Murder After a Fashion Read online

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Dolce’s Fashion Advice for the Summer–Fall Transition

  Recipes

  Dressing the part

  The next day I dressed carefully, as I always do for an investigation. I had what they call an “office-ready” gray pin-striped suit with a pencil-slim skirt that hit just above the knee and a no-nonsense jacket that hugged my curves, which I’d bought on sale at Ann Taylor. Most of my clothes come straight from Dolce’s, but not all of them. She understands that sometimes I shop at the mall. With the suit I wore a pair of black, medium Sam Edelman stacked heels I picked up at Neiman Marcus. I’d have to change when I got to work in case the customers thought I was in mourning, which I wasn’t. Even though I was an admirer of the chef, we really weren’t close enough for me to mourn his demise.

  Although I would certainly go to his funeral. I have found that a funeral brings out the best and the worst in people. People cry or they laugh or they say something inappropriate that they shouldn’t, which is helpful when you’re looking for a murderer. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be looking for a murderer, but how could I help it?

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Grace Carroll

  SHOE DONE IT

  DIED WITH A BOW

  MURDER AFTER A FASHION

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  MURDER AFTER A FASHION

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  ISBN: 978-1-101-62383-1

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2013

  Cover illustration by Jennifer Taylor / Paperdog Studio.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for

  author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as

  written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  I’m not a native, but I do know one thing about San Francisco. The weather is as unpredictable as the people. Take that warm cloudless September day when I was on my way to work wearing a pair of Bruno Magli Italian leather sandals. They were all the rage that spring and summer, and I still loved them because they worked with either a pair of jeans or a skirt. No matter what else you’re wearing, those shoes make you look like you made an effort. And believe me, I always made an effort. Not just because my job was selling clothes and accessories in a boutique, but also because that’s the way I was. I still am.

  I was on the Thirty Stockton bus in a bright jade blue flowy dress by Cladiana that could go from work to cocktails and a cream-colored linen Nicole Farhi blazer that gave the outfit a daywear look, and was reading a depressing article in the San Francisco Chronicle, “Changing Weather Patterns Spell Doom for Humanity.” Suddenly the sky clouded over and just as I got off the bus, it started to rain, dampening my clothes and the chic fedora perched jauntily on my head. Talk about doom. Rain in September in everyone’s favorite city? Not going to happen. But there it was.

  When my boss Dolce saw me come through the door of the historic Victorian house she’d converted to a stylish shop, she said, “Rita, get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death. What were you thinking?” She shook her head. It wasn’t really a lecture, not from Dolce. She was simply showing her concern and sympathy for me, the daughter she never had.

  “Isn’t it true,” I asked, “that September, October and November are the best months in San Francisco weather-wise? ‘Fall days are warm and sunny, nights are cool and clear.’ That’s what I heard before I moved here. What happened?” I shivered as I tossed my damp hat toward a rack on the wall. “Can’t be global warming.”

  Dolce shook her head again but said nothing about the weather changes indicating the end for humanity. Maybe she hadn’t read the paper (which I wished I hadn’t), or perhaps she was in denial, which wasn’t a bad place to be.

  “Go put on something warm. You’ll feel better.” She waved an arm at the racks of fall clothes in earth tones and basic black hanging on racks in the large showroom that used to be the salon of the grand old Victorian residence. Once upon a time in the mid-1800s, this Hayes Valley neighborhood was filled with even more of these beautiful homes, along with smaller houses for the craftsmen hired to build the mansions. Thankfully the area was spared the fire that burned much of the city after the 1906 earthquake. But old houses are not always taken care of the way this one had been. Dolce’s aunt who’d willed her this house had saved it from demolition, and Dolce had restored it to a bit of its former grandeur. Her small, well-appointed apartment above the shop might have once been the servants’ quarters.

  I wondered if those old-timers had worn black and earth tones too? Or had they tired of the same-old, same-old and longed for some warm fall days to break out the satin slippers and their bright, flirty Victorian dresses, if there’d been such a thing. I sighed and went to pick out something that said fall in the strict sense of the word, but the only word I could think of was “dull.”

  Pawing through a shelf full of cashmere sweaters in shades of eggshell, eggplant and ochre, I just couldn’t get excited about wearing such blah colors. I refused to let the rain dampen my spirits the way it had my clothes. I had to deal with the unpredictable nature of the weather and the populace. Wearing a bright dress lifted my mood, but was I pushing my luck by pushing my fashion sense to the brink?

