A Fashionable Murder Read online

  “You were both ambitious,” Josie prompted him.

  “Yes, that goes with being young, of course. But Pamela and I were courageous as well. We decided to jump in with both feet—sink or swim we’d set up our own shop. We had ideas and connections. All we needed was money. You don’t know how difficult it is to get a new business off the ground without cash coming in . . .”

  “Or to stay in business,” Josie jumped in, forgetting that she was supposed to be an upper-class lady of leisure.

  Luckily, Shep Henderson didn’t seem to find her response at all unusual. He sipped his drink and nodded vaguely. Josie wondered if this wasn’t his first drink of the day. “But you two did find the money to start Henderson and Peel,” Josie pointed out, hoping he would start talking again.

  “Yes, my parents allowed me to cash in one of my trust funds and we started our company.” He looked up at Josie with an appealing expression on his face. “We have been very, very successful. Heaven knows what will happen now.” He shook his now empty glass and Josie remembered her duty as hostess.

  “Would you like another?” she asked, getting up.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Josie poured more brandy, glad to have her back to him. She ran her own business, she had met potential clients many times; she had never acted like this. On the other hand, she remembered that after Noel Roberts, the founder of her company had died, she’d felt disoriented, frightened, and in a panic over Island Contracting’s future. She poured the golden liquid into his glass and glanced over her shoulder at Shep Henderson. He had gotten up and was looking closely at the oil painting over the mantel. Oh, Lord, what if he made a comment that required her to know the name of the artist? She took a deep breath and spoke up. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “If you like minor impressionists.” His tone said that he didn’t.

  “Here’s your brandy,” Josie said.

  He looked at the glass she offered with a frown. “Perhaps we should look around your place. I can’t spend all morning here drinking.”

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed, surprised by his response. “Why don’t we start upstairs,” she suggested, trying to take charge.

  “Fine. And you can tell me what you’re thinking of . . .”

  “Oh, um . . .” For a moment Josie couldn’t figure out what he meant. Then she realized that his back was straighter, his eyes brighter, and he had taken a small leather-covered notebook from his breast pocket. Shepard Henderson was back on the job. “I’m thinking simplicity,” Josie explained. “I’m looking for a more spiritual environment.” She could tell from the puzzled expression on his face that Sissy’s words meant as little to him as they had to her. “I want to use things like these . . .” She pointed to the artifacts Sissy had left on the commode. “I’m thinking green plants, orchids . . . um, raw silk . . .”

  “Perhaps we should start upstairs as you suggested.”

  “Excellent idea.” Now she just had to hope that she could find her way around.

  Half an hour later, she showed Shep Henderson to the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said, not worrying about whether or not she was addressing him properly.

  His response was equally abrupt. “Good-bye.” He didn’t suggest that she call him. She closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a sigh. She’d blown it. She had learned nothing. And there was no way Shep Henderson would see her again.

  No decorator wanted a client who couldn’t distinguish the door to her closet from the door of her bathroom.

  THIRTEEN

  “I BLEW IT.”

  “Josie, dear—”

  “Carol, it was a good idea, but I couldn’t pull it off. He never loosened up. He didn’t tell me anything useful. He probably thought I was weird. Hell, of course he thought I was weird. How many women don’t know the way around their own apartment?”

  “You did the best you could,” Betty reminded her. Carol and Josie had joined Betty for lunch in the lobby lounge of The Four Seasons Hotel. JJ’s baby-sitter being previously engaged, the young man was enjoying the first ladies’ lunch of his short life. Carol hadn’t allowed the child to leave her lap since their arrival. Now she was dangling a silver teaspoon in front of him, much to the baby’s delight. Josie was nursing a white wine spritzer, a drink she would normally have avoided, but somehow it seemed appropriate in this large formal space. She leaned back in the comfortable leather chair and sighed. “I had one chance and I blew it.”

  Betty put down her menu and smiled at her baby before turning her attention to Josie. “You do know one thing.”

  “What?”

  “He was drinking early in the morning. Surely that’s interesting.”

  Josie shrugged. “I don’t see why. Maybe he always drinks in the morning. Maybe he’s an alcoholic.”

  “And maybe he’s devastated by Pamela Peel’s death. Maybe he’s worried about the future of Henderson and Peel. Maybe Pamela was the brains behind the business and he’s convinced he can’t carry on without her.”

  “Nice theory,” Josie said, “but what does it prove? Henderson and Peel is a successful business. He’ll find another partner and go on. A company that has a waiting list of clients can’t be in serious financial trouble. Unless things are really different in New York City.”

  “Probably not in this particular case,” Betty agreed with her friend.

  The reappearance of their waitress ended Josie’s speculation. After a rather extended discussion of the menu and the ingredients in various offerings, the young woman headed back to the kitchen with their order and, with a sigh, all three women reached out for the bread basket.

  “I usually don’t . . . ,” Carol began, choosing a baguette.

  “It’s been a long morning,” Josie muttered, picking up a whole-wheat roll spiky with raisins and walnuts.

  Betty laughed and took one of each. “Nothing like nursing to keep your weight down,” she said, adding a large pat of butter to the pile of bread on her small plate.

