Died with a Bow by Grace Carroll

any case, I’d be speaking off the record if I talked about clues, since I’m not on duty today.”
    “Yes, yes, I understand,” I said. I got the message or I thought I did. But wait. If she wasn’t working today, then why was she here? To shop at an exclusive boutique on a public servant’s salary? “Call me Rita,” I added. “All the customers do.”
    “I’m not a customer…yet. And I can only be one on my day off, Rita. So if I were here to question you—.”
    “Which you aren’t,” I said flatly, daring her to contradict me. “If I can’t show you anything in the shop or help you then…” Then why in hell are you here? What
is
a courtesy call anyway, I wondered.
    “I do have a few questions,” she said. “Nothing official, just between the two of us.”
    Just the two of us? I didn’t believe that for a minute.
    “Are any of your customers friends of Ms. Fairchild’s?
    “I’m not sure,” I said. “At Dolce’s there’s a fine line between customers and friends. We like to think of our customers as our friends. And if this is in regard to the homicide, Detective Wall has already questioned me.”
    “I’m aware of that,” she said. “But there are still more questions.”
    “Of course,” I said. “You have questions and I have questions. Naturally I’m always happy to help. I’ve never met any of Vienna’s friends, although I have actually seen one of her male friends, a man named Geoffrey, and I’ve spokenon the phone to some of her relatives as well as her roommate, Danielle. Is that what you want to know?”
    She was writing all this down on a pad of paper, not her Blackberry—so it wouldn’t look official, I supposed. All the while pretending she wasn’t there on business and yet she didn’t even look at a single item on our shelves or racks.
    When Dolce finally came downstairs, she invited Ramirez into her office and they closed the door. Dolce barely glanced at me. Just when I had a lot of questions to ask her. Question number one: Had she changed her mind about confessing to her whereabouts to save herself from being a suspect?
    I went to the door and listened shamelessly. I had to know if Dolce was going to tell her what happened the night of the murder. Instead, I heard Dolce giving her fashion advice.
    “Play up your curves with a high-waisted printed pant,” Dolce was saying diplomatically.
    “But won’t print pants just make me look like an elephant?”
    Dolce laughed softly. A laugh that said, “That’s just ridiculous.” She was so good at making others feel good about themselves. Not just good, she was a genius.
    Now they were talking underwear. “You need five different bras,” Dolce told Ramirez. “Smooth, strapless, sporty, a black T-back bra and a leisure bra that is comfy and soft.”
    A moment later Dolce came out of her office by herself, and I jumped out of the way. She was walking toward the great room, muttering to herself.
    “Is everything okay?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “Why is she here, really?” I whispered.
    Dolce shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.I want to find her something to wear and send her on her way. Did she tell you it’s her day off?” she said.
    “Only a half dozen times,” I said. “Maybe she says that so we’ll relax, get comfortable and tell her what she wants to know.”
    “Which is?”
    “Who killed Vienna.”
    Dolce shot me a look that said “No way.” Then she opened a drawer in a highboy maplewood dresser and took out a striped sweater. “What do you think?” she asked.
    “Horizontal stripes?” I said. “On Detective Ramirez?”
    “Oh, all right,” she said with a sigh. “But large women can’t wear dark solids all day every day. And it’s a change from her uniform.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “Go for it.”
    Dolce looked at her watch. “Open up, will you? I want everything to appear normal.”
    I looked at her. The new faux bob hairstyle complete with chic feathery