Free Murder After a Fashion by Grace Carroll Page B

pants and a tank top. How cool!”
    “You really think…”
    “I do,” she said. “I think it’s sensational. Wait until our detective sees you. I think I know what the verdict will be—too gorgeous to be guilty.”
    “So he’ll drop all previous charges?” I asked her as I walked around the shop in what I hoped was a runway strut just to see what it felt like.
    “Only guilty of looking fabulous,” she said.
    “What about you?” I asked, feeling guilty for focusing on myself so much.
    “I’ll wear my old black suit. It’s classic, and I’m not there to impress anyone. I just want to blend in and fade into the woodwork.”
    “And keep your ears open.”
    “Will do,” she promised, and then we were off in a cab to the classic Italian church, with its twin spires and gleamingwhite stone exterior, in the heart of North Beach. It was so Italian it was once known only as La Chiesa de Italia de Ovest.
    Standing at the entrance, Jack was dressed appropriately in a timeless, elegant black Italian suit, by Boggi if I wasn’t mistaken, a Versace silk striped tie and polished Calvin Klein slip-on dress shoes.
    “Good to see you, Rita,” he said solemnly. “You look very nice. You too, Dolce.”
    I looked better than nice in my feathery faux-fur jacket and sunglasses. I knew it. He knew it too. I could tell from the way he was looking at me. It gave me a warm glow under the faux fur.
    “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Nothing like an Italian funeral for tradition, last rites, prayers, mass, remarks and all that. Last chance to see Guido. Or…I mean, is he, um, available for viewing?” I stammered.
    “I believe so,” he said. “It looks like an open coffin.”
    “Good,” I said to myself. I wanted to see him, and most of all I wanted to see who else wanted to see him either to pay their respects or to be sure he was dead. Who would it be?
    “I thought maybe you’d come for the reception and the food afterward,” he suggested.
    “Well, there is that. I was glad to hear they were holding it at my cooking school.”
    Dolce and I proceeded inside where we sat in the back so we could watch everyone come in. “Tell me if you see anyone who looks suspicious,” I whispered to Dolce.
    “What do you mean?” she asked, craning her neck to watch the mourners arriving.
    “Someone who looks overly upset, like they’re putting on an act,” I whispered. “Orsomeone who looks too happy, like they’re really not sad at all. Or someone who looks nervous, like they’re worried they’ll be accused of murder.”
    Dolce nodded as if she understood. “Some people are going up to look at his body,” she said to me.
    My heart started to flutter. I thought I’d have no problem surveying the corpse, but now that I was within walking distance of the coffin, I wondered if I could handle it.
    “What’s wrong?” Dolce asked. “You look pale.”
    “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just…”
    “Nervous?”
    “A little. I mean, it’s not like it’s my first funeral, my first open casket. But…”
    “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.
    “Do you want to?”
    “Not really. But I will. I mean, I should. But I’ll go up by myself and have a look first. You stay here. I’ll just see how he looks and be right back.”
    I nodded. Sometimes I didn’t understand Dolce at all. But a dead body can have a weird effect on the most normal people. Which was why I stood watching while Dolce strode purposefully up to the open casket. She stood there for a long moment, then turned and walked back. Her face was pale and her eyes wide.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m shocked,” she said.
    “I can see that. I should have gone with you.”
    “No, I had to do it by myself. To see for myself…”
    “To see what?”
    “If it was him. The man who came into the shop last week. And it was. It was him. It was while you were out to lunch.”
    My mouth fell open. “You didn’t say