Authors: Grace Carroll
Died with a Bow
All dressed up with nowhere to go…
I put the key in the lock and leaned against the door. To my surprise, it swung open before I’d turned the key. I almost fell into the foyer.
“Dolce?” I called so as not to startle her into calling the security people. “It’s me.”
No sound. Nothing. Of course she would be upstairs and not have heard me. Maybe I should just leave the dress and respect her privacy. I gathered up my stuff and took a few steps inside, closing the door behind me. The ridged rubber soles of my slip-ons made no sound as I walked in. That’s when I saw her.
It was Vienna. She was lying facedown in the entry to the great room. I knew it was her by the huge pink bow on the back of her dress.
“Vienna,” I said, stopping abruptly just a few feet away. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
What a dumb thing to say. If she was okay, why was she lying there like that? She was not okay. I kneeled down next to her and realized she was not breathing. My heart started hammering. She must have fallen and hurt herself. Badly. I put my hands on her bare shoulders and turned her face to one side. She felt cold. There were ugly red marks on her neck. I stood up and screamed…
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Grace Carroll
SHOE DONE IT
DIED WITH A BOW
a Bow
GRACE CARROLL
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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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.
DIED WITH A BOW
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Jennifer Taylor/Paperdog Studio.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-58953-3
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ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
This book is for everyone who loves San Francisco as much as I do. I hope I’ve done the city justice with its well-dressed citizens, its beautiful views and its gourmet dining experiences. Come and see for yourself. But whatever you do, don’t call it Frisco!
One
April in San Francisco is all about layers. Not the layers of fog that blanket the ocean beaches; not the layers of cake that tempt passersby at bakeries like Miette or Tartine. I mean layers of clothing: a sleeveless tunic worn over a polo neck, for example, and paired with leggings and ballerina flats or plain pumps. Under no circumstances should you wear a tight shirt or sweater with your leggings. The overall look must be balanced; the top should be roomy, and the leggings must be fitted. It’s simple really.
That’s what I’d been telling the customers at Dolce’s, the boutique where I’ve worked for the past year. Because in our city surrounded on three sides by water, chilly fog and a brisk wind can sweep over the town without notice in any month and you have to be prepared for them. Sometimes a burst of brilliant warm sunshine gives way to damp mist or, in winter, a heavy downpour. If you ask me, and many
customers do, I would recommend wearing a narrow fitted top under a classic belted trench coat, along with dangling earrings and, in this case, knee-high socks over tights.
Today I was wearing all gray, which looks softer next to the skin than black or navy and is not as boring as it sounds. With a boyfriend blazer smartly layered over a tank top and thin Alexander Wang sweater I love, I headed out the door, confidently carrying my striped canvas tote. Wide-legged pants and strapped loafers made me feel ready to take on the world, or at least Dolce’s regular customers, the rich and well connected to the city’s social scene.
One thing I was not ready for was to be greeted by a stranger at the door of the Victorian mansion Dolce Loren, my boss, had converted into an exclusive shop.
“Hello!” The young woman in satin shorts so full I thought they were bloomers, along with tights, a ribbed long-sleeved T-shirt and patent-leather wedge sling backs invited me inside as if I were a customer and she worked at the boutique. It turned out she
did
work there.
“I’m Vienna Fairchild and welcome to Dolce’s,” she said with a dazzling smile. So dazzling her teeth must have recently been laser whitened.
“Hi, Vienna, I’m Rita. I work here.”
“Rita,” she said, looking puzzled for a moment while she scratched her head. “Where have I heard that name before?” Which made me wonder, was she kidding or was I not in the right place? Had I landed in an alternate universe? “Oh, I know. Dolce mentioned you.”
Mentioned
me? Me, her right-hand girl? That’s funny, I thought, because she hasn’t mentioned you to me.
Right away I could tell things were different and I’d only been gone for two days. I’d taken Saturday off to move into
a smaller, more affordable apartment, and Sunday the shop was closed. While I was gone, the Accessory section had been moved from the foyer with the jewelry. Racks of new clothes were pushed against the far wall of the great room, and our mannequins wore bright, bold spring outfits that I’d never seen before, and if I had, I would never have worn them or dressed anyone, even a fiberglass model, in them. I knew the theme was citrus colors, but someone had gone way too far. I mean, who wants to look like a grapefruit?
I surveyed the shop, feeling a chill of apprehension. Vienna was rubbing her slender ringed fingers together and staring at me as I looked around. Was she thinking, why is Rita wearing so much gray today when clearly spring is in the air?
“How do you like it?” she said. “Don’t you just love, love what I’ve done?”
“You did this?” I asked.
She nodded, waiting for me to go off into ecstasy.
“It’s stunning,” I said. It was. I was stunned. But not in a good way. “So, Vienna, are you…”
“Working here? Yes, I am. Isn’t it amazing? Last week I was wondering what to do with myself, just out of school with a degree in marketing and nothing to market. I thought I’d be perfect as a personal shopper for celebrities who don’t have time to shop for themselves. Or should I be a buyer for a store like Saks or Nordstrom’s? Then my stepmother—I believe you know Bobbi—suggested I move to the city. Next I land a job here at her favorite boutique. How perfect is that? Works for them and it works for me. I mean the suburbs where my parents and their significant others live are way too quiet for me.
Borrring.
So I came in for an interview on Friday night, got hired, and Saturday was my first day.” She sighed, no doubt exhausted from this long speech,
and spread her well-toned arms out wide. She beamed at me and said, “And here I am.”
I tried to beam back, but all I could come up with was a weak smile. How on earth was there going to be room for both of us and my boss Dolce in this chic little store? I got my answer before I could say “Diane von Furstenberg” when Dolce came down the stairs from her apartment above the store.