I left a message on Peter’s phone. “Sorry about today,” I said. “I guess we both got carried away. We know you have MarySue’s silver shoes. Dolce and I want them back. We’re prepared to make a deal with you because we’re out a considerable amount of money. Bring the shoes to the shop tonight after five and we will keep this whole affair to ourselves. We don’t care how you got the shoes. We don’t care where you buy your shoes or sell them. After all, you have to make a living too.” I paused. Was I laying it on too thick? Or not thick enough? What motive would he have for handing over the shoes? What if he didn’t have them? I didn’t want to mention murder. I didn’t know what else to say, so I hung up.
Dolce stared at me as if she was surprised by my courage—or was she surprised I’d changed my story or surprised I expected Peter to appear with the shoes and hand them over?
“Even if he doesn’t have them, I think he’ll show up just to tell us he doesn’t have them, don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she was convinced. Then I called Jack and left a message. I sure hoped he’d get it and be prepared. For what? To arrest Peter? To protect us from Peter? To stand around and be bored when Peter didn’t show up?
The hours dragged by. Dolce said we needed to keep up our strength, so she ordered lunch to be delivered from a takeout place around the corner, two Californians—turkey with avocado and jack cheese and two high-energy smoothies. You’d think I would have been too nervous to eat, but tension always makes me extra hungry and I was famished. As soon as the delivery guy arrived, we went to her office and ate our sandwiches and drank our smoothies. I stared at my cell phone wishing I’d hear from my favorite law-and-order man. I thought I could handle Peter by myself, especially with Dolce as backup, but I wanted Jack around just in case.
I kept an eye on the clock while waiting on customers. Amazing how many women are surprised by the arrival of fall and suddenly have nothing to wear. For a badly needed diversion, I threw myself into making suggestions like “Let’s try mixing your neutrals, camel with gray, brown layered with a black sweater,” and “How about some massive heels with those pants?” Or “Nothing says fall like a chunky sweater.” Thank heavens for those women with expensive taste and lots of money or I wouldn’t have a job and Dolce wouldn’t be able to keep her doors open. Which reminded me that Dolce still looked worried these days even when we weren’t concerned there was a murderer in our midst. If money was a problem, would she ask me to take a salary cut? Work half-time? Close the shop on Mondays?
I pushed these problems aside and kept one ear open to hear the phone ringing. But Jack didn’t call. I had my cell phone tucked in the pocket of my gamine five-pocket skinny trousers that channeled Audrey Hepburn. I liked the combination of the pants with my white cable-knit sweater, which had been a bargain.
But still no call from Jack. I left another message. I reminded myself he had other crimes to solve. Now that MarySue was buried (hopefully facedown), everyone including the police seemed to have forgotten about her. But not me. If I didn’t find out who did it, at least I had hopes of getting her shoes back. I told myself that’s what she would have wanted. But honestly I bet she would have wanted to be buried with them on. Maybe she was and all this was for nothing.
At five minutes to five there was a knock on the door. I waved to Dolce, who raced to the dressing room and closed the door behind her. But when I went to the door, it was Maureen Boyle, a good customer who wanted something to wear to a poetry reading that night. I took a deep breath to calm down. No need to freak out in front of a regular customer. Besides, who knew if Peter would really show up? For a casual poetry reading at a local café I suggested jean leggings, a military vest, a drawstring cardigan and some suede engineer boots with low heels. To my surprise she looked around the shop, noticed we were alone, and confessed she’d been buying her shoes at the Glass Slipper, but when she tried to return a pair of espadrilles, they wouldn’t take them back.
“Our policy is not like that,” I said. “You can always return anything you bought here. No statute of limitations. Dolce insists on customer satisfaction. That’s the only way to do business, she says.”
Maureen nodded. “I’ll never make that mistake again,” she said, then she bought the whole outfit. Every little bit helps, I thought. I glanced at the dressing room, wondering if Dolce would pop out and give me a high five, but she didn’t. I hoped she hadn’t fallen asleep in there.
I walked to the door with Maureen, told her to have a great time. Then I looked up and down the street. No one there except the usual neighborhood residents and tourists. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Peter wasn’t coming. Had I misjudged him? Was he simply a blowhard who hadn’t really done anything even slightly illegal? Had I overestimated my persuasiveness? Hadn’t I made it clear what was at stake?
And by the way, where was Jack? I was beginning to have a letdown after all that adrenaline. I locked the front door and went back inside. I was about to see what happened to Dolce when my phone rang.
“Are you alone?”
I bit my lip. “Yes, Peter, where are you?” I wanted to say, “Have you got the shoes?” but I thought it was best to get him in the shop first.
“I’m outside. Open the door.”
I skidded across the floor, the soles of my Gucci sandals slipping out from under me. There he was, looking more ridiculous than ever, which had a way of calming me down. How could I be afraid of anyone wearing a tweed jacket, a white shirt and a string tie? Also the fact that he was carrying a shopping bag was encouraging. The shoes. It had to be the shoes.
“Here they are,” he said, thrusting the bag at me.
I grabbed it. I wasn’t going to let these shoes get away from me again. The shoes were wrapped in tissue paper just as they had been when I picked them up in Florida. I took them out and examined them carefully while he stood there staring at me. I didn’t care who made them, these shoes were gorgeous. No wonder MarySue had wanted them. No wonder he wanted them.
“Okay, cough it up,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“There’s nothing to understand. I brought you the shoes, you give me the money.”