A Fashionable Murder Page 11

  “Check in with the receptionist on the fourth floor,” he said. “Someone up there will help you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Enjoy.”

  The elevator doors opened to reveal three middle-aged women wearing brown robes and bright red plastic thongs; they were all giggling like schoolgirls. “So I’m thinking red highlights,” one was saying as Josie passed by.

  “Oh, you’ll look wonderful . . .”

  The doors closed, ending Josie’s eavesdropping, and she pulled the list from her purse for a last-minute review. Carol believed that the most important thing to discover was whom Pamela was dating now. If nothing else, she thought that information would provide an alternative suspect. Betty and Josie had agreed, but, in fact, Josie was more inclined to look for motives. Josie felt that motive would lead them to other suspects. But she hadn’t bothered to argue the point. She would be thrilled to get any information at all. Both Carol and Betty had assured her that just bringing up the name of a famous person would elicit information. Josie couldn’t imagine that being true.

  The elevator doors opened and Josie found herself on yet another bustling floor. She headed straight for the large desk where an elderly woman was stocking up on cleansers and creams. The total of her bill made Josie blanch, but the woman passed over her American Express card without hesitation. “After all,” she said to the saleswoman, “you can’t take it with you.”

  Josie moved up to the counter as the woman left, staggering under the weight of the three bags she carried. “Hi, I’m Josie Pigeon and I have an appointment for a facial at two . . .”

  “Pigeon? Yes, you’re on with Marguerite. Have you been here before?”

  “Well, I had my hair cut just the other day, but I’ve never been on this floor before,” Josie answered, a bit disappointed that she hadn’t managed to give the impression that Elizabeth Arden was her natural habitat.

  “The dressing rooms are back that way, and I see here that you’re also on the schedule for a manicure and a pedicure. If you tell the woman who runs the cloakroom that, she’ll take care of you.”

  “Fine.” Josie did as she had been told and, fifteen minutes later, she reemerged robed and with her own red plastic thongs. She was offered tea, coffee, or water and, after refusing all, she sat down to wait. She chose the only seat available, between two exceptionally well-groomed young women who were, she discovered, discussing Pamela Peel’s murder.

  “It’s hard to believe she was found murdered like that. I mean, it’s just not the way you think about Pamela Peel. You know, she was always at the big society functions. And she dated famous men—that star of that musical on Broadway last fall.”

  “That’s right! Bob something or other, right?”

  “Yes. It just goes to show, doesn’t it? No one is safe. Not even the rich and famous. Nothing can protect you.”

  “You’re right. I’m thinking of taking a self-defense course.”

  Josie was wondering how she could return the conversation to Pamela Peel when a heavyset blond woman in a white nurse’s uniform called out her name.

  “I’m Josie Pigeon,” she identified herself.

  “I’m Marguerite. If you’ll just come this way.”

  Josie followed Marguerite down a long hallway, stenciled with sayings purportedly made by the late Elizabeth Arden herself, into a small room with a window looking out onto Fifth Avenue. The chair in the middle of the room looked suspiciously like one found in a dentist’s office. A counter to the right was covered with pots, potions, and strange pieces of equipment. Josie took a deep breath; it smelled wonderful.

  “You can put your purse over there and sit down and put your feet up. Relax. This is your time for yourself.”

  Josie did as she was told and found her thongs being slipped off. Then delicious scented cream was rubbed into her feet and hands, and large electric pads were slipped over both.

  “Wonderful.” Josie sighed.

  “Is this your first facial?” Marguerite asked, pulling Josie’s hair back from her forehead and wrapping it in a small white towel.

  Josie suspected Marguerite knew the answer to that one. “Yes. My skin’s not in very good shape. I work outdoors. In the sun and all,” she added.

  “You have lovely fair skin,” Marguerite lied, reaching out and grabbing a large glob of pale green cream from a nearby tub and beginning to smear it all over Josie’s face.

  “Thank you,” Josie said. A small drop of cream slipped into her mouth. It tasted as good as it smelled. “A woman I know recommended you. She said you gave facials to a friend of hers. I don’t remember her name. The name of the friend, that is.” Josie took a deep breath and threw her card on the table. “The woman who recommended you is Pamela Peel.”

  “The decorator.”

  Josie wondered if she had imagined a change in Marguerite’s touch at the mention of Pamela Peel. “Yes.”

  “She was killed just a few days ago.” Marguerite had turned her back on Josie and was removing a white terry-cloth towel from a steaming bowl.

  “Yes. It’s so sad,” Josie added, feeling she had to say something more.

  “Yes. She had lovely skin.”

  “Oh, so you knew her.”

  “Not really . . . I’m going to put this on your face for a few minutes. We need to get to the bottom of those pores. You just close your eyes and relax.”

  Josie had no choice but to obey Marguerite’s directions as she wrapped a warm cloth around her face, leaving her able to breathe, but neither see nor speak. It was disconcerting. She could hear Marguerite walking about, moving things on the counter. But she had no real idea what was going on.

  “I’m going to leave you alone for a moment or two. If you need anything, just call out. Yes?”