  “Remember to mix it up,” Dolce called from the jewelry section where she was arranging a display of chains, huge chunky rings, cuffs and leather bracelets. “Add some mohair with brocade or popcorn knits. And tweeds with flat wool. Instead of linen, why not try a tailored wool blazer with padded shoulders.”

  Why not? Becaus
e my shoulders didn’t need any padding, but Dolce was my boss and she was usually right when it came to fashion. That’s what made things interesting, I told myself. Different styles, different people, different seasons and different weather.

  It was so typically Dolce to offer me anything in the shop even though I couldn’t really afford the haute couture she sold. Either she gave me a huge employee discount, or she just gave me things that were left over from the last season.

  Dolce must have seen me dawdling indecisively because she said, “If you want to, you can just add leggings or a straight-leg pant under the Alexander Wang botanical print dress on the rack. It offsets the graphic element, don’t you think? And add a belt. Belts are in and very figure flattering.”

  I guess everyone needs some figure flattering, so I didn’t take her suggestion personally. I chose a sand leather belt from Yves Saint Laurent that went with the dress, a pair of dark leggings and Hunter Champery wedge boots and went to the dressing room to change my look from spring to fall. I hated to ditch my sandals, but I gave in and added the wool blazer too.

  Dolce gave me an approving thumbs-up when I came out. “That’s better,” she said. “I think we’ll have a big crowd in today. Especially with this rain. It reminds everyone that they need to update their wardrobe for fall.”

  Which was just what she’d done for me. Updated my wardrobe with a new dress and a few special additions. I was warm and dry and even more stylish than when I’d arrived. Someday maybe I’d be the saleswoman Dolce was. Until then I’d work at it with her as my example and enjoy the ambience in the shop.

  It was not only the ambience but also the gossip I enjoyed. Usually. But today the conversation seemed a little less than stimulating. It went like this.

  “Guess who was with Brianna LaRue at the Edwardian Ball? I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t her husband,” Tracy Livingston said to a small group of her BFFs who were gathered at the accessory counter looking through a stack of our latest shipment of scarves in silk, chiffon and wool.

  “They’re done, over, kaput,” Angela Boursin said, rubbing her hands together. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Does everyone know why?” Maxine Anderson asked eagerly.

  The others stared at the Missoni sweater set she wore with pearls as if she had come from a different era. It was partly her dated outfit from last year’s collection and partly her naïveté that earned her pitying looks and made her stand out from the in-crowd. And made me feel sorry for her. But what could I do to help her fit in except what I’d always done, make tactful suggestions. After that, customers had to make up their own minds. Not that I’m an advocate of “the customer is always right.” Far from it. But all I can do is give advice and fashion tips.

  As a rule, our customers don’t have jobs. Most of them spend their days doing charity work and having lunch and shopping, which is good for business. But Dolce wouldn’t be the success she is if she didn’t have a philosophy of treating everyone with respect, whether they’re super rich or only extremely well-off. Whether their taste is impeccable or downright terrible, Dolce never misses a beat.

  “Of course we know why they’re breaking up,” the ladies chorused.

  Maxine was afraid to ask why, I could tell. She didn’t have to. They told her anyway.

  “She’s having an affair with her Pilates coach.”

  I tried to look shocked, but I felt like I’d heard it all before. Socialites having affairs with their yoga guru or the swimming pool guy. And frankly I didn’t care what they did after they left our shop.

  For a moment I was afraid I was going crazy. Here I was folding sweaters, some chunky, some bulky and some belted, while I shamelessly listened to empty gossip. Was this really what I should be doing with my life?

  What was wrong with me? I had the world’s greatest job and the world’s greatest boss. I was wearing a dynamite outfit that everyone had noticed but…something was wrong. All I’d ever wanted was a dream job and some cutting-edge clothes to wear, but all of a sudden I wanted more. I wanted somewhere to go after work. And someone to go there with. In other words, I wanted a life.

  I needed a place to wear the clothes besides to work and I needed purpose and I needed a man in my life. I was spoiled. Since I’d come to San Francisco over a year ago, I’d met three eligible men who’d taken me to all kinds of fun events. But I hadn’t heard from any of them for months. That didn’t help my outlook.

  Instead of brooding about my sudden onset of angst, I took Maxine aside and asked her if I could help her find anything. I hoped she’d take my interest as it was intended and not as a knock on her personal lack of style. I was trying to make up for the others being so snarky.

  She gave me a grateful little smile and said she was looking for a pair of wide-leg pants. It was a good sign that she was trying something new and trendy, and I pulled out a few for her to try on.

