Free Murder After a Fashion by Grace Carroll Page A

across from the shop where I work. We had a discussion about my cooking class. She didn’t approve of the teacher.”
    “I know,” he said. “Because she is a chef herself and very proud.”
    “I’m worried,” I confessed. “Meera spoke quite harshly about Guido Torcelli, and later that evening he was murdered.”
    “Yes, she told me. Quite a…how do you say?”
    “A coincidence?” I prompted.
    “Yes, I think so. So you approved of this chef?”
    “He was very good, lots of energy, except for the last time I saw him.”
    “You yourself saw this man? And was he at that time alive?”
    Not again. How many times did I have to say it?
    “Yes, quite alive. Good night,” I said as my bus came around the corner. “I’ll see you soon. And thanks for the tea.”
    “I look forward to seeing you again soon,” he called to me. But he didn’t mention any date. That was my trouble. I had three men I was interested in, but I couldn’t seem to close the deal on any one of them. My fault.
    I slept well that night despite all the caffeine from the coffee with Jonathan and the tea with Nick and my men problem. And the disturbing fortune I’d been given. I like to think it was thanks to my strong belief that the woman knew nothing and that somehow soon the real killer would be found. I told myself before I went to bed that the answer would be clear at the funeral on Thursday. All l I had to do was keep my ears and eyes open.

    On Wednesday Dolce hung an “Out to Lunch” sign on the door before the funeral and we went through the racks looking for our outfits. It wasn’t like this was the first time we’d gone to a funeral together. It was the third. Each one was significant. One was for one of our customers, the other for one of our staff. Today it was someone Dolce didn’t even know and I’d only met twice. What they all had in common was that Detective Jack Wall was convinced I’d had something to do with the murders. It seemed like by now he’d give me a break, wouldn’t you think? I mean, as it turned out I’d had nothing to do with the other murders but something big to do with solving the cases.
    I was determined to continue to do what I could to protect the innocent (me) and bring the guilty to justice. I had no idea who that might be; I just knew it wasn’t me.
    “I appreciate your going with me,” I told Dolce while I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself dressed in a modestly priced black Joseph pantsuit with a frilly white Orvis shirt and a pair of Eric Rutberg Vallanta high-wedge sandals. I could see the expression on Dolce’s face in the mirror. She didn’t look pleased.
    “Too boring?” I asked.
    She nodded. “We both know the rules: dress up to show respect. Don’t wear red. Don’t call attention to yourself. Black is safe. But…” She didn’t need to go on. I knew what she meant. How to make a fashion statement while not saying “Look at me.”
    “I don’t want to call attention to myself,” I said, “and yet I want to make an impression so people will talk to me, spill some dirt so to speak, if that’s not disrespectful.”
    “You’re trying to find Guido’s murderer,” she said. “How much more respectful can you be?”
    “If only everyone saw it that way,” I replied ruefully.
    “Here’s something,” Dolce said, going to the rack of new fall dresses. It was a simple, long-sleeved black sheath from Tahari that hit me right below the knees. For a moment I was shocked. It fit perfectly, but it was almost ordinary. That’s when Dolce pulled out a bold (there she went again) metallic faux-fur jacket from Kate Spade. I tried it on, and she clapped her hands in delight.
    “I knew it,” she said. “With black gloves and sunglasses to hide your puffy eyes from crying, you’ll be sensational. I know, you’re not going to cry, but no one has to know that.
    “And after the funeral, another day perhaps,” she said, “you can wear the jacket with skinny leather