  Josie heard the door closing before she could agree or disagree. Oh well, this was her chance to devise a new plan. To figure out another way to mention Pamela Peel. Maybe she would get a better response this time. She could have heard more about Pamela Peel by hanging around the waiting area. . . . Her eyes were closed, her hands and feet were warm, gorgeous cream was sinking into her skin. She hadn’t been sleeping well since coming to the city. And she’d eaten such a big lunch . . .

  Ten minutes later, Marguerite returned to find Josie snoring gently.

  “Did you enjoy your nap?”

  “I . . . I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “Many people do. Especially in the winter. You come in cold and tired. I wrap you up and warm you up. Of course you fall asleep. Now let’s just see what we have here. This will be a little cold. And perhaps it will sting just a bit.”

  Cotton balls soaked in some sort of astringent were used to wipe every last trace of cream from Josie’s face. Then a different cream was layered on and massaged in. Determined to stay awake, Josie moved right to the point. “How did you hear about Pamela’s death?” she asked.

  “Like everyone else, I read about it in the New York Post.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It is all over the Post. The police, they think her old boyfriend did it, you know.”

  “Why do they think that?”

  “She was found in his apartment. In fact,” Marguerite leaned down, possibly to examine Josie’s pores, possibly to impart some significant information. “She was found by his new girlfriend. Probably his much richer and younger girlfriend. You know how some men can be.”

  Josie took a deep breath. “Does the paper say anything like that? About the girlfriend being younger and richer?”

  “No, but I am reading between the lines. You wouldn’t believe the stories I hear working here.”

  “I’m sure. But maybe . . .”

  “And Pamela Peel wasn’t a young woman, you know. I heard that she was thinking seriously about a face-lift.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary? I mean, if she took care of her skin, got regular facials and all . . .” Josie looked up at the unlined face leaning over her. “You h
ave perfect skin.”

  “I have taken care of it. And I have excellent genes. I do not go to plastic surgeon. In Russia, we do not go to doctors unless we have serious problem.”

  “You’re Russian?”

  “I have lived here for over forty years. My training was in Russia. In Russia, beauty culture is very important. At least when I was a girl this was true. Now . . .” She shrugged. “Now who knows?”

  “So you’re one of the internationally trained aestheticians. I read about them in the elevator,” Josie said.

  “Yes, there are many of us here at Elizabeth Arden.”

  “You were talking about Pamela Peel,” Josie reminded Marguerite.

  “Yes. She used to come here.”

  “To see you?”

  “No, I never saw her although I have been here for almost twenty years. See, I have a room with window.”

  “Yes, it’s nice.” Not so much for the client whose eyes were closed while lying in the chair as for the person working, but Josie didn’t say that. “You know the people who worked on Pamela?” Josie prodded.

  “Yes.”

  Josie took a deep breath and decided it was time to tell the truth . . . at least a bit of it. “I’m the woman the paper wrote about.”

  “You’re which woman?”

  “The younger and richer new girlfriend—not that I’m richer. I’m not rich at all, and . . .” She took a breath and threw in her trump card. “I found her. I found the body,” she added when Marguerite didn’t respond.

  “You . . . oh, my goodness. I can’t believe it. You poor thing. No wonder your pores are in such terrible shape. Stress is so bad for the skin.”

  “Yes. But you can see why I want to find out more about her . . . about Pamela Peel. My . . . my friend hasn’t told me much about her and . . .” Josie just stopped talking, having no idea what to add.

  But apparently she had said enough to cause Marguerite to open up. “Pamela Peel was not liked by everyone here, that much I can tell you. And I only tell you this because she no longer comes here. I have a rule. I do not talk about clients no matter how famous.”

  “Why wasn’t she liked?”

  Marguerite squinted at Josie’s nose before answering. “She tipped badly. She tipped very, very badly. And she always wanted something extra. That is not a combination that will make you popular around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, you come in here, you sit down and I do what I do. I am a good facialist and I always do it well. I take pride in what I do. But sometimes there are clients who try to squeeze a bit extra. They ask questions about other services, about more expensive treatments. And, when I answer, they ask for demonstration. Just a little demonstration. They act as though they will come for more expensive treatment next time. What can I do? I spend as little time as possible trying to show them what can be done. But if I act like I’m in a hurry, they don’t tip me. And many times they don’t come back for any treatment. And then I end up late for next client and that client gets mad. This is not good for Elizabeth Arden Salon and Spa and not good for me.”

  “I guess not! And Pamela did this?”

  “That is what I was told. You are going to have manicure and pedicure after me?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “You’re not wearing your shoes, so I know there are more treatments coming. Who is going to do it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I find out. Maybe I can get you someone who knew Pamela more than I do.”

  “That would be wonderful.” Josie only had one problem now: Considering the extra service, how much should she tip Marguerite?

  FIFTEEN

  PEDICURES AND MANICURES were given back down on the second floor so Josie took a moment to see if she could find out how Carol’s research was going. She found her sitting in front of a mirror, dozens of little pieces of foil covering her head, a big smile appearing on her face when she spied Josie.