  “Do you like your job here?” she asked after she’d chosen a pair of Max Mara palazzo pants in a herringbone tweed that had a relaxed kind of cool and gave off a super-casual vibe that I told her was new and different. I folded and wrapped them in tissue paper at the front desk.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “We’ve got the latest in clothes, jewelry, hats and stockings all under one roof. What’s not to like? I love fashion. But I also love to eat. I’m not much of a cook, so tonight after work I’m going to sign up for another class at Tante Marie’s Cooking School.” I didn’t usually confide in new customers about my other life, such as it was, but I wanted to say something to Maxine besides the usual. I sensed she didn’t have many friends here. Not that I would ever be her friend. None of the customers were my friends. We came from different worlds. They were all older and richer and married and better connected than I was.

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “Someone recommended it to me. I’ve been meaning to go sign up for lessons from the celebrity chef, Guido Torcelli. He’s only doing one class as a favor to the owner. As you probably know, he’s Diana Van Sloat’s personal chef. When she’s in town, that is, and not filming commercials in Hollywood. She buys her clothes here, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, she does,” I said. “She’s been Dolce’s best client since forever. Guido’s usually too busy to do the classes. Diana has him on retainer,” I explained. I’d never met the rich and gorgeous Diana Van Sloat, but I’d heard plenty about her during my time as Dolce’s salesgirl.

  “Well, have fun,” she said.

  At the end of the day, before I left, I spoke to Dolce about my lack of social life. I hadn’t planned on it, it just slipped out. I didn’t complain, I didn’t whine. I just mentioned my single status with what I hoped was a rueful smile. But being the sensitive person she is, she picked up on my anxiety. She frowned, carefully knotted a Ballantyne print scarf around her neck and waved me into her office, once a former closet. I sat down opposite her, and she rested her elbows on her desk and looked at me.

  “The last I heard you were seeing three different men. One was a doctor,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Good question,” I said. “Dr. Jonathan works nights in the ER and when he’s not working, he’s surfing, which doesn’t leave much time for dates. Unless he’s seeing one of those attractive nurses at the hospital. Which I couldn’t blame him for. They have so much in common, and there’s the proximity of course.” I tried to sound like I was understanding of his professional responsibilities and okay with them, but it hurt to think of him out on the town without me. Naturally I wanted the best for him—a fulfilling and rewarding job healing the sick and wounded, and a lively social life as well. But why couldn’t his social life include me? Wasn’t I lively enough? Compared to a kind, caring and selfless nurse, maybe a clerk in a boutique didn’t measure up.

  “Isn’t there a way you could run into him the way you first did when you fell off that ladder and had to be taken to the hospital?”

  “You mean like have another accident or come down with some rare disease? It’
s possible, but it would have to be something severe and sudden because that’s the kind of cases he sees in the ER. I just can’t count on that happening again.” I gnawed on a fingernail while I tried to think of some plausible reason to drop in at the hospital. “When I had the accident with the ladder, I was only unconscious for a short time, and when I came to in the hospital, there was Jonathan. Talk about luck.”

  Dolce nodded and moved on to candidate number two. “What about Nick the Romanian gymnast you met on the plane, the one with the crazy aunt?”

  “The last I heard, he was recovering from a sprain he incurred at work. He’s probably training some students on the uneven bars for the Olympics. As for his aunt Meera, she scares me. I know she’s not really a vampire as she claims, but she’s definitely weird.”

  “And that very attractive cop who you helped solve the murder of our dear Vienna?”

  “You mean Detective Wall. I don’t think he’d appreciate your framing our relationship that way.”

  “However he frames it, he can’t deny you risked your life on the high seas to trap that murderer into confessing.”

  “I only did what anyone would have done,” I said modestly. Though it was possible that no one else but me would have plunged into the cold waters of the Bay just to solve a murder.

  “It’s a shame Bobbi couldn’t have been brought to justice before she drowned out there,” Dolce said.

  “On the other hand, it saved the city the cost of a big, expensive murder trial,” I said. “I have to say that Detective Wall finally reluctantly agreed that I’d tried to help him, but not that I’d succeeded. He got assigned to the Central Station, so he doesn’t hang out in our neighborhood anymore except when there’s a major crime. I certainly wouldn’t mind running into him, but he disapproves when I butt into his cases. It seems the only time he wants to see me is when I’m involved in a murder as a suspect. That’s when he calls and comes by and tries to get me to confess, especially if he thinks I’m guilty. What are the chances of that happening again? I mean really.” I laughed lightly, although I’m aware that murder is no laughing matter, especially when the victim is someone you know.