A Fashionable Murder Page 13

  “Love at first sight?” Josie asked, hoping the answer was no.

  “Yes.”

  Oh well. “You must have been pleased,” Josie said, hoping she didn’t sound as shaky as she felt.

  “I was thrilled. Pamela was exactly what I had been hoping for for Sammy—gorgeous, successful, intelligent, ready to settle down and have children—Do you think Sammy would like olives or artichokes marinated in herbs?”

  “I . . .” Josie was too surprised by the change of topic to make an intelligent comment.

  “We’ll have both,” Carol continued without waiting for an answer to her question. She emptied two plastic pint containers on a large black pottery platter and surrounded the resulting mounds with disks cut from a long baguette. “Sammy’s not eating enough to keep an ant alive.”

  “Do you think he’s upset that Pamela’s dead?” Josie asked.

  Carol’s head was in her refrigerator and she either didn’t hear or didn’t choose to answer Josie’s question. “There!” She reappeared with a large chunk of cheese. “This is Spanish. I can’t remember its name . . . starts with an M. Sammy will love it. What were you saying, dear?”

  “I . . . nothing. You were telling me about Pamela and Sam’s relationship,” she reminded her.

  “Well, now that I think of it, there’s not all that much to tell. They started dating, went everywhere together. They went on vacation together. Even rented a summer place out on the island . . . Long Island,” she explained in case Josie hadn’t picked up on the reference. “They did everything together except make plans for the future.”

  “You mean they didn’t become engaged to be married,” Josie said quietly.

  “Exactly. I never understood it. Even after she decorated his place, they said nothing publicly about the future. And then, suddenly, Sammy announced he was going to change careers. And a few months later he was gone and a photo of Pamela Peel on the arm of a very rich venture capitalist was on the society page of the Sunday New York Times.”

  “You said . . . When you were talking about the night Sam took you and Pamela to the Rainbow Room, I got the impression that he wanted the three of you to be close,” Josie said.

  “Close.” Carol stood in the middle of the kitchen, a bottle of Cabernet in one hand, a corkscrew in the other, as though mulling over the question. “We did a lot of things together. I couldn’t say I was close to Pamela. She . . . she never really let me share her life.” She put the wine on the counter and looked up at Josie with a smile. “She was nothing like you, dear. You’ve been so sweet and let me into your life. You know how I feel about you and Tyler. . . .”

  Just when Carol might have gone on and given Josie a hint concerning what she thought her own future with Sam might be, a buzzer interrupted them. Carol’s face broke into a wide smile and Josie realized, for the first time, just how anxiously she had been awaiting her son’s appearance.

  As Carol hurried off to open the door for Sam, Josie sat and reminded herself that finding the identity of the person who had killed Pamela was the important thing. Once there was no longer any danger that Sam would be arrested, she would worry about whether or not she had met him on the rebound and if they had a future together.

  “Good God, Mother. What the hell did you do to your hair?”

  Sam had arrived. Josie slid off the stool and went to greet him.

  “I know. Dreadful, isn’t it? First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to look for someone to undo the damage.” Carol followed her son into the kitchen, smiling happily. “We were thinking of takeout here tonight instead of going to a restaurant.”

  “Whatever you want to do,” Sam answered. “If you want to go out, you could wear some sort of hat, couldn’t you?”

  “I suppose, but there’s sushi, Chinese, Thai, Italian, Greek, and a good deli all less than a block away. Why don’t we just make a phone call or two and have dinner delivered?”

  “Whatever you want,” Sam repeated, walking over and kissing the top of Josie’s head. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.

  Josie leaned against him and allowed herself to be warmed by his concern. “Yes. I may just become addicted to this life of leisure.”

  “Is that a bottle of California Cabernet I see?” Sam asked, releasing Josie without acknowledging her comment.

  “We were waiting for you to open it,” Carol said.

  “Well, wait no longer,” Sam said, picking up the bottle and corkscrew and getting to work.

