A Fashionable Murder Read online

  Josie resisted becoming involved in Elizabeth Arden’s plumbing problems and peered down at her feet as Anna replaced one foot in the water and pulled out the other. “Oh, it’s bleeding . . .”

  “No, no. That’s just a rose petal,” Anna explained, removing the deep red oval from Josie’s big toe.

  Josie leaned over and realized that there were many petals floating in the water. “And what are the little round things in the bottom of the bowl?”

  “Small disks of glass. I don’t know why we put them in the water for pedicures and manicures, but we do.”

  “Oh. Actually, they feel good.”

  “That’s the point . . . the flower petals are more for looks, I think.” Anna glanced over her shoulder and saw that Trish had vanished. “Marguerite told me that you’re interested in Pamela Peel.”

  “Yes. When did you talk to her?”

  “She found me in the employees’ lounge before I came out onto the floor. Everyone back there is talking about the murder, but she said you actually know some of the people involved and that you found the body.”

  “Yes, I found her. But I’ve never met her.”

  “She was coming here when I started working.” Anna frowned. Josie didn’t know whether it was the memory of Pamela Peel or her flat little toe, which was causing the distress. She waited, hoping for an explanation.

  “Pamela Peel almost got me fired,” Anna continued, still frowning. “I was glad when she left here.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was partly my fault. I know that now. But I was young and new and so happy to be working in such a nice place.”

  “What happened?” Josie repeated the question.

  “Well, I wasn’t assigned to her right away. But I was so thrilled to see someone famous.”

  “You knew about her then?” Josie asked, amazed by just how famous a decorator could be.

  “I did not know who she was, I mean she wasn’t like a movie actor, but she was pointed out to me by someone else. And I was warned that she was very particular, that she wanted everything done exactly the way she wanted. So I was very worried when I was told that she was in a hurry and wanted a pedicure while she was having her nails done. I knew my job depended on her liking me.”

  “And she didn’t?”

  “No, we got along just fine. She was nice. I was nervous, of course, and the very first thing I did was spill a pan of water on the floor next to her. She laughed and told me not to worry about it. And I gave her a pedicure—an excellent pedicure. And she appreciated it so much that she asked for me the next time she made an appointment. I was thrilled. So thrilled that I ignored the fact that she hadn’t tipped me that first time. Of course, I wasn’t so thrilled when she didn’t tip me the next time either. But she always said she was going to bring me more clients and I knew that was the most important thing. So I tried not to mind.”

  “But you did.”

  “A bit. But she came back week after week, which was important.”

  “Did she talk about herself, her life?”

  “Oh yes, she was always talking about the parties she was going to and the famous people’s homes she was decorating. But she never talked about personal things like some women do.”

  “You mean who she was dating.”

  “Not really. She talked about who she dated—but more like trophies, not like many clients who worry about men, about themselves. You know we hear many, many things from clients. They tell us their fears, hopes, dreams, and about their affairs. But not Pamela Peel, she does not let down her hair . . . her guard . . . and let anyone get into her life. And then, one Friday she not show up for her appointment and I hear that KiKi—her hairdresser—has gone to . . . to another place and Pamela Peel has gone with her. Right before the holidays too.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Tips. Regular clients give good Christmas tips.” Anna shrugged. “I’m being foolish. There was no way I would have gotten a tip from her. I have had clients like her since then. They always seem to be away—on a cruise or in the Caribbean or someplace wonderful—when it is time for the big tip. Oh well.”

  Josie’s feet were done, each toe pink with polish and warm cream. Anna turned her attention to Josie’s hands.

  Josie was silent for a moment. All she seemed to be learning was that Pamela had been self-absorbed, well groomed, and cheap. Josie couldn’t imagine how any of these things might have led to her murder.