  They munched quietly, each involved in her thoughts. Josie looked around the large space at the other diners. Tourists, businessmen, tired shoppers, everyone seemed to be occupied with the serious business of eating and drinking. One young woman stood out; thin, with unkempt hair, and dressed in a more artistic manner than the other guests, she sat alone at a small round table devouring a huge, bloody steak.

  JJ closed his eyes and began to doze, eyelids fluttering in what all three women agreed was a charming manner. But the appearance of their waitress with plates of lobster salad, crab cakes, and grilled shrimp returned them all to the subject at hand.

  “So what do we do now?” Josie asked, picking up her lobster-filled baguette and taking a large bite.

  Betty smiled at the waitress, who was waving well-manicured fingertips at her now awake son, then returned her attention to the topic. “What about finding Pamela’s friends and—”

  “Carol and I don’t think her friends would talk with us,” Josie interrupted. “After all, why would they? And how are we going to explain our interest?”

  “I suppose you’re right. Not many people are comfortable discussing the lives of people they hardly know with strangers.” Betty stopped speaking and reached over to take her son’s sock out of his mouth and replace it on his foot. She removed a big plastic ring with bright colored wooden keys hanging on it from her purse and offered it to the child. He frowned and returned his attention to the empty spoon Carol had offered him. Betty shrugged and picked up her fork.

  “My dears, it’s not one’s friends who know our secrets. It’s the people who take care of us who know the truth about our lives.” Carol stopped speaking and placed a dab of tartar sauce in the exact center of her crab cake.

  “You mean doctors?” Josie asked, mystified.

  “Perhaps one’s plastic surgeon or psychiatrist. But I was thinking of the more intimate caregivers—one’s hairdresser, manicurist, masseuse, nutritionist . . . you know.”

/>   Josie didn’t, but Betty jumped right on Carol’s band-wagon.

  “Then maybe we should go back to Elizabeth Arden,” she said.

  Josie was astounded. “Betty, Sam may be arrested for murder. What difference does it make how we look?”

  “We’re not going to work on our appearance. We’re going to get information. We’re going to talk to the people who worked on Pamela Peel’s looks.”

  “Brilliant!” Carol cried out, beaming. “Betty, you’re brilliant! We’ll spread out all over the city. We’ll find her hairdressers, manicurists, masseuses, personal trainers, nutritionists . . .”

  “You are kidding” was Josie’s response.

  “Why not? There are three of us. Well, four if you count JJ. We should be able to interview a dozen people easily.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Josie protested. “I just can’t believe that Pamela would go to so many people. No wonder she looked so great all the time.”

  “Josie dear . . . ,” Carol began.

  “How do you know that?” Betty asked directly. “How do you know how she looked? I thought you told me you’d never met her. And you can’t judge by a cover story in a magazine. They probably brought in makeup artists and professional photographers.”

  “You’re right, we never met. Well, not officially, but, well . . .” Josie glanced over at Carol before continuing. She hated for Carol to hear this, but . . . “Sam has all these photo albums on the shelf in his closet. I was going through them last night after we got home. I mean, I told him I was going to look through them and he didn’t seem to care. He was busy . . . on the phone with someone.” She hoped she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt.

  Carol reached over and placed a hand on Josie’s sleeve. “Oh, my dear, this trip is really not working out as anyone planned, is it?” she asked, a sad expression on her face.

  Josie took a deep breath and decided not to whine. “No, but the important thing is keeping Sam out of jail.”

  “Good for you!” Carol perked right up. “We must focus. There’s nothing we can’t do if we put our minds to it.” She reached down and picked up her spacious green suede handbag and rummaged around in it. “I don’t know why I can never find a pencil or paper . . .”

  Their waitress, ever attentive, reappeared holding a small bowl of creamy rice pudding. “I told the chef there was a baby out here and she sent this out. She says her son lived on it for his first year.”

  “How wonderful!” Betty beamed. “Thank you!”

  “Can I get anything else for you?”

  “I don’t suppose you could dig up a pencil and some paper?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I’ll be right back!”

  Betty picked up a spoon and dipped the tip of it into the pudding and took a taste. “Delicious,” she said and offered a few grains of rice to her son.

  “I thought we were going to focus on keeping Sam out of jail,” Josie reminded them.

  “We are. Just as soon as we have something to write with and on. I like to start out with a list,” Carol explained. “My second husband was in advertising and he was always talking about brainstorming. I think, this once, we just might take his advice.”

  “What are we brainstorming about?”

  “We need a list of the professionals Pamela went to see regularly over the years—hairdressers and the like. And then we need to figure out exactly who these people are. And then we need to go see them.”

  “And what makes you think we’ll be more successful than I was with Shep Henderson this morning?” Josie asked ruefully.

  “Oh, but it won’t be like this morning,” Carol protested. “These people will know that we’re interested in learning who killed Pamela Peel. We won’t have to pretend to be someone else.”

  “What?”

