Free Shoe Done It by Grace Carroll Page B

actually calling on a personal matter.”
    A personal matter? My heart pounded and I reached for my water bottle to soothe my dry throat. What did that mean?
    “One of my patients plays in a trio at the Café Henri—it’s a little French bistro kind of place.”
    “I’ve heard of it,” I said. What I’d heard from customers was that it was small, elegant, pricey and a place I could never afford to go to. I gripped my phone tightly, still breathless from the shock of having my Greek god doctor actually call me. I wondered what was coming next. Maybe instructions to change my bandage. No, he said it was personal. Maybe he wanted me to pick out something for his mother’s birthday from our jewelry collection.
    “I promised Daniel I’d go hear him play this weekend,” he said. “I wondered if you’d like to go with me Sunday night. If you like jazz and French food, that is.”
    “I love jazz and all kinds of food,” I said. “And I’d love to go.” A date. An actual date with an eligible professional man. If I’d had two good ankles, I would have stood up and shouted it to the skies. I wanted to phone Aunt Grace. I had to tell Dolce first.
    Dr. Rhodes, Jonathan that is, said he wouldn’t be at the hospital on Wednesday for my follow-up appointment, but he took my address and said he’d pick me up at seven on Sunday.
    After I hung up, I sat there staring at the wall in a state of semishock. Unlike my so-called lunch date today where Detective Wall was no doubt going to soften me up then try to find out who killed MarySue, this was a real date. With no hidden agenda as far as I knew. My first date in a whole year. It had nothing to do with shoes, murder or anything. Except for the fact that because of the shoes, I’d gone to MarySue’s that night, then fallen off the ladder, then was taken to the ER. If not for those events, I’d be sitting at home on Sunday night as usual. So though I was sorry MarySue had stolen the shoes, and sorry I had a sprained ankle, and sorry MarySue had been murdered in the park, I was glad I hadn’t broken my neck when I fell off the ladder and even happier that I’d met Dr. Rhodes. What would those two chatty nurses say if they knew?
    I couldn’t wait to tell Dolce. When I swiveled around, I realized Peter had finally left. The stack of shoes and the issue of Vogue he’d been looking at were gone too. Couldn’t he buy his own magazine?
    I hobbled to the door and waved to Dolce, who was artfully tying a silk scarf around the neck of a customer. A few minutes later, she entered the office.
    “Dolce, you won’t believe who just called and asked me out.”
    “Jim Jensen?” she asked.
    My eyes widened. “Jim? You don’t think . . . I mean, MarySue is barely cold in her grave, if she’s even in her grave yet. He couldn’t possibly be . . .” The idea of dating Jim Jensen whether he was a wife-murderer or not made me a little nauseous.
    “Of course not,” she said soothingly. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that I can’t help thinking about him. And wondering . . .”
    “If he killed her?” I said.
    She didn’t say anything, just stared off in space for a long moment. Then she said, “I don’t know if you heard MarySue say that Jim would kill her if he found out she’d bought the shoes.”
    I nodded. “But people say things like that all the time.”
    “And sometimes they mean it.”
    “Should I tell the detective?”
    “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” Dolce said. “I do know withholding evidence is a crime.”
    I shivered, picturing myself in the county jail awaiting trial, missing my date . . . I had to tell the detective what I’d heard. It was just crazy not to. If Jim killed his wife, it was better to find out as soon as possible.
    “Dolce, my doctor just called me.”
    “Is it bad news?” she asked, leaning down to grasp my hand, mistaking my trembling voice for fear instead of excitement.
    “No, no, he asked me out on a date.