Died With a Bow Read online

  “Not so fine. He had an accident on the high bar and tore his ligament.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Though I was glad to hear he had an excuse for ignoring me.

  “He was doing a demonstration when he had a miscalculation, and now he has to stay off the leg, so I bring him food after work. I am sure he would like to see you at his flat on Green Street, number seventeen-forty-two,” she said pointedly.

  Actually I owed her nephew because he had shown up with food for me when I fell off a ladder a few months ago. “I’ll go see him,” I promised. And I would, but not tonight. I was in no mood to cheer up anyone but myself.

  “What about your pizza?” she asked.

  “I’ll have the daily special,” I said, looking at my take-out menu. “Rainbow chard, red onions, feta cheese…”

  “Why not try the Romanian special instead?” she asked. “My personal favorite, which I am making myself when not taking telephone orders. It comes with cabbage, tomato sauce and grilled carp.”

  “I’ll stick with the pizza of the day,” I said firmly. Grilled carp might be delicious, but on pizza?

  She sounded disappointed, but she confirmed my order, and I said, “La revedere,” and hung up.

  The pizza arrived an hour later—it was delicious with a glass of two-buck-Chuck Merlot, which I sipped while congratulating myself on being sensible and frugal. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow I would sign up for cooking classes somewhere. If Meera could make pizza, why couldn’t I learn to cook too? Maybe the California Culinary Academy or a small, more intimate place like Tante Marie’s Cooking School where I’d learn basic French techniques. I would unpack my dishes, buy a set of pots and give little dinner parties instead of sitting around waiting for men to call and invite me out. Yes, tomorrow had to be better.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was actually worse. Not only did I spend the day doing routine jobs like taking inventory of our winter hats, separating the cloches from the knitted caps and wool berets and packing them away to make room for spring, but I also had office duty and sat in Dolce’s office, which was once a coat closet, answering the phone. Talk about boring and feeling useless. There I was, forced to take multiple messages for Vienna because she’d turned off her cell phone after announcing she was not taking any personal calls at work. So when her father phoned to see how she was doing, I assured him she was a crackerjack saleswoman, which I didn’t know for sure until Dolce confirmed I was right. Good news for her, bad news for me. I started to wonder if I’d ever get out of the back room.

  Her boyfriend called and asked me to give her a message. He had a conflict and wouldn’t be able to pick her up tonight. I hoped she wouldn’t be too upset. Then her roommate, Danielle, called to tell her the rent was due.

  “Already?” I blurted. Though it was none of my business, my understanding was she’d just moved in this weekend.

  “The deposit,” she snapped. “Ever hear of it?”

  Just when I was about to do some online research on cooking schools, the phone rang again. It was Vienna’s stepmother, Bobbi, who asked me to have Vienna call her when she had a break.

  “Or maybe you’d know,” she said. “What is your employee discount there at Dolce’s?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say,” I said. Mine was thirty percent, but I wasn’t about to share that information with her.

  “Of course you can,” she said. Note that I had never met this woman, though Dolce said she was a good customer.

  “I’ll have Vienna call you,” I said politely.

  “What time does she get off work?” she asked.

  “It depends. We close at five, but sometimes there’s work to be done later or there’s a customer who needs something.”

  “I see,” she said. “I’m looking for a moto jacket, something in black leather. What have you got?” she asked.

  “We have a whole rack of them. My favorite is a vegetable-dyed lambskin with an asymmetrical zipper.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “What would I wear under it?”

  “I’d go totally girly,” I said. “To offset the biker image, if you know what I mean. A leather jacket would be fabulous over lace with a skirt just below the knees. Boots, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said. There was a long silence during which I supposed she was thinking it over. I heard a voice in the background, and then a door slammed.

  “One more thing,” she said so softly I could barely hear her. “Has she been driving a new car lately?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen her driving a car at all.”

  “She’d better not,” she muttered and hung up.

  I went out to the great room where Vienna was artfully tying scarves around the necks of our latest black-and-white striped sweaters. I gave her her messages, which I’d scrawled on a notepad. I didn’t mention the odd question about the new car.