  Carol was busy fussing with their appetizers and Josie sat back and watched mother and son. They worked together well, moving around the small space without getting in each other’s way and she was soon sipping wine and selecting olives with her newly pink fingernails. “How was your day?” she asked Sam.

  “Not bad. Oh, I met Jon for lunch and he gave me a message from Betty to you. She asked that you give her a call.”

  “Why don’t you do that now, dear? You could use the phone next to my bed—if you want some privacy,” Carol added rather pointedly.

  “That’s a good idea.” Josie picked up her wine goblet and stood up. “Where. . . ?”

  “Right through the living room,” Carol answered the unasked question.

  Carol’s bedroom was small and almost filled by her king-size bed. There was a phone sitting on the brass nightstand and Josie put her glass down carefully, picked up the receiver, and dialed Betty’s phone number. Betty answered almost immediately. Josie heard JJ crying in the background.

  “Poor little guy has lots of gas tonight,” Betty explained. “But Jon’s with him. Which is just fine. He probably won’t be able to hear what I’m telling you over his son’s wailing.”

  “Listen, Betty, I was going to call and I want to ask you a question before Sam comes in the room. Could you possibly make a few—well, maybe more than a few—phone calls tomorrow. It’s to help Sam,” she added.

  “No problem. Just tell me who you want me to call and why.”

  “We’re looking for people—contracting companies—that worked for Henderson and Peel. Carol thought that perhaps people who worked for Pamela could tell us something more about her. And I sure hope she’s right. We haven’t learned much except that she was a lousy tipper.”

  “Even in New York, I don’t think that particular habit could get you killed,” Betty said. “But, listen, I’d be happy to do it. I’m looking for someone to refinish the floors in our place. There are some tiny splinters popping up in the hallway and I don’t want JJ to get hurt when he starts to crawl. I’ll call all the major upscale contractors, mention Henderson and Peel and see what I can find out. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “Perfect!” Josie picked up her wineglass and sipped. “Now tell me why you wanted me to call you.”

  Five minutes later, Carol entered her bedroom and discovered Josie kneeling on the floor. “What are you doing?”

  “I . . . I spilled my wine. I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t stain your rug.” She was rubbing the carpet with a pink towel that she had pulled off the rack in the bathroom.

  “Why don’t I call Sammy to bring us a sponge and . . .”

  “Don’t do that!” Josie insisted, grabbing Carol’s arm and pulling her down to the floor. “I talked to Betty. She says . . .” Josie took a deep breath and finished the sentence. “She says that Jon told her that Sam refused to tell the police if he’s seen Pamela Peel since he returned to the city.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THEY DECIDED NOT to tell Sam what Betty had told Josie. As Carol said, “After all, Sam’s a smart man, if he wants to tell us, he will. If he doesn’t want to tell us or talk about it, we can’t force him to. And, if we don’t tell him we know, we won’t have to tell him what we’re going to do.”

  “What are we going to do?” Josie whispered, following Carol back into the living room.

  “We’re going to try to get him to talk about Pamela. . . . No, you shouldn’t be the one to do it,” she added. “This is a job for
an interfering mother. I’ll do it!”

  Sam was stretched out on the sofa, glass in hand, when they reentered the living room. “How about Thai for dinner?” he suggested. “Is King of Siam still in business, Mother?”

  “New owners. New name—something about a rainbow. Still wonderful, wonderful food,” she answered, sitting down on the other sofa and examining a tiny Lalique bowl sitting on her coffee table as though she’d never seen it before.

  “Mother, are you okay?” Sam asked.

  “Just a bit tired. Getting a really bad dye job takes it out of someone my age, you know. Josie, dear, there are a number of menus in the drawer underneath the wall phone in the kitchen. Would you mind getting them for us?”

  “Sure!”