  “When Pamela Peel was coming here, she wasn’t so famous. And no matter what she said, I didn’t think she was so rich as she was always trying to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Anna took the time to examine Josie’s cuticles before she responded. “You must understand. There are many different types of rich people. They do not fall into one group. They are all different. Some are warm and wonderful and generous. Some are not so nice. Some are smart. Some stupid. You know what I’m trying to say.”

  “I think so.”

  “But all rich people are rich. They may not want to part with their money, but they have certain expectations.”

  “I’m not following you,” Josie admitted.

  “Pamela Peel did not strike me as rich. She was not comfortable with her money.”

  “You mean she was cheap,” Josie said.

  “No, just because a client has money doesn’t mean she— or he—wants to give it away. But rich people do not have to worry about what things cost. If they want something, they can buy it. That is not the same as throwing money away. It’s just that they have the . . . the resources to have and to do what they want.”

  “And you got the impression that things weren’t like that for Pamela,” Josie guessed.

  Anna sighed. “Do you want me to trim this cuticle?”

  Josie looked down at her hand. “Whatever you think. So you don’t think Pamela was as rich as she claimed to be.”

  “What I think is that money was too important to her.”

  “Because she was careful with it?”

  “No, because she loved showing off what she had bought. I thought it might be why she was such a good decorator. She lived for the display of wealth.”

  Josie frowned. That didn’t sound at all like a description of Sam’s place. “You said she almost got you fired,” she reminded Anna.

  “Yes, after she left.”

  “What? How did she do that?”

  Anna put down her nail file and clippers and looked at Josie. “You must understand. She never complained about me when she was here. Never. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

  “But after she left . . .”

  “Stories came back to us that she was telling other clients at this new place that I had caused an infection, that I did not sterilize my tools.”

  Josie looked down at the metal clippers now lying on a towel by her hands.

  “I always keep my things clean. Everyone here knows how important that is. No one has ever gotten an infection or a fungus or anything from a manicure or pedicure I gave. Never!”

  “Who told you about this?”

  “My clients stopped coming to see me. I was puzzled and worried, of course. But then a woman whose nails I’d been doing for years asked me how clean my equipment was, and told me why she was worried. She had heard from a friend, a friend who followed Pamela Peel to the new salon, that I had caused Pamela Peel to almost lose a nail. I was very, very upset.”

  Josie frowned. She didn’t know how to ask her next question without sounding like she doubted Anna’s story. But she had to ask. “Why would Pamela Peel tell lies about your work?”

  “That’s just it. I have no idea. Except for the lack of tips, I never got the feeling that she was unhappy with my work. She came to see me week after week. She told her friends about me. She always said she liked my work.” Anna shook her head and shook the bottle of nail polish at the same time. “I have no idea why she would lie about me. Unless, of course, she was trying to make an
excuse for not tipping.”

  Trish returned with her client and Anna stopped talking.

  SIXTEEN

  CAROL’S HAIR LOOKED weird. There were four, maybe five, different shades of blond and red layered one upon the other. What might have been interesting and chic on a younger woman was just plain bizarre on the head of a woman well past sixty. Or so Josie thought, glancing at her as they walked up Fifth Avenue together.

  “Awful, isn’t it?” Carol said, grabbing the collar of her mink coat and pulling it up around her head. “I had a terrible time convincing Arturo to do it. The poor man must think I have the worst taste of anyone in the city.”

  “Then why did you ever have it done?”

  “So we can check out this new place where Pamela Peel went. I’ll call up, complain about the horrible job done at Elizabeth Arden, and beg for an appointment. Corrective coloring is very expensive. I’ll bet they start to drool before I finish. I just hope my hair doesn’t fall out before we find Pamela’s killer.”

  Josie, who knew just how much Carol cared about her appearance, smiled. For Carol, this was one of those big sacrifices that mothers make for their children—even after those children had grown up. “But, what about me? I think my hair looks okay and . . .”

  “You’re going to find a nutritionist. You need to go on a diet.”