  After she scanned the messages, she said, “Next time tell Bobbi I can only take business calls at work. She thinks I’m her personal shopper and gofer. Well, not anymore. That’s why I had to move out of the house. My poor father. He has to put up with her whining. What did she want?”

  “Advice about a leather moto jacket.”

  She winced. “As if she doesn’t already have a closet full of leather. Now she’ll be begging my father to get her a new jacket. She thinks he’s made of money.”

  I didn’t point out that that’s what everyone thought, since Lex Fairchild, who owned a whole string of car dealerships around the state, was pretty well set up, moneywise. Why would Bobbi resent his giving his daughter a new car when he probably had some models just sitting around the lot and could well afford it?

  “I hope you didn’t encourage her,” Vienna said sternly.

  “Sorry, I did give her a suggestion for a jacket. She asked me, and after all, I’m a saleswoman first and foremost,” I reminded her in case she thought of me as a drone, which was quite possible. I was in danger of thinking that myself. “Maybe I should have kept quiet.”

  Vienna nodded. “Maybe you should. Now you get the picture of how she’s always trying to turn my father against me.”

  A customer came in, and Vienna positively leaped to attention. My own way of interacting with customers was more subtle, which I thought had worked pretty well, but maybe it was too subtle. Vienna’s eager approach was possibly the wave of the future and I was hopelessly out of date. I sighed and went back to the office, my shoulders drooping. After a dozen or more calls asking if we had a certain Kate Spade bag or a pair of Nina animal-print wedge heels or a Vera Wang beaded necklace or a pair of Ferragamo bow flats, all of which kept me running out to check and hurrying back before the customer hung up, I was exhausted.

  I was just about to take my lunch break when Dolce came to ask if I’d mind staying in while she took Vienna to lunch at Gioccamo’s where they had homemade potato chips to die for and delicious pastries.

  What could I say besides, “Of course. I’ll be glad to.” At least I’d get a chance to get out of the office and into the showroom. For an hour it was almost like old times. The good old days before Vienna. I felt liberated, lighthearted and full of energy. Customers like Patti French, whose sister-in-law—whom Patti never really liked—had been murdered some months ago, came in to look for a little black dress. I refrained from saying, “Another black dress?” because really, who can have too many? I helped her find a gorgeous Versace full-length dress she said would be perfect for the Bachelor Auction, for which, as cochair, she was selling tickets.

  “I’m glad to hear you and Dolce will be there.”

  “And our new employee. Have you met Vienna?”

  “No, but I know her stepmother, Bobbi.”

  I studied Patti’s face and I thought I detected a whiff of disapproval. I waited, hoping she’d spill some dirt, but she didn’t.

  I said I hadn’t met Bobbi, although she was a good customer.

  “There are going to be some
real prizes on the auction block, Rita,” Patti said. “Some fit-looking dudes, and not just ordinary run-of-the-mill single bachelors. These guys are big-time eligible, if you know what I mean.”

  I thought I knew what she meant: she was talking about men with money.

  “There’s Steve Gray, the founder of Internet Solutions; that police detective, Jack Wall; Rick Fellows, venture capitalist; and a professional athlete or two. Oh, even an ER doctor from SF General. I’ve seen his picture, and he is to die for, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  I gulped. I thought I knew who that doctor was and agreed he was to die for. I was just glad I hadn’t died before I had a chance to date him, if only once or twice.

  “Each one of these men comes with a fabulous prize package like cocktails, dinner, dancing, a tour, a ball game, a show, whatever. You can’t miss this.” She paused as she fingered a wool cape we’d just gotten in. “So bid early and often. It’s for a good cause.”

  I smiled, though I didn’t see how I could bid on anyone, no matter how fit, on my salary. Did Patti think I was independently wealthy and just worked here for fun? She didn’t say, and I took her credit card and carefully wrapped up her gorgeous dress for her in a long plastic bag.