  Josie had no trouble locating the drawer, which was stuffed with menus of many shapes and sizes. She laid them out on the counter and, finding three that appeared to feature Thai food, she returned to the living room with them in hand. Neither Sam nor his mother appeared to have moved. Josie handed Carol the menus and sat down.

  “What do you want?” Carol asked.

  “I don’t know anything at all about Thai food,” Josie said. “Is it like Chinese?”

  “No.” Sam sat up and held out his hand to his mother. “Why don’t you let me order? I know the type of thing Josie likes. I’ll pick out a selection of dishes and we can share.”

  “Wonderful! Just don’t forget how much I like Pad Thai,” Carol added, beaming at her clever son.

  “Fine.” Sam stood up and headed toward the kitchen phone. “Would you like another glass of wine while I’m here?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I’d love one,” Josie said.

  “And have one yourself,” his mother suggested. “Remember you’re in the city now. It’s not as though you have to drive home tonight.”

  Sam didn’t answer and Josie heard him dialing the phone. When the restaurant picked up and he seemed to be involved in a rather long conversation about the relative hotness of various dishes, Carol leaned over to her. “Let’s wait until he’s had another glass or two of wine and then I’m going to flat out ask him about Pamela Peel.”

  “Okay, but I don’t see . . .”

  “Here’s your wine, Josie.” Sam put the glass down on the coffee table in front of her. “Now why don’t you tell me what you and Mother have been whispering about ever since I arrived?”

  Josie glanced over at Carol, panicked. “We . . .”

  “We’ll tell you in our own good time,” Carol said. “Women like to have their little secrets, you know.”

  If this type of coyness was as unlike his mother as it was Josie, Sam didn’t seem to feel the need to protest. “Fine.” He picked up his glass and drank it down. “Perhaps I should open another bottle.”

  Carol applauded his suggestion. “Excellent idea!”

  “When are we going to pick up dinner?” Josie asked.

  “It will be delivered to the desk in the lobby and they’ll call us to come down and pick it up,” Carol explained. “It won’t take any time at all. The restaurant is just around the corner and everything is either stir-fried or steamed.”

  “Good. I’m starving,” Josie added, feeling someone should say something.

  Sam pushed the plate of olives and artichokes in her direction. “I left the cheese in the kitchen. I’ll get it and the wine.”

  “Josie and I had an interesting day, you know,” Carol stated.

  “Well, your hair did. I can see that. What did you do?” he asked Josie.

  “I had a facial and a manicure—and a pedicure,” Josie explained, kicking off her shoes and wagging her fingers and toes at him.

  “Oh, very nice, I guess.”

  “You guess?” his mother repeated his words.

  “Carol . . .” Josie wanted to tell her to be quiet. This conversation could only upset her.

  “Josie did all that to look better for you,” Carol continued, ignoring Josie.

  Sam looked from one woman to the other. “Josie knows she doesn’t have to do that. At least not for me. I love her the way she is.”

  Josie felt tears welling up and bit her lips. This was the Sam Richardson she loved. This was the Sam Richardson she had been missing ever since Pamela Peel’s body appeared in his apartment. She smiled at him, but remained silent.

  “But I can’t tell you how glad I am that you didn’t go to the same hairdresser as Mother did.” He winked at her and got down to the business of refilling their glasses.

  Josie picked up hers and sipped, taking a moment to admire her nails before getting up and walking to the window. “You have a fabulous view,” she said, looking down at the southern tip of Manhattan.

  “That was one of the reasons I bought this place,” Carol said, standing up and joining her. “Of course the view has changed a lot since I moved in, but I still love it.”

  Josie took a deep breath and turned back to Sam. “Carol said that Pamela Peel decorated this place as well as yours.”

  He looked around and agreed. “That’s true. I’ve always thought this place was much more successful than mine.”

  No one in the room was going to disagree with that. “This place is beautiful,” Josie said sincerely. She turned to Carol. “What did you ask for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, did you say that you wanted something formal or elegant or whatever . . . or did you leave all the decisions up to Henderson and Peel?”