  “Josie, dear, your skin looks wonderful. Come a bit closer so these old eyes can get a better look. You won’t believe what I’ve learned!” she added in a whisper as Josie did as she was told.

  “What?”

  “I know where Pamela Peel went after she left here!”

  “Where she went . . . you mean where she went to get her hair cut?” Josie asked, catching on.

  “Exactly! And you won’t believe what else.”

  “What?”

  “I think it might be time to wash out your hair.”

  A very young man with very gray hair had joined them. He held a towel in one hand and a comb in the other.

  “This is Arturo. My colorist,” Carol explained.

  “We’re right in the middle of a very complex color process,” Arturo added. “Timing is very important.”

  “Then I’ll go find the woman who’s going to do my feet and hands,” Josie said, heading toward the back of the room.

  “What sort of pedicure are you having, dear?” Arturo asked in a shrill voice.

  “I . . . just the regular kind, I guess.”

  “Oh, treat yourself. We have the most wonderful nail treatments.”

  “Do, Josie, dear,” Carol urged. “Arturo and I are going to be quite a while.”

  Josie smiled weakly and continued on her way. She had been in the city long enough to begin to feel naked without polish on her fingernails, but a pedicure? In the middle of winter?

  “Are you Josie?” A heavyset woman with long red hair appeared by her side.

  “Yes. You’re Anna?”

  “Yes. My place is right over there. What color polish do you want?”

  They had stopped beside a glass case where dozens of bottles of nail enamel were displayed.

  “I . . . I have no idea.”

  “Do you want the same color on your fingers as on your toes?”

  Josie knew it would be easier to make one decision instead of two. “The same please.”

  “Light or dark?” Anna picked up a tiny bottle of pale pink polish.

  “That color’s perfect,” Josie said, relieved to have the decision made for her. She followed Anna’s directions, sat down in a comfortable seat, and looked in the mirror. She was beginning to understand why the large place was full; not only did she look considerably better than she had looked before walking through that famous red door, but she was beginning to feel very relaxed. And under these circumstances, that was quite an accomplishment.

  “Pedicure first?” Anna asked, gently picking up Josie’s feet, sliding off her thongs, and guiding her feet into a large bowl of warm, sudsy water.

  “Sounds good.” Josie wiggled her toes. There were small round things in the water.

  Anna pulled a towel-covered footstool closer, removed one of Josie’s feet from the water, picked up a large, white plastic file and began to scrape at the callus on Josie’s heel.

  “Have you worked here long?” Josie asked. Anna was decades younger than Marguerite.

  “Almost five years. I sometimes think it’s almost time to leave.”

  “Would you go to another salon?”

  “I’d like to own my own place.” Anna laughed. “Most of us would like to own their own place—except for the people who already had their own places. They seem glad to be here working for someone else.”

  “Yes, they’re smarter,” said the elegant black woman sitting at the next nail station, filing her own perfectly oval nails.

  “Trish had her own salon,” Anna explained, looking up at Josie.

  “I own my own company,” Josie said. “I know how difficult it can be.”

  “I don’t know what sort of company you own, but it’s got to be better than owning your own salon,” Trish said.

  “Why?” Josie asked. She was interested and she also knew that letting someone bitch about his or her life was an excellent way to bond. And once they bonded, she would change the topic to Pamela Peel.

  “Lord, where do I start? The real problem with being
an employer is the employees,” Trish began, answering her own question before either Josie or Anna could offer a suggestion. “I had four girls working for me. And they were all good workers. I made sure of that. At the first sign of laziness, I fired them. I set a standard, had high expectations, and hired talented people. After six months, I was making money and I had enough loyal clients to think that would continue forever.”

  “And it didn’t?”

  “Ha! One of my girls’ sisters opened a salon and so she left. A quarter of my business went with her. I ran that business with a twenty percent profit margin. Suddenly losing a quarter of my profits was a disaster.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You see, when a beautician leaves a salon, she takes some—sometimes almost all—of her clients with her.”

  Josie thought of Pamela Peel. “What about when someone leaves here?”

  “Oh, this place is so big and well known that beauticians come and go all the time. Most of the time clients go with someone they like.”

  “And sometimes they come back and find someone else they like here,” Anna added.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know how it is. Every place is different. Clients come here because they like their previous service and they like the place, our ambiance. They don’t necessarily like the place where their beautician ends up.”

  Josie nodded, trying to act like she’d been in lots and lots of beauty salons in her life.

  Anna had picked up a pair of nail clippers and was flicking pieces of toenails onto a towel lying on the floor. “What sort of business do you own?”

  “I’m a contractor.”

  “Really? Your company remodels apartments and all that?” Trish asked.

  “Yes. Although we usually work on single-family homes.”

  “Wow, there aren’t many of them in the city. Do you work outside of Manhattan? In Brooklyn Heights?”

  “I work in a resort area . . . at the shore,” Josie explained.

  “Cool,” Anna said.

  “Too bad you don’t work here,” Trish said, putting down her nail file and standing up. “We could use someone to figure out what’s wrong with the water pipes. Oh, I’ve gotta go. My very late client goes ballistic if she has to wait five minutes for me.”