Died with a Bow by Grace Carroll Page A

bangs she’d achieved without professional help was perfect. She wore a little forest green velvet jacket with a pair of slim cocoa-color pants. But she had huge circles under her eyes that no makeup could cover. I felt so bad for her I wanted to give her a hug, but I sensed she wasn’t in the mood. She just wanted to get through this day. So did I. So did everyone connected with Vienna, I’d bet.
    Shortly after I opened the front door, the great room was full of customers. We’re not usually so busy on a Monday morning, but this was no ordinary day. Everyone seemed to know about Vienna. San Francisco is a small town in some ways, even though we have a big-city symphony orchestra, world-class cuisine and unmatched breathtaking views fromevery hill. Gossip travels fast. And news of the murder had been covered on the local news programs.
    “Where’s Dolce?” Patti French asked the minute she stepped inside our hand-carved antique door.
    “In her office. Can I help?”
    “I can’t believe it. I’m the one who sold you the tickets to the auction, aren’t I? This is my fault. If I’d kept my tickets to myself, Vienna would be alive today.”
    “You mean—”
    “It happened that night, didn’t it? Right here, wasn’t it?” She looked around eagerly, as if she might see signs of the murder, like blood, torn clothes or clumps of blond hair.
    That was the question. Did it happen right here or not? “Patti,” I said, “don’t blame yourself. Vienna would have been at the auction anyway.”
    “I don’t blame myself,” she said. “I blame that madman who killed her.”
    I bit my tongue to keep from asking, “How do you know it was a man?”
    Now a small crowd had gathered around Patti, whose voice was rising with every word. I knew everyone in the room except for one tall dark-haired young woman who was watching and listening like a TV reporter. I sincerely hoped she wasn’t. A murder on the premises was the kind of publicity Dolce didn’t need.
    “Right here?” Monica Sayles asked breathlessly. “But what was she doing here after hours?”
    I shrugged. Good question. How should I know what our newest employee was doing at the shop on a Sunday morning—or was it late Saturday night? Lured here by her attacker? An assignation with someone she knew? Or justa random break-in by a thief whom Vienna caught in the act? Or back to my theory that it didn’t take place here at all and whoever brought her here wanted to blame Dolce or me.
    I wondered if I’d ever be privileged to hear any inside information from anyone. Not if Jack Wall had anything to say about it. He wanted me out of his side of the investigation. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I’d be careful, I’d be discreet, but I wouldn’t be left out.
    I decided to move on to the small accessories alcove, still within hearing distance, but giving the impression that I wasn’t eavesdropping.
    I was just polishing an already perfectly polished silver pendant with turquoise beads when the dark-haired young woman I’d noticed earlier joined me.
    “What can I do for you?” I asked. After all, this
was
a store and we
did
have things for sale. It was not just a gossip fest. It would be different if one of our customers actually knew anything, but so far, all I’d heard was questions. Why, when, how and where?
    “I’m Athena Fairchild, Vienna’s twin sister,” she said.
    I almost dropped the necklace, that’s how startled I was. “Vienna had a twin sister?” I said, dumbfounded.
    “Has,”
she corrected. “I’m still alive, though I must say I’m not feeling entirely confident about my chances after what happened to Vienna. This is a dangerous place.” She gave a quick look over her shoulder as if expecting an assassin to burst in at any moment.
    I stared at Vienna’s twin. “But you don’t look…”
    “Like her? No, we’re fraternal twins. We never looked alike. Never wanted to. Never dressed alike. Never acted alike. Never wanted