  Next I convinced Miranda McClone, one of Dolce’s oldest customers, and by oldest I mean the woman was at least eighty-something, to buy several casual pieces to layer. I hoped when I was her age I’d still be in the market for the latest, trendiest styles as she was. Her dapper husband, who was wearing a classic, two-button navy blazer, a maroon bow tie and Ralph Lauren tasseled loafers, sat in one of Dolce’s upholstered chairs and smiled benevolently while Miranda tried on a superb outfit: a sweater, a scarf, a faux fur vest and a pair of cropped pants, ankle socks and Marc Jacobs shoes. Worn one on top of the other as I’d suggested.

  “So this is what the style is?” Miranda asked, staring at herself in Dolce’s full-length mirror. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, stepping back to take in the whole picture. “What do you think, Mr. McClone?”

  “Cute as a bug,” he said. And he was right. Some might say the outfit was totally inappropriate for someone her age, but she pulled it off. I knew she would.

  She bought every single thing I’d shown her. I was feeling like my old, successful salesgirl self until Dolce and Vienna came back from lunch. They barely said hello, though I was dying to tell them what I’d done. They just kept talking about who they’d seen at lunch. About who was married to whom and who wasn’t. Without missing a beat or a nugget of juicy gossip, Dolce handed me a take-out box of food. I guess I should have been grateful they hadn’t forgotten completely about me. I went back to the office to eat without having a chance to tell them about my big sale. And it was big.

  Just as I was digging into my Caesar salad topped with grilled shrimp, the phone rang. I was chewing on a spear of romaine lettuce, but I was glad I’d picked up instead of letting the machine answer because it was Dr. Jonathan Rhodes, ER doctor.

  “Rita, it’s been a long time,” he said.

  “How are you?” I said as if I hadn’t noticed he’d been AWOL from my life.

  “Tired,” he said. “I’ve been covering for another doctor as well as taking my usual shift in the ER. I haven’t been home for days. But you don’t want to hear about all the gunshot wounds, emergency appendectomies, cardiac arrests, broken arms, irritable bowel syndrome…”

  What could I say? “I’d love to hear all about your cases, perhaps over dinner sometime? And by the way, are you really being sold off on Saturday night?” Fortunately I didn’t have to say much of anything. I just murmured something sympathetic and he continued.

  “I’m calling to see if you’re coming to the Bachelor Auction Saturday night.”

  Ah-hah, so it was him. “As a matter of fact, Dolce bought tickets for us. I understand it’s for a worthy cause.”

  “I hope so because I’m going to feel like a fool up there on the stage like a prize heifer. Especially when no one bids on me.”

  That’s what I liked about Jonathan: he was drop-dead gorgeous, but he didn’t seem to have a clue.

  “Oh, I’m sure someone—”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you’d be that someone who will bid on me. Can you imagine how deadly it’d be to be stuck going out with a stranger for dinner and dancing at the Starlight Room on my one night off?”

  I could almost hear him shudder at the thought.

  “I’ll be glad to bid on you,” I said, though considering my modest means and his outstanding looks, I wouldn’t have a chance.

  “Thanks, Rita. I knew I could count on you. Uh-oh, they’re paging me. See you Saturday.”

  I hung up and finished my salad feeling better about my dismal social situation. Unless Jonathan was on the phone again calling every woman he knew to get a bidding war going. But now that I knew he’d been working overtime, maybe that’s why he hadn’t called me for weeks. Maybe he wasn’t dating a nurse or two or three. If he was, he would have asked them to bid on him. But he’d asked me. As long as I didn’t win, I’d do what I could to help him out. That’s the way I am.

  Two

  The next few days went just as I expected. Dolce raved about Vienna’s sales ability but said nothing about how beautifully I unpacked and pressed the new clothes. I felt like Cinderella sweeping up the ashes in the back room, while Vienna was my stepsister who got to go to the ball.

  Actually we all got to go to the ball, so Dolce offered to let us wear anything we wanted from the shop. I waited until we closed to try on dresses for the auction, but Vienna said she had an outfit already and dashed out at five o’clock. I glanced out the window to see if she was driving a new car or meeting her motorcycle-riding boyfriend. Neither turned out to be the case. She got into a yellow Lotus, a low-slung British racing car, driven by someone else.