  “I left all the decisions up to Pamela. In this case, it was just Peel. I don’t remember seeing Shepard Henderson during the entire project. Too bad too,” Carol added a bit wistfully. “I’ve always thought he was something of a hunk.”

  “Good-looking, yes, but a hunk . . . ,” Josie began and then realized that Sam didn’t—and shouldn’t—know that she and Shepard Henderson had met.

  Carol seemed to realize the same thing at the same time. She got up quickly and hurried to the wall intercom to call down to the doorman and ask if their dinner had arrived. “Sammy, will you go down and pick it up now?” she asked. “It will take less time that way and Josie and I really are hungry.”

  “Of course.” He jumped to his feet.

  Neither Carol nor Josie said anything until the door slammed behind him. Then, “Do you think he realized what I just said?” Josie asked.

  “I have no idea. We’ll just have to hope that he didn’t, or that if he did, he forgets it before he comes back up here. I thought everything was going so well. When you brought up Pamela’s work here, I was a bit doubtful, but it was perfect. Sam couldn’t possibly have known you were interested in anything other than my apartment.”

  “But what am I going to say if he asks how I know what Shepard Henderson looks like? Oh, I’ve got it! I’ll just explain that I saw photographs of him in Sam’s albums.”

  “Brilliant! But if he doesn’t ask, don’t mention Shep Henderson again.”

  “Oh, believe me, I won’t!” Josie paused before continuing. “How do you think Sam looks?”

  “Tired and unhappy. He’d usually spend the evening teasing me about my new hairdo. And most of them haven’t been nearly as odd as this one!” Carol added, frowning.

  “But he’ll be just fine once we discover who killed Pamela Peel,” Josie said, wishing it was the truth. It was possible that Sam was upset by Pamela’s death. “Don’t you think?” she added when Carol didn’t respond.

  “I hope so. I certainly hope so.” Carol sighed and then seemed to gather herself together. “Where shall we eat? In here or the kitchen?”

  “Whatever you think.”

  “We’ll eat here. I’ll just go get placemats and plates. You clear off the coffee table, dear. And maybe get the candles off the mantel and put them in the middle. Perhaps they will cheer us up a bit.”

  By the time Sam returned, a large bag full of sweet-smelling food in hand, there were three places set up around a trio of lit candles. Fresh (and in Sam’s case, full) glasses of wine sat
by straw placemats and black enameled chopsticks, and fine linen napkins surrounded large white china plates. “Sit down and have more wine, Sammy. Josie and I will take the food out to the kitchen and put it on platters.”

  “This is great, Mother, but why not make things easier and just pass around the cardboard containers?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Josie said, realizing that Carol was looking very tired.

  “If you really think so.”

  “The Pad Thai, a double order, is on top,” Sam said, starting to remove a half dozen cartons from the bag and lay them all out. “Josie, the drawer to the left of the sink is full of silverware. Grab a bunch of big spoons, and maybe a bottle of water and some glasses. We’re going to be thirsty after eating all this.”

  “I can—”

  “Yes, you can, Mother, but so can Josie.”

  “I can and I will,” Josie said, hurrying back to the kitchen and doing as Sam had asked. When she returned to the living room, spoons in hand, Carol was already digging into a carton of spring rolls.

  “Hmm. Looks good.”

  “Delicious,” Sam agreed. He spooned a pile of thin noodles and shrimp onto his plate then passed the carton on to his mother.

  They all served themselves and began to eat with Sam pausing only to explain an unfamiliar ingredient or to warn the women about an unusually spicy dish. But after the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged, Sam spoke up. “I don’t remember,” he began slowly. “How did Pamela come to decorate this place, Mother?”

  “Everyone I know was either hiring or trying to hire Henderson and Peel. How could I have considered anyone else?”

  “But I don’t remember you having a decorator for your other apartments.”