  “Carol . . . Oh, you mean I’m going to go to Pamela’s nutritionist.”

  “Yes, if we can find him. I have an address and phone number, but they may not be current. Anyway, you should eat a lot for dinner tonight. Tomorrow you may be living on baby lettuces and lemon juice.”

  Josie had no intention of going on any diet, but that wasn’t the issue now. “Anna, the woman who did my nails, had nothing good to say about Pamela Peel. Among other things, she didn’t tip.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought she was cheap . . . Maybe she just didn’t rely on the good opinion of the people who worked for her. . . . Josie, that’s it! That’s the next place we look!”

  “Where?”

  “Pamela hired workers, workers like you and the women you hire. We should find them and talk to them. They might have some very interesting insights, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Do you think one of them might have killed her?”

  Carol frowned. “I have no idea. I just wish we could find out who she was dating before she died.”

  “Or maybe more about her family. Carol, is it possible that we’ve been going about all this in the wrong way? Shepard Henderson didn’t tell us anything, and, so far, we haven’t heard anything significant from the spa.”

  “Let’s give this spa thing one more day. I can’t believe any woman would spend hours, days even, having her hair and nails done and getting facials and massages—and not give away some of the personal details about her life.” A man walking what looked to Josie to be at least a dozen dogs passed by, and Carol paused to smile at a little Yorkie struggling to keep up with the retrievers, Dalmatians, and collies in the group. Then she turned her attention back to Josie. “You know, I was wondering if we might ask Betty for some help.”

  “I don’t know when she has a sitter.”

  “I was hoping she could do some phone work for us.”

  “Phone work?” Josie repeated the words as she followed Carol around the corner. A blast of icy wind nearly took her breath away as it blew grit into her eyes. “What sort of phone work?” she asked when she was able to speak again.

  “If we can convince Betty to call a lot of contractors, as though she’s having some work done in her apartment, and ask for references from Peel and Henderson—or some such story—she might be able to discover the names of some of the workers—carpenters and, you know, other people like that—who worked for Peel and Henderson. And then we could figure out a way to ask them questions about Pamela.”

  Josie, who hoped that anyone who worked for her—“carpenters and, you know, other people like that”—wouldn’t talk about her behind her back, especially if she had just died, didn’t answer.

  “We have to find out who killed her before Sammy is arrested for something he didn’t do,” Carol reminded her.

  “Of course. I was just . . . just thinking that maybe we should find out where Pamela lived and talk to her neighbors. That’s what I’d do if we were back home. Of course, I don’t know how we’d find out where she lives.”

  “That’s not a problem. I know where she lives. But, you know, Josie dear, things aren’t quite the same here as they are on your island.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, dear, you can’t just go knocking on doors and asking questions. You can’t even get to most people’s front doors.”

  Josie thought about Sam’s doorman and nodded. A half dozen little girls, dressed in light blue uniforms as well as an assortment of boots, parkas, and hats raced down the sidewalk giggling despite the weight of massive packs on their narrow shoulders. They were followed by two stern-looking nannies who seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to their charges as they chatted in a language Josie didn’t recognize. “Where did she live?” Josie asked.

  “A few blocks from here.” Carol pulled back her suede glove and checked her Cartier watch. “We have the time to walk by there, if you’re curious.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then we can cross over on Sixty-seventh. And you can tell me everything you learned from Anna on the way.”

  Josie did as Carol asked, although there was little to tell. But their walk, as Carol had said, wasn’t long and in a few minutes they were standing on Park Avenue in front of a large prewar apartment house. “This is it. Pamela lived on the fifth floor. She had a one-bedroom place, but there’s lots of space in these old buildings. She used the maid’s suite for an at-home office.”

  “Maid’s suite?”