  I was just about to ask if Dolce knew who the owner of the sports car was, but she locked the front door and seemed to have forgotten all about her new favorite salesgirl. Instead, she’d gone into her fairy-godmother mode, which was fine with me. It was worth being Cinderella if I got transformed and my story had a happy ending. But I didn’t see it happening. For now it was good to be on the receiving end of my boss’s attention. It reminded me of the good old days, before Vienna.

  “I say we pull out all the stops,” Dolce said as she rolled out a rack of dresses into the high-ceilinged great room, which once had been some rich Victorian family’s salon.

  “You mean strapless?” I said, thinking of the gorgeous dresses worn to the opera by Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and Cher in Moonstruck. But I’m not a movie star and I pictured myself tugging on my gown all evening to keep it from falling down.

  “I mean elegant,” she said, taking a long, sleek black dress by Elie Tahari off the rack and removing it from its flexible hanger. “It may be a bit wintry for April, but I truly think you’d look terrific in it.”

  I went into the tiny dressing room and slipped into the high-necked dress with sheer long sleeves. When I came out, Dolce didn’t say a word, she just fluttered her eyelashes and sat down in her favorite chair as if her legs wouldn’t hold her upright another moment.

  “I love it, but what do you think?” she asked me.

  I looked in the three-way mirror and realized that the back was open to the waist with a low-cut V-shaped embellishment. It was chaste in the front and daring in back. And quite elegant. It made me feel glamorous.

  “It’s a beautiful dress,” I said. For some reason, I’d never seen it on the rack, never showed it to any customer.

  “It fits you perfectly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the men started bidding on you,” she said with a chuckle. I smiled, but I was reminded it didn’t matter how glamorous I looked, I would not be leaving with a date because I couldn’t afford one.

  “It will be fun to go and see who’s who and what they’re wearing,” I said. Dolce had provided my dress and the ticket t
o the event. Just because I’d be forced to watch two men I was interested in being auctioned off to rich society women was no reason to act ungrateful. I would smile my way through this evening, confident I looked my best. So I hung the dress I’d wear on Saturday back on the rack, and after thanking her again, I said good night to Dolce.

  Making my way down the street, I thought of poor Nick the gymnast, who’d not only picked me up from the hospital when I’d had my concussion but who’d also supplied me with Romanian food he’d made himself. Now he was lying helpless in his apartment on Green Street, and where was I? On my way home alone, and of course I was hungry.

  I decided to pick up some food at one of the restaurants in his neighborhood and take it to his house. After all he’d done for me, it was the least I could do. I pictured Nick’s face when I knocked on his door, his mouth falling open when he saw me, then a huge warm, welcoming smile when he noticed the boxes of food in my hand. It wouldn’t be Romanian food, but I’d find something reasonable and tasty in the trendy Cow Hollow neighborhood where he lived. If I was totally honest, I’d admit I hated to eat alone. I never used to mind so much before Vienna. Now when I saw her being whisked off on a motorcycle or in a sports car, I felt a pang of jealousy and curiosity. Who was she going out with? Where were they going? Not that it was any of my business. Still…

  When I got off the bus on Union Street and walked to Green Street, I remembered hearing that Cow Hollow was named for the cows who’d lived on the dairy farms here in the mid-1800s. Not a cow or a farm to be seen these days. Just ornate three-story Victorian houses with turrets and gingerbread trim built after the gold rush in 1849 when the neighborhood became fashionable. Fortunately the area hadn’t been heavily damaged by the 1906 earthquake and fire that leveled so much of this city, so these converted barns, carriage houses and mansions were still standing, still looking good as I walked down the street, wondering how Nick could afford to live here on the salary of a gymnastics teacher. Maybe the same way I managed to live on upscale Telegraph Hill: by taking the smallest apartment on the top floor with no elevator and scarcely room to turn around inside.