  Their waitress appeared with three little pads of paper imprinted with the name of the hotel and three white pencils similarly embossed and Carol repeated her suggestion. “We need to make a list of all the people we’re talking about— hairdressers and the like—and then we need to make appointments to see them!”

  “But—,” Josie started.

  “Fantastic!” Betty interrupted.

  “But how will we find them?” Josie asked so loudly that everyone in the room glanced in their direction.

  “Find who, dear?” Carol asked, putting down her fork and directing all her attention at Josie.

  “Find these people—the people who took care of Pamela Peel. It’s not as though we have her address book to go through.”

  “An address book—or her Palm Pilot would be a big help,” Betty agreed.

  “Oh, we’ll find them easily enough,” Carol said blithely. “We have to find only one or two and they will lead us to others. If we’re lucky, we should be finished in less than forty-eight hours.”

  “Of course,” Betty agreed. “That’s why I mentioned Elizabeth Arden. When we were there yesterday, the woman who does my hair—”

  “And does it wonderfully, dear. I was going to tell you how much I love the new style,” Carol said.

  “I miss having long hair, but, with JJ, it’s just so much easier to have short hair,” Betty said, momentarily diverted.

  “Someone was going to explain how we’re going to find these people,” Josie reminded her easily distracted companions.

  “And we really need to make that list, remember,” Carol said.

  “Okay, list first,” Betty said, passing out the pads and pencils to the women and offering her son the crust of a whole-wheat roll, which he gladly accepted, using it to poke himself in the eye a few times before finding his mouth.

  “Hairdressers. Colorist. Manicurist. Personal trainer . . .”

  “How do you know she had a personal trainer?” Betty asked.

  “Ha! I was talking about losing weight once—you know how you do—and Pamela suggested that I might be better off adding some muscle instead of trying to lose fat. And she offered the name of her trainer.”

  “Then you have a name.”

  “Heavens no. This was years ago. And I never even considered going to a personal trainer so I didn’t bother to remember the name. But I do know that she had one,” Carol explained. “And,” she added a bit too loudly, “I do believe I lost some of that weight.”

  “I sure could use the name of a good personal trainer,” Betty said. “Maybe someone who would come to the apartment while JJ naps . . .”

  “So you have a perfect excuse to interview Pamela’s trainer,” Carol said.

  “If we find him,” Josie reminded them.

  “Yes, if we find him,” Carol said, ripping a sheet of paper off the pad and handing it to Betty. “I have another name, not that you need it, but I understand that this woman is the best in the business. And I’ve known her mother for years. So drop my name and she’ll take you on as a new client.”

  Betty blushed. “Thank you. This is wonderful,” she added, putting the paper in her purse.

  “Can we possibly get back to the business at hand?” Josie asked, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

  “Of course,” Carol said as though she had never even considered anything else. “Masseuse. Everyone who hires a personal trainer has a masseuse. And I’m sure she had facials. It’s possible that she had a lot of these things done at the same salon.”

  “Oh, that’s what I was saying before. She used to go to Elizabeth Arden. Remember, Josie?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “It’s just possible that she had everything done there— hair, fingernails, toenails, facials, whatever—and when her hairdresser left and she followed her . . .”

  “Or him,” Carol put in.

  “Or him,” Betty agreed. “Anyway, it’s possible that we only have to find where her hairdresser went after leaving Elizabeth Arden to discover all these other people we’re talking about.”

  “So what are we going to do? We just had our hair done yesterday,” Josie reminded Betty. “And I assume we can
’t just call on the phone and ask a lot of questions about clients.”

  “No, but—”

  “But I think I could use a haircut and maybe a new color.” Carol spoke up.

  Josie smiled. She had always thought Carol’s hair a bit outrageous, but . . .

  “And I know Josie could use a manicure, pedicure, and definitely a facial.”

  “I—,” Josie began her protest.

  “Pamela Peel used to swear by weekly facials,” Carol added, clinching her argument.

  FOURTEEN

  JOSIE FELT MORE confident the second time she walked through the famous red door into Elizabeth Arden. Her hair was styled. She was wearing a fashionable outfit bought less than twenty-four hours ago at Saks Fifth Avenue. She knew which button to press in the elevator. . . .

  Well, she realized, at least this time, she knew which button to press if she wanted the hair salon, but she and Carol were going to part there and then Josie would have to find her way to the woman who was scheduled to give her her first facial.

  Betty had set up an appointment for Carol to see her hairdresser and, as Carol was expected to be busy for well over an hour, Josie had been scheduled for a facial, a manicure, and a pedicure. Of course, Josie reminded herself, the point wasn’t beautification, but information. Carol was convinced that all they were required to do was bring up Pamela Peel’s name for the information to flow. Josie hoped so. She had insisted on spending some time while they shared two amazingly rich desserts making a list of questions. That list was tucked in her purse, ready for her to consult.

  “Now where are we going to meet when we’re done?” Josie asked as Carol was whisked off to her appointment.

  “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll find you.” Carol waved over her shoulder as she disappeared down the dark hallway toward the dressing rooms.

  “I’m scheduled to have a facial, but I’m not sure where to go,” Josie told the elegant young man behind the circular desk that dominated the floor.