  “It sounds more impressive than it is. A small bedroom, a tiny sitting area, and bath behind the kitchen. There’s usually only one minuscule window that looks out on an air-shaft. Almost no one uses them for servants anymore, but the space is invaluable for nurseries, home offices, and the like. I would have adored one when Sammy was growing up. You can’t imagine how his toys and clutter used to absolutely fill our apartment. There were a few years there when you couldn’t cross the Orientals in your bare feet for fear of stepping on one of those horrid little green plastic soldiers. Dreadful!”

  “Tyler and I had the same sort of problem with G.I. Joe action figures,” Josie said. Although, of course, she had never owned an Oriental carpet in her life. “I don’t suppose you know anyone else in this building?” she asked.

  “No, sorry. I have a friend who lives up a block. . . .”

  “Well, then you could ask her. It’s likely that she might know someone who lives just around the corner.”

  Carol chuckled. “Josie, dear, you know nothing at all about New York City.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “We should get going. Sammy will be at my place in less than fifteen minutes and I need to stop at the bakery on the way.”

  “I thought we were just going to have cocktails at your place and then go on to a nearby restaurant.”

  “We were, but I was thinking that perhaps we could stay home this evening. Sammy might even be convinced to chat about his life with Pamela if we can get him to relax.”

  “Why do you think that’s more likely to happen at home in your apartment? Carol, you don’t want anyone to see your new hairdo!”

  “Well, dear, you may not know your neighbors in the city, but, believe me, all you have to do is appear in public looking terrible for everyone you’ve met in the past ten years to show up.”

  Carol Birnbaum lived on one of the top floors of a high-rise apartment house built during the building boom of the late eighties. She and Josie had stopped at a fabulous bakery on the way and Josie carried a shopping bag filled with a selection of bread and rolls, each one purported to be “Sammy’s favorite,” as the
y walked into the apartment. The foyer opened onto the living room and they could look out the wall of windows to a fabulous view of downtown New York City. The women paused for a moment to enjoy the sight, and then Carol reached out and switched on the lights.

  “The kitchen is to your right,” Carol said.

  But Josie wasn’t listening. She walked slowly into the living room, looking around. “Carol, this is gorgeous.”

  And it was. The walls were painted a soft apricot. Two couches, upholstered in rich gold silk, had deeper jewel-toned silk pillows tossed on them. A jade green mantel surrounded a fireplace on the wall across from the windows. Large glass lamps stood on enameled end tables. And gold sconces with cream-colored candles shared the wall space with golden frames around large, colorful, modern water-colors. A big Samarkand carpet pulled all the elements together and walking across its cushioning nap was a pleasure after the hard sidewalks and streets outside.

  “Thank you.” Carol was hanging her fur in the closet next to the front door so Josie couldn’t see her face, but she sounded rather strange.

  “Carol! Henderson and Peel decorated this place, didn’t they?” Josie asked, suddenly understanding Carol’s uncharacteristic reticence.

  “Yes. Well, Pamela did. Yes.” Carol sighed. “If only I’d gone with another decorating firm.” She sighed again. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll get out some munchies, pour some wine, and tell you all about it.”

  The kitchen was as marvelous as the living room. The cabinets were black cherry, the countertops pink granite, the tile and paint on the walls a deep eggplant. The combination was unusual, but it worked. Josie made a mental note to remember this the next time Island Contracting was hired to remodel a kitchen. Three stools, their seats covered with plum silk, were tucked underneath the counter. Josie pulled one out, perched on it, and waited for Carol to explain.

  “You may know that Sammy has dated a lot of women,” she started.

  “Of course.” She didn’t like it, but she knew it.

  Carol sighed. “But no one for very long. His girlfriend in college joined the Peace Corps the week they graduated. There was a woman in law school who I thought he might be serious about, but then she accepted a position with a law firm in San Francisco and he came back to New York. Here . . . well, playing the field is easy for a good-looking young professional in the city. There are thousands of single women looking for straight, successful men. Sammy just couldn’t seem to settle on one. And then he came over to see me one evening after a long day in court and met Pamela